Chapter Text
Jason had no frame of reference for what was happening to the kid. Even as he was launching forward, ready to support, he stopped right before touching the kid. Scared that if he were to reach forward and make contact, he would make it worse.
It reminded him of the trashy TV that used to fill the awful silence of the house, back when he still lived with his mom. She would get high and go into a stupor, staring blankly ahead. The only thing he could do to keep the panic at bay was to turn on the TV and pretend that he wasn’t alone, that he wasn’t scared, staring at his mother’s chest to make sure it kept moving. Listening to the conversations of people whose pain wasn’t real. At the end of the day, they could step off a set and live normal happy lives. He’s grown up since then, but on nights when the voices in his head get too loud he still likes to turn on the TV and pretend he’s not alone.
Sometimes, the TV would glitch. The images would distort, exploding in flashes of colour, pixels become more pronounced. Cracking the distorted illusion he set for himself. Reminding him that he was alone. His dad was in prison and he was taking care of a mother who should be taking care of him.
This was what it reminded him of. The kid was withering in pain, his image becoming distorted. As if his existence is nothing but an illusion. Like he was a puzzle with the pieces put together in the wrong order, all jagged edges and blinding colours.
It lasted no more than three seconds, but once the kid stilled blinking dumbly up at the sky Jason’s heart was racing. He was on his knees right by the kid’s side, his hands hovering. Unsure if touch would be welcomed.
When the kid shied away from his touch, Jason took his cue and shuffled back a few inches. Hands still raised placatingly.
“What just happened?” the kid wheezed out.
Jason let out a heavy breath, “I was hoping you’d know.”
“Ha, I know a lot of fucked up stuff about my body, but that was new,” He turned his eyes away from the sky and toward Jason. A prickle of unease slithered down Jason’s spine at the blank look in the kids eyes. He was looking at Jason but not seeing him.
The kid shuddered. Turning slightly on his side, he tried to sit up. Using his arm to leverage himself into an upright position. His arm was shaking, trying to take the weight of his body and Jason caught him gently by his shoulder a moment before the kid's arm gave out under him.
The moment he made contact with the kid, his body went stiff and compliant. His face shuttered, falling blank. Jason knew that look and the pit in his stomach grew cold and threatened to crush his heart in its icy grip.
He let go of the kid’s shoulder as soon as he was sure he was sitting upright. He moved slightly closer, enough to still support him should the kid topple but not so close as to crowd him.
“Kid?” he asked softly. Watching the familiar vacant look he's seen too often in the field. He began tapping a slow steady beat against the roof tiles with one hand. The files said he might be sensitive to sound. Anything he could do to ground the kid in the moment.
Tapping with one hand, he pulled out his cell with the other, speed dialing the Batcave where someone was most definitely keeping tabs on the situation.
“Jason,” came Bruce's voice over the line.
“Bruce,” he replied, “The kid had some sort of episode and now he’s dissociating.” Jason held his phone to his ear and took the time to survey the roof. He's spent his fair share of nights sneaking out, but very few just coming up to the roof like some of his other siblings.
“I don’t know how he managed to get up here, but he doesn't seem strong enough to get down. I’ll do what I can to get him present, make a plan to get him down from the roof.”
Bruce hesitates a moment before answering, “We’ll get ready. Will you be all right?”
This was why Jason spent so much time avoiding Bruce. The logical part of Jason knew he was asking out of concern, but some part of him still screamed that it was because Bruce still didn’t trust him. His hesitation before complying with a simple request spoke volume. His relationship with Bruce was as rocky as ever. And some part of him knew that their relationship will never be what it was before.
Both of them were warped in a cataclysmic event that now shapes both their lives. Bruce was warped in grief for the little boy he lost. A little Robin that doesn’t exist anymore. Jason was shaped by an unhealthy amount of trauma and an unnatural rage. He will never be the little boy that fell asleep against Bruce’s shoulder after long patrols or the kid he talked through katas while still half asleep in the morning hours.
The truly fucked thing was that he never blamed Bruce for his death. In fact he remembers whispering words of thanks to a man who wasn’t there to hear them as he laid in a pool of his own blood. Looking through a haze of pain as the timer reached zero.
He did blame Bruce, then and now for being a coward. He only ever blamed Bruce when he let the Joker live to keep hurting not only the people of Gotham, but also the people Bruce loves. If killing the Joker or any of the other loons that run around in Gotham will make him no better than the villains, he saw no reason in not beating kind with kind.
Sure, Jason could get behind leaving justice to the law. The problem was the corrupt system that kept failing in apprehending mass murderers. As for fearing the darkness that Batman holds within himself. The fear of becoming a monster when the line is crossed. Jason sometimes wonders if Batman had taken that step toward becoming a monster, he would have been spared. If he would have been able to keep hold of his own sanity. If he would have been able to look in the mirror and see something other than glowing green eyes and hands drenched in blood.
