Chapter Text
Jason wishes he wasn’t limping as he struggles up the stairs. He wishes he wasn’t crying either but he can’t stop the hot sting of tears prickling behind his eyes, no matter how hard he scrubs at them, and his hip is sending awful flashes of pain straight through him every time he shuffles his leg forward.
Maybe that’s just in his head though. It’s been a constant, throbbing pain ever since he had heard that - heard that he might not be dead. And Jason isn’t entirely sure why. He’d thought that he was - well, not dealing with it exactly, but better. Which is stupid, maybe, because he knows that one good conversation with Bruce isn’t going to fix his problems. He still has nightmares, still has flashbacks. But he’d felt better. Those bad things had felt less oppressive. Knowing that Bruce knows how he feels, that he doesn’t hate him for it, had lifted a weight Jason hadn’t even known was pressing down on his shoulders.
Then he’d heard that the Joker might still be alive.
It had been a cold, sharp shock, hearing those words, an electric tingle straight through his body. The nausea had been strong and sudden, surging up his throat before he had even really had the chance to digest how he felt about it.
Honestly, he still isn’t entirely sure.
Bad. He knows that much. Terrified. Small and fucked up and frightened. The knowledge feels like a wound. Like an itch he can’t scratch, prickling at the back of his neck.
But there’s also...a strange feeling of relief. It’s not that Jason wants the Joker to be alive. It’s not that he thinks the Joker doesn’t deserve to be rotting in the ground for what he did to him. It’s just...he doesn’t want Bruce to be the one to kill him. Not for this. Not for Jason. As long as Jason has known him, Batman has stuck rigidly to his moral code. It’s important to him for a hundred different reasons and Jason has pushed against it in the past - tested the limits of what Batman will tolerate - but he’s always known that Bruce wouldn’t back down. It’s a solid foundation in their relationship, their life.
The idea that Batman would give that up for him is terrifying.
It’s part of the reason why Jason had followed them down to the cave in the first place. The last thing Jason wants is to have to face the Joker again, but he can’t let Bruce and Dick go alone. He needs to be there to stop Batman crossing a line he can’t uncross. He needs to protect him.
Only, Bruce doesn’t want his protection. To Bruce, Jason is just another chink in his armour, another weakness that he could do without.
Jason slams the door to his room, even though Batman and Nightwing are both certainly long gone and Alfred has done nothing to deserve his ire. Then he throws himself onto his bed, pulling the covers up over himself and creating a quiet, dark space for him to lose it in.
Now that he’s alone, he lets the tears come thick and fast. It’s not like Jason can stop them, anyway. He can’t stop the ragged little sobs that accompany them either. Can’t stop the anxiety that’s crawling through his chest, getting bigger and sharper with every passing second. Jason presses his hands hard over his face, ignoring the sparks of pain that come with applying pressure to his damaged hand and tries to force himself to stop thinking, to stop worrying. Bruce had made it clear that he didn’t want Jason. There’s no point in stressing out about it now.
Except he can’t stop the fear. Because he can’t - he can’t let them go after the Joker alone can he? Sure, Dick is there, but Jason isn’t stupid - he knows that Bruce won’t be thinking straight. Knows that Dick probably won’t be either. There’s only two likely outcomes if he lets them go alone: either the Joker is killed, or they are. Both options twist something small and frightened in Jason’s stomach.
Batman needs his Robin.
Only, Bruce doesn’t want Robin and maybe Bruce is right. Maybe Jason can’t handle facing the Joker again, because just the thought has him shaking, makes his stomach feel somehow hollow and heavy at the same time. Even though Batman will be there - Nightwing and Superman too, probably. Even though he knows the Joker won’t be able to hurt him.
Jason hates this. He hates how pathetic he is now. Hates the fact that he’s hiding under the covers, hot tears still drying on his cheeks, terrified at just the prospect of meeting a villain that normally would barely have worried him. Before all this happened - before he got benched, before Ethiopia, before the Joker, there would have been no doubt that Robin would be with Batman. No one would have thought he was too frightened, too weak for a fight.
A knock at his bedroom door startles Jason out of the weird spiral of fear and self-loathing he’s been sinking into.
