Chapter Text
The silence wakes him up.
It often does, these days, when the street is just a bit too far away, and the bird’s singing faded with the sunlight and no noise dares to disturb the quiet of the manor. Even the wind isn’t to be heard today, the trees in the garden are resting motionless.
Three twenty-six, the red numbers on the clock read through blurry eyes. Four hours since Jason snuggled into the pajama Bruce swears aren’t silk but simply soft cotton and crawled into bed, four and a half since he showered in the ridiculously large rainfall shower with water far too hot for the human body, five since he ate Alfred’s pot roast and pretended not to be bothered by Bruce’s absence due to ‚work related matters’ and Alfred’s refusal to eat with him.
Far too early to be awake.
Blearily, he blinks at the clock as the seconds tick by. Three twenty-six melts into twenty-seven, twenty-eight. The digits dance across the dimly lit display, always a bit too fast to be read properly, always a bit too blurred to make sense. Like counting sheep, Jason whispers the numbers in his head, one to sixty and starting all over again, but the tiredness he’s trying to summon doesn’t turn up. Instead, motion sickness from the wobbling numbers scrambles with his thoughts, something he is vaguely aware isn’t a very good thing, but can’t concentrate on for long enough to comprehend.
Four seven. When did that happen? It’s only been a few minutes, he’d swear on it. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Time is weird when there’s no sun, no noise, no nothing to go on, just the weird churning of his stomach and the dull throbbing of his temples. It’s not a good sign, pain rarely ever is, but he knows sickness just fine. It’s not something he has to go and get Bruce for. Not when Bruce just came home like an hour ago and so desperately needs a few hours of sleep. It’ll pass anyways.
He tears his eyes off the red digits and stares at the ceiling instead. The ceilings in this manor are ridiculous too, way too high. Hell, he could fit two floors of his old apartment building in his room alone, not to mention the gigantic entrance hall where the entire apartment building would fit in. And that apartment building had five floors.
Bruce offered to get him glow-in-the-dark stars, when Jason first mentioned the ceiling. How that’s supposed to help, Jason’s not sure, but it was probably meant well, like a nightlight to help him sleep. Or Bruce thought that he confused the high ceiling with the Gotham night sky, which would be even weirder because it would imply that Jason is fucking stupid. Also, glow-in-the-dark stars wouldn’t help shit if that really were the issue, cause in Gotham the pollution is so thick that stars are rarely ever visible.
Right now, Jason would kinda like glow-in-the-dark stars though. Their faint glow would certainly help while he stumbles over the carpeted floor, bumps into his bedside table, and falls into the adjacent bathroom, barely fast enough to open the toilet before his stomach’s rollercoaster comes to an abrupt halt and his vomit splashes into the bowl.
His breath comes in bouts, lungs gasping for air, burning. His entire being is on fire, it feels like, flames licking on his heart. The situation might be worse than originally imagined, but nothing he can’t handle. Nothing he won’t handle. He can’t afford to become sick now, not when Bruce is planning on taking him on patrol in the evening, not when he writes a biology test in a few hours.
He can’t afford to become sick now, because Bruce has been frowning more often at him lately and once he finds out how weak Jason is, he’ll finally figure out that Jason’s not made to be Robin. And what is Jason, if not Robin? The streets won’t be kind, after getting used to living in a manor like this. This, in contrast? This will be easy. A few days of pulling through and faking a smile for a few more weeks in the manor, a few more warm meals, and a few more nights with soft pillows.
Easy.
Or, it would be if the floor could stop shaking, please and thank you. He feels shitty enough without being seasick and staying upright over the toilet bowl while his stomach keeps emptying itself is uncomfortable enough without having to be careful about just toppling over.
Time flies by when desperately clinging to consciousness, and when Jason finally stops heaving and is reasonably sure that there’s nothing in his stomach that might come up again, he peels himself off the floor and gets to work. It’s not like he’s never done it before - the movements are still almost automatic, after all those years. Granted, back then it wasn’t him who was sick but rather mom in her drugged stupor, but cleaning up is always the same no matter who it’s for.
Flush. Open the windows to get the bitter smell out of the room. Brush teeth to get rid of the bile stuck to his gums. Shower to wash off the sweat sticking to his skin. Drown everything in detergent and water and when it sparkles and no one, not even the world’s greatest detective, would ever think that this cleanliness might not stem from Alfred’s hard work, dry it all.
