Chapter Text
Jason slips through his window, soaked to the bone and aching, but in a good mood.
No, actually, he’s in a great mood.
The rain may be cold, and his ribs may hurt like a sonovabitch, but his chest is warm with the satisfaction of a job well done – stoked lovingly into a hearth by the people he helped tonight. He found them shelter to weather the storm, coaxed laughter out of sniffling children, and smiles from world-weary adults. He got them warm meals that are just going to keep comin’ and a safe place to sleep he’s confident he can keep providing long after tonight.
And that’s just the tip of the iceberg, he just plans on doing more.
So, yeah, he’s in a great mood.
This is why he stuck around after his initial return went to shit – everything else was just a perk.
He strips his gear on his path through the apartment, snagging a towel to dry off with before he slides into some comfortable lounge pants and a long-sleeved Henley. Normally he takes better care of his stuff, but he decides right then all that will be tomorrow-Jason’s problem. (Tomorrow being when he next wakes up, screw the social construct of time.)
Jason ruffles the towel through his damp hair, wrinkling his nose at his damp collar and the way his curly hair clings to his skin. Ugh. Worst feeling ever. He needs a haircut.
He’s in no rush to do anything but eat and update his files before he passes out for the next few hours. The food is easy enough, already mostly done in a slow cooker gifted to him by Alfred, so he goes ahead and opens his laptop to get his file program started while he puts together the final touches – only to freeze, hand still in the motions of lifting the lid, a little sigh escaping him.
See, when he’d closed his computer before patrol, the screen was just his plain ol’ wallpaper and nothing else. Now, though, a web page is opened to the admissions portal for the local community college. Jason clicks the provided second tab and skims through the various English courses they offer. And yeah, that’s a pretty damn good carrot to dangle in front of him. Damn.
“Babs, “ he huffs out as a fond laugh, closing his eyes briefly as he shakes his head.
You have a GED, Jason. You loved school. Why not? she said weeks ago when they were curled up on the couch with a scary movie going through the paces in front of them. It’s the exact thing she said a few weeks before that and then again, a few weeks before that. She doesn’t quite bug him about it, but she’s getting less subtle as time goes by. He found brochures on his counter last month for a book club off Gardenia Ave and a flier for a creative writing group that meets in the Theater District – it’s a toss-up if it was Cass who did that or if Tim was somehow blackmailed into it…not that he needs blackmail as an excuse to break into Jason’s apartment.
He bookmarks the English courses tab. Takes a little comfort that Babs hadn’t snooped too much around his system – because, if she had, she would’ve found the long-made bookmark of the admissions portal. He won’t admit to it, but he has seriously been considering going to college, had been before Babs brought it up the first time. Jason’s…
Jason’s just not sure what’s holding him back.
Sometimes the creative writing flier mocks him. He’d stuck it to his fridge in a moment of carelessness, thinking it wouldn’t be a big deal, maybe it would get Babs off his back. But when he’s exhausted and bleary-eyed and feeling his worst, he stares at it wondering if, maybe, he should even bother trying to be normal.
Wondering if he even deserves –
Jason shakes his head. Stop it. Tonight is not the night for melancholy thoughts. Tonight is for relaxation and winding down and basking in the good things, the accomplishments he’s made. Jason exits out of the webpage and pulls up his program, letting it run as he heads to the kitchen.
Humming quietly – because even though he has no neighbors he’s never gotten used to being loud – he checks his slow cooker, taste-tests the chili bubbling in it, and cracks a wide smile. Now that’s some damn good chili if he does say so himself. Snatched right from Roy, who stole it from Oliver. It’s got just the right amount of heat to make his mouth tingle and add to the warmth in his belly.
He’s just about to take out everything he needs for cornbread – his cast-iron has been practically begging him to make cornbread in it – when there’s a sharp knock on his door.
Jason peeks around the corner, confused and uncertain, but not suspicious, mostly thinking he imagined it. Of the list of people currently in Gotham – which is a short fucking list – only, like, two of them would knock, but they also wouldn’t visit him at…four o’clock in the morning because they definitely have better things to do.
