Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason realises that the building is going to come down an entire half-second before Damian does.

They’re standing over the goons they had tied up just minutes before, relegated to clean-up duty as a way to keep them both out of the way. Jason is aware that Damian is baby-sitting him - making sure that he keeps his promise to only use rubber bullets and absolutely not kill anyone, I get it Bruce and Jason is wondering, not for the first time that night, who made that decision. There’s an energy that radiates off of Damian that suggests that sometimes he wouldn’t mind if Jason “accidentally” snapped a neck or two, and, even though they’re both trying to be civil, he also gets the impression that Damian wouldn’t mind “accidentally” snapping Jason’s neck either.

So Jason is trying to figure out a way to ditch his diminutive watch-dog and get back to the real fight when there’s a sound like a cannon going off and the ground shakes ominously beneath his feet.

In the half-second between the sound and Damian’s realisation, another explosion goes off in Jason’s head. He forces the memory viciously back down where it belongs before Damian’s wide, white lenses can fix on him and read it on his face. That isn’t happening now.

“Hood.” Damian snarls, somehow making the name into an accusation, as if Jason is the one trying to bring the building down around them. And then another shudder rips through the floor and they both have to focus just to keep their feet.

“Time to go little bird,” Jason says, reaching for Damian. They only have to make it to the window. After that they can grapple out of here and the building can collapse safely without them in it.

But Damian hesitates. He pulls against Jason’s grip, face turned towards the criminals slumped on the suddenly unstable floor, and Jason knows immediately what he’s thinking.

“We can’t just leave-“

The scream of metal being torn apart drowns out the rest of Damian’s words and the world tips sickeningly to the right as the floor falls out from under them.

Jason scrambles to stay upright, his grip on Damian’s arm going so tight that his fingers creak. The window. They only have to make it to the window.

Jason can already tell that isn’t going to happen.

Damian isn’t looking at the criminals anymore - he’s staring blankly up at Jason’s face, mouth half open, eyes so wide that Jason is surprised they haven’t popped out of his domino. Jason can sympathise with him - his own stomach has somehow fallen the five floors beneath them without him.

A chunk of ceiling crashes down so close beside them that it must graze Damian’s arm. The whole building rocks. Jason thinks screw it and hurls Damian bodily towards the window as hard as he can, hoping fervently that Damian gets to his grapple in time, before the floor gives out completely.

Five floors is a long way to fall. Jason’s stomach rejoins him violently before he hits the ground. Somewhere above him he thinks he hears Damian cry out, and then something hard and heavy crashes against his head and Jason doesn’t think at all after that.

***

Jason wakes to darkness - which isn’t unusual. His entire body hurts - which isn’t unusual either. Jason takes a moment to lie still and catalogue his condition just incase. He doesn’t know where he is, which is concerning he admits, and when he reaches for the memory his head throbs angrily in protest.

He can feel his domino mask tight across his eyes, but there’s something cool and rough against his cheek which means his helmet is gone. A flutter of panic at the base of Jason’s throat. Losing his helmet is never a good sign.

Neither is the fact that he can’t feel his legs.

There’s something heavy pressing against his back, crushing him into the ground. One of his arms is flung out above his head, elbow bent at an awkward angle, disappearing into the darkness. The other is curled close to his face. Jason can feel his own stuttering breath against his fingers.

An explosion? There was an explosion. His legs - a crowbar? A countdown already too close to zero.

Jason stiffens as much as he can beneath the weight above him. The joker could still be here. His mother - his mother, where is she?

“Todd?”

No. That isn’t right. Someone else -

“Todd.”

Someone -

“Todd!”

Jason blinks his eyes open, lashes rasping against the lenses of his mask. Damian Wayne is crouching over him - Jason can hardly see him in the darkness and he has to crane his neck at an awkward angle just to catch a glimpse, but even still, he can tell that it’s him. One of Damian’s hands shoots forward and presses him back against the ground, even though now all Jason can see are his shins and his green lace-up boots.

Jason groans. If there was someone Jason could choose the be buried beneath a building with, it would probably be Starfire, or Superman. Even Arsenal if he’s being generous. It certainly wouldn’t be Damian Wayne.

“I’m in hell aren’t I?”

Jason can practically hear Damian’s frown.

“You aren’t dead yet Todd,” Damian says and Jason thinks he sounds disappointed. There’s a sharp flare of pain across what’s left of Jason’s spine. That makes two of them.

The hand on his cheek disappears and he can hear Damian shuffling, rummaging around in his utility belt. Free of the restraint, Jason twists his head up again, even though it’s still so dark he can barely see. Crouched above him, Damian looks a lot bigger than he usually does, a dark, dense shadow against the lighter gloom.

Click. Watery green light spills out from between Damian’s fingers. In the eerie glow Damian's blood shines a sick, dark purple.

“You’re injured,” Jason says, stupidly. There’s blood slashed across Damian’s face, from more than one place Jason thinks. It’s hard to tell with just the glow stick for illumination but it’s shiny across his mouth and chin - broken nose probably - and there’s definitely a nasty looking cut disappearing up into the boy’s hairline, half hidden by his shock of dark black hair. More blood soaks his right side and his shoulder is hanging low and loose.

Jason gags. Bruce is going to kill him. Dick is going to kill him.

“Nothing life threatening,” Damian says brusquely. He must be in pain but Jason can’t hear any evidence of it in his voice. Jesus, he’s only a kid. “Your injuries are far more severe.”

Jason doesn’t want to think about his own injuries. His head throbs and there’s something wet and sticky trickling across his temple that’s almost certainly blood. His right arm is definitely broken. His left arm is numb and tingly but Jason doesn’t think there’s anything actually wrong with it. His chest screams each time he gasps a breath - his ribs are sprained at least, much more likely they’re broken. His back hurts the worst, sharp, intermittent flares of agony. Conversely, there’s no sensation in his legs at all, a frightening void of nothingness. Frankly though, Jason’s glad he can’t feel them.

“I’ve had worse,” Jason manages. There’s blood and dust in his mouth, sticking to his tongue and slurring his words. He tries to spit it out and only succeeds in dribbling some down his chin.

More shuffling. Suddenly Damian is very close, wielding the glow stick like a baton, shoving it right in Jason’s face. Jason jerks his head because, Jesus, even that weak glow is too bright. The movement sends spikes of pain through his neck and skull, his vision flares white and he has to bite down hard on his lip to keep from crying out. A hand comes down hard on his cheek, pressing him mercilessly back against the floor.

“Keep still.” Damian’s voice is very loud in his ear. “I am assessing your injuries.”

The glow moves away, sweeping over the rest of his body, disappearing completely as Damian reaches his legs and the huge chunk of debris that’s crushing them to dust. There’s a sharp, startled inhale.

“That bad?” Jason slurs. Shit, he sounds drunk. He wishes he was.

“Tt, no need to be so dramatic Todd, you’re fine.”

The glow is back. Jason shuts his eyes against it and that eases the pain in his head a little. Maybe he should take a nap, he might feel better afterwards.

A sharp pinch to his left arm. “Did you not hear me? You’re fine.” Damian sounds angry. Jason doesn’t care. Damian is always angry.