And then. Sleep. Or try to, at least.
He bumps against the bedside table again, swallows the cry. Don’t wake Bruce up. Bruce needs sleep. Bruce must not be disturbed. Bruce must not be angered.
He falls into his bed, stomach churning again, too empty to urge him to the bathroom again. Darkness swallows him whole, throws him in the realm between sleep and consciousness, never quite enough to really rest. Time is weird. Sometimes he opens his eyes and mere seconds have passed, sometimes an hour is gone.
Five fifty-nine, the clock proclaims. He stares at it with burning eyes, sleep dragging his eyelids down. Fifty-six seconds. He kinda hopes it’s part of some dream, just so he can get a few more hours of sleep. Fifty-seven. He knows it’s not though, because even his nightmares are never this realistically cruel. His dreams are of cold winter nights, of his mother’s eyes slowly losing their warmth, of cigarettes pressing against his skin, but not sickness. Never sickness. He always thought it too benign to be worth a nightmare. Fifty-eight. Just a few more hours would be so nice. Relaxing. To sleep the sick away, the pounding headache, the swirling nausea. A few more hours and pretending to be fine wouldn’t even be a problem, only half a lie. Fifty-nine. He presses his eyes shut, the pressure relieving at least the worst of his headache, if only for a moment. When it switches to six and the alarm blares, Jason flinches despite it all.
In ten minutes, Bruce will expect him in the gym, equipped in running shorts and polyester shirt, awake and, most importantly, alert. A condition he is most certainly not in at the moment, and, if his churning stomach is to be believed, won’t be in, in ten minutes. Briefly, he considers skipping. Feigning oversleeping. Pretending that he has to review his notes for the biology exam he’ll write at ten o’clock. Alfred might back him up on that. He always says schoolwork is important and scolds Bruce for keeping him from his assignments so frequently. Alfred also says “Master Dick enjoying his exercise sessions does not mean Master Jason does the same”, and he hands Jason ice packs after grueling workouts, so clearly he simply doesn’t think Jason capable of keeping up with Dicks schedule. So, no Alfred it is. No need to confirm Alfred’s low opinion of him.
Bruce said the morning workout was voluntary, but he also said Dick never once skipped, and Jason’s not that stupid, okay. If Dick never once skipped it means Jason isn’t allowed to either. He has expectations to fulfill after all, has to be just like Dick to earn his spot in the manor. Just like Robin, the original.
It’s not like he’s complaining, he likes being Robin just fine after all, and it’s worlds better than what he used to do for a warm meal and a night out of the cold, but things would be so much easier if Bruce just told him exactly what is expected of him instead of disguising the orders as choices and testing him again and again and again.
The floor sways as he drags himself towards the bathroom for the second time in just as many hours. Clenching his teeth, Jason focuses on the next best thing to keep his balance - the doorknob mocking him from afar. One step after the other. Should be easy enough. Honestly, a sick day at a manor like this and his mind acts like the world is ending, like he didn’t experience the same symptoms on Gotham’s winter nights more often than he can count and survived it nonetheless, like having a heated room and a bathroom to shower in isn’t worlds better than what he’s used to.
Hot water pours down on him before he even manages to get out of his pajamas, soaking the soft fabric and clinging to his skin. Soothing, he tells himself when harsh drops massage his shoulders, a constant rhythm of tiny taps. Anodyne.
The shower is still running when he whirls around and empties his stomach into the toilet, bile burning through his throat. Sweat sticks to his curls, immediately resurfacing once the constant stream of water doesn’t reach his face to wash it away anymore. The clock inside his room is ticking - he can’t see it, but his time is running out and he knows it. Bruce will expect him to be on time. Discipline, he said back when Jason started his Robin training, was important and one of the requirements for being Robin.
He needs Robin.
Bruce wouldn’t be so cruel to cart him off to Gotham while he’s still sick, Jason assumes, but he’s gotten used to the comfy bed and the three meals a day and the school, god, the school, learning and fucking excelling at it. It’d be hard to change those habits again. He doesn’t want to give it up. He can’t. Not when it’s only five more years until he has a diploma, three if he makes an effort and puts his all in it, and then he can go to college and never ever be dependent on anyone again. Three to five years and Bruce can kick him out. Three to five years of enduring.