But then the knock comes again. It’s not polite enough to be Alfred. Maybe one of the tenants on a different floor? He functions as a free handyman on most days and the kids know he’s good in an emergency. (In fact, more than a couple families have his apartment number on their fridge list of emergency contacts.) But those aren’t the knocks of a frantic, terrified kid.
Jason wipes his hands, scoops up one of his stashed combat knives he has hidden around the apartment, and answers the door.
“…Bruce?”
Wow. Okay. Um.
He doesn’t put the knife down.
Bruce is not on the list of people who knock. But – maybe he is now? Jason blew up at him a couple months ago about his tendency to just break into his apartment when he needed something. They’re on better terms, sure, but that doesn’t give him the right to just sneak through his window all Batman-like.
Just…Bruce doesn’t visit often either way. Especially right after a rather quiet night in Gotham.
But he doesn’t not visit.
“What’re you doin’ here? Everyone okay?”
“Everyone’s fine,” Bruce says heavily after a long beat. He hardly sounds reassuring about it, but Jason’s seen Bruce during a myriad of family emergencies and this isn’t one of them.
Jason steps to the side to let him in. It doesn’t feel weird to do so. They’ve had more ups than downs in the last few years. Bruce gives him a tight smile, something unreadable in his eyes, as he stiffly enters the apartment – Jason watches him carefully, hm, and amends stiffly to reluctantly, but he’s not entirely sure why he does. He scans the main room, taking everything in despite the fact nothing’s changed since he was last here except for a small painting on a shelf. Damian gave it to him a couple weeks ago.
He follows Bruce, examining him – sneakily, he pretends, but there’s nothin’ gettin’ by the goddamn Batman. A closer look at his eyes still has them as unreadable, but they’re clear and normal looking, free of discoloration. There’s no sweat or flush on his skin. No odd colored veins. His words have a natural cadence of post-patrol, thinkin’ deep Bruce. He might be moving stiffly, sure, but that could be for a number of not-bad reasons. Pulled or sore muscles, it is post-patrol after all. His back acting up again, it is raining. A lucky hit during patrol itself.
It could be anything. It could be nothing. Jason’s just being paranoid, probably. He stashes his knife away and rolls his shoulders, tension settling into a simmer.
“O-kay. So…what’re you doing here then? Kinda late for you to be out.”
If he were Batman, this would be different. This would make sense. Just a man following up on a case Jason might’ve been involved with.
Bruce finds the picture Damian made and picks it up without acknowledging Jason said a word. Jason rolls his eyes, huffing. Okay then. This is going to take a while, he decides. Getting Bruce to talk when he’s in one of his moods is like pulling teeth – and likely to lead to something emotional if he’s reading the room right. Best to do that on a full stomach.
Jason goes to the kitchen to start measuring ingredients – also, might as well spend this time productively – when the hair on the back of his neck suddenly prickles and his instincts s c r e a m at him.
He’s too slow.
An arm yanks around his neck, pinching it at just the right angle when he tries to suck in a breath, nothing comes. He grabs it, nails digging in and clawing, catching thick fabric instead of skin because Bruce – Bruce thought this through.
He pre-planned attacking Jason in his own goddamn apartment.
Bruce tightens his arm and Jason chokes, lips parted, vision dotting black. He can’t escape – he could escape, if his brain would just fucking work, but the surprise, the shock, the betrayal –
Ambushed. Ambushed.
Jason gasps silently, scrabbling for freedom. Bruce is a solid, unyielding mass.
“Give in, Jaylad,” Bruce murmurs. “Just – .”
He cuts off with a grunt when Jason braces his foot against the counter and slams Bruce into the wall. His grip loosens on impact and Jason twists away, gasping and heaving for breath, hand to his throat as he stumbles out of Bruce’s reach.
“What the hell?” Jason demands. “What – Why – ?”
And he doesn’t get to say more – Bruce comes at him fast and terrifying, and Jason can only defend himself with quick, sloppy blocks that make his bones rattle. He’s been blindsided so hard. Thrown through a fucking loop-de-loop. His mind is racing, almost too quickly for him to keep up.