“Master Jason?” It’s Alfred’s voice, soft from the other side of the door.
For some reason, Jason’s throat swells around his answer. He can’t even squeeze out an acknowledgement.
Alfred seems to understand anyway. “I have made some hot cocoa, if you care to join me in the kitchen?”
Jason’s chest hurts. If it had been anyone else, Jason would have bristled at the coddling. Coming from Alfred though, it feels different - somehow better but somehow, also, worse. Jason makes an odd, strangled noise. The door handle twitches, as if Alfred had made to open it, then thought better of it. There’s a moment of silence, then the soft sound of footsteps disappearing down the hallway.
Jason should follow him. He should go down to the kitchen and have a sweet, warm mug of Alfred’s famous hot cocoa and let the butler settle the awful, jittery anxiety crawling beneath his skin. He shouldn’t use this opportunity to sneak down to the cave, put on his uniform, and follow Batman. He shouldn’t.
But he has to. There’s no way Jason can sit at home and worry himself out of his skin whilst his dad goes up against the Joker. There’s no way he can sip hot cocoa in peace whilst anything could be happening to his family.
Getting out of bed feels like a momentous effort but somehow Jason manages it. His hip is aching like it’s still shattered under his skin and normally Jason would accept defeat and use the cane but he can’t do that now. Not if he’s going to go out as Robin. Robin can’t afford that weakness.
It does make getting back down to the cave a slow, painful process. Even though Jason knows that Alfred is in the kitchen, his heart is pounding by the time he makes it to the secret entrance, sure that at any moment the butler is going to appear out of nowhere to stop him.
He doesn’t. And Jason can’t deny that there’s a little part of him that’s disappointed, a small, aching part of him that wants the excuse to not have to go through with this.
By the time he finally makes it down to where the uniforms are stashed, his pulse is a roar in his ears, his breath coming quick enough that Jason feels a little light-headed. He recognises the warning signs of an impending panic attack. Has to stop and press his hands hard over his eyes again to try to calm down enough to continue.
All he has to do is get his Robin costume on. One painful thing at a time. That’s all he has to do.
It isn’t the costume. Jason has no idea what actually happened to that one - whether it even survived the encounter or whether Bruce destroyed it later. Of course, there’s always the chance that Bruce has kept it, squirrelled it away somewhere. Bruce is self-punishing enough to keep it around as a reminder but the thought has acid burning at the base of Jason’s throat so he pushes it aside. It’s not important right now. Jason has bigger things to worry about.
Like getting into his costume without triggering the panic attack that’s been circling dangerously ever since his argument with Batman.
It’s stupid, because it’s his own hands undressing him, but Jason can’t help the uncomfortable lurch of his stomach as he pulls his sweats down. He has to shut his eyes to avoid the sight of his own body - all that pale flesh pockmarked with scars. It doesn’t look like him, not really, and the disconnect always has his heart thumping painfully in his chest. Pulling the leggings on is somehow even worse because all he can think about is how easily they had torn apart beneath the Joker’s hands, how little protection they had actually offered him. The rip of tearing fabric roars in his ears. He feels exposed, vulnerable, even though the leggings leave none of his skin bare. Without his tunic on it feels as though every curve of him is on show.
Jason powers through it. Tugs his shirt off and pulls the tunic on with brisk efficiency. The leggings were the worst part, now that’s over with he feels a little steadier. Not that that stops his hands from shaking as he fixes his gloves in place. The mask is the only part that doesn’t freak him out. It’s one of the few things the Joker hadn’t stripped him of. He hadn’t cared about Robin’s true identity. All he’d been bothered about was making Robin hurt.
By the time Robin is fully clothed, he’s a sweating, trembling mess. The costume feels too tight, like it’s clinging to his skin, compressing his ribs flat. Jason can’t tell if it’s psychological or if he’s that out of shape. Maybe it doesn’t matter because it makes it hard to breathe either way.
Or maybe that’s just the anticipation of what’s to come because Jason can’t avoid it now. He’s going to have to face the Joker.