He can do that.
The sweaty forehead is easily excused with a simple pre-workout, Bruce narrows his eyes at that but doesn’t call him out on the lie, the only problem is that this leads to Bruce deciding to skip warm-up. Jason finds himself biting his tongue through the exercises to not whine in pain as the cloth chafes across his sore skin and his muscles burn up long before he even comes close to his usual limit of exhaustion.
“You’re not concentrating”, Bruce says impatiently, when Jason keeps fucking some new routine up. “You have to…” There are hands on Jason’s shoulders, directing his body the way it’s supposed to be. Where his fingertips meet Jason’s skin, frost spreads. “I don’t know what the problem is”, Bruce sighs. “Dick never had any, with this one.” Jason clenches his teeth and corrects his stance, sweat pooling in the tiny dents above his collarbones.
In the end, Bruce dismisses him frowning. “Is something wrong, Jason?”, he asks, tone clipped and not at all up for Jason’s bullshit. Jason shakes his head mutely and ducks out of the room. Complaining wouldn’t change shit, not for the better at least. Batman has been out with cracked ribs, Nightwing debuted with an only halfway healed bullet wound to the thigh and Jason can’t even handle a little cold. He knows what that sounds like. Might as well say “I’m weak, I can’t deal with pain, I’m incapable of measuring up to Dick. Kick me out.” The media backlash wouldn’t be anything Bruce can’t deal with, he pays hundreds of thousands for lawyers and a PR team each month for a reason, and in the end, everyone would be better off. Everyone but Jason, that is.
His head thrums, a constant pressure he just can’t relieve. His feet carry him to the showers, for the third time this day. This time, he turns the water colder, to fight the flames dancing across his skin and he doesn’t puke, stomach too empty to even entertain the notion. Yet, the nausea doesn’t leave. This shower alone, Jason tells himself, is worth suffering for a day or two. Before, he sometimes couldn’t shower for weeks, quick clean-ups in public bathrooms the only way to get rid of the grime and disgusting smells clinging to his skin like ticks, and now he can shower three times before seven o’clock and no one even notices to complain about it. It’s worth it. It’s all worth it, this price he’s paying.
The school uniform’s starched collar clings to his skin, strangles him, the air failing to reach his lungs. In. He rips open the top button, tears at the tie. Out. Breathing doesn’t come naturally anymore, rattling and exhausting, but he pushes through. In. Hands to his heart, rabbiting against the rib cage, fighting to get out. He counts the beats, irregular and far too fast. Not a good sign. Out.
Sweat soaks the shirt, seconds after buttoning it up again, and he sprays more deodorant, the cloud of fragrance luring bile up his throat again.
He frowns at his reflection, dull eyes staring back. Kindly put, he looks like shit. Pale skin, red rimmed eyes, eye bags more black than blue. Concealer only does so much, and magic is not exactly his forte, so the dying-panda look it is.
There’s no way Bruce didn’t notice. No fucking way. He’s Batman, for fucks sake. The world’s greatest detective. He’s waiting for Jason to give up, to admit his weakness. A psychological game, a test of how far Jason can go without falling victim to his sickness. Jason hates it. But he’ll endure nonetheless. He’ll come out at the top and while he’ll never quite fulfill the expectations to be like golden child Dick, he’ll be good enough to earn his place in the manor. He has to. He has everything to lose, after all.
A new layer of concealer is applied, carefully fixed with the spray Bruce got him for exactly this reason. To cover up bruises, he said, so CPS doesn’t come knocking down our door. There’s a girl on the bottle, full face of makeup with red lips and black-framed eyes, baring her teeth in a broad smile. He bites his lips until they mirror hers, full of life and not colorless and zombielike like his own, and scowls at her mocking grin, hides the sweaty shirt beneath the Gotham-Academy sweater. Uncomfortable heat settles around his torso, but he can deal with that. As long as no one questions him.
Alfred’s eagle eyes zero in on him as soon as he enters the kitchen. That man is way too perceptive, more so than Bruce himself, Jason sometimes suspects. Batman will never be the world’s greatest detective while Alfred Pennyworth wanders the earth.
“Did you have a good night, Master Jason?”, the old butler asks mildly, pushing a glass of orange juice in front of him, as Jason climbs onto one of the bar chairs placed around the kitchen island. A bitter-sweet smell rises in his nose, nausea slamming into him with full force. No way he can drink that.