Something’s wrong, is the only thing he can come up with. This isn’t Bruce – because Bruce wouldn’t do this. They haven’t physically fought in years. Two of them and counting. This, this can’t be – his head snaps to the side, Bruce’s fist clipping his eye socket. The blow disorients him enough to make him stumble, unprepared for such a vicious hit coupled with the way his throat squeezes tight.
A strike to his shoulder makes him yell, his nerves light up in pain, his arm goes limp. Jason grits his teeth and throws an awkward punch, aiming for Bruce’s jaw. Anticipating that, Bruce dodges – right into Jason’s knee jamming sideways. He curls into the blow, softening the hit, and swings out his arm at the same to bash his forearm against Jason’s head. Jason grabs him –
They both go down hard.
Fuck. Jason tries to scramble to his feet, but his ears are ringing, there’s blood in his mouth, spilling over his lips. Bruce is on him, heavy and unrelenting, grappling Jason easily – too easily, his shoulder doesn’t want to cooperate damn it. He’s pinned too quickly, face pressed to the carpet, his breaths too fast and too shallow, fear blooming in his chest as everything suddenly grinds to a halt, both of them paused. There’s no sound except for rain and the two of them trying to catch their breaths – and the roar of blood in Jason’s ears.
“Bruce,” Jason chokes.
Bruce wrenches his arms behind his back, tearing his shoulder – Jason shouts, writhing in pain, bare feet scraping the ground for leverage that’s not there. Bruce is – he’s not bigger than Jason, not anymore, but somehow, in this moment, he is. He’s bigger and stronger. Larger than life. Just like he was when Jason was five-foot-nothing and could get thrown across the mat with a single toss. Just like he is now when Jason has an inch on him and even though he’s not as broad, he always thought himself as strong, unmovable, he is – he was – He can’t win.
Tears prick the corners of his eyes as he snarls insults at the too-quiet man pinning him to his own apartment floor. Bruce shifts above him, not enough to give Jason room to turn the tide, but enough to get something…to get something out of his pocket?
No.
Jason thrashes harder, yanking his arms violently in a useless attempt to break free, but he only succeeds in hurting himself worse.
“This was the kindest way, Jason,” Bruce tells him like that’s supposed to mean something to him – and his voice is even kind, soft and regretful despite the awful press of the tip of an auto-injector to the back of his neck.
The pain is sharp and sudden. Jason howls as it feels like a nail is being jammed into his spine, more painful than an auto-injector has any right to be. And whatever it is – it works unbelievably fast. Ice floods his veins at the injection point and it burns, chasing away the warmth he’d coveted so fiercely.
Darkness encroaches on the edges of his vision. His limbs get heavy – so, so heavy. He goes limp, cheek smushed to the floor, blinking slowly. He barely notices Bruce releasing him, his arms flopping to the side. Boots appear in front of his face, and he glances up, but he can’t make out Bruce’s expression. It’s all…blurry. And fading.
And gone.
—
Bruce is still here, when he wakes up in his own bed, his mouth full of death and his head full of cotton and his heart hummingbird fast, fluttering around, trapped, in the cage of his ribs.
Jason stares at the ceiling and tries to breathe around the clump of dirt in his chest – it’s suffocating and terrible and, and tears burn hot, prickling across his eyes. He presses his hands to them, remembering too late about the fresh black eye. He hisses and – presses harder, hoping wishing, praying the pain will chase away this, fear creeping, smothering fear he shouldn’t be feeling so strongly.
This isn’t him.
“What did you do to me?” Jason whispers to his palms.
“Nothing I’m proud of,” Bruce answers.
He’s leaning against the door frame, ready to leave, ready to – to abandon Jason here like this.
“Fear toxin?”
Before he even says it, he knows he’s wrong. It’s not all consuming like fear toxin is. It’s just. There. Wrapped around him, creeping through his bones, settling in like it’s here to stay.
“No…Not quite. I’m – I am sorry, Jason. This was the only way. The kindest, least harmful way I could think of to, to stop…you.”
“Kind to who?” Jason looks up and, and he’s Bruce and not Batman, but all he can see is looming shadows and a pointed cowl. Lightning flashes and his heart leaps to his throat, strangling him. There’s a sob threatening to break free, but he refuses. “This isn’t kindness. This is. Why, why would you do this to me? What did I do?”