⁂
There’s chaos by the time Robin finally makes it to the U.N. building. People on the streets, shouting, screaming. It’s difficult to make out exactly what happened - the only thing Robin can really tell is that the Joker was involved and that he clearly isn’t here anymore. For a moment, Robin’s heart sinks. He might be too late.
Then he hears it, high and hysterical, the Joker’s laugh.
Ice spears straight through Jason. His stomach drops so violently that for a moment he’s sure he’ll be sick. It’s as though someone has shot adrenaline right into the muscle of his heart, sending it rocketing against his chest. It has his knees buckling. He staggers, tries to catch himself before he plummets to the pavement. Sweat breaks out across his forehead and his palms. It’s the same sound he had heard as...he had heard in that warehouse.
Suddenly, Jason can’t do this. All that previously abstract fear slams into him like a brick wall, sudden and real. It’s one thing knowing the Joker is alive - it’s an entirely different thing knowing.
Then the laugh cuts off and somehow that’s worse, because Jason knows that Batman and Nightwing have caught up to him and a different kind of fear sparks to life in his belly. It unfreezes him. His legs are like jelly, but they move. Take him, stumbling, in the direction the laugh had come from.
He has to protect them. It’s his fault they’re out here in the first place rather than back in the manor, safe. If Batman - if he kills the Joker it’ll beJason’s fault. This is all his fault.
The thought keeps him moving, even as every part of him screams to turn around. Keeps him stumbling towards the sudden absence of sound. By the time he makes it to the confrontation he’s panting like he’s run a marathon and sweating like it too, even without seeing the Joker.
The sight that greets him, though, has his stomach dropping right out of his ass. Because the first thing his eyes catch on is the Joker. And it’s not as though Jason wasn’t expecting it, but it still hits him like a brick wall - knocks the breath right out of him. Worse, the Joker is straddling a figure prone on the ground. Straddling Nightwing, Dick, Jason’s big brother, those thin legs slung over Dick’s hips. There’s a gun clasped in one white-gloved hand but somehow that feels secondary. It’s somehow a lesser threat than the Joker’s hips pressed against Dick, the sick grin on his face.
Jason’s whole world whites out. There’s an awful tinnitus ring in his ears. Because he remembers the feel of those hips against him. Remembers the hard press of the Joker’s erection, the choking, breathless fear as it had rubbed over the back of his thigh, even when his leggings had still been mostly whole. He remembers the sick, stomach churning anticipation. How small he had felt, caged beneath the Joker. If Dick is feeling even a fraction of that fear now…
Except it’s different now. Because Dick isn’t Jason - he isn’t weak enough to let the Joker hurt him the way Jason had, not pathetic enough to let him touch him. And besides, Batman is here. Dick isn’t alone. All Jason had been able to do was hope and pray and beg for someone who couldn’t even hear him. But this time Bruce is right here.
And he’s moving, a dark shadow streaking towards the figures on the ground. A flash of motion. Then the Joker is gone, no longer leaning over Jason’s brother. Instead Batman is on top of him, pressing him into the ground, hands wrapped tight around the Joker’s thin throat. And last time - last time Jason had been too out of it to really know what was going on. One moment the Joker had been there and then he was gone.
Now, it feels like the only thing Jason can see. Now he’s faced with the full brunt of Bruce’s fury and it’s terrifying.
“Stop!”
The word bursts out of him before he can think better of it. Before he can think at all. It’s louder than Jason would have thought, shrill and desperate. Batman stiffens at the sound of it. Jason can see his hands loosen. Sees the ragged breath the Joker takes as his throat is released.
“Robin,” Nightwing gasps and he’s still sprawled on the floor where the Joker had him pinned, although he’s pushing himself upright. “What are you doing here? Go home!”
“No,” Jason manages. Because Batman’s hands might have loosened, but they’re still circled around the Joker’s neck. If Jason doesn’t stop him, Batman will do something he can never come back from. “No. Batman, please, you have to stop. Don’t do this. Not for me.”
Everything happens very quickly after that.
“Oh,” the Joker breathes and the gun is in his hand still, glinting silver against the white of his glove and Batman is turning slowly - so slowly, too slowly - towards him and the warning catches in Jason’s chest and - “Oh this is perfect. I win.”
