Archive of Our Own ^beta

It started like it always had: mission gone wrong, fresh-and-still-healing injuries, miscalculated battle, no back up— the normal spiel that was a precursor to getting caught.  

On hindsight, Jason probably should have heeded his self-diagnosis of an abdominal bullet wound and bruised ribs and stayed in. Maybe he should have swallowed his pride and utilised his shaky alliance with the other Gotham vigilantes, instead of tackling a big drug meet by himself. But he had sorely underestimated the firepower brought and the headcount. As for the Bats.... He was relatively certain that his request for help wouldn't be so welcomed. Not after nearly botching a rescue mission last week. That was something he’d rather not dwell on. 

Regardless, 20/20 was stupid, he was already in this situation and didn’t quite feel like ruminating on his past mistakes and regrets— he had far too much of those and couldn’t afford a depressive spiral while being held captive.  

He was relatively certain that he was concussed, there was a broken bone somewhere in his right arm, a knife or something was sticking out like an oversized sore thumb in his left calf, his left shoulder housed a bullet (maybe two, his focus had kind of slipped when that had happened), his legs bound to the chair by something wire-like around his ankles, and his arms were trapped far too tight behind his back, wrists pressed into elbows. He had no tools or weapons on him, leaving him with only his mask, shirt and cargo pants. Adding to that, the bullet wound in his abdomen had reopen, blood going everywhere, and his ribs were making it a pain to breathe. 

So, he might be injured enough to warrant at least a week’s worth of bedrest, but that hardly meant he didn't have any fight left in him. 

Jason lurched forward. Teeth met red-splashed sleeve of the tailored suit as he bit down. 

There were yelling as the arm locked between his jaws tried to pull free. Something struck the side of his head, but he stubbornly kept his hold even as his ears buzzed louder. An arm wrenched around his neck, choking, and he still paid no heed. Not even having the blade in his leg lodge in deeper into his flesh caused him to release his catch. 

No. The thing that did was fingers shoving into the wound in his shoulder and pulling it wide- 

He didn’t scream, but it was a near thing. A choked cry wormed out of his throat as his vision spun, the skin and flesh around the bullet wound sending nauseating signals of pain pain pain pain- 

Even when the fingers left, his shoulder throbbed fiercely, blood further drenching his shirt, and his ears were overwhelmed with klaxons of ringing and pounding. He heaved a breath of bloodstained air, and another, swallowing the bile settling at the back of his throat.  

Why did it hurt so much? It was just an aggravated bullet wound.  

His vision refused to clear, but he picked up words spoken. 

“If that is how you want to play it,” was the snarl. 

Jason lifted his head to face the blurry blob of black and white. The lack of blood in his mouth (other than his own) was disappointing, the suit’s material too strong for his teeth to penetrate skin. A pathetic attempt on his part, really. He should have aimed for the more exposed wrist. To his satisfaction, however, the blur in front of him kept a decent distance. 

Fuzzy though it was, Jason could tell that it was Black Mask, the mad crime lord with a grudge against him so big that the entirety of America would not be enough to contain it, with an equally massive ego to boot. Case in point, Black Mask had dragged Red Hood all the way to... wherever they were for the pure sake of torture. At least most baddies had the decency of covering it up with a sprinkle of interrogation or even experimentation. But being the vengeful sadist that he was, Black Mask seemed to care nothing more than to make Red Hood suffer. And had made that clear earlier on. 

Despite the nausea and pain blanketing his entire being, Jason stretched a feral grin. “As if you were intending to play nice yourself,” he responded, trying to cover up his struggling breaths with a show of trademark cockiness.  

The blur that was Black Mask stepped closer, yet still far enough that Jason wouldn’t be able to snag anything with his teeth again, what with him being trapped to the chair that was bolted to the floor. “Your little posturing and arrogance are getting old.” 

Jason rolled his eyes despite knowing that it wouldn’t be visible behind white lenses. “Same could be said for you.” 

Black Mask apparently didn’t deem that something worthy of his response as he merely walked away. 

Vision slowly clearing, Jason’s gaze tracked the criminal’s movements, a bit of apprehension curling in his gut as gloved hands started to rummage through the assortment of...  torture implements— for lack of a better term—all piled semi-neatly on a table to his right.  

He absently tried to twist his arms in their restrains to alleviate some of the numbness, but the restraints held fast around his forearms, some kind of band that seemed to wrap firmly across the entire length and keeping them behind him. The position was a pain and a half on his brutalised shoulder, stretching and twisting the wound and probably causing the bullet in there to lodge deeper into his flesh. 

Not to mention it was harder to slip out than the regular wrist-to-wrist tying technique. Seriously, why abandon the classics? He hated getting caught by people with a functional brain.  

Still, he tried, testing the non-existent wriggle room of his restraints for the umpteenth time. He had to break himself out if he didn’t want to have his life slowly drained out of him.  

While it was true that Dick had promised that help would come should he asked for it— back when he had been... coerced into their alliance— he wasn’t holding out on it. For one, he hadn't asked for it, for the better or for the worse. Secondly, he doubted they would be too keen on swooping in as his saviour, what with his last interaction with them had been him accidentally shooting Batman.  

Granted, the reason why he had been in the same place as them in the first place had been to save Red Robin from Scarecrow’s experimentation attempt and he might had accidentally gotten toxin in his veins, just enough to skew his perception. And he had fled the scene shortly after. But despite all that, he was relatively certain that a request for rescue would not be welcomed. 

Besides, he’d rather die a horrible death than going down hoping.  

Even if that meant dying alone. 

His slight movements did not go unnoticed by a lackey standing guard by the door, foot moved halfway through a step, fist curling— probably ready to interfere should the mighty, obstinate Red Hood try to make another wild lashing out. Jason could see red drenching the fingers of the guy’s right fist and deduced that it was probably the person who had worsened the state of his shoulder. He spared a moment to commit to memory that he really hated that guy before focusing on whatever Black Mask was doing. 

The crime lord was turning over a pair of pliers in his hands before slowly placing it on the table beside the toolbox it came from. He hummed lightly in what seemed to be in consideration before a hammer joined it as well. 

It was an intimidation tactic, Jason knew. And he wasn’t falling for it. He kept his expression impassive as Black Mask picked up a length of rope before turning back to him. “Tell me, will you cooperate, or will I have to make you?” was asked almost conversationally. 

Jason didn’t know nor care what it was that Black Mask— aka Roman Sionis, aka ultimate deranged sadist— wanted him to cooperate into doing. It was probably something as appealing as repeatedly beating himself in the head with a crowbar. He merely glowered, lips drawn back in a snarl. 

“Suit yourself.”  

Dark eyes darted behind Jason, and he was reminded that there was another lackey in the room. Fingers snatched his hair, wrenching his head back. He hissed as it pulled at the sore on his skull. His aching head pounded as he tried to wriggle out of the hold, but it held fast. 

Black Mask approached, unhurried. Jason snapped his teeth in warning, but the effect was lost when his head was held still.  

Before his sluggish, concussed brain could react, a hand was pressing into his jaws, undoubtedly trying to force them apart. And try as he might, he couldn’t gain enough room to pull away. He had no clue what the insane crime lord wanted to do, but every possibility that flashed through his mind was an absolute nope.  

But his thrashing only earned him the aggravation of his injuries as the hands (assisted by a timely jab just into his broken rib) managed to wrench his mouth open