“A short one”, he answers instead, swirls the liquid around, carefully breathing through his mouth without it being too obvious. Alfred raises an inquiring eyebrow, pancakes sizzling in the pan. When he turns to fuss over them, Jason pours half the glass into the pot where Alfred grows his greens. His knowledge in botany is spotty at best, but he’s reasonably sure they won’t turn orange from that bit of juice.
“I read too long”, he adds, having long since learned that the perfect lie depends on giving just enough information without oversharing, lest he seems suspicious, and when Alfred offers him the pan, he pulls a pancake on his plate.
“Did you now.” Alfred’s gaze doesn’t leave him, eyes not narrowed but intense in a way even Batman doesn’t manage. “What book did you read?”
Miserably, Jason stares at his pancake. There’s a book on his nightstand, one he started reading just two days ago and is nearly finished, but he can’t remember what it’s called, what it’s about. Alfred knows for sure, and Alfred knows Jason knows Alfred knows. It’s a test then, one to catch Jason in a lie.
“Animal Farm”, he finally settles for. “Wanted to reread it.” That one he can at least answer Alfred’s questions on, should they come and it’s not a bad lie. He’s read it often enough to cite half the book from memory. Also, the old butler is well aware that Jason has a tendency to reread his favorites whenever he feels like it, which is like once a month at least.
“Do you want another pancake?”, Alfred asks mildly.
Jason scowls at the one sitting untouched on his plate. He doesn’t even want the first one. It’s a waste. But. Refusing will either betray his churning stomach or spark a discussion on how he needs to gain weight, how they need to fight his malnourishment, yadda yadda yadda. As if he’s too stupid to regulate and supervise his own meals.
Alfred puts a second pancake on his plate. Jason pokes it with his fork until it’s more hole than pancake and entirely inedible.
“You seem a bit preoccupied today”, the butler notes, not quite letting Jason off the hook yet. He bites down a frustrated groan, not-quite-manages to turn it into an amused sigh, spins some tales about stress with his biology exam today, about not quite understanding the topic. Bullshit, is what it is. He doesn’t not understand topics. That’s simply not how it works. “I hope you’ll do your best”, Bruce said when he registered Jason for Gotham Academy mere weeks after snatching no him off the streets, which is a beautiful euphemism for “Straight A or Streets”, and if pure stupidity is the reason Jason is homeless again, then he deserves it, so he does his best, spends every waking minute not devoted to vigilantism with his school books.
The excuse works on Alfred though, bless him, and Jason finally gets to choke down the unidentifiable mush that were his pancakes. Truly wonderful.
Desperately he grasps onto routines, figures that behaving as usual will take the suspicion off his grayish skin and the shaky hands. Plates into the dishwasher, fingers clawed around the porcelain to not drop them lest he angers Bruce. The man was annoyed enough with his inability at the morning workout, no need to push his patience over the brink. Batman doesn’t kill, after all, but violence is a language he speaks fluently nonetheless and Jason is not in any condition to shield himself from any blows.
“Allow me to help you”, Alfred says gently and Jason clenches his teeth, mutters apologies as the butler takes over, highlighting Jason’s inability to complete even the most mundane tasks. In a way he’s glad, his fingers spasm, and even clenching them to fists can’t still them, and at least he’ll be kicked out without too great debts - he won’t be kicked out destroying the porcelain plates that are worth a month’s meals each. He won’t stand on the streets desperate to pay his debt.
Maybe he won’t stand on the streets at all. Maybe Alfred won’t snitch.
“I’ll be going now”, he mutters.
Alfred stares at him, expression unreadable. “I’ll drive you”, he offers. “In the Mercedes.”
Jason loves the Mercedes, almost as much as Alfred himself does. Puking into the car’s footwell would not bode well for him, not when the Mercedes is Alfred’s baby, the one he dotes on and cleans almost daily.
“I’m fine”, he lies. “Wanted to meet with Casper to review our index cards for biology, figured we’d start in the bus.”
Alfred blinks at him. “If you wish.”
Jason grants him one last painful smile and ducks out of the kitchen, racing heart betraying the lie, feet jittery in a desperate attempt to regulate his steps, not too fast to look like fleeing, not so slow to showcase how unstable he is. There is no Casper after all, no index cards to review. Just the shaking and humming rhythm of the bus, the children’s screams drilling into his head, the nausea rising and falling with every passing street and he leans his forehead to the window, the cold soothing the burning pain.