“Ok,” he says though - aiming for soothing and not entirely sure he’s reaching it - because now is probably not the right time to be winding Damian up. “I’m fine and so are you.” And because he’s still Jason he adds: “And there aren’t a thousand tonnes of rubble about to crush us into dust.”

Damian tuts but it doesn’t sound much angrier than the kid’s usual level of ‘constantly on the brink of a temper tantrum’ so Jason isn’t too worried that Damian’s going to snap and actually finish him off.

“We’re in an air bubble.” Damian sniffs. “Well, most of us are.”

Jason can’t be bothered to lift his aching head up but he can practically feel the uneasy glance Damian throws at the space where Jason’s legs should be.

“Great,” Jason groans, “any other good news?”

A beat of silence.

“I can’t reach anyone on the comms.” The comms. Jason had completely forgotten about those. Perhaps he has been working on his own for too long - he’s forgotten what it feels like to have backup.

“Comms broken? Or just no signal?”

Jason hears rather than sees Damian’s shrug. “I’m not sure.”

Jason tries his own comms - which he’d forgotten about - lifting his numb, but hopefully undamaged, arm with a groan. It’s wet with what Jason suspects is blood but the comm is still there, nestled in the shell of his ear. His fingers slip off when he tries to press it, numb and uncoordinated and sliding in the wetness, but eventually he manages.

“Hello?” he tries. There’s no answer, not even the crackle of static. He switches to Oracle’s line. “Hello?” he asks again. Again no answer.

Jason doesn’t think the comm is broken, but he’s never been the best with technology - that was always the Replacement’s speciality, or Dick’s. For a second he wishes it was one of them buried here under the rubble and then immediately feels guilty for it.

“Nothing,” he says finally, and lets his arm fall back against the concrete with a soft thump.

“I told you I’d already tried it.”

“Well excuse me for wanting to test it out myself.”

There’s no reply. Jason tries to twist his head to see Damian but the movement still hurts and it's almost too dark now anyway. The glow stick is almost out. Jason wonders if he’s been losing time - surely they don’t fade that quickly?

The sound of more shuffling. A click. Damian must have had the same thought as him because suddenly there’s more green-tinted light filling the space and Jason can see Damian’s boots again through the darkness.

“How many of those things do you have?”

The light moves away and Jason can hear Damian moving, shuffling around the edges of their enclosure. He isn’t entirely sure what he’s doing but then Damian has always been a bit of a mystery to him.

“We’ll probably run out of air first,” Damian says, his voice small and distant. As soon as he says it Jason feels his lungs seize in what he knows is a purely psychological reaction. There’s no way the oxygen levels will be low enough to have an effect already, even if they are entombed.

Jason should probably say something reassuring like ‘Batman will find us first’ but that isn’t really his thing so he says nothing instead. Any way, Damian doesn’t seem to need the reassurance. He is still shuffling around in the darkness, making occasional grunts, small noises of pain.

“What are you doing?” Jason asks, trying hard to keep his voice from slurring. “Shouldn’t we be conserving oxygen?”

“You can stop breathing if you’d like,” Damian says, sharp. “I’m looking for a way out.”

Jason nods even though Damian isn’t looking at him, ignoring the jab. “Any luck?”

“I wouldn’t still be here if I’d found something.”

Jason can’t argue with that logic. He doesn’t want to. His headache is getting steadily worse, throbbing painfully behind his eye, and his ribs are complaining with every breath. He can’t tell if the light-headedness is his head injury, his ribs, or if they’re running out of oxygen already.

“Let me know-“ And - shit - he’s definitely slurring now, so badly that Jason can’t even get the rest of the sentence out.

He can’t tell where Damian is anymore - the ringing in his ears is drowning out any sounds of movement and if the kid replied to him Jason hadn’t heard that either.

“I’m just gonna-“

***

He hurts. His head is aching so badly that he can’t even see, just a dark haze of pain. There’s blood in his mouth. Blood on his face. It’s been there a while because he can feel, beneath the slick, the itchy tackiness that means it’s half-dried on his skin.

Crack.

A sharp flare of agony, worse than all his other hurts, bursts through his chest. Feels as though it’s going to split open. As if his heart is going to beat right out of it and onto the blood-slick floor.

Crack.

A slash across his face. Jason can’t even cry out. His lungs don’t have enough air.

Crack. Forehand.

It hurts. It hurts.

Crack. Backhand.

It hurts.

***

“-up!”

Jason jerks back into consciousness. Someone is looming over him, touching him. He struggles blindly against the hands. They’re going to hurt him. The Joker.

Jason lashes out. The punch is weak - his arm doesn’t seem to want to respond and pain spikes through it at the movement. Of course, Joker had crushed it with his crowbar. Shattered it. Shattered Jason’s entire body.

Joker catches his fist. He’s going to squeeze, going to press until Jason’s fingers snap, going to wrench his damaged arm right out of its socket. He’s speaking now. Gloating. Does that hurt boy blunder? And Jason wants to scream because of course it does.

He hits out with his other hand this time and finds it’s still willing to do his bidding. There’s a gasp. A sharp sound of pain. Jason made contact. He feels a dull sense of victory, grins, bloody lips sliding over bloody teeth.

“Jason!” The voice is strained. Joker shouldn’t sound like that - Jason barely touched him and he hadn’t even broken a sweat when he was beating the shit out of Jason with the crowbar. Something’s wrong. Or more wrong than it already is.

“Jason.” Something touches his face. Jason tries to jerk away but the movement hurts more than the touch and he acquiesces with a moan that he can’t quite keep between his teeth.

“Calm down Todd.” There’s no gentleness to the voice but it isn’t the Joker.

Jason’s head is starting to clear a little. It isn’t the Joker but he does recognise the voice - Damian Wayne. That information doesn’t surprise him as much as it should. He and Damian were here together - and the Joker isn’t here, Jason remembers that now. And as his head clears he starts to remember everything else, including how much his head hurts.

“If you hit me again, Todd, I’m going to let you die here.”

Jason doesn’t bother trying to keep his groan in this time but he does helpfully refrain from pointing out that Damian may not have much of a choice in saving either of them.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he slurs instead and manages to resist hitting Demon-spawn out of spite only because he’s not sure he has the energy for another strike.

Damian tuts. “I wouldn’t fall asleep again if I were you. You might damage your brain even more than you already have.”

Jason definitely doesn’t have the energy to rise to every little jab when Damian tends to make so many, so he just hums in response. Sleeping sounds like a better alternative to the pain right now but - and he hates to admit it - Damian is right about his head wound. Not to mention the memory of that nightmare sends icy trickles of fear across his undamaged skin.

“How long was I out?”

If Damian is disappointed in the lack of verbal sparring, he doesn’t show it, just waves the remnants of the glow stick in Jason’s face.

“Still on the second glow stick.”

Barely. It’s glow is so weak that Jason doesn’t even have to flinch away from it and he can’t see Damian’s face even though he’s holding it so close. Jason still isn’t sure how long those things last but he’s pretty sure getting through two of them is not a good thing.

“OK,” Jason says and tries to shift to a more comfortable position. Unfortunately his ribs decide to make themselves known, painfully, and Jason has to freeze and desperately try not to let out the choked sound that’s suddenly trapped in his throat. He’s not sure how successful he is. He can hear Damian shift closer even over his suddenly thundering heart.

