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The warehouse burns. Metal pops with the heat of the flames, and the air is thick with smoke.
Jason nearly gags as another coughing fit forces him to double over, each cough like shards of glass against the tissue of his lungs. He spits on the ground, ignores the taste of iron in his mouth.
The warehouse continues to burn. Something about it is…strange. The flames are all wrong, almost taunting. Despite the distance, the heat singes Jason’s skin.
At least he’s not in there this time.
While the thought makes him wheeze out a laugh, it offers him little solace. In fact, it only makes the nausea worse.
His head pounds as he straightens his back, taking pride in that he sways only slightly. Something warm and sticky coats the side of his face, but when he presses his fingers to his temple, the pain isn’t too bad. He’ll live. He somehow always does.
When he’d entered the abandoned warehouse an hour ago, he’d expected the fight, the desperation to keep Jason away from the weapons they had illegally gotten their greedy hands on.
He hadn’t expected the bomb.
Jason shakes his head.
He’s alive. He’s fine.
His heart doesn’t seem to get the memo, continuing to race in his chest.
He can still see the red, glaring numbers slowly tick down. He tries not to think of it, but…it had looked so familiar. Too familiar.
It’s just a coincidence. This is not…it’s not—
The brief glimpse of a shadow, the fluttering of a cape. Jason groans inwardly, squeezing his eyes closed. Of course he has to be here.
“Hood.”
God fucking dammit.
Batman is lurking a couple of yards away, keeping to the darkest part of the roof. He’s unnaturally still, glowing lenses pinning Jason under their glare. He seems…more imposing, than usual.
“Batman,” Jason responds, wincing at the rasp in his voice. He coughs again, spits on the ground, before straightening his back. His head swims, chest aching with how hard his heart is suddenly beating, but he manages to level Batman with a scowl. “To what do I owe the pleasure.”
Batman doesn’t move. He just…stares.
Jason feels a flicker of unease building in his stomach. Then he frowns at himself. It’s just Batman. He doesn’t scare Jason. He’s just…he’s just a man.
Despite this, Jason finds himself taking a step back, shoulders tensing. Something is wrong.
When Batman speaks, his voice is low. Dangerous.
“There were hostages in that warehouse.”
The world halts to a stop. Dread as cold and unforgiving as ice spreads through Jason’s veins. Batman is still shrouded in darkness, but his eyes seem to glow brighter than before, fury bleeding into them.
“What?” Jason breathes. There’s more than smoke clogging his airways now – a wave of fear tightens his throat, constricts his chest. “You—you’re lying.”
“They were underground. In a bunker.”
Jason’s eyes dart over to the fire. Along the one wall that remains upright, flames lick the outside the empty windows. In the distance, he thinks he can hear screams.
“Children,” Batman says, and Jason’s head spins.
It can’t be.
“I…” he breaks off, nausea forcing him to swallow thickly. His legs have started to tremble. “I didn’t know they had a bomb, I- I swear, I didn’t know.”
“You should have known,” Batman snarls, taking a step forward. The light hits his face and—he looks furious. Face twisted in a monstrous snarl, teeth bared. He looks nothing like himself, and Jason stumbles back, a hand raised.
But Batman continues, stalking toward him.
“B, I—”
“It should have been you.”
Jason’s blood turns to ice, body freezing over. At first he thinks he misheard. But then;
“It should have been you in that fire.”
Jason stares in horror as the distance between them grows smaller and smaller. Despite the speed at which Batman is walking, time has seemed to slow down. The universe taunting Jason with his last moments.
Because there is no way Batman is keeping him alive this time.
How will he do it? Jason wonders distantly as Batman looms closer, large, white eyes burning into Jason’s, face twisted in a crazed grimace. Would he throw him into Arkham asylum and force him to spend the rest of his days with his laughter driving him mad? Would he beat the shit out of him and leave him broken and bleeding?
Horror blooms in Jason’s chest when he realizes he doesn’t know.
