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Jason knew he’d fucked up the moment the knife pierced right through his body armor and ribs. He hadn’t even felt the pain at first; all his thoughts were focused on his next move. React, don’t get pinned, don’t let the asshat with a baseball bat land anything more than glancing blows. He’d let himself get surrounded, thinking the gang of stupid punks would be easy. It should have been easy. But he’d fucked up.
The same dickhead who’d stabbed him then punched him in the kidney, just to add insult to injury. He grunted, his legs buckling under the pain that finally roared to life past the adrenaline and focus. The thugs wasted no time in making him pay for his bad choices. The baseball-bat-asshat went to town on his helmet, the ringing of metal hitting wood, then pavement deafening him. All Jason could do was curl up, protect the knife still sticking out of him, and wait them out.
The body armor absorbed a lot of the hits, but it wasn’t perfect. Someone stepped on his ankle, and he nearly threw up from the sickening crack it made as pain raced up his leg. Something—boot or bat he couldn’t tell—struck his hip, making his entire leg go numb. Of course, it couldn’t be the leg with the broken ankle. No, that would be a mercy and Jason had never deserved that.
Nausea rolled through him, settling in his stomach like a pissed off badger, threatening to strike at any moment. Why a badger? Jason didn’t know either. Blame it on the pain.
Do not throw up in the hood. Do NOT throw up in the hood.
Eventually the men around him ran out of steam. With one more kick to Jason’s stomach, they stopped. One or two of them hurled insults at him, but the ringing in his ears drowned most of it out. Feet shuffled away and then Jason was alone.
He let himself lay on the ground for thirty seconds. Thirty seconds where the pain overwhelmed everything else and he let himself sink into it. Then he forced the pain down, down, down, where it could mostly be ignored. First things first, get the hood off. The bat had dented the front plate and cracked the lenses, making it impossible for him to see clearly. He pressed on the hidden release spots and while the airtight seal released with a hiss, it didn’t unlatch.
He pushed down the rising panic at being trapped. He could breathe, he reminded himself as he took as deep a breath as he could manage with a knife in his lung. His breath rattled worryingly, each inhale and exhale tearing through his chest with burning pain. He pushed his fingers up into the seam between plates and pulled unti,l with a crack and a pop, the front plate flew off and hit the alley wall with a dull clang.
Okay. Step one complete. Step two: get to his bike. At the end of the alley. A very long alley.
Fuck.
There was nothing else to do but crawl inch by aching inch across the ground, teeth gritted against the never ending waves of pain. His ankle screamed as it dragged across the pavement. His hip screamed every time he pushed himself forward. His chest burned with each gasping exhale. But he pushed it all down so he could float above the sensations. Nothing mattered but getting to the bike.
Get to the bike. He’d worry about the next step later. Don’t think about how there was no way he was going to be able to climb onto it, let alone drive. Don’t think about the fact that he had no one to turn to for help. Leslie was the Bats’ doc. While she probably wouldn’t turn him away, she’d definitely call Bruce. The last thing he needed at the moment was another beat down. He was still licking his wounds from their last fight, when Bruce had torn off the bat insignia on his chest and had all but told him he wasn’t worthy. He’d never admit it, but the words had hurt far worse than the punches.
No one was coming to help him. No one cared.
He’d burned every single bridge he’d ever had in his life from before. Tried to murder several bridges on multiple occasions. He’d thrown away his convictions, broken Bruce’s one rule. He might be back home, but he’d never felt more alone.
On his next push across the ground the world wavered and spun. He gagged, locking his throat as it filled with bile. He moved wrong in his struggle to keep his stomach down and knocked the knife against the ground. His scream of pain cut off with a gurgling cough, blood flying from his mouth onto the ground.
He rolled onto his back, hand pressed to his chest as the pain and pressure increased ten fold. He gasped, sucking in air that didn’t reach his lungs. Black edged his vision.
His lung was collapsing.
He was dying.
He thought of his mother; the birth mother who’d died beside him. Her sobs echoed in his head along with the damn ticking of that bomb. The ticking that woke him at night, covered in sweat and gasping for breath, the smell of smoke and charred flesh in his nose.
He hadn’t been alone last time. And up until those last few seconds, he’d believed with every fiber of his being that Bruce would save them. Batman was coming and everything would be alright. Just like always.
But Bruce hadn’t come.
And Bruce wasn’t coming now. No one would save him but himself.