Once he finally catches his breath he manages, “status report,” and is pleased that it only sounds a little strangled.

“My injuries are no more severe than before.” There’s a slightly concerning pause. “I suspect you will die of your injuries before we run out of air.”

Jason suspects so too, in fact, he suspects it will be sooner rather than later. He isn’t going to tell Damian that though. Most likely the kid already knows and doesn’t care. Or he does care. Jason isn’t sure which would be worse.

“How many glow sticks are left?”

“Enough,” Damian replies, which means that he doesn’t expect Jason to outlast the glow sticks either.

“Why don’t you crack open another one then?”

The steadily growing darkness feels a little too much like losing consciousness, and he can feel that nightmare - memory? - edging back in with the encroaching black.

Damian obliges him and green light spills in to chase the darkness away. But something about it still has Jason feeling uneasy. He starts to shift uncomfortably before he thinks better of it.

“Thanks,” he says finally, even though his heart is suddenly racing in a way that has nothing to do with the pain. What’s wrong with him? He’d wanted to get rid of the dark and he had - so why does he still feel like cold water is closing over his head?

“Is something wrong?”

Jason snorts to hide the reflexive flinch.

“Besides being buried beneath a building?”

“Yes,” Damian answers simply and then he crouches low over Jason to look at his face, creating a dark wall with his body that seems to trap the green light in the small space between them.

Jason slams his eyes shut but that only seems to make the sensation worse. He’s aware that he’s breathing too quickly, sharp, ragged gasps, and his head feels a little like it might float off his body. The green light presses against his lids, making wavering patterns against the thin film, like water rippling against a shore. It stirs a memory from the depths of Jason’s mind but he forces it back ruthlessly. Jason’s had enough of memories today.

“Do you have anything in a different colour?”

“No,” Damian says, just as Jason expected him to. “Is it the Lazarus?”

Jason didn’t expect that - although perhaps he should have. Damian’s a smart kid and he has more experience with the Lazarus pit than most. Jason should have known he would suspect something.

But Jason doesn’t want him to suspect something. He doesn’t even want there to be something for him to suspect. He doesn’t want to be reminded of the pit or the Joker. Doesn’t want them to have happened in the first place. And he especially doesn’t want to be trapped, injured and probably dying, in a tonne of rubble with only Damian Wayne for company.

But life’s never exactly done what Jason wants it to.

“No,” he lies. “It just really isn’t your colour - hides the lovely green of your eyes.”

Not that Jason can actually see Damian’s eyes beneath the white lenses of his domino mask.

“Funny Todd,” says Damian dryly. But he shifts the glow stick away until it doesn’t feel like the green is trying to seep into Jason’s skin. There’s an almost physical sensation of release, as if he’s surfacing from the depths of the water and he doesn’t particularly like the flash of memory that that stirs either. But at least the awful feeling in his chest has faded. Now it’s only his broken ribs that are making his chest scream rather than flashback-induced panic. And maybe it should be concerning that he’s more afraid of his memories of his previous death than the very real possibility of his impending one, but Jason is trying very hard not to think about it.

He hears Damian shift again and realises his eyes are still closed. It feels easier to leave them that way. Peeling his eyelids open takes energy and Jason doesn’t have any to spare. Besides it’s nicer when the darkness is his own choice - it feels almost soothing rather than scary: a heavy blanket rather than green-tinged water pulled over his head. Damian’s quiet, steady breaths beside him are nice too. There’s no trace of pain or fear in them. It almost sounds as if the kid’s fallen asleep.

Despite everything, Jason could probably fall asleep too if something wasn’t niggling at the back of his mind. Something’s wrong - something’s wrong with sleeping. Jason struggles for the answer. The Lazarus pit? If he falls asleep they’ll put him back in, force him under the cold, green water. No. That’s not right. Jason isn’t there right now, but something else is wrong. Head wounds. You shouldn’t sleep with head wounds. Jason has one - Damian too probably - that nasty gash … Damian …

“Damian!”

The scrape of something rough against concrete. A startled breath.

“Don’t...don’t fall asleep Damian.” Jason turns his head frantically, ignoring the pain that is throbbing into renewed life behind his eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of him. Then Damian is touching him again. Another sharp pinch over his already tender skin.

“I’m not the one falling asleep Todd!”

“No sleeping,” Jason agrees amicably, even though those pinches are starting to really hurt. He can see Damian now, kneeling less than an arms length from Jason’s head. The glow stick is already fading - did Jason fall asleep after all? - but there’s still enough light to see his face, shadowed and grim in the darkness.

“Head wounds.” Jason clarifies helpfully. Tries to shake himself awake. Why is it so hard to talk suddenly?

“Yes, you have a head wound,” Damian says. Jason wonders how he manages to sound so deeply condescending when his voice hasn’t even broken yet.

“So do you.”

Damian touches his forehead as if he’d forgotten it was there. Even in the weak green light Jason can tell his fingers have come away bloody.

“Talk,” Jason orders. Because the longer the silence stretches, the more Jason starts to worry. Damian is good at being quiet, better than Jason and certainly better than Dick, but Jason doesn’t think it’s a good idea to be quiet now. The silence feels almost like a living thing, threatening to swallow them whole.

Damian touches him instead. Two fingers press lightly against the pulse point beneath his jaw. His other hand flutters over Jason’s face, trails over his shoulders and his damaged arm. Jason wants to shift away but the touch doesn’t actually hurt so he allows it begrudgingly.

“What are you-“

“Weak pulse, faster than normal too.” The fingers leave his jaw to brush over his face again. Jason realises Damian has taken off his gloves. “Clammy skin. You’ve lost consciousness at least twice, although that could be from the head wound. Most likely blood loss although there’s no obvious source that I can see.” Another uneasy glance at Jason’s legs. “So possibly internal. Could be symptoms of shock instead.”

“Great, thank you doctor,” Jason interrupts, twisting his head out of Damian’s grasp and ignoring the pain that causes. “Mind if we talk about something else?”

“General confusion. Did you know you’re slurring your words?”

“I thought we were going to talk about something else.”

Damian sits back, crossing his arms over his chest like a little kid, although Jason doesn’t miss the wince of pain as the movement pulls his damaged shoulder. “Tt, what do you want to talk about then?”

Jason isn’t so sure that the silence was a bad thing after all. Talking takes energy and talking to Damian even more so. But he can feel himself sliding back towards unconsciousness even now.

“What are our chances of a rescue?” Which, now that he thinks about it, isn’t much less morbid than their previous line of conversation. “B must realise what’s happened by now.”

Damian sniffs. “Well father can’t have missed the building coming down.”

That’s certainly true. Even in Gotham, buildings generally don’t collapse without at least a little fanfare.

“Most likely they know our location, although finding us specifically is going to be made difficult by all this rubble. If they do manage to locate us I’m not sure how they would get us out. The structural integrity of this air bubble is questionable.” Damian politely doesn’t mention the possibility that shifting the debris could mangle Jason even further. Or maybe it’s himself that he’s concerned about.