If the man has no remorse slitting his son’s neck in order to save his murderer, then who’s to say what he can’t do.
Batman is almost on him.
“Jason,” he growls, and suddenly the cowl is gone, and instead of white lenses, blue eyes are glaring into his, filled with a fury Jason has never seen before.
The terror is absolute.
The same fear that had locked Jason’s body in place is what shakes him out of his stupor. He gasps, realizes by the way his head spins and his chest aches that he hasn’t been breathing.
Batm—Bruce is almost there and Jason needs- he needs to run. He needs to fight. But when he takes a step back, his vision becomes strange. Color bleeds away, leaving only black and white behind. He can practically feel the blood drain from his face, and he just barely manages to lean his shoulder against the wall to halt his descent to the ground.
He’s breathing strangely, can hear the wheezing of his lungs as air flows in and out, but nothing seems to work. He’s still dizzy, feels like he can’t catch his breath. His hands are starting to go numb, the tingling spreading to his jaw, his cheeks, his eyes.
He can’t…he—
A hand on his arm.
He recoils so violently he nearly brains himself against the wall. Sounds, shapes, shadows. Then his stomach flips nauseatingly, and there’s pressure against his back, a weight against his chest.
He can’t see. There’s—why can’t he see?
He’s—no, no, no.
He can’t be. He can’t. He made it out, he’s not there anymore. This is not real. It’s not real.
He tries to scream but there is no air down here. His heart is racing, pounding against his ribcage just like he punched against wood, splinters digging into his knuckles, blood staining his skin, the white shirt, his neck—
A sharp pain in his neck, a spurt of blood. Crazed laughter cut short before returning once more, louder than ever. Expressionless, blue eyes boring into his before disappearing.
Leaving him behind. Leaving him to die.
“Dad,” he gasps, reaching out toward the retreating shadow. Blood gushes out of his neck, spreading out around him in the shape of a bird. “Dad, please.”
The shape stops. Then surges forward.
There are fingers pressing against his neck – then a sharp pinprick that explodes into excruciating pain.
No.
The Batarang digs into skin, and Jason stares in horror as Bruce’s face hovers above him. His eyes are large, white lenses, blinding Jason with their rage. With their disgust. As if Jason is nothing more than a revolting insect that just. Wont. Die.
Bruce is not repeating his mistake this time. He’s ensuring that Jason’s end is permanent.
Dad is killing him.
Jason begins to cry. He writhes and claws and screams. The pain against his neck is constant, but a new strange chill is spreading down his neck, reaching all the way to his toes. He’s being emptied, his own hot blood rising around his stiffening body like water in a bathtub.
Bruce just stares at him. Apathetic. Uninterested. His hands on his arms are still there, holding him close, pinning him in place, and Jason can’t move, can’t breathe.
A rag is placed over his mouth and nose, and he sputters, coughs, cries. He tries to fight, but a sudden rush of fatigue halts his movements, and soon he can’t do anything but weep.
“Please, please,” he cries. “I didn’t know, I swear, dad—”
He doesn’t know how long it lasts. Blood reaches his ears, muffles his hearing. It cools on his face, the scent of iron makes him gag.
Moments, days, an infinity later, a voice trickles in to his awareness like sunlight through curtains.
“…son, breathe. It’s alright. Focus on me.”
Jason whines, and arms pull him close. It hurts. But it’s not…the cause of the pain.
Slowly, painfully, reality shifts. The pain in his chest subsides. As if someone opened the drain, the blood trickles away, leaving him frozen.
There’s something trapped over his mouth and nose. Plastic digs into his cheeks. Fear spiking once again, Jason grabs at it, attempting to pull it off—
A hand grasps his wrists. “Jason, stop.”
Jason freezes. The world spins when he blinks his eyes open.
Bruce’s face swims into view. Heart still pounding in his chest, Jason stares up at him, expecting it to twist into a look of anger at any moment.