SO MOVE!
He rolled back over, dredging up energy from reserves he didn’t even know he had. His vision swam in a sickening blur so he closed his eyes. He pushed himself forward, dragging his broken, bleeding body across the concrete as he pulled in air that did nothing.
Drag.
Would they put him back in his old grave? Technically the plot was still his, even after they’d removed the headstone. Did they ever remove the casket after he came back? Or had they just left it down there, covered in dirt and slowly decomposing?
Drag.
He should’ve written a will. Told B to have his body cremated this time. To chuck the ashes into the Gotham river and be done with it. Let him be done. For good. He didn’t want to go back in the ground.
Drag…
Surely he had to be almost there. He’d been moving for hours. He cracked open his eyes and his heart sank. The bike was still so far away. He’d barely covered any distance.
His forehead thunked against the pavement. This was it. He had nothing left. No more gas in the tank.
He should’ve at least left them a letter. Apologized for being the world’s biggest asshole. Now he’d never get to tell them. Tell them that he’s sorry, that he’s an idiot who never realized how good his life was until he’d lost it. How all his stupid actions after coming back had just been because he was hurting and he didn’t know how to ask for help. That he’d take it all back to just be able to hug them all one last time.
His eyes slipped closed.
He wasn’t in pain anymore, at least. The part of his brain still desperate to live, even now, whispered this was very bad. But it didn’t matter. It was out of his hands.
“…-son?!”
Someone was nearby. He heard them approaching. Talking. The words rolled over him like waves, cresting high above him as he sank deeper.
“Jason, hold on!”
Someone rolled him onto his back and he choked on the blood pooling in his chest. His eyes flew open as his mouth gaped like a fish, desperately trying to draw in air but his lungs were done doing their job. The sky swirled like food coloring in water. It was almost beautiful.
His head rolled to the side. Someone in red and green crouched on the ground next to him. They spoke quickly to no one, fear etched into their body language and tone.
Tim.
His replacement.
His eyes closed again. At least he wouldn’t die alone.
Consciousness was a fickle thing that came and went like a summer breeze. He remembered the pain returning - a bright, piercing fire in his chest that brought with it the sweet rush of air and took with it the constricting, crushing pain. He remembered movement - the back and forth motions of a familiar gait. He remembered voices - achingly similar to the ones that haunted his dreams and reminded him of better times; when there had still been someone willing to save him. He remembered a warm grasp around his fingers as someone told him over and over again to hang on.
Hang on? To what?
Life?
What had life ever done for him but beat him while he’d been down? Life took everything he ever loved away from him. His mom. His dad. His mother. Himself. Sometimes he’d look in the mirror and he didn’t know who was staring back. Was it even Jason Todd that had come back from the dead or was it someone else who had taken his place, walking around using his face and name?
But just like in that alley, he didn’t get a say in the matter. His body wanted to live, so live he would.
His eyes cracked open to stare up at the expansive ceiling of the Batcave. Now that was some utter bullshit. The old man left him to die in a warehouse when he’d known Jason was in trouble, but saved him when he hadn’t even known Jason was in town. He died when he wanted to live and lived when he’d wanted to die.
Life was a bitch with a sick sense of humor.
“Jay?” a familiar voice asked beside him as the warmth around his fingers squeezed.
He turned his head away from the ceiling, everything feeling floaty and disconnected. Alfred must have him on the really good stuff. He knocked the oxygen mask down on accident. Dick huffed a choked, patient laugh as he readjusted it. His eyes were red and puffy, and there were deep, dark bags under his eyes. The smile he gave Jason was so tight it didn’t even show his boy-wonder dimples.
“Hey,” Dick breathed and reached for the button on the bed that would alert the rest of the house that something was happening in the med-bay. “Welcome back.”
Jason tried to stop him from pressing the button, but one hand was captured in Dick’s and the other was all hooked up with tubes and wires. The pulse-ox machine gave a loud beep in warning as Jason dislodged the monitor from his finger.
“Don’t,” he gasped.
Dick froze, finger on the button and eyes wide with concern and shock.
Jason panted, forcing his vision to focus and his fingers to stop doing that stupid warning tingle that preempted him passing out. “Don’t…call…B…”
Concern morphed to confusion. “Why not? He’s barely slept since they brought you back. He’ll be happy to know you’re awake.”