Great. Yet another thing to worry about. As if dying from his existing wounds wasn’t bad enough.

“Maybe we should just stop talking,” Jason says.

Damian doesn’t argue. Maybe he’s losing time too. They could both be slipping in and out of consciousness for all they know. Jason has no idea how serious the kid’s injuries actually are and it isn’t like Jason can examine him now.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Jason warns him, again. Damian doesn’t answer.

***

“Lays min almftrd 'an takun naymaan.”

Talia?

There’s green against his eyelids. Liquid in his mouth and throat. A voice, distant, distorted, filtering through the water towards him. Jason tries to reach her. Tries to claw his way out of the pit towards her.

“Jason, astayqiz! Wake up!”

Not Talia?

Jason struggles. The water’s too thick. He can’t breathe.

No. It’s not Talia. That’s not how it happened.

The Joker? But the Joker doesn’t speak Arabic. At least as far as Jason knows, and his voice doesn’t sound like that either - young, scared. Jason doesn’t think the Joker has ever been scared.

It’s a battle, but eventually Jason manages to get his eyelids to cooperate. He can feel the lenses of his mask as he blinks them open, which is a good thing. Whatever is going on, Jason has his domino.

There isn’t any water. Watery green light, but the air is clear. Jason can feel it now, in and out, whistling through his lungs. It’s thick with dust but Jason can breathe and that’s what matters.

And he can see - just. Now that his eyes are working, Jason tries a surreptitious sweep of the area; if Jason isn’t alone it might not be a good idea to let them know that he’s awake. At first there isn’t much to see, dust and darkness, and lumpy shapes that might be rubble, and then-

Jason manages not to startle only because it’s been relentlessly trained into him. Someone is leaning over him, closer than he had expected, and seemingly already aware that he’s awake. Jason keeps still anyway, blinks quickly, trying to bring them into focus.

A kid blinks back at him. A kid wearing his costume. It looks wrong on him, but maybe that’s just the blood, staining the usually bright material black. In the green light the bruises on his dark skin look worse than Jason guesses they probably are, highlighting them in garish greens and purples. When the kid cocks his head curiously, dried blood flakes off of his skin, scattering to the floor like some horrendous parody of snowflakes. The kid’s hurt. Which means that the Joker’s definitely been here. But he obviously isn’t dead - which means the Joker might be coming back.

The whole situation is wrong. Robin shouldn’t have survived the explosion, should he? Jason doesn’t think he has, although he doesn’t remember death hurting this much. Maybe the explosion hasn’t happened yet. But that just means it’s coming.

“Todd?”

“Shhh!” Jason’s whole body goes tense, straining to hear past the ringing in his ears. If the Joker is still here, there’s no way that he missed that. Robin might as well be shouting.

“What’s wrong?” Robin asks, although he has the sense to keep his voice down this time.

Jason can’t believe he has to ask. Wasn’t he getting beaten with a crowbar just moments ago? Jason’s body certainly feels that way.

“Where is he?” he asks, because maybe the kid knows something that Jason doesn’t. Maybe the Joker is already gone. But even when the kid is quiet Jason can’t hear the countdown and he knows the Joker set it before he left. It can’t have gone off yet. Robin’s still alive.

“Where is who?” The kid sounds cautious, scared. That’s good. He has every reason to be. “Todd, what are you talking about?”

“Joker - he - has he -“ there’s so much blood in his mouth - “the bomb -“

“You think the Joker set the bomb?” Who else would have set it? Maybe the kid has a head wound - maybe he doesn’t remember. “But why would the Joker be working with Penguin?”

Penguin? Jason can’t think clearly. Something’s wrong here. The kid isn’t saying the right things, he’s not acting right, not sticking to the script.

“Penguin? What does Penguin-“

But he can’t finish. There’s too much blood. He’s choking.

“Todd?” Someone touches his face - probably the kid - hopefully the kid - and Jason doesn’t have the strength to pull away. Fingers press against his mouth and jaw, trying to prise them open and let the blood run out. Jason tries to gasp a breath past the obstruction but isn’t quite sure that he manages it.

“Jason,” a hand against his back, “breathe.”

He can’t, his chest hurts and his lungs are full of sticky, black fluid. It splatters over his chin as he chokes and over the kid’s fingers where they still press against his face. Jason can feel them twitch as Robin forces himself not to recoil.

Jason doesn’t have long. Even if he doesn’t asphyxiate on his own blood, the bomb could go off any minute. Or the Joker could come back and finish them off - bomb or no bomb - that crowbar could be just as deadly. And Jason’s pretty sure that he’s finished, but Robin could still get away. There’s still time.

“You need to go,” Jason says, and he can hear blood gurgling in his chest as he forces the words out. The hand on his back flexes, seemingly unconsciously, and there’s an annoyed tut from the darkness above him.

Jason doesn’t remember making a noise like that when he was Robin, but there’s a lot of things he doesn’t remember at the moment so he lets it slide.

“If I could go, Todd, I would already have done so,” says the kid, a disembodied voice straining through the ringing in Jason’s ears, in his head. Jason doesn’t remember sounding that condescending either but perhaps it’s different from an outside perspective.

“Go,” Jason tries to say again, but he can’t hear himself through the blood and the noise and he doesn’t think that Robin hears him either.

Robin certainly isn’t acting like he heard him. He’s still crouched beside Jason, hand resting lightly on his back, rubbing in small, stunted circles whenever the blood in Jason’s lungs seems to gurgle particularly loudly.

“I think I preferred when you were unconscious,” Robin says. It’s quiet, but not so quiet that Jason can’t hear it even over the ringing in his ears. Jason isn’t sure if he was supposed to hear it or not.

“Robin you should-“

“Todd, if I magically find a way out of here before father finds us, then I promise I will leave you behind.”

Father? Jason knows that Robin is talking about Bruce but he doesn’t remember ever calling him that before. Dad, maybe. Once. When he had been slumped against the locked door of an abandoned warehouse that was about to blow and he had been praying for his dad to come and save him.

“Dad,” Jason whimpers without even meaning too.

Nothing is happening like it’s supposed to. Robin is still alive, and so is Jason, and maybe this time Bruce will get to them in time.

“Where’s...dad…?”

If Robin says something in reply, it’s drowned out by a sharp crashing sound and a more ominous groan as the rubble around them shifts. Robin goes so tense that Jason can practically feel the air vibrating around him - or maybe that’s the building as it collapses.

The bomb. The bomb’s finally gone off. Bruce was too late again and now they’re going to die here, in the rubble - again.

Jason tries to buck against the weight holding him down automatically - he needs to get out, needs to get Robin out - but it holds him as firmly as the padlock had the first time around. There’s no chance of escape and no chance that Bruce will get to them in time either.

The bomb is going to take them both out. Jason needs to get free, he needs to protect Sheila, protect his mother.

No. Sheila isn’t here. Robin is. And Jason can still protect him, even if he doesn’t seem to be particularly concerned with protecting himself.

Robin is grabbing at him, trying to keep him still, saying something urgently in Jason’s ear. Jason reaches out with his good arm and manages to clamp a hand around Robin’s wrist. The kid might not have enough self-preservation to leave him here but Jason isn’t about to let him die because of him.