Two hours to the biology exam.
Time sludges by, not making a lot of sense anymore. Sitting is worse than moving, the stillness allowing his every sense to concentrate on the pain humming through his veins. Sweat collects beneath his sweater, cold trails making their way down his body and oozing into the fabric. His stomach revolts, the pancakes making themselves known as a fucking bad idea. He presses his lips together, swallows the bile rising in his throat, and rhythmically clenches and unclenches his fists to get his mind off the sickness, in vain, as he soon finds.
A bathroom pass brings temporary alleviation, Jason finding himself hanging onto the disgusting school toilet, desperately clinging to consciousness as his stomach empties itself in a flood. Breathing seems impossible, whenever he gasps for air his stomach convulses.
He gargles with the faucet’s water, the faint taste of chlorine drowning out the bitter traces of stomach acid on his tongue. His reflection graces him with a deadpan expression, a single raised eyebrow betraying his inner doubts that he can get through the day without attracting unwelcome attention.
“Don’t be stupid”, he tells himself. “You’re fucking peachy.”
His reflection laughs at him.
One hour to the biology exam. It feels like an eternity.
Mr Callahan has it out for him for some reason Jason can’t quite fathom, and he seems to sense his temporary weakness like a bloodhound, questions exclusively Jason about the calculation of the GDP, growing more and more frustrated with each correct answer Jason gives. Sucks for him that Econ is one of Jason’s best subjects and he doesn’t need a functioning brain to figure out what that complete buffoon of a teacher wants from him. The replies come automatically, his mouth running before his mind can comprehend, and they’re right nonetheless.
Mr Callahan surrenders halfway into the lesson and steadfastly ignores Jason’s very existence. He seems to think that childish behavior equals a punishment. Jason’s glad about it.
Half an hour to the biology exam.
Jason contemplates how to best phrase the excuse he’s gonna give afterwards to get an hour of rest in the nurses’ room without any adult feeling obligated to inform his guardian, aka Bruce Wayne. He gives up after ten minutes of writhing in his chair, clenching teeth to not whine. Not attracting attention is fucking difficult, when surrounded by students bored out of their minds, but he expertly ignores their slightly worried or confused looks and no one bothers to annoy him.
Fifteen minutes to the biology exam.
He tries to raise a hand, but his muscles refuse to work. No bathroom break then. That’s alright. Not like there’s anything left in his stomach that might try to get out, it’s alright. Not like he’ll just vomit in the classroom. He’s got it under control.
Five minutes to the biology exam.
Mr Callahan fucks off, citing preparation for the next class as the reason, as though it’s not obvious that he just wants to drink a cup of coffee and smoke a cig for a few minutes. Good riddance, too, if Jason had to listen to his bullshit for another five minutes he might’ve just died of frustration. The only downside is the boredom that entices the class to turn their attention to things they shouldn’t concern themselves with, namely well-meant questions like “Are you alright, Jason?” and “You’re looking a bit pale here.” He waves them off, his quiet soothing their blatant concern. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate it, he does. For everyone else, this would be the kindness needed, the kindness deserved. Just for him, for him it’s not.
Ms Dawson is overly punctual, distributes the exam papers with an almost irritatingly good mood, an encouraging smile or a few kind words for everybody. She falters at Jason’s desk, further evidence that his Pokerface is nothing but crumbling, but in the end, she places the paper gently on his desk and continues walking. Small victories.
“Good luck”, Ms Dawson says, and the exam begins.
His hands are clammy, tiny beads of sweat rolling down his fingertips and leaving imprints on the paper. The letters dance in front of his eyes, scrambled to not make any sense at all, building words he’s pretty sure he won’t find in any dictionary. Closing his eyes, he breathes deeply. In. He can do this. Out. He did, after all, study enough that he should be able to recite down every for an A necessary information while sleeping.
Picking up the pencil, Jason notices his hands shaking. God damnit. Ms Dawson enjoys letting them write entire essays to answer her exam questions, a feat near impossible in the permitted time with the hand shaking and the thoughts scrambled. He’ll fuck up so bad.
No. Positive thoughts. He’s working on that. The constant the-world-is-ending-attitude was dragging people down, he was told, and he is trying not to do that.