It was selfish and childish. It doesn’t stop him from wishing for something different. The least Bruce could do was accept the son for the monster he helped mold. But Jason was the one that left. Jason was the one that ran away to find a woman who shared his DNA, looking for love and acceptance where there never was. The irony was in turn losing the person who was a father to him in every single way that mattered. And Jason may be back, but he wasn’t ‘Chum’ or ‘Champ’ anymore. He was Jason the prodigal son that returned only to burn bridges and become one of the monsters that his dad hunts.
He was a hate child of Batman and Joker. The casualty of a feud that should have ended long ago. Preferably with a mad clown in a grave. Instead he became a weapon, molded by Thalia, but also an unintentional checkmate from the Joker himself.
So to say that Bruce’s hesitance and question hurt in that unintentional way that only he can accomplish was an understatement. It felt like doubt directed at not the man who fought tooth and nail to get where he was, mending relationships he would have preferred to stay buried, but to the little Robin who naively wanted to make the world a better place with stern lectures to criminals and well meaning candy.
“I can handle this,” was all he said.
“Hey, kid,” Jason kept up the rhythm of taps on the roof, knowing that it was his touch that most likely set off the episode. He had reacted out of instinct, catching the falling teen, a traumatized to hell teen. Who knows what a simple touch like that could mean to him. But with how the kid went still and compliant in his hand, Jason could make enough guesses and none of them were good.
He knew the medical file he had was incomplete. Even though Dr Leslie always helped out, she always does what she can to upkeep doctor patient confidentiality. Alfred too. He was under no impression that those files were the complete ones. What was in those files was only the necessary information to aid their investigation. Her own files were most likely incomplete until she had an actual conversation with the kid.
But for now Jason makes a mental note that touching is a no go.
A sentiment that makes sense if he thinks of all the scars he saw in the photos.
Along with the tapping rhythm he starts speaking slowly, keeping his voice gentle. A mantra he spoke often enough on the streets of Gotham. A mantra he sometimes has to chant to himself when nights get too long or the darkness gets too overwhelming.
“You are safe right now. Nothing dangerous is happening. You have made it this far and you will make it further. Breathe with me.”
“In,” he takes an exaggerated breath.
“Out,” he exhales.
The kid breathes. And Jason breathes.
“Can you name five things you can see?”
“I can’t…” the kid starts, his voice hoarse. His eyes were blown wide, staring straight ahead.
Jason thinks about the vacant look in his eyes and how despite that they looked at each other, their eyes never quite met. His heart sinks when he realises his blunder, “It’s–”
“Trees, a bird, a greenhouse, a broken roof tile, a grass field.”
He breathed a sigh of relief, “Four things you can feel?”
“In general or at this moment?”
Great another smart mouth, “Right now.”
“The roof, my hoodie, the breeze, the sun.”
His eyes were gaining focus, his breathing becoming steadier.
“Three things you can hear?”
“Birds… A cow? People downstairs, freaking out,” Holy shit. They’re going to have to be careful what they say. The barn was at least half a mile away.
“Okay, two things you can smell?”
“Gunpowder… blood,” He finally looked at Jason, tilting his head slightly. A chill went down Jason's spine. He showered before coming here. How strong is the kid’s senses? And why was he so open about it. If he had been experimented on why was he trusting Jason. Unless he grew up in a lab and had no frame of reference for what would be normal. Or it was his own kind of test. A test of what they would do with the knowledge he was was offering. He had a feeling that the test was a hail mary. A desperate grab at hope. Hope that someone will look at what he can do and not hurt him for it.
“One thing you can taste.”
“Anaesthesia,” a pause, “You drugged me. Like they did.”
The kid was staring at him now. Intently. Yet his eyes were still not focused. As if he was looking beyond what he could see. Right into Jason’s heart. And If he could hear Batcow half a mile away and conversations down stairs, he could no doubt hear Jason’s heartbeat. Sure he could lie and keep his heartbeat steady, but lying would get him nowhere. He had a feeling they were on the precipice. What he said next would be detrimental to how the kid will proceed in the future.
His face may have been blank, but his eyes betrayed a desperation to him. The kid was desperate, and there was a glint there. A hopelessness. Jason might not be a people person like Dick, but he could read enough from this kid to know that if he didn’t give the right answer there would be no turning back for the kid. It would be the end for him.
So Jason nodded, let out a heavy sigh, “I wasn’t there but it sounds like you were… in need of medical assistance, and not in the right space of mind to accept it.”
Jason held still. Meeting the kid’s slightly off centered gaze.
Finally the kid nodded, sagging slightly, “I was there – in that place,” he tilted his head again, “I had a fever.”