There’s another deep groan, a shudder like an earthquake, and rubble scatters to the ground beside them. They don’t have any time.

Jason yanks. There’s a moment of resistance and then the kid is flying forward, crashing against Jason’s shoulder and head. The impact sends sparks of white-hot pain bursting through his neck and skull and he has to bite down hard on his tongue to stop the sound of pain that tries to force its way up his throat. Robin doesn’t keep his startled noise of pain and surprise behind his teeth and the sound lances through Jason almost as sharply.

“Todd, what are you-“ Robin splutters, breathlessly, against Jason’s neck. Jason tugs him closer, forcing him under his arm and half of his chest, fighting through the pain through sheer force of will. For a moment Robin struggles against him, before he goes abruptly still.

“Stay down,” Jason says. He doesn’t have the energy left to raise his voice but Robin is so close that it would be impossible for him to miss it anyway. “It’s going to-“

Actually Jason can’t remember what it’s going to do. He tightens his arm anyway and Robin makes a protesting noise. Something should have happened by now. He’s sure something was supposed to happen.

“Todd, let go of me.”

He needs to protect them. Shield them. They’re going to get hurt.

“Todd-“

***

“-ood?” Jason twitches into consciousness. Blinks. “Robin? Come in.”

A crackle of static. Quick, frantic breathing. A groan.

“-ear me? Pl-“

“Jason?” Close. Scared. “I need to answer them.”

Pressure against his arm. Jason tries to move it but can’t figure out how. It’s not connected to him anymore.

“Todd!” Not so scared anymore. Angry. A sliver of ice down Jason’s back.

“Sorry,” he tries to say, but his tongue doesn’t seem to be connected either.

More pressure against his disconnected arm. A deafening burst of static, then-

“Oracle? It’s Robin.”

Two people speaking at once. Inside and outside his head. It hurts but Jason doesn’t know how to shut them out.

“Robin? Thank God!”

A dry sob. Jason can’t tell where it comes from.

“Are you OK? We saw the building go down. We’ve been trying to make contact-“

Pressure on his arm again. Against his chest. Something wriggling against his skin.

“I’m fine.” Two voices again but Jason is pretty sure that only one of them is talking. “Hood is…” Fingers against his throat. Jason tries to jerk away, terrified that they’ll close, that they’ll choke him. He can’t breathe. “Is alive, but badly injured.”

“How badly?”

Jason can’t tell if the silence is stretching, or if he’s losing track. Maybe his ears are disconnected too. Maybe it’s his brain.

“Robin?”

“What?” Jason tries to say, but someone speaks over him.

“I’m here.”

Three voices now, except that Jason doesn’t think his actually comes out.

“The others are nearby.” The first voice - whose is that? There are too many to keep track of. Jason thinks he might recognise it but he can’t be sure through the ringing in his ears. “I’m going to patch you through.”

Another sob. Less dry this time. Another burst of static, then a rough breath right in his ear.

“Robin?”

Jason recognises this voice. It traps all the air in his chest.

“Dad?” He croaks and the sound manages to leave his throat this time.

“Father,” says the other voice at the same time - the two voices at once - and they both have an edge of desperation that sends shivers over Jason’s skin.

“What’s your status?”

“Minor injuries,” says the voice, although it shakes disconcertingly. “Hood is badly injured.”

“How badly?” Sharp. Angry.

“I’m sorry,” Jason tries to say because someone is angry at him and he isn’t sure why and that is usually a bad sign.

Silence. Somewhere in the distance Jason can hear an ominous scraping sound, but he can’t seem to connect it with what’s happening and then the two-at-once voices drown it out.

“He’s alive.”

“OK,” that’s a new voice and one that Jason definitely recognises - he had thought about Dick too in those last moments, even though his brother had been off-world and days away from being there in time. “It’s OK. We’re getting you out now anyway.”

“Where are you?” Batman’s voice, quickly followed by: “What happened?”

“We’re in an air bubble under the rubble. Hood’s legs are trapped. I lost consciousness as we fell so I cannot determine our exact location.” The words are robotic, as if the voice’s owner had gathered up all of their emotions and locked them away before speaking. Jason feels a little shiver of fear.

“I have an approximate location based upon their comms signal but I’m afraid it’s not much more helpful than telling you they’re definitely in the building.” The first voice, the woman. Jason recognises her now - Oracle.

“We’ll just have to start moving rubble.” Dick, Jason thinks. His head is starting to clear a little but there are too many people talking in quick succession, it makes it hard to pick them out.

“The rubble is unstable,” says Robin in a rush. Jason recognises his voice now too - his two voices, because his words are being echoed disconcertingly through the suddenly working comm in Jason’s ear. “I’m not sure if shifting it won’t make it collapse.”

There’s a noise of frustration.

“But how long does Ja-, does Hood, have?”

Silence again. For long enough that Jason isn’t sure if he’s lost consciousness and missed the answer.

“Not long,” Robin says, finally, and it’s so quiet that even Jason can barely hear it. The others seem to catch it though: there’s a sharp intake of breath. Despite everything, it startles Jason and he flinches.

Robin shifts under him. Jason can feel his breath against his neck.

“Jason?” There’s only one voice this time, not transmitting through the comms - Robin would never have called him Jason during a mission if he thought Batman could hear.

“‘M here,” Jason slurs. He tries to shift his head, conscious that Robin’s face is very close to his, but even as his mind is clearing, he doesn’t seem to have any more control over his body. It still feels disconnected. Even the pain seems muted. “Whassappening?”

“Father and Dick are here,” Robin says against Jason’s ear. He doesn’t mention anyone getting them out, Jason notices. He doesn’t blame him. Even based just on what little Jason can glean from the conversation and from the situation itself, it doesn’t seem that they’re going to be getting free any time soon, or possibly ever.

“OK,” Batman says, voice crackling through the comms again. “Just hang tight, we’re going to get you out.”

Damian doesn’t answer.

Feeling is starting to leech back into Jason’s limbs. It brings pain, dull throbbing in his chest, sharp, lightning jolts in his arm. His uninjured arm tingles, as if he can feel the nerves reattaching and bringing it back to life. The fingers twitch. Jason can feel Robin beneath his arm and chest with a startling new clarity.

He shifts. Damian is still and silent beneath him, and doesn’t seem to react to Jason’s movement. That would worry Jason, except he’s busy trying to regain control of his arm.

“-obin? Come in.”

Shit. Did Jason miss them talking to him? Did Damian?

Robin isn’t responding. Jason can hear him breathing, can feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath him, but there’s no signs of consciousness. That’s bad. Jason still doesn’t know how injured the kid is, he never got a chance to check his head wound.

Not that Jason is really in a state to be worrying about anyone else. Still...

Finally his arm seems to want to work for him. It takes a lot of effort, but it does lift when he concentrates on it. It’s unwieldy but he manages to fumble his fingers up to his ear. They slide against the plastic of the comms, slick with blood, but eventually they catch on the switch.

“-ear us, please respond.” Dick’s voice. A frantic edge of panic that would be undetectable if they didn’t know each other so well - if Jason hadn’t heard his voice on the comms a hundred times.