Bruce opens his mouth. Then closes it before he says anything. Jason wants to shout. He wants to scream. He wants to launch himself at the man and beat the answer out of him, fall back to old habits when it was just him and Bruce – but then he thinks about the knee on his back and his shoulders wrenched behind him, Bruce – his dad – bearing down and, and fear, terror, panic steals all that rage away. It bows his head and curls his spine, leaving him clutching the blanket under him as he forcibly shoves a panic attack to the side. No. No. Nonono. Not happening. Not now. He can’t – He won’t –
“I can fix this,” Bruce finally says.
All Jason hears is I can fix you.
And he thinks, of course. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? Because for all that he’s been a Bat for years. For all that he goes to family dinners and movie nights and drops everything when someone’s injured or in over their head. For all that Jason has slipped and called Bruce dad – once, or twice, or three times. He always knew this was going to happen. That his position in the family, Bat or Wayne, was precarious at best. That little nugget of uncertainty, of fear, sat in the back of his mind, and now…now it’s at the forefront. Now he has proof the fear was justified.
“I love you, Jason. Just – Just give me time.”
Then Bruce leaves. He leaves him there, shaking and trembling as thunder boom-crashes in the distance. Jason flinches like he’s sixteen all over again with the faintest memories of rain and grave dirt and worms in his mouth. He buries his fingers in his hair and squeezes his eyes shut against the sting of tears.
How could he?
Kind. Regretful. I love you.
How could he do this to me?
Jason thinks about getting up, about going after him, and, and his muscles lock in place, heart in his throat, this – this awful, shaking, terrible thing grabbing hold of him.
This is nothing like fear toxin. It’s worse.
—
Time passes indistinctly. Shadows grow and shrink across his ceiling as he stares upward, willing himself to just get up, get up already, go. And then, when he finally pulls himself together, joints creaking and groaning, the world spinning. When he finally makes it out of bed, out of his apartment, shaking and shivering like a puppy left in the cold –
He goes to Blüdhaven.
There’s a memory tucked around the sharp edges of anxiety and betrayal. One of a box with a costume too small for him to wear, but that didn’t matter because it was the meaning behind it, why it was being gifted to him after all this time. And then a slip of paper waved in front of his face. Dick smiling, rueful and a little fond – and Jason basks in it, practically giddy. There’s going to be times when you’re going to want to talk to someone, Dick had said. Call me. I’ve been where you are and I’m a good listener.
Jason had only used it once, that number. Oh, he’d stared at it multiple times, thumb hovering over the call button, chewing on his lip. But only once did he call.
It went unanswered. He forgot Dick was in space.
And then Jason was dead.
Dick has a different number now. One Jason’s called a stupid amount of times, and every time, Dick answered. Sometimes out of breath, sometimes half asleep, sometimes with the Titans in the background shouting like they’re in battle. He answers every time like he’s worried if he misses Jason’s call just once, just one single time, then Jason will end up dead again and this time he isn’t coming back.
But Jason isn’t thinking of that certainty, that guarantee that Dick cares, worries, frets enough to answer his calls no matter what. If he could think, it would soothe some of the paranoid and fear that makes him lightheaded – probably.
No, he’s thinking he needs to, he needs to be in Blüdhaven. He can’t be in Gotham right now. Not with shadows flitting on the edges of his vision. Not with every dark corner hiding a potential nightmare.
Not when he doesn’t know how long it took him to get out of his bed, how long it took him, stumbling and wavering, to put on layers and make it to the sidewalk. Not when he found his slow cooker already turned off and the cornbread ingredients put back in their proper place like Bruce…like Bruce had known Jason wouldn’t have been able to do it himself. Not when his hands shake so much, he couldn’t lock his apartment, let alone steer his motorcycle.
The sky opens up again not even halfway there. He can’t see more than three feet all around through the rain and darkness, but the cab driver is an old hat and barely slows down. Jason breathes through his nose, slow and steady, and shoves his hands into his hoodie pocket to hide the shake. He’s not quiet enough, the driver still glances back at him, eyes flicking to the rear view mirror. They linger, like he’s assessing Jason. From the black eye to the blood caked into the lines of his lips and stained on his teeth. To the way he curls in on himself, drowning in his clothes even though they fit him perfectly.