Batman’s arm jerks up. There’s a crack that seems to rent the air in two. A scream tears it’s way out of Jason’s throat but it’s drowned out by the explosion of the gun. The whole world seems to shake. Batman roars, slamming the Joker’s arm into the earth, crashing his fist against him in a brutal punch. The Joker laughs, high and shrill. Nightwing, still struggling to his feet, crumples to the ground like a puppet with his strings cut and-
Everything goes still and quiet. Distantly, Jason is aware that he’s still screaming, but the noise doesn’t seem to reach him. It’s like Jason has been plunged into cold water. The world slides past like liquid and Nightwing is falling in slow motion, somehow still graceful, and Jason is screaming loud enough to tear his throat in two but he doesn’t care, can barely even hear it because Nightwing’s hit. He’s hit.
The world comes crashing back in around Jason the moment Nightwing hits the floor. He moves without any conscious input from his brain, staggering towards the limp figure of his brother where he’s sprawled on the ground. If Dick is...no he can’t be, not now, not because of Jason. This can’t be happening. This is a dream. A nightmare. Batman would never allow this.
Only, Dick doesn’t get back up. When Jason crashes to his knees beside him, ignoring the slash of pain in his stupid hip, Dick barely even moves. Jason grabs for him then, stupidly, thoughtlessly, dragging him up into Jason’s lap, his hands fluttering uselessly like frantic birds. There’s blood on Jason’s gloves. He can’t tell where it’s coming from. He can’t think beyond the awful, breathless panic because Dick is hurt and it’s all Jason’s fault.
“N,” he gasps and his voice sounds thick and awful even to his own ears. “N, shit, where - where -”
“Nightwing!” And then Batman’s there, crouching beside them, hands sure and steady as they cup Nightwing’s shoulder, finding the wound with unerring efficiency. Nightwing groans, his head turning in Jason’s lap, eyelashes fluttering.
“B,” Jason manages, gasping. He barely has enough air to squeeze the word out. His chest is too tight to breathe, crushing his lungs flat. Nightwing is hurt. Nightwing is hurt and Batman needs to make it better.
“It’s OK,” Batman murmurs. He lifts one hand to push Nightwing’s bangs off his forehead. Leaves a smear of blood behind. “You’re OK, Nightwing. Come on. Open your eyes.”
Nightwing groans again. But this time his eyes slit open, bright blue appearing beneath his lashes. “Batman?” he manages, voice tight with pain.
Relief crashes through Jason so strongly he feels dizzy. If Nightwing can talk, that means he’s OK. Or, not OK maybe, but alive. Conscious. Jason hadn’t - Jason hadn’t gotten him killed.
“I’m here,” Batman says, in the same soft voice he uses with Jason, when he’s talking him through a panic attack. His dad voice, as Jason has taken to calling it in the privacy of his own head. “I’m here. You’re OK. You have a shoulder wound, we need to keep pressure on it.”
Dick seems to wake up a little at that. He blinks again. Rocks his head against Jason’s legs as he looks between them. Frowns.
“The Joker?” he asks.
For a moment, the question doesn’t register in Jason’s brain. Because why would they care about anyone but Dick? What could be more important than Jason’s brother, bleeding out right in front of them, blood slick and red against the dark weave of his suit. For a moment, the Joker doesn’t even exist.
Then the words click into place in his brain and Jason goes cold. He didn’t see what happened to the Joker. He almost doesn’t want to know. If Bruce-
“He got away,” Batman says, gruffly. There’s a sharp edge to the words that Jason can’t decipher. “You were the priority. I-“
“What the hell?” Dick snaps, his voice strained and tight with pain but much more alert. He shifts, as if he’s going to sit up, but Batman’s hand on his shoulder - on the gunshot wound - God - holds him still. “Go after him! I’m fine. God, you can’t let him get away.”
“Nightwing-“
“”Go, B! Before he gets too far away.”
“No,” Jason manages. Because the thought of Bruce chasing the Joker alone - confronting him alone - churns his already roiling stomach. And the thought of him leaving Nightwing here, when they don’t even really know how badly he’s hurt, churns it worse. “No, B, Nightwing needs you please.”