“We’re here,” Jason manages. His voice seems weak and pained even to his own ears. It’s frightening to realise how bad he sounds.

“Hood?” That’s Batman? Or it might be Dick? Maybe it’s both of them speaking at once. Jason is still finding it hard to muddle through all of the voices, especially now that the scraping and creaking is getting louder.

“Yeah, it-”

His breath catches in his throat as Robin jerks back into consciousness, jarring Jason’s broken ribs painfully as he moves against his chest. For a moment Robin struggles, clearly confused, and Jason can’t force the words past the choking lump in his throat to tell him to stop, to lie still and stop hurting him.

“Hood what’s-”

“Robin stop!” Jason finally manages, and Robin immediately goes still. There aren’t any glow sticks anymore, so even so close Jason can’t see Damian’s face but he can feel his breath, quick and short, panting in the darkness.

Dick tries again. “Hood what’s happening? Are you two alright?”

The panic in his voice sends Jason’s skin crawling again but Damian seems to perk up at the sound, groaning softly and trying to lift a hand to his head. It’s awkward with Jason still lying half on top of him, especially with Damian’s damaged shoulder and Jason’s ribs, which flare in agony every time the kid moves.

“We’re fine,” Damian says finally. Then, not echoing through the comms. “Todd will you get off of me.”

Jason tries to lift his arm obligingly - it isn’t as though he actually wants to be this close to the demon-spawn - but his entire body protests the movement. Damian tries a sort of wiggling motion to escape, grunting softly with the effort and the pain, until Jason’s elbow is poking into his stomach rather than his chest. Without the kevlar of his uniform it would probably hurt but Damian doesn’t seem to notice the discomfort. He doesn’t seem to have the energy to move any further though, stopping still half under Jason’s arm.

Or maybe he’s just freezing in response to the sudden sound of concrete sliding against more concrete. The scraping is getting louder, so loud that it seems to be coming from right over Jason’s head.

“Please tell me that’s you gu-“

Something moves above Jason. For a moment there’s only the rumble of rubble and the sensation of something shifting in the atmosphere. And then the movement is directly above him, pressing even more heavily against his back. Pain spears through Jason’s entire body, more terrible and all-consuming than anything Jason has felt in his second lifetime.

He fights against the scream in his throat and loses. It rips through him. He can’t see. Can’t hear. Can’t think. There’s just pure white pain.

It doesn’t last forever. Eventually it recedes a little and he becomes aware of voices. No words, just impressions, as if they are filtering down to him from the surface of a deep, dark sea. His own sobbing breaths come in to focus a few moments later. Or maybe it’s hours. Time seems to have lost any meaning.

“-odd, stop scr-“

“-t’s happeni-“

“-s he OK-“

Fear. His own and other people’s, seeping through his skin, into his aching bones. Jason tries to get his breathing under control but the pain is still thrumming through him, every nerve on fire. Tears and blood drip into his open mouth. There’s dust swirling with every panted breath.

“Robin, tell me what’s happening.”

Jason has never heard Bruce sound quite like that before.

“I don’t know.” He’s never heard Damian sound like that either. “The rubble shifted. It’s crushing him.”

There’s a frightened noise over the comms. Jason lets out his own little sound in response before he can stop himself.

“Crushing him?” asks Dick. He sounds strangled. Like he has to fight to get the words out.

“That’s what I said,” snaps Damian. “Whatever you’re doing you need to be more careful. I told you the rubble was unstable.”

“OK Robin, calm down. We’re going to get to you very soon. Is he-” Bruce’s voice breaks. Huh, that’s not supposed to happen. The wet, ragged inhale of breath that comes after isn’t supposed to happen either.

“‘M fine,” Jason slurs, trying to reassure them. Except no one seems particularly comforted. Jason isn’t even sure if the words make it out of his torn-up throat. Maybe he just meant to say it.

“We’re nearly there,” Dick says. He’s obviously trying for reassuring too but the desperation in his voice makes that impossible to reach. “We’re going to get you both out.”

Dick shouldn’t be making promises he can’t keep. There’s very little chance that Jason is getting out of this - he made peace with that the moment the bomb exploded.

“Of course we are. Jason just hold on a little longer.”

Shit. Bruce is calling him by his name on a mission. If that isn’t confirmation that he’s screwed, Jason doesn’t know what is.

“Trying,” he sighs. “‘M trying dad.”

There’s a sharp, startled breath. When Bruce speaks his voice is so choked that it sounds almost as though he’s the one trapped beneath the rubble.

“I know. I know son.”

As hard as he tries Jason doesn’t manage to hold on for very long at all. Unconsciousness seems to creep up on him slowly, and then all at once, and then he’s wavering in and out of the blackness. There are moments when he feels like he’s blinking back into existence, to voices and hands and pain, and then he’s gone again.

“-ason?” Bruce, leaning over him, his cowl pulled back to reveal his face. Jason can see every one of the wrinkles that line his pale skin.

“Dad?”

Bruce’s hands cradle his face. Jason can’t turn his head, can’t see Dick or Damian.

“I’m here son, you’re OK. Just stay with me.”

So Jason does.

Chapter Text

Jason can feel his legs. That’s the first thing he notices when he comes to, before he even registers the soft beep of a heart monitor, or the deep, steady breaths that mean he’s not alone in the room. Jason can’t remember why that fact should surprise him. He can’t remember where he is.

Jason comes the rest of the way into consciousness with a jolt.

The room is dark. But it’s a soft sort of darkness - sunlight filtering through a heavy curtain rather than rubble blocking out the sky.

Why did Jason think that? He struggles to remember the answer but it just makes his head pound.

There’s someone beside him. Jason can tell that even with his head pounding - he can feel their presence through the darkness. Their breathing is slow and steady; either they’re sleeping or they consider Jason so little a threat that they don’t think they need to be alert. Either way, it’s a mistake they certainly won’t make again.

Except they’re obviously paying more attention than Jason gave them credit for, because when he does lash out Jason’s fist connects with nothing but air and strong fingers close around his wrist. For a moment Jason is breathless with fear. Someone is holding onto his arm and the position leaves him vulnerable, left arm outstretched and immobile, his chest and stomach bared to his potential attacker. Jason tries to draw his legs up to cover himself, to kick out where his punch had failed, but even though he can feel them now, they don’t seem to want to respond to his command.

“Jason.”

Jason thrashes, trying to pull free, trying to twist his body and drag his right arm over his chest instead but it doesn’t respond to him either.

“Jason!”

Strong hands push him down, holding him still with an arm braced across his chest. The surface beneath Jason, as he’s pushed inexorably back against it, is soft. The hands holding him are firm. But the touch itself doesn’t hurt. For a moment Jason fights anyway, out of instinct, because he doesn’t know where he is and he doesn’t want to be pinned, before he finally goes limp. He doesn’t have the energy to keep fighting.

“OK, you’re OK Jason, just relax.” The person holding him down is speaking. Soft and low and unhurried. Jason thinks he might recognise the voice but his brain is full of panic and instincts and it’s hard to drag a rational thought through the confusion.

Then someone switches on the bedside lamp and Jason can see Bruce’s worry-lined face staring back at him.

“Bruce?” Jason asks around his own tongue, which seems to take an extreme amount of effort to use.