But something is different, makes Jason pause.
The look in the man’s face is—Jason doesn’t know how to describe it. He has never seen it before.
He looks…scared. Distraught, even. His face is pale, blue eyes glossy and tinted red. The same eyes rake over Jason’s face, seemingly cataloging every single freckle. He finally meets Jason gaze again, and he must find something because his expression changes.
“Jason?”
His voice is shaking, but he sounds…hopeful?
Jason swallows, wincing at the pain. His throat is scraped raw. “Bruce?”
Bruce’s eyes widen. He sighs, a quick, relieved sound and shifts, arms tightening around Jason. “Hey,” he says quietly, almost inaudibly, as if he’s afraid of his own voice. His voice is shaking. “How...how are you feeling?”
Jason takes a moment to consider the question.
He is lying half on the floor of the Batcave, half in Bruce’s lap. His head is resting in the crook of Bruce’s arm. A mask is strapped to his face, dry air tickling his nose.
There’s a throbbing pain in his temple, and what feels like a bruise blooming on his lower back. His ankle hurts, and there’s a faint ache in his chest, like he’s just recovered from a coughing fit.
Most of all, he feels confused.
“Why am I…on the floor?”
Bruce’s pauses for a moment, concerned eyes dancing across Jason’s features. Normally, Jason would’ve snapped at him, uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny.
Now, however, a part of him feels like he’ll fall apart if Bruce were to look away.
“What do you remember?”
Jason frowns tiredly. His memories are disorienting and scattered, like an unfinished puzzle. But he remembers pain and...fear.
His heart is beating abnormally fast in his chest, adrenaline pumping through his veins. It’s like his body is telling him he should still be scared. But…of what? The only person here is Bruce. That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he—
It comes back to him all at once. The warehouse. The ambush. The bomb.
The fear gas.
He vaguely remembers the ride to the cave after Bruce found him beside the burning warehouse. He remembers Bruce asking sharp questions about his head injury. He remembers answering them.
He does not remember telling Bruce that his helmet’s rebreather had been compromised during the explosion.
He hadn’t thought it would affect him anymore, after the pit. That there was nothing to worry about.
They had arrived at the cave, and he had following Bruce toward the medical bay. He remembers feeling dizzy, inhaling the smell of blood and smoke - and then reality had shifted as the nightmare took over.
He blinks the haunting memory from his vision, exhausted to the his very core. Bruce is silently regarding him, a crease between his eyebrows.
“I—” Jason swallows. “I remember.”
Bruce nods, lips pressing together, jaw tensing. When he opens his mouth, Jason expects him to sound displeased, to express his disappointment and criticize Jason’s actions.
Instead, Bruce’s hand lands on Jason’s cheek, and Jason freezes. “You scared me,” he says quietly. He looks pained as he says it, his following sigh trembing.
Jason stares at him, eyes wide. He has never seen Bruce like this before. It leaves him feeling shaken, unnerved beyond reason. He doesn't know what to do. How to acknowledge the warmth in his chest, the burning in his eyes.
He's starting to shiver, teeth chattering. A symptom of the fear toxin leaving his system. Bruce pulls him closer and Jason, mind reeling, leans into the warmth.
He just wants to sleep.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.
“No,” Bruce says, so sharply Jason flinches. Regret immediately twists Bruce’s features, and he brushes a hand through Jason’s hair. Jason feels it shaking.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce whispers, voice nearly breaking. His gaze flickers down to something near Jason’s throat, only for a moment. Impossibly, his face turns a shade paler. “I didn't...I'm so sorry.”
Jason is too exhausted to understand what he is talking about, or why tears are escaping out of his own eyes. His eyelids are dropping, sleep only moments away.
“Don’t leave,” he finds himself mumbling.
Above him, Bruce sniffs wetly, shuddering. “Never,” he vows.
Jason sighs, and allows sleep to pull him away.
“Never again.”