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Jason was curled up on a roof in the clothes of a man who had raped him. He needed to get up soon. The police had wrapped up at the warehouse next door a few minutes prior, leaving only police tape and barricades in front of the entrances. It was already drizzling and he expected it would be a downpour within the hour. He needed to figure out where he was and how he was going to get home. He had no money, no phone, no weapons. His body hurt.
His body hurt a lot. He’d dispassionately thrown up bloody vomit a couple times. It had been, he had to admit, a while since he’d been in such a bad state. That was one of the reasons for making a statement with the heads and the hair-trigger temper. If people were scared of you, you had to do a lot less fighting to get what you needed. Never let it be said he had learned nothing from his misspent youth.
He didn’t want to think about that, about anything, so he washed the blood off his face in a puddle and did a quick examination of the stranger’s pockets. No wallet, but a crumpled wad of dollar bills meant that he wasn’t going to have to walk very far. It was enough for a bus. The less time he had to spend on the streets, the better. He looked like an easy target right now, and he couldn’t see any encounter ending well tonight.
Batgirl’s grapple was small in his hand, made for her, but he knew it would still be rated to carry several people. Of course, that wasn’t the problem. His legs gave out upon landing. He caught himself hard on the gravel, a stab of pain running from his left hand to his elbow. He let himself down onto his side again, swearing, and felt at the bones. It hurt, but it was probably only sprained.
Jason let out a frustrated curse as he tried to get to his feet again. It felt like in addition to taking a beating he’d been repeatedly electrocuted, and his nerves kept firing randomly and taking his legs with them. One more deep breath on the alley pavement and he managed to stand up. He flipped off a few security cameras as he walked in case Barbara was looking, since he didn’t have the capacity to avoid surveillance right now. Hopefully all of them were dealing with the remains of the day’s shitstorm. It might be a fair trade. They had to deal with the media, and he got to keep his anonymity.
He found a bus stop within a few blocks. The bus driver gave him a deeply distrustful look, but didn’t refuse to let him on, so he fed the bills into the till and stepped in. Everyone on the bus immediately looked away. Fortunately, the clothes were dark and it had rained on him quite a bit, so he suspected he just looked like a beat-up junkie and not like he was covered in blood.
There were plenty of seats, but he stayed standing.
It was full dark and pouring rain by the time he made it to the clinic. He went around to the back, pressed his forehead against the door frame, and pounded on the door. He was there for a few minutes, too tired to feel anything. He didn't want to be here.
He got lucky. Doc Thompkins herself opened the door and recognized him even in the dim light from the hall. His hair was a giveaway. “What do you want?” she spat.
“I need an exam,” Jason said, not moving his head. His voice was raspier than he deserved. He hadn’t even screamed.
“Come on then.” She held the door open for him, scowling, so she completely did not miss the way he staggered. Her voice sharpened from general frustration to clinical concern, instinctively reaching to support him as they walked to the bat-exam room. “What happened?”
Jason did not want to talk about it. She would figure it out. “Got kidnapped. Batgirl needed a distraction.”
“And what, you got caught by your own bomb?” Jason braced himself against the exam table while Leslie flipped on the lights. She gasped.
“I just need to make sure I’m not bleeding internally,” Jason muttered, stripping off the stranger’s clothes. He didn’t want to be here, naked and vulnerable again.
“Jason—”
He put a fresh paper gown on and got on the damn exam table. On his side because he would have to eventually.
“Jason—”
He groaned. “Leslie, I am really tired, so can you please just tell me if I’m going to bleed out?”
A beat. “I’m going to need some equipment,” she said resignedly.
She laid a blanket over him and left him alone. He kept himself present by noticing as many details as he could about the room. The whole building needed new drywall. There was a chip in the paint in here that Jason knew had been there since he was fourteen, when he’d kicked the wall after a bad night. The sink was rusty and the counters dented. The clinic struck a fine balance – it could have the best equipment in the world, thanks to the Thomas Wayne Foundation’s deep coffers, but it was also in Crime Alley, where inevitably someone would think their immediate need for cash outweighed everyone else’s need for medical care. The nicer the building, the more likely it was to be a target.
Doc Thompkins was back in a few minutes, carrying some vials and a large box. “What’s that?” Jason asked.
“A rape kit,” Leslie said.
Jason groaned. “I don’t need that.”
“It’s procedure—”
“My blood is all over the crime scene,” Jason said. “There are eight people they will find my DNA on. Even the dunderheads at the GCPD are going to be able to figure out what happened.” And he thankfully didn’t have to be the person to figure out what to do when the DNA matched a boy dead five years. Maybe Barbara would take care of it. Maybe she wouldn’t, just to make B’s life difficult. She was cool like that. Either way, it wasn’t his problem.