For a big man, he looks small right now.
He feels it too.
Wordlessly, the driver picks a different playlist, turns up the volume, and slows down just a smidgen. It’s not nearly enough, but it’s something.
It becomes easier to breathe. The music screams and drowns out thunder and the wheels splashing through puddles on the road. If he closes his eyes and focuses on the heavy metal music – he can pretend that everything’s a-okay when it’s very much not so.
This fear – it makes him think of an old geology lesson from when he was a kid. About how water seeps into the cracks of stone and freezes, then melts and seeps deeper and deeper until the stone can’t take it anymore and crumbles into dust. It’s like that. It doesn’t hit him hard, but unrelenting, persistent. This is a marathon, not a sprint, and Jason doesn’t have the stamina, it’s just going to get worse.
The cab stops, idling on the curb right outside Dick’s apartment. A light is on though the curtains are drawn closed. Jason doesn’t get out. He’s frozen and stiff, gaze fixated on the back of the seat in front of him. The driver puts the cab in park instead and stretches his spine. The meter stops right then and there even though Jason isn’t getting out. Hasn’t even made the motions to get out.
Suddenly getting out and knocking on Dick’s door seems like the worst idea in the world.
What if he isn’t actually home? (The light’s on, dipshit. Oh look, a shadow passing by. He’s home. Go.)
What if – What if Dick doesn’t believe him? There’s more reason to doubt Jason than anyone else in this, and that’s Jason's own fault. (It doesn’t matter that they’re brothers and Jason’s been on the lighter side of grey for years now. Because…because why would it matter. If it mattered then Bruce wouldn’t have done this to him, right?)
His thoughts are spiraling. There’s a hundred reasons why Dick would believe him, but he can’t think of a single one right now, the anxiety taking hold and blooming hot and cold at the same time until he squeezes his eyes shut to block out the world.
“You need me to take you somewhere else, kiddo?”
Jason flinches, having completely forgotten about the driver. He meets kind eyes through the mirror, and that kindness makes his skin crawl. Bruce had that in his eyes, when he stood ready to abandon him.
“Not a kid,” he says reflexively, sounding breathless.
“Maybe not,” the man says. “But I can still spot someone in need of help.”
Jason shakes his head. “’s fine. My brother – my brother lives here. I just…” he trails off helplessly.
Frustrated, he grabs the door handle. It pops up. He doesn’t push it open. His stomach swoops sickeningly. His heart is beating too fast. (What if he doesn’t believe me? What if. What if.)
“Thanks for the ride,” he manages before he shoves the door open hard enough it rebounds. He steps out onto the sidewalk with a groan and is instantly soaked, water dripping under his hoodie and down his back – or maybe that’s just blood? He swipes a hand over the back of his neck, feeling the blazing, swollen lump there, but with the combination of rain and darkness, he can’t see anything but the pale flash of his palm.
The rain is cold. It freezes him inside and out, the warmth from, from who knows when is long gone. It tastes bitter, this change, this loss.
(Behind him, the cab still doesn’t move.
The driver reaches over and very deliberately deletes the young man’s trip. It was a long, expensive one. Gotham to Blüdhaven. But his usual fare is in East End. Which means Red Hood is a regular patron of his, even if the vigilante himself never takes the ride. It’s always for drunk twenty-somethings or late-night college students or sniffling young ones who were just rescued from mugging or such. Red Hood always calls for them and then pays their fare, usually twice the charge but sometimes even more.
It gives him a little leeway in situations like this.)
Jason’s other hand is still on the cab’s side, pressing the door closed though it latched a long time ago. I want to go home, he thinks uselessly. But he can’t. He needs to…he needs to tell someone. He needs –
He hurries into the apartment lobby, shoes squeaking on the cracked linoleum. It’s not until he disappears into the stairwell that the cab finally drives off. Now there’s no way of escape unless he wants to run through Blüdhaven in the rain.