“Robin,” Nightwing snaps, an edge of command in his voice that shouldn’t be there, considering he’s still lying bleeding in Jason’s lap. “We can’t let the Joker go free. B needs to go after him.”
Jason shakes his head, a little desperately. Batman looks between them, considering, and Jason knows, with a sharp pang, that he’s already made up his mind. That nothing Jason can say will change it.
“Keep pressure on the wound,” Batman tells him, gripping Jason’s wrist in a blood-soaked fist, pressing his palm over Nightwing’s shoulder. Jason can feel the hot pump of blood through his glove. Watches Nightwing’s teeth grit in pain as he presses over the wound.
“Batman,” Jason tries, one final time, as Batman straightens from his crouch. “Please, don’t. Please.”
Only, his pleas are about as useless here as they had been with the Joker. Jason feels that same sort of helpless terror in his throat. That same hollow resignation in his gut - knowing that no matter what he says, no matter how desperate he sounds, or how fervently he begs, he isn’t going to change the outcome. That this is going to happen whether he wants it or not. And it’s utterly different now, of course, because he isn’t begging for the same thing. There’s no Joker crushing him into the ground. No hard press of hips against his, or awful, wandering hands, or hot breath against his ear. It isn't remotely similar. But Jason feels just as small and helpless all the same.
Bile licks up the back of his throat. He stares hard at where his hands press against Nightwing’s suit, dark blood bubbling up between his fingers, so he won’t have to watch Batman leave. It doesn’t make him feel much better.
A hand closes around his wrist and Jason startles. “He’ll be OK Little Wing. You don’t need to worry about B.”
“Shut up,” Jason snarls. “Why did you do that?” He presses harder against Nightwing’s shoulder, a little vindictively, but Dick doesn’t even wince. There are tears prickling behind Jason’s eyes. He has to blink furiously to keep them from falling. “You can’t - you can’t want him to kill the Joker. Not really.”
Dick’s hand is still tight around Jason’s wrist. His fingers flex almost painfully. When Jason glances up at his face, it’s tight with anger and pain. There’s a splash of blood at the corner of his jaw. Despite knowing it’s Dick’s blood, Jason can’t help but think it makes him look...dangerous. Frightening.
“Why not?” And his voice is something dangerous too, a low, angry rumble. “What he did to you, Robin...if I could have, I would have killed him.”
It scares Jason to hear that - to hear the anger in Dick’s voice, the conviction. And he knows that the anger is for him, not aimed at him, but that doesn’t stop the frightened little child inside him cowering away from such an overt show of fury. It’s why, Jason thinks, he came all this way to stop Batman from making this mistake. Because, inside, Jason is still the terrified little kid hiding in the closet as Willis drunkenly trashes their apartment. Something small and hollow in him quails at the thought that Bruce and Dick could be anything like him - even in this.
“You don’t mean that. You’re angry and so is B. He’ll regret -”
“No he won’t,” Nightwing snaps, cutting him off. “You’re his son, Robin. How could he ever regret killing the man who raped you?”
Despite everything - despite all the time Jason has had to process it, all the endless sappy talks with Bruce, the even sappier tears and hugs - Jason still flinches at the word, at the stark reminder of what happened. He feels his shoulders hunch, his mouth twisting into a scowl. He tastes acid on his tongue and has to swallow thickly against it.
“No. I won’t let him. I have to stop him.”
Even though Batman and the Joker had such an enormous head start, even though Jason’s hip is throbbing from all the running and Jason’s impromptu date with the ground and Jason might never even catch up to them, he has to try. He won’t be able to live with himself if he doesn’t try.
The wound in Nightwing’s shoulder is bleeding sluggishly under Jason’s hand. It’s bad - because of course it is, it’s a gunshot wound - but it won’t kill Dick. Jason is confident about that. He twists his own arm out of his brother’s grip, reversing the hold to pull Dick’s hand up to his shoulder and press his palm there, the same way Batman had done to him.