Jason gave the smallest shake of his head. No, Bruce would not be happy to see him. Bruce had not been happy to see him any of the other times he and Jason had crossed paths. Granted, Jason had been actively trying to kill someone most times. Usually Bruce. But that was all the more reason for Bruce to hate him. He couldn’t face him. Not yet. Not when every breath he dragged into his body felt like going ten rounds with a battering ram. Moisture escaped his eye, ran down his face, but Dick wiped it away before it could fall onto the pillow. “Please…”
Dick nodded. “Okay. Just rest.”
Jason used the last bit of energy he had to squeeze Dick’s hand in thanks before he let the heaviness on his mind drag him back into unconsciousness.
The next time Jason resurfaced it was to the sound of quiet, muffled voices not far away.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Bruce,” Dick said, trepidation in his tone. “He seemed pretty adamant that he didn’t want to see you.”
“But why?” Bruce growled back. The sound of his voice made Jason’s stomach swoop.
I once told you—if you ever left it would be your choice, not mine.
But he hadn’t left on purpose. Joker had murdered him. And then afterwards he didn't know how to deal with coming back. It’s not like there’s a self-help book for coming back from the dead. “Ten Steps to Getting Your Life Back After Spending a Year in the Ground” by A-Guy-Who-Got-His-Head-Bashed-in-by-a-Crowbar-and-Then-Blown-Up.
But when Bruce made up his mind there was no changing it. He’d decided Jason was a lost cause, so that’s what Jason was: a failure.
A failure who needed to get away before Bruce threw him in Blackgate and tossed away the key.
He reached up to the monitor above his bed and turned it off before yanking all the wires from his chest and hand. He flung the covers back and glared down at the hospital gown someone had put him in. He looked around for his clothes but didn’t see anything. Typical. Steal a man’s pants so he’s forced to flee with his ass out. But pants or no pants, he wasn’t sticking around for what would happen next. He had stashes hidden all over the city. He just needed to get to one.
He swung his legs off the bed, his lungs already panting for air. He took a deep breath, sinking into the ache in his chest and stood. Or tried to stand, at least. As soon as he put weight on his ankle it gave out, shooting pain up his leg and forcing a gasp from his throat.
The sound of voices outside med-bay cut off.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
He pulled himself up with the bed railing as Dick stuck his head back into the room. Their eyes met. Jason straightened as Dick flung aside the curtain on the door separating the med-bay from the rest of the cave.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Dick asked, crossing his arms and giving him that stupid, annoying older brother glare that said he thought Jason was being an idiot.
The curtain was pushed aside again as Bruce came in behind him, cutting off Jason’s cutting quip about how Dick’s bedside manner was so bad he’d decided to seek medical attention elsewhere.
Bruce’s face was a blank wall, impossible to read. There had been a time, years ago, when he’d been able to translate the tiny micro expressions on Bruce’s face. When he’d been able to read the monosyllable grunts and vague hand signs like a Jane Austin book. He couldn’t do that anymore. Just another thing his time in the ground had taken from him.
Dick took a step into the room and Jason stepped back, locking his leg to keep it from collapsing, even as the pain made his stomach roll. Dick took another step and Jason retreated. Bruce laid his hand on Dick’s shoulder, stopping him, and then gently eased past him to enter the room fully.
The med-bay was a large, partitioned area consisting of a surgical bay, exam table, a wall covered in cabinets and shelving, and a hospital bed, all sectioned off by antibacterial curtains. It was a space that could easily fit the entire Bat Family and the Justice League comfortably, but suddenly it felt suffocatingly small. Bruce had a way of doing that - filling up a room no matter how big.
“Jason, you lost a lot of blood. You need to get back into bed,” Bruce said, tone neutral but commanding. Just like how he used to talk on patrol. The familiarity made Jason’s heart ache. Or maybe that was the pain.
Jason shook his head and stepped back, his back knocking against the wall and the IV in his hand pulling taut.
“If you fall you’ll open up your incision. Then you’ll have to endure a lecture from Alfred,” Bruce tried again. If Jason didn’t know better, he’d think Bruce was trying to joke. But Bruce didn’t joke. And he especially didn’t joke with Jason.
“Jay, it’s okay,” Dick said, his hands up in placation as if Jason was some spooked animal he needed to calm.
But hadn’t Jason been acting like an animal all these months? Didn’t he deserve to be treated like one?