It takes forever to reach Dick’s door.
Every landing makes him stop and argue with himself, anxiety bubbling in his stomach, hand braced over his heart with his eyes squeezed shut. He makes it though. He stands in front of the door and raises a fist to knock and – freezes, of course. The fear surges and looms, cresting ominously before it crashes down and pulls his feet from under him.
He won’t believe me. His fist opens up and he splays his hand palm flat on the door, his breaths ragged and short. I deserve this. He dips his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe – Maybe there isn’t anything wrong with Batman. Maybe it’s me. – No, that’s not, not true, he tells himself. It’s whatever Bruce did to him.
But it’s hard to believe that when it hits so hard, and it all sounds so true.
He slaps his hand on the door without thinking it through. Thinking about it makes it worse. It’s an awful knock. Dick’s not gonna hear it. He’s not gonna hear it and when he opens the door for work tomorrow, he’s gonna find Jason curled up in the most pathetic ball ever because it took so much effort to make even here, he doesn’t think he can expend the same effort, the same courage to go anywhere else.
And, besides, where would he go?
The thoughts in his head are so loud and too much. He’s d r o w n i n g and misses what would normally be obvious, what he would normally catch.
Footsteps. The knob turning. The creak of hinges he told Dick to fix months ago.
And then suddenly – Dick is here. Right in front of him. Confused and surprised, hair pushed back by a Hello Kitty headband. Jason looks past him to where the TV is paused and Tim and Damian sit on opposite sides of the couch, popcorn strewn around them as wayward ammunition.
They didn’t invite you, pops up unbidden.
It’s childish and ridiculous. Logic tells him Damian has been with Dick for the past couple of weeks, so of course he’s here. Logic reminds him Tim always stops by Blüdhaven on his way back from time with his team. Logic reminds him he’s been invited to movie night and game night and so many kinds of nights he’s lost count – and he’s accepted the invitations more often than not, unable to deny Dick’s desire to be brothers and have them all in one place.
Unable to deny his own desire to be family, to have Dick as a brother like he did for those few precious months before Ethiopia.
But the hurt feeling in his chest at the sight of his brothers watching a movie, safe and warm, and having popcorn fights while he was attacked by, by his dad, drugged with something mysterious and terrible, struggling to even make it here – that feeling can’t be overcome by logic. It boom-crashes in his head like the thunder outside. It wraps a vice around his lungs and squeezes, squeezes, squeezes so tight he’s sure he’s fucking dying. It twists around his spine and drapes over his shoulders and whispers in his ear of course, why would they want you, it was only a matter of time remember?
Jason wants to be angry. He wants to be pissed. Instead, he just feels helpless. He tries to dreg it up, that cold, frozen anger that makes everything clear and sharp, but it just surges and changes into something scared, lancing through his body like a gunshot. He tangles his hand in his sweatshirt, right over his heart.
“ – son. Jason,” Dick says his name sharply, like this isn’t the first time, hand gripping the door frame so hard his knuckles creak.
Jason flinches. He looks back at Dick, all pale faced and wide-eyed.
“What the hell, did you walk here?”
That’s concern in his voice, but all Jason hears is the sharp tone and nothing else, stabbing deep. Dick reaches for him, and Jason – Jason steps back on wobbly knees, gaze flicking back to Tim and Damian and their slow approach. This was a bad idea. Everything goes blurry with tears – frustrated, anxious, he can’t pinpoint what kinda tears they are. Fucking fuck. He can’t see their faces. Can’t tell if they’re angry at the interruption or angry that it’s him that’s interrupting.
This is too much.
He can’t – He wants to turn heel and run away, but Dick needs to know. He can fix this.
(What if there’s nothing to fix?)
He licks his lips, opens his mouth, and – nothing comes out but a pathetic croak. Dick makes a noise in the back of his throat, eyes roaming across Jason’s face, taking everything in. He’s frozen, hanging halfway out of the doorway, not coming any closer.
Jason really – he really wants a hug right now. Maybe. He doesn’t know. Dick gives good hugs.
“I – didn’t know where else to go,” Jason whispers. “Something – Something’s wrong with Batman.”