“Hold the pressure,” Jason tells him, although Nightwing likely doesn’t need reminding. He hates the idea of leaving his brother here, hurt and vulnerable, but Nightwing can look after himself, and Jason doesn’t see that he has much of a choice. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I have to stop him, N. I have to.”
Nightwing just blinks at him but Jason doesn’t think it’s because he’s slipping under again, so he stands, sliding Dick carefully off his lap, ignoring Dick’s soft sound of protest. Then he turns and limps away as quickly as he can before Nightwing can try to stop him.
It’s pointless. Jason already knows that, even as he struggles after Batman as quickly as he can. There’s no way Batman hasn’t caught up to the Joker already and if he has, it’s not likely the Joker is still alive. But if there’s a chance that Jason can stop his dad from making this monumental mistake - any chance - he has to take it.
Jason hears the helicopter before he sees it, the whir of the blades loud enough to drown almost everything else out. It must be close, because it’s deafening, reverberating right through Jason’s skull, rattling him right down to his bones. And then he sees it, lumbering into the sky like some fat black bug. From where he’s standing, Jason is close enough to catch a glimpse of two figures moving against the backdrop of pale blue sky. Close enough to hear the rat-tat-tat of gunfire, see the flash of ricocheting bullets against the metal body of the helicopter. Firing at whoever is inside.
And for the third time in just a few short hours, Jason’s world stops spinning. Because it’s Batman they’re firing at. It’s Batman - Bruce, dad, Jason’s dad - who’s still in the helicopter when it starts to list to the side. Who’s still in the helicopter when it starts to lose altitude, dropping like a stone towards the glass-still water of the harbour.
If Jason had any breath left in his body, he’d scream again. Only, his lungs are pressed flat. All he can manage is a frantic, strangled exhale. A rush of breath that leaves him like he’s been punched in the gut. All he can think about is Nightwing lying behind him, bleeding out. Is Batman crashing to the earth in a wreckage of screeching metal and twisted limbs. Is the cold water closing around him and stoppering his throat and Jason can’t breath, he can’t breathe. He’s killed Nightwing. He’s killed Batman. He’s ruined the little family he’s managed to cling to, torn them apart and ripped them to shreds all because he’s too weak, too pathetic to fight off some stupid, gimmicky villain and -
There’s a rush of air, whipping Jason’s cape around him. Jason gasps, choking on nothing. His stupid, weak hip can’t hold him up any longer and Jason falls to the ground and it hurts, it hurts and Batman is in the water and Nightwing is bleeding out and they’re all going to die here and Jason can’t breathe.
Something dark and heavy drops over him. For a wild moment, Jason thinks he might have passed out or died or something to explain the sudden darkness - the way the world has gone quiet and muffled and maybe Jason really has asphyxiated on nothing and maybe this is the end.
Then strong arms wrap around him. A hand presses hard against his chest, trying to force his heaving ribs into some sort of rhythm and there’s a low voice in his ear: “Breathe, Robin. That’s it, slow breaths.”
It’s Bruce’s voice but it’s too late. This time, the blackness edging at the corners of Jason’s vision isn’t Batman’s cape dropping over him. Jason’s head spins, he tries to gasp out Bruce’s name. Then the whole world goes black.
⁂
“I’m sorry.”
The words are soft but full of feeling. Something squirms in Jason’s stomach at the weight of them. The heavy drop of them into the quiet of the room.
Jason has been avoiding both Bruce and Dick since they got back to the manor. Superman had arrived in time to drag Batman from the water and carry all three of them back to the Batcave before Nightwing could finish bleeding out. Then, at Batman’s insistence, he’d gone back to search the harbour for the Joker - or, more likely - the Joker’s body.
He hadn’t found it.
Jason had been furious - is still furious - at how easily Bruce had steamrolled over all his objections. Furious at how willing he had been to throw away his life - and Nightwing’s too - over his own desperate need for revenge. When they had gotten back to the Batcave, Jason had allowed Alfred to give him a cursory once-over before the butler had been distracted by the more pressing need of Dick, bleeding all over his examination table, and then he’d retreated to his room and stayed there.