Bruce’s face softens. “Hey buddy, good to see you awake.” He straightens up carefully but now that Jason’s fully conscious he doesn’t want to attack him again. At least not while he’s at such a disadvantage anyway.

Bruce’s hand stays, a reassuring weight on Jason’s shoulder. Jason briefly considers shrugging it off. He doesn’t though. He remembers when he would have killed or died for the feel of Bruce’s hand on his shoulder, when Bruce’s opinion had meant everything to him and the reassuring warmth of his hand had been enough to soothe even the worst of Jason’s rages. Their relationship hasn’t been like that in a long time but Jason can’t deny that it feels nice. Despite everything it feels nice to have Bruce near.

“How’re you feeling Jaylad?” Bruce asks gently, and even the old nickname doesn’t rankle the way Jason thinks it probably should. “You gave us quite a scare.”

Honestly, Jason doesn’t feel great. He’s definitely hooked up to the good stuff - there’s a floaty sort of warmth running through his veins and head that Jason recognises - but even still the pain is there. His ribs and arm throb, aggravated by his confused attack, and sharp, shooting pain flashes across his back whenever he breathes. His legs tingle painfully, as if they’re half asleep. At least he can feel them.

Jason grunts. Lifts his uninjured shoulder in an awkward shrug. “I’ve been better.” Then, before he loses the courage, “My - my legs?”

Something dark flashes in Bruce’s eyes. His mouth twists. Jason’s stomach drops all the way down to his tingling toes.

“You took pretty heavy damage to your spine. There’s-“ Bruce’s eyes start to slide away before focusing with more determination back on Jason and Jason’s stomach twists again. “There’s no guarantee that you’ll regain full movement again, but Dr. Thompkins is hopeful.”

The hand on his shoulder comes down to rest on his blanketed shin. The skin beneath it tingles more intensely - a burst of static.

“No guarantee?” Jason swallows. “But I can feel that. That’s good right?”

There’s a little crease between Bruce’s eyebrows, usually covered by the cowl. It hadn’t been there when Jason was a kid, when Bruce had been younger and happier. It deepens now. A dark furrow on his face.

“Your chances are good Jason, you just need to focus on getting better.”

For once, Jason lets the topic drop. He doesn’t want to think about the possibility that he might not fully recover. He doesn’t want to give Bruce the opportunity to tell him so either.

“Damian?” He asks instead, even though that might be poking another sore spot. Jason has no idea how badly injured the kid was - he can’t remember much after the comms started working again.

But Bruce’s face softens into a smile and Jason feels a little of the tension finally leave his body.

“He’s fine,” Bruce says. “Nothing that a little rest won’t heal up.”

He pats Jason’s leg reassuringly. Jason tries not to think about the sensation too hard.

“That’s good.”

“You did really well Jason.” Bruce’s voice is very soft. “I know you must have been scared. You protected him anyway.”

To his horror Jason can feel tears welling up, prickling hot behind his eyes, making his head throb painfully. Bruce’s hand rubs in slow, steady circles. Jason can’t look at him.

“Hey, it’s OK. You’re safe now - you’re both safe.”

Jason doesn’t know what to say to that. He feels awkward, Bruce’s reassurances making his skin prickle uncomfortably and his chest feel hot and tight. But Bruce doesn’t seem to need an answer, happy to let them lapse into slightly awkward silence. Jason tries hard not to sniffle too loudly but it’s obvious that Bruce can tell he’s crying.

“I think Damian would like to see you if you’re up for it? Dick too.”

Bruce says it carefully, as if he’s afraid to scare Jason off. Honestly - and Jason will never admit it to anyone - he kind of wants to see them too. Only, he’s not sure he has the energy.

His reluctance must show on his face because Bruce says, “or they can come and see you later.”

“Yeah,” Jason sighs. His tongue feels heavy again, and so do his eyelids, dragging down and half-obscuring his view. “M’tired.”

Vaguely Jason registers that Bruce’s hand has left his shin, that it’s smoothing gently through his hair. It feels nice and Jason lets his eyes slide shut. God, he’s so tired.

“You can sleep Jason.” Bruce’s voice, filtering through his fatigue. “I’ll be right here.”

***

When Jason wakes again he’s more aware of his surroundings, but it still feels as though he has to claw his way into consciousness. The heart monitor is still beeping steadily. He can still hear Bruce breathing. His legs are still tingling like bad TV reception, which is still a thing that Jason doesn’t particularly want to think about.

For a moment he just lies still, tries to keep his breathing regular, but Bruce has always had the uncanny ability to tell when they’re awake, and he’s never let Jason get away with it for long.

So when his hand presses through Jason’s hair, Jason isn’t even startled - although he is a little annoyed with how far Bruce is willing to push Jason’s tolerance for affection.

“Good morning Jason.”

Jason blinks his eyes open. He isn’t entirely sure if it is morning, or if Bruce is just saying that. The room itself is full of softly filtered sunlight, but Gotham tends to switch from murky orange to slightly less murky orange so it can be hard to tell.

“Morning B,” he says anyway, because he’s feeling generous.

“How are you feeling?”

Jason takes a moment to assess. He doesn’t feel any better than last time but he doesn’t exactly feel worse either. There might be more feeling in his legs now - verging on painful - but maybe that’s his imagination.

“About the same,” he says finally, because he can feel Bruce waiting for an answer even if he doesn’t prompt him. Bruce’s hand is still on his head so Jason shakes it off and Bruce lets it fall to his side without protest.

“Alfred made some soup if you feel up to it?”

Now that Bruce has pointed it out, Jason wonders how he didn’t smell it before. Rich and spicy and warm. And now that he can smell it Jason’s stomach tightens painfully, too empty to even rumble.

“I think I can manage some,” Jason says. Except when he tries to shift himself up against the headrest his ribs protest and he has to subside with a stifled moan of pain.

“Easy,” Bruce murmurs. Steady hands lift Jason and press a pillow beneath his shoulders. “Want me to feed you as well?”

No matter how long Jason has known Bruce it’s still almost impossible to tell when he’s joking. Years of being Batman has perfected the guy’s poker face.

“I think I can manage,” Jason says, then, when Bruce waves the spoon threateningly, as if he’s about to aeroplane it into Jason’s face, “I can manage!”

Soup splatters across Alfred’s clean sheets when Jason snatches the spoon, but he doesn’t think the butler will mind. He was provoked after all. And Bruce just smiles indulgently and rearranges the bowl in Jason’s lap.

“You should drink some water too,” he says, once he’s satisfied and rattles the plastic water bottle on Jason’s bedside table. “You’re probably dehydrated.”

Jason rolls his eyes, says, “OK, dad” And it’s meant to be sarcastic only Bruce’s breath hitches and the bottle in his hand makes a plastic crackling sound as his fingers twitch and Jason suddenly isn’t so impressed with his poker face anymore.

Jason pretends he doesn’t catch it, or notice the way that Bruce doesn’t seem to want to meet his gaze anymore.

He busies himself with blowing on his soup instead.

In the end he only manages a few mouthfuls before the door crashes open and a figure launches itself onto the bed with him, overturning the carefully placed bowl and jostling all of Jason’s still very painful injuries.