The curtain over the door moved again (how many more people were going to crowd up the damn room?!) and Alfred entered, a covered tray in his arms. He paused to take in the stand-off before him.
Alfred cleared his throat. “Master Bruce, Master Richard, would you be so kind as to retrieve a set of clothing for Master Jason? He would probably feel more comfortable wearing trousers.”
Bruce and Dick hesitated for a moment before both their shoulders drooped and they slipped out of the room, shooting Jason looks over their shoulders as they went. Jason listened to the sound of their feet as they walked away, the beep of the elevator, the cut off of their hushed conversation as the door closed and they left the cave.
Jason slid down the wall, heaving pain-filled breaths. His head spun and the lights of the med-bay flickered. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He was not going to pass out. Not when Bruce would be back. Not when he needed to be gone before that happened.
Alfred sat the tray down onto the exam table and made his way slowly over to Jason. He crouched down in front of him, just out of arms length. Was that because he didn’t want to crowd Jason or because he thought Jason was a threat?
“Deep breaths, Master Jason, deep breaths.”
He was trying, but there just wasn’t enough air.
There was the sound of movement and then the mask was pressed to his face. His eyes flew open and met Alfred’s. Underneath the veneer of calm was concern. It crinkled the wrinkles around his eyes and made the dark splotches under them stand out.
“You gave us quite a scare, young man. Broken ankle, fractured hip, collapsed lung, blood loss, more bruises than any human should ever have at one time. There was a moment where…” Alfred took a deep breath, mirroring Jason, and his eyes tightened in pain, “where we thought you weren’t going to pull through.” Alfred cupped Jason’s jaw, moisture gathering in his eyes. “That is something I never wish to happen again. So I beg of you, be more careful.”
Jason nodded as a fresh wave of dizziness made his eyes flutter. Shouldn’t the oxygen be helping to clear his head? His eyes followed the oxygen line and saw Alfred had opened the valve of knockout gas connected to the system. (Yes, they all knew it was ridiculous to hook knockout gas up to an oxygen line, but after one too many times of Alfred getting thrown across the room by Bats on fear gas, he’d installed it anyway.)
“You…sly…fox,” Jason hissed as his eyes rolled up in his head.
The third time he woke up with pants on. Win!
He also woke up to Bruce hunched over in the chair beside his bed, elbows on knees and chin in hands, eyes far away, and lost in thought.
“Not gonna…handcuff me…to the bed, old…man?” Jason panted, the oxygen mask back on his face.
Bruce sat up, but instead of the tension increasing, the tightness in his shoulders loosened, just slightly.
“Considering your ankle, I didn’t see much point.”
Jason snorted. “Jokes on you, I walked…on it anyways.”
There was a long pause where Bruce watched Jason and Jason watched Bruce.
“You know you’re safe here, right?” Bruce finally said.
“Yeah, yeah. Batman’s not gonna…wail on a half dead criminal. But see, I know…what’s gonna happen next. When the…half dead criminal stops being…half dead and recovers enough for you…to drag his ass to Blackgate. I’m sure they’ll make…quick work of an injured, former…Robin, won’t they? Take me off your hands…for good.”
The flash of pain across Bruce’s face took him by surprise. “Jason, I have never, never, wanted you dead. No matter our differences in…how justice is served or how often we fight, you are my son. That will never change.”
Jason swallowed against the lump clogging his throat. “You don’t mean that. You decided…a long time ago that…I’m a lost cause. The fuck up, the-the failure. Just say it!”
Bruce stood and Jason couldn’t keep himself from flinching on reflex. Strong arms pulled him up to sit and then gently, so very gently, wrapped around him and held him to a broad chest. The heart under his ear beat a rapid staccato just a hair slower than Jason’s own racing heart.
“If anyone is the failure here, it’s me,” Bruce rumbled, pressing his face into the top of Jason’s head. “I-By the time I’d learned you were alive, you’d changed. So much. I didn’t know how to face this new you. This angrier you. I didn’t know how to face my mistake. You died, Jason. I was right there and yet…” Bruce took a shaky breath, his arms tightening just slightly around Jason, but it didn’t hurt. “You had every right to be angry with me. You have every right to be. I don’t agree with your methods and I don’t think I ever will. But that changes nothing. You’re my son and I-I love you.”
The lump was back with a vengeance, strangling any words Jason might have tried to say. Not that he had any. He simply let himself wrap his arms around his father and just breathed.
“Welcome home, Jason.”