Alfred had brought food up to him but Jason had barely had the stomach to eat anything. He hadn’t slept either. All he could think about was the Joker - the fact that no one really knew what had happened to him, the fact that maybe he could come back and finish what he started, the shrill sound of his laugh. All he could think about was how useless his pleas had been with both the Joker and with Batman. How he could have screamed no until his throat bled and neither of them would have listened to him. The thought had left him cold. He’d pressed his fingers against his skin hard enough to bruise, to try to block out the creeping sensation of hands on his flesh. He’d hummed tunelessly, desperately, to try to block out the echoing sound of the Joker’s panting breaths in his ear, the sharp, staccato sounds of his pleasure.
It hadn’t particularly worked.
He hasn’t been down to breakfast this morning, either, too nauseous and exhausted. Bruce had given him space last night, and Jason appreciated that, really, but it’s not a surprise that he’s here now. Bruce was never going to let him stew for long.
“Yeah?” Jason asks, tiredly. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Bruce?”
Bruce laughs at that. It’s a strained little sound, as if his throat is too tight for it but it eases a little of the tension in the room. “Ok, I get it. Is it OK for me to come in?”
Jason shrugs. He’s lying on his side, the blankets pulled all the way up under his eyes, facing away from the door, so he can’t see Bruce. But he hears the soft tread of his father’s footsteps as he makes his way towards him. Feels the dip of his mattress as Bruce perches on the edge of his bed.
“Hey,” Bruce says, softly. A hand brushes through Jason’s curls and, despite everything, Jason feels himself relaxing at the familiar touch. Something tight and painful in his gut eases a little to have his dad there with him. “I really am sorry, Jay. I’m so sorry that we couldn’t find him.”
Just like that, the relaxation is gone as soon as it had come. Jason feels himself tense, his shoulders bunching up around his ears, a scowl twisting his face even though Bruce can’t see his expression. Of course that’s what Bruce would think he needs to apologise for - the fact that the Joker had gotten away again. Of course that’s what he’s worried about.
And, yeah, Jason can’t pretend that he isn’t worried about that either. It’s not as though the thought of that man being out there somewhere, alive and well and able to hurt people, doesn’t make Jason’s heart throb painfully in his chest. Yeah, the knowledge that the Joker could hurt him again, could hurt anyone the awful, terrible, life-changing way Jason was hurt, makes him feel sick to his stomach. But that’s not what he’s angry at Bruce for. That’s not why he wants an apology and it just makes him angrier that Bruce doesn’t get that.
“That’s not why I’m upset,” he grits out, shaking his head a little to dislodge Bruce’s palm. “That’s not - if you don’t get it, then you can just fuck off.”
He can practically feel Bruce’s helpless confusion. The hand he’d shrugged off hovers, as if Bruce wants to touch him again but doesn’t want to be rejected.
“OK. I’m sorry, Jaylad. Why don’t you tell me why you are upset?”
Jason sits up then, a sharp, jerky movement, so he can see Bruce’s face as he yells at him. “I’m upset that you went after him! You - you nearly died, dad. Dick nearly died and if you had it would have been -” there are tears, burning hot behind Jason’s eyes, welling over his lashes and spilling down his cheeks. He chokes, wetly. “- it would have been my fault! It was all my fucking fault.”
“No it wasn’t,” Bruce says, quickly. He reaches for Jason again and when he doesn’t shake him off this time, pulls him gently into a hug. Despite his anger, Jason lets his head rest against Bruce’s broad chest, listening to the rumble of his words through his ribs. “None of this was your fault Jason. None of it. It’s mine. I should have done better.”
“You should have listened to me,” Jason corrects him. “Why couldn’t you just listen? I didn’t want you to go after him. Please dad, I don’t want you to kill him. Not for me.”
Bruce’s arms tighten until Jason feels a little choked. Or maybe that’s the tears still streaming hotly over his face, clogging up his throat. “Why not? What he did to you...he raped you, Jay. I can’t - I can’t just forget that. I can’t forget that he hurt you.”
Familiar embarrassment blooms in Jason’s chest. He hates the way that word sounds in Bruce’s mouth. Hates that it’s in relation to him. Hates that it still makes him feel small and weak and filthy.