“What the hell,” Jason squawks, struggling to keep the soup from flying everywhere and trying to remember how to breathe around the screaming pain in his chest.

“Damian!” Bruce snaps at the same time Dick yells “Dami!” And suddenly Jason’s room is twice as crowded and both Dick and Bruce are trying to wrestle Damian off of Jason’s lap.

Damian refuses to be dislodged.

“You’re alive,” he says, and it comes out as an accusation.

“No shit Sherlock.” Jason had been aiming for a growl but he can’t catch enough breath. “You won’t be if you don’t get the hell off me.”

Damian ignores him as easily as he ignores Bruce and Dick’s attempts to corral him off of the bed. Well, Bruce’s attempts. Dick doesn’t seem to be trying too hard. Mostly he’s just staring at Jason with a dopey sort of grin on his face and Jason would flip him off but his only working hand is occupied with his somehow even more annoying brother.

“What about your legs?” Damian asks before pinching Jason hard on the thigh.

If Damian was aiming for playful, he missed. Honestly, it’s not even that painful - which worries Jason - it’s more of a sharp burst of sensation. As if the nerves in Jason’s legs aren’t quite firing right. He shouts anyway, surprised, and knocks Damian off of the bed with a flailing arm.

Bruce mostly manages to catch him so Jason tries hard not to feel guilty at Damian’s whine of pain as his shoulder is jarred.

“Jason!” Dick snaps but he ruins the effect by stepping forward and resting a hand on Jason’s shoulder. Jason scowls but Dick doesn’t seem put-off. “Are you OK Dami?”

Damian tuts but he doesn’t sound too upset. Dick is apparently satisfied.

“What about you Jay?”

“I’m fine,” Jason grumbles. Mostly he’s just feeling tired again and his ribs and arm are throbbing with a dull sort of pain.

“I’m glad you’re OK,” Dick says and ruffles Jason’s hair and Jason definitely doesn’t feel guilty at Dick’s pained grunt when he hits him. He’s pretty sure Dick is putting it on anyway.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s great that we’re all alive.” Jason wants to cross his arms sulkily but it hurts too much. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

Dick’s face goes all soft and sympathetic, which makes Jason feel even sulkier. He opens his mouth, probably to say something very ill-advised given Jason’s current mood, but Bruce pulls him gently away from the bed.

“OK boys, I think that’s your cue to leave,” he says. Then, once Dick and Damian have both taken an annoyingly long time to scuttle out of the room, “Drink some water Jason.”

Jason does, but only because he’s thirsty, definitely not because Bruce told him to.

***

The next time Damian comes into Jason’s room, it doesn’t involve spilling hot soup everywhere, although it’s almost as annoying. Bruce has left him alone for once - after finally using up Jason’s limited stores of patience - and Jason is taking the time to catch up on some reading, despite the difficulty of turning pages with only one functioning arm. So he isn’t too pleased when Damian skulks into his room without even knocking,

“Can I help you?” he asks, not looking up from his book. He doesn’t want to give Damian the idea that the kid can stay for a chat.

Damian tuts, leans back against the doorframe, then straightens back up quickly with a wince. Clearly his shoulder is still hurting him. Damian was declared in decent health a few days after their rescue, although he’s banned from going on missions for at least a month thanks to his head injury and dislocated shoulder. Apparently he’s been driving Bruce and Alfred mad, although they’ve mostly managed to keep him away from Jason. Jason isn’t entirely sure if that’s for his benefit or Damian’s. Perhaps he’s about to find out.

“Aren’t you going to say thank you?”

Jason does set his book down at that, carefully marking his place with the superman bookmark he’d found in his old bedside table.

“Why would I thank you?”

Damian’s shoulder obviously doesn’t hurt enough that he can’t cross his arms. Jason wishes he could do the same but his right arm is bound up in a sling against his chest and his ribs still hurt.

“I saved your life,” Damian says, eyes narrowed, and Jason’s eyebrows shoot up somewhere near his hairline.

“Uhh...pretty sure that B did that actually,” he says, after a moment of silence. “I really don’t think that cracking glow sticks and prattling on about my injuries counts. If anything I saved your life.”

Damian’s eyes narrow even further and his arms uncross so that his clenched fists rest at his sides. “Saved my life?” he scoffs. “I hardly think hitting me, then crushing me half to death counts either.”

“Well then,” Jason snaps, although he definitely doesn’t remember doing either of those things, “I guess neither of us have to thank each other then.”

“Fine.”

But Damian doesn’t leave. He skulks in the doorway like a vampire waiting for an invite. Jason doesn’t particularly want to, but, “Are you going to come in? Or just creepily stand in the doorway?”

Damian tuts again, but he slides into the room regardless. He doesn’t particularly look like he wants to be here. Jason wonders if Bruce had forced him to speak to Jason or if the kid had made the decision himself but regrets it. Damian doesn’t say anything, just hovers at the end of Jason’s bed looking miserable.

“How’s your shoulder?”

Damian shrugs with his good shoulder, still scowling.

“How are your legs?” he asks in lieu of a proper answer and Jason can’t tell if he’s genuinely asking, or if he’s being spiteful. The kid sounds exactly as he does when Bruce forces them to attend his galas and make awkward small talk.

He scowls anyway, because with Damian it’s usually easier to assume he’s being a brat, and the topic of Jason’s slowly-healing spine is obviously a bit of a sore spot.

“Getting better,” Jason growls, even though he’s not actually entirely sure if they are. They still have staticy bursts of sensation, occasional pain, but he isn’t sure if that means his spine is healing, or if it just means that this is how it’s going to be forever. The first option is definitely more appealing.

For once Damian refrains from making a snide comment. In fact, he looks almost sad, face softening into something that’s not quite pity. Jason bristles. He definitely doesn’t want, or need, pity from demon-spawn.

“I could probably still beat you in a fight.”

The almost-pity morphs into an odd sort of grimace, as if Damian doesn’t really want to scowl but can’t quite help himself.

“You’ve never been able to beat me,” Damian snaps, and Jason sneers, glad at least that the pity never made a full-fledged appearance.

“Look,” he says, because if Bruce had used up all of his patience, there certainly isn’t much left for Damian, “is there a reason that you’re here?”

For a moment Damian doesn’t say anything. Just stands, scowling, beside Jason’s bed. Jason is about to tell him to get out and leave him alone when Damian suddenly lunges towards him.

Jason’s whole body jerks, because Damian is going to test Jason’s fighting ability right now and Jason had definitely been lying when he said he could take him. But the kid just lands heavily against his chest, draping himself awkwardly across the bed, good arm wrapping loosely around Jason’s waist. Jason blinks. His body stays tense for another moment before he realises that this is a hug. That Damian is hugging him.

“What’s going on?” he asks, because Damian doesn’t hug anyone, least of all Jason, and it’s very possible that the kid still has some kind of concussion.

“I’m glad you’re alive Jason,” Damian says. It’s muffled against Jason’s stomach and for a moment he thinks that maybe he heard it wrong. But Damian doesn’t say anything else, and when Jason drapes his good arm over the kid’s back, he doesn’t shake it off.

“I’m glad you’re alive too, Damian.”