“Fine,” she snapped, throwing on gloves. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
It was easier to talk when he wasn’t looking at her. “This one wasn’t even my fault. It was some stupid Bruce Wayne revenge plot.” They had told him why they were doing it, as if he cared. Some business deal that didn’t close. Everyone in Gotham was a freak, whether or not they wore a mask.
“Bruce Wayne—”
He could hear her putting it together. “The others are okay. Damian got shot but I’m sure he had it coming.”
She didn’t laugh. “Jason. Please tell me what happened.”
“I’m not blind. I can see my own body.” And feel it. And – and remember. “I know you can read it, too.” The bruises. The lacerations. The split lips. The blood – so much blood. “Can we just pretend I’m nonresponsive?”
“If I saw someone nonresponsive with your injuries, I would call an ambulance and tell them to hurry.” But, finally, she didn’t ask him questions any more invasive than what his physical sensations were. The exam was thorough, which meant it was long. Concussion. Neck. Throat. Ribs. Everything else. But he couldn’t check out. He wouldn’t put it past Leslie to actually call an ambulance if he dissociated, claiming she was worried about a head injury.
She hadn’t touched him for a while when she spoke again. “Did you kill them?”
Jason shrugged. “I don’t know. One of them, maybe. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Your eyes aren’t even open.”
“I can feel you judging me. He had a gun to my head. What was I supposed to do, let him shoot me? Batgirl and the others rounded up everyone else.”
She didn’t say anything to that. “Here,” she said, and Jason opened his eyes to accept a wet washcloth and started scrubbing the rest of the blood off. “You’re not going to bleed out. If you stop by in a couple days I’ll give you your STI results. Get help if you start feeling dizzy and your heart rate is fast.”
“Thanks.”
“I'll write you a prescription for antibiotics. I have a wrist brace and some ibuprofen here. Do you want… something stronger?”
“No.”
Something about her expression as she watched him swallow the pills was uncomfortable, even with the stupid blanket covering him. “Sorry,” he muttered. He wasn’t sure why. Leslie was a doctor, and she worked in Crime Alley. She’d seen everything before. He gave her a sardonic smile. “This is what I get for buying groceries without body armor.”
She didn’t laugh, which was so frustrating. “Jason,” she said quietly. “I’m glad you came for an exam. But it isn’t enough. You need emotional support after something like this.”
“Save the lecture for someone who’s never been tortured before, Leslie.”
“I mean it, Jason—”
“Are you telling me I’m not as tough as a prostitute?”
“This is bad for everyone, Jason, including prostitutes, and including you!”
Jason threw the plastic pill cup at the chipped wall. It bounced off harmlessly. Maybe not the best look, but he had reached the end of his patience. He didn’t want to be here. And—and he’d been doing better—
And now he was yelling. “I know. I know! I’m not stupid, Leslie, okay? I’ve even done that reading you gave me. So yeah, I was raped. It was bad. I know that. But it’s the way you frame it that matters, right? I was raped on my terms. I chose when, and I chose how, and I chose why.”
He could have waited. He could have watched Dick and Tim and Cassandra all take their turns and then fought them off when they tried to make him go before Damian. He could have struggled until the kidnappers had drugged him with the paralytic they had. He could have been so uncontainable that the kidnappers blew up the little room with him in it. He’d had options, and all of them had sucked, so he had chosen what he could. He was so tired. “And the more you tell me I can’t handle it, the harder it is to think I can.”
Leslie’s lips were trembling, and she pressed one hand to her face. Jason swallowed, exhaustion once again overcoming the last of today’s anger. He hadn’t wanted to yell. He closed his own prickling eyes. He had been doing better.
But he wanted to protect people from rapists and murderers. Today that had meant volunteering. That was all there was to it. It was simple math.
He opened his eyes when Leslie cleared her throat. She’d brought him a too-large gray t-shirt and some sweats from the donation bin, and it was a relief to put something on that wasn’t blood-crusted. One last thing. He was too tired and his body hurt too much to move. It was humiliating, but Leslie had seen literally everything already tonight. “Can I take a nap here?” he asked. “I’ll lock up when I leave.”
“Fine.” She stood in the door and her face trembled as she tried to keep her composure. “You don’t want me to call anyone?”
“No,” he said, closing his eyes and curling up on the exam table. He didn’t want to be here. “No one.”