His name. He can write down that much. Jason. Peter. Todd. The letters are shaky but readable, his hand exhausted after only fourteen characters. No matter, working through pain is something he knew long before starting his Robin-gig and, if he may be so arrogant, he’s pretty good at it.
First question. It takes him nearly a minute to decipher the black spots on the paper he’s pretty sure are just the usual printed letters but somehow encrypted by his fevered brain. What does selective permeability mean? Easy enough. He doesn’t need a functioning brain for shit like this. Not every substance can pass through biomembranes unhindered, he writes, reads over it three times to make sure his answer actually works. Simple enough. He can do this. He can.
Second question, something about passive transport. They had at least three worksheets to learn about that, he remembers filling them out as homework a few days ago. Feels like a lifetime ago. He scribbles something about diffusion, differentiates diffusion and osmosis, placated by the knowledge that at least half the class will simply not have bothered to study enough to answer the questions even half as well as he does right now, and that he’ll be at least better than the average. He can live with that.
(That leaves only the question if Bruce can, or if a B is enough to anger him.)
(It’ll have to be enough. It’s the best Jason can do, right now.)
(It’s not, though. It’s not enough.)
“Jason”, Lily hisses from beside him, tone weirdly insistent. Her face is a blurry mess, his eyes unable to focus, but if he interprets her voice correctly, she’s been trying to get his attention for a while. Annoying. But. He can’t just ignore her. She sounds distressed. Probably didn’t study. Usually, copying Jason’s solutions is her formula for success. Usually, Jason doesn’t mind. Hopefully, she won’t hate him too much if tweaking his answers isn’t enough for an easy A this time.
He shifts his arms, drags his paper to the side of the desk, just far enough for her to easily access his answers, yet a completely inconspicuous position and not nearly far enough for him to get in trouble for. A tried and tested method.
“Jason”, Lily hisses again. He narrowly restrains himself from slamming his head onto the desk in frustration. Only, because he knows his headache wouldn’t thank him for it.
“No talking”, Ms. Dawson chides.
Jason buries himself in his paper.
“Jason”, Lily hisses, expertly ignoring Ms. Dawson. Jason groans inaudibly. If he fails this test because of Lily, he’ll never let her copy his answers again. He won’t be able to anyways, because when on the streets again he sure as hell won’t be able to afford tuition for Gotham Academy, so it’s kind of a useless threat, considering his inability to control the outcome, but it’s the principle of things.
“Ms. Snider”, Ms Dawson says. “No talking.”
Lily quiets. Jason stares at question three. The letters officially do not make any sense anymore. It’s just a black blob, slowly growing, a mess he can’t possibly comprehend. A jackhammer drills into his brain, right where the answers he’s looking for are positioned, destroys any hope of reaching them. If he does simply not answer any of the following questions, he still won’t flunk the exam. A D is not a failing grade. For the school, at least. For Bruce, it will be.
The black blob is occupying half the page now, wobbling and weirdly reflective of the light shining from the lamps above.
“Jason is bleeding”, Lily says aloud.
Jason is not bleeding, thank you very much. Because bleeding would mean that maybe he underestimated his body’s control over his sickness, and he cannot afford mistakes like that. Because he does not make mistakes like that, simple enough, because Bruce does not allow mistakes like that.
“Oh, Mr. Todd.” Ms Dawson sounds alert. Not a good sign. Maybe he is bleeding after all.
The black blob on the paper laughs at him. Blood, slowly seeping into the cellulose fibers, soaking his previously written answers.
God, he’s so stupid.
“I’d like to go to the bathroom”, he says, pen toppling from his tense grasp.
Ms Dawson looks nauseous. Welcome to the club, Jason thinks blearily, before interpreting her nodding correctly and stumbling upwards. The floor is swaying (did they move the Academy to a ship? This shit feels worse than hiding on container ships in Gotham harbor during storms). He almost crashes into the door, throws Ms Dawson a lazy salut to signal that he’s fine - he’s fine, okay - and falls into the hallway, his feet mechanically landing in front of each other.
The hallway is silent, once the classroom’s door is slammed shut behind him. He just hopes he didn’t distract the others too much, they don’t deserve having their exam interrupted and getting worse marks due to his lack of control. He’s great at that though, dragging others down with him, even if he tries not to.