That just makes him angrier, more vindictive. “Yeah, he hurt me, not you. ” Then, quieter, because even angry, he knows it will hurt Bruce, but he can’t seem to stop the words from spilling out: “He didn’t listen to me either. I - I begged and yelled and...and he didn’t care. He did whatever he wanted. Just like you did.”
Bruce makes a soft, devastated sound. It makes Jason feel sick to hear it.
“I don’t want you to kill anyone because of me. I don’t...you scared me. It’s scary to think of you as a killer. I hate the Joker but I don’t want you to do that because of me. I don’t want that responsibility.”
Bruce is quiet for a long time then. He rocks Jason back and forth a little and it doesn’t help the nausea churning Jason’s stomach, but he doesn’t stop him. Eventually, Bruce speaks and his voice is soft and heavy with regret.
“I’m sorry Jason.” He nuzzles into Jason’s hair and Jason can’t stop the small little sob that hiccups out of him. “I never, ever wanted to make you feel like that. I was so angry at the Joker. I wanted so badly for him to be out of the picture. I didn’t stop to think about how you felt about it. About the fact that I was disregarding your choices.”
“I get it, B,” Jason starts, because he does. He gets being angry at the Joker. Hell, he gets wanting the man dead. Maybe in another life, Jason would be first in line to take the sick freak’s head off.
“I know you do,” Bruce murmurs, cutting him off, “but that doesn’t make it right. I disregarded your choices when you’ve already had so many taken away from you. I forced you to put yourself in danger because I was so caught up in my own anger that I couldn’t see what you were trying to tell me.”
Jason honestly doesn’t know what to say to that. This is not how he had pictured the conversation going. Yeah, Bruce has been...good these past few months, for the most part, but Jason doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to this soft, emotional side of Bruce. The chances of him getting used to Bruce actually admitting that he’s wrong - and apologising for it - are even less.
“I can’t say that I don’t wish the Joker was dead. I don’t think it will be any great loss if the Joker died in that helicopter crash. But I’m so, so sorry that I put the desire to see that above you. I don’t know if I can ever make up for hurting you.”
“Wow,” is all Jason can manage. “Did Dick tell you to say all that?”
Bruce laughs again, a huff of air that stirs the curls on the top of Jason’s head. “No, although I’m sure Dick has his own apologising to do.”
Jason shrugs again, letting himself lean more heavily against Bruce’s chest. “Dick has a gunshot wound, though, so I think I can let him off.”
Bruce hums in agreement before going quiet again. Jason fiddles with the sleeve of the arm still wrapped around him. Part of him wants to sit in the quiet with Bruce like this forever. The other part of him kind of wants to fill it with every painful, frantic thought that’s been running through his head all night as he struggled to find sleep.
“I’ve been thinking,” is what Jason settles on. Because he has. He’s had a lot of time to get those thoughts into some sort of semblance of order when they weren’t too busy overwhelming him. “About what you said...about therapy.”
He can feel Bruce tense under him. It’s obviously not what he was expecting Jason to say at all, but if Bruce of all people can manage emotional intelligence right now, Jason can manage this.
“I think I want to try it, if...if you really think it’ll help me.”
“I do, Jay,” Bruce says, quickly. He presses a soft kiss to the top of Jason’s head, tightening his arms again as if he’s worried Jason will slip right out of them. “I really, really do.”
“OK, then.” Jason lets his eyes slide shut, feeling suddenly muzzy with exhaustion. This conversation has settled something in him. With Bruce’s warm arms around him, with his strong chest at Jason’s back, Jason knows he won’t have any trouble falling asleep now. “I’ll try it. But only if you do too.”
Bruce laughs again and there’s warm amusement in his voice when he says: “If you think it’ll help me.”
Jason might be annoyed, but he knows, despite the teasing, that Bruce will allow him this. Besides, Jason doesn’t have the energy. Bruce had agreed and that’s the important thing. Jason can sleep now, with his dad there to keep him safe from the nightmares he knows he won’t be able to avoid. And in the future, maybe Jason will be able to shut his eyes without having to worry about seeing the Joker behind his lids. Maybe, there’ll be a time when he barely has to think about him at all.