“You had a wound that was infected.”
The kid simply nodded, “They took my spleen.”
Jason’s breath hitched on the next inhale, “Yeah that would do it.”
“I can’t… It’s blurry,” the kid was sagging even more, "I don't remember everything."
“That’s okay,” Jason whispered, “You’re safe now.”
Jason’s phone buzzed, he glanced at it and sighed, “I know this must be really overwhelming, but would it be okay if my brother comes up?”
The kid’s eyes were closed again. Head tilted at the sun, but if Jason had to gander a guess the kid was close to falling asleep.
“You mean the one who is hiding under the eave?”
Jason whipped his head around and a moment later Damian’s head popped out. He grimaced. Jason hadn’t even heard him approach. A normal thing considering his training, but how did the kid clock him so easily. By the slight furrow of Damian’s brow he was thinking the same. Then again his hearing and scent was definitely enhanced. He still didn’t know about vision, but time will tell.
“He’s here to help us get down from the roof.”
The kid finally opened his eyes again, not even looking at Damian, “I don’t need help,” he said, staggering to his feet. Jason got up to support him, his hands hovering inches away, ready to catch should his legs give out. The kid was looking at his hands inches away, his eyes growing distant for a moment. His face flashing between fear and a painful kind of hope and longing
“I don’t need help,” he said again, taking a wobbly and unsteady step towards where Damian is waiting. By the looks of it he has a heat pack.
Jason just nodded, keeping his hands ready. The kid took two more steps, something he’s going to get an earful about later, the kid should definitely not be walking on the casted leg. He stopped and swayed, Jason inched his hands closer.
Clearing his throat, Jason whispered, “You don’t have to trust me. I won’t ask for that,” he kept his voice steady and low, “But let me help you, please.”
The kid’s eyes slid closed, he swayed for another moment, before reaching out to grip Jason’s outstretched arm at the wrist, “No more drugs,” came a broken whisper.
Jason did not hesitate before nodding, “No more drugs.”
The teen nodded and let his body sag slightly against Jason. They took two more steps together.
*****
He was confused. His mind warring, struggling against the now familiar instinct to go limp and compliant in the arms holding him steady. Experience telling him that if he were to comply with the hands holding him, it will hurt, but it will hurt more to fight. Fighting always brought more pain. But some part of him, an instinct that had been an overdrive of dangerdangerdanger for so long was silent. Telling him that complying with these hands would be okay.
Either way he was complying.
The two presences that were there hovering, talking. Were they talking to him? With a jolt, he realised this was the first conversation he’s had in… what felt like forever.
He remembers at the start, he would talk. He would rib as many of them as he could in any way he could. As if he annoyed them enough they would let him go. Then it felt like the only way he could hold on to the little freedom he had. Then it became desperate.
He was desperate to get acknowledged.
They never did. They would talk about him like he was nothing but an object. Only speaking directly to him when giving orders. He was to them. An object.
He shuddered.
An object that could be used in many ways. Suddenly the gentle hands that were leading him didn’t feel as gentle anymore.
Something warm was pressed into his hand and he forced himself to focus on it. Slowly the muffled voices grew into focus.
“You’re okay. You're safe. We’ll take our time to get down,” The big guy was speaking again. His voice was gentle, and he couldn’t help but shudder again. This one not out of revulsion, but out of an emotion he isn’t willing to name. One that wants him to lean into the comfort the gentle voice is offering.
“Can you squeeze the heat pack?”
He constricted his fingers around the pack. They were shaking. His whole body was shaking. He was so tired. He allowed his legs to give out under him. The one awkwardly because of the cast. Why was his leg in a cast?
The big guy was cursing, tightening his grip to slow his descent as much as possible. The other one also stepped closer, his hands hovering.
“Sorry,” he whimpered.
Why was he crying?
“Don't ever apologize for something like this,” the smaller one's voice was firm. His heartbeat sounded younger.
“Can I pick you up?” the one that smells like gunpowder asks, “I’d feel a lot better if we were off the roof.”
“I like high places,” he confessed softly.
He felt the man's slight movement as he nodded. The shifting of fabric and the slight displacement of air.
“And once you're strong enough to stand on your own two feet, I'll take you to the top of the Wayne tower myself if you want to. But for now – now you need to heal first,” he could hear the sincerity in the man's voice. That along with his senses chanting trusttrusttrust, was enough for him to nod. Sagging against the man.
“My name is Jason by the way, that’s Damian,” the man still spoke gently as he shifted him in his arms, “You have a name? ‘Cause I can't keep calling you kid.”
He should feel awkward being held as he was, but with his head resting in the crook of the man’s neck, he felt safe. Safe enough to whisper, “Before… before I think I was Peter.”