It’s ten twenty-three and Jason finds himself in the bathroom again, a paper towel pressed to his nose to dim the steady flood, blood soaking his sweater. It’s an expensive sweater too, like sixty bucks, which is a frankly outrageous price considering the students are forced to buy them to be allowed on Gotham Academy grounds. The slowly drying brown spots ruin it past salvaging. Sixty dollars thrown away due to Jason’s incompetence. Jesus fucking Christ. He’s fucking it all up. He’s so done for.
Metallic taste lingers on his tongue, the blood that can’t escape from his nose viscously making its way down his throat, clogging his trachea. His stomach revolts at the disgusting sensation, blood splattering onto the vomit as he falls over the toilet and loses all control of the muscles holding him upright.
Maybe Ms Dawson will allow him to repeat the exam. If he writes an A there, Bruce won’t even find out about his newest fuckup.
Still heaving, Jason leans against the door of the bathroom stall and closes his eyes, the ground spinning faster and faster. He’s fine. The toilet flushes, water swirling down his sickness. He needs to get up, clean the blood off his face, throw the sweater away, and get to class to beg Ms Dawson for another chance. He has to. Just. In a moment.
The flood of blood has receded into a rhythmic dribble, a tiny river of blood flowing right onto his lips, where it pools into his mouth. The blood itself isn’t particularly worrying, simply the implication that his body is exhausted enough to elevate his blood pressure to the point of vascular vulnerability is fucking annoying. Jason prides himself on knowing that he can handle stress better than most people, and yet today shows him how arrogant he has always been. No wonder Bruce is always so disappointed in him. He must’ve been blinded by the arrogance Jason showcased from early on and now reality is catching up, his failures stacking up to a dangerously high pile of let-downs.
A faint knocking drags him to the brink of consciousness, just far enough for him to take notice of panicked screams outside of the bathroom stall. He should be opening his eyes now, make sure everybody is okay, screaming usually isn’t a good sign. His eyelids don’t move though, far too heavy to set into motion, and the world stays dark. Of course not. Helping people would be something Robin does, after all, and today evidence just stacks up that he’s not fit for that mantle. Not helping the screaming kids in his school will just validate Bruce’s decision to kick him out. Yippie a fucking yeah.
When the nausea starts swirling in his stomach again and the pressure hammer in his head starts picking up again and drowns out the noises outside, he allows the pain to drag him into unconsciousness, to tip him over the edge of pain and awareness right into a dark ocean of nightmares, beautifully incorporating both the others’ screams and his own winces. Ten out of ten for creativity, really.
Jesus, he’s fucked. Maybe he should just give up, cut his losses and at least steal some painkillers from the nurses’ office before Bruce comes to kick him out. If he fails the pity-play up to a notch, maybe he can get a blanket out of it as well. And a few of the bonbons the nurse keeps for especially whiny students.
That does sound like a great plan.
If only he could get up.
The bathroom stall’s door is cold against his back, a welcome difference to his burning skin. People outside are still screaming. Someone is banging against his door. Jesus. Can’t they just leave him alone to wallow in self-pity and misery?
He drags himself off the floor, steadies himself with the door handle, and throws open the door to look at a vaguely familiar face. A student. His class. Leo? His brain can’t quite figure it out.
“Fuck, Jason”, Leo breathes, his words weirdly distant, like he’s speaking through a cotton wall. “What the fuck. What the actual fuck.” Jason has the realization that maybe he should stop swearing so much, because apparently, his Crime Alley way of speaking is ruining the upper classes’ innocence. It’s amusing though, hearing the swearing words in that funny Bristol accent, so very posh yet not at all.
“Okay”, Leo says. “Nurse. Now.”
“Don’t touch me”, Jason slurs indignantly, wincing inwardly at how weak he sounds, when Leo tries to steady his gait. Leo just laughs at him. Which. Fair.
“You look like shit”, Leo announces. “Why the fuck did you come to school like that?”
Jason groans. “The fuck do you think? Not showing up to school is like a premium reason to get kicked out.”
“If Gotham Academy kicked every student out for having a few sick days, they wouldn’t have any students at all.”
“I’m not talking about Gotham Academy.”
Leo is quiet at that. Small mercies. He’s smart enough to know what Jason means by that, and definitely smart enough to shut up. Or at least kind enough to not argue about it with someone fighting against unconsciousness with every step.
“Oh dear”, Nurse Watson says and drags him into a camp bed.
“I think he’s dying”, Leo helpfully supplies and Jason rolls his eyes and informs Watson that it’s just a little cold and he’ll be fine in a sec. Nurse Watson doesn’t believe him. Sucks for her, because he’s right, he knows it. Still, he allows her to settle him into the blankets, the heat nearly overwhelming before the calm sets in.
“Gimme five”, Jason hears himself slurring, “I’ll be right as rain then.”
“If I didn’t know better I’d think he’s drunk”, Leo marvels.
“I will call your father”, Nurse Watson says and waddles out of the room before Jason can stop her. His father. Bruce, she means. Not Willis. Because Willis is dead, shot in the back of the head in the courtyard of Blackgate, executed for his stupidity, and because according to the law, Bruce Wayne is Jason’s father now.
“He’s working”, Jason screams after Nurse Watson. “Stop bothering him!” Because Bruce is. Working, that is. Said some shit about meetings with Lucius and the rest of the board, stuff Jason would remember if the drill in his head could just stop fucking drilling for once. His own screams echo through his bones, amplified by the vibrations of the drill, rattling him like a tin man in the storm. He’s losing it. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s losing it.
“A father who doesn’t have time for his sick kid isn’t much of a father at all”, Nurse Watson says firmly, the telephone already in her hand, and Jason scowls at her. Or at least at where he thinks she stands. She’s suspiciously double, and unless some rogue invented a cloning device and started attacking Gotham Academy, the reason for that is probably the very sickness Nurse Watson is trying to ruin his life with.
“He’s not my father”, Jason whines. “Please don’t call him. Just let me rest a sec and I’ll be fine. Just. Please. Don’t call Bruce.” Begging often works. Begging worked on the streets, for food, for money, for mercy. Begging always works. Right until it doesn’t and results in broken bones and blood on the gravel instead, in heaving breaths and pain pulsing through the veins.
“You’ll be fine”, Nurse Watson says. “Once your dad gets you home and in your bed.”
Bed, she says. Home. There is no bed in his home, just wet cardboard boxes in dark alleys and broken windows of abandoned buildings, cold air chasing through cracks and debris and hounding halfway frozen bodies of children just trying to survive. He’s seen enough of them, the sick ones, closing their eyes to sleep the nausea away and never opening them again, cold to the touch and their breaths shallow until they stop, a difference barely noticeable, the body silently carted away when it starts smelling. The bed, the one with the blankets and the warmth, is in Bruce’s home. The one Robin lives in. The one where disappointment, where weakness isn’t tolerated.
“If Wayne kicks you out, you’re still smart enough to get a scholarship”, Leo says earnestly. Kind. Naive. If Bruce kicked Jason out he’d make sure Jason never comes into a position of privilege, would make sure no one listens should he ever try to disclose the secrets Bruce has. Gotham Academy? A distant dream. Gotham University? Impossible to achieve. Jason’s just lucky that Batman doesn’t kill.
“We’ll support you.” Leo squeezes Jason’s shoulder. “And fuck Wayne if he ever dares to kick you out. You hear me? Fuck Wayne.”
“No swearing”, Nurse Watson says. And then she winks at Jason. Like that fucking helps. He throws her a weak smile, too exhausted to fake anything else, grateful for the empty platitudes though he knows they mean shit. Their support will bow before Bruce’s wealth if it comes to it. Everyone’s does.
He’s unconscious before Nurse Watson picks the phone up again, his head buried in a pillow that won’t stop moving, Leo’s constant gentle murmuring lulling him into sleep, the nausea drifting somewhere into the background, a constant sensation of being in free fall with no way to stabilize. Like Bruce took his grappling hook away, on top of Wayne Tower. Because he’s been falling for a long time and it’s too late to stop without crashing hard, reality catching up and throwing him out of the windstill zone he thought he was safe in.
He doesn’t know what happens to the bodies in Crime Alley, the kids buried in too-large hoodies, stiff and frozen. He’s scavenged their pockets before, careful not to touch the dead skin. It was easier to ignore the fact that he was stealing from corpses when dehumanizing them mentally, his own need for survival trumping their rights to their stuff. He hopes they didn’t mind. When he dies, he hopes his stuff will keep someone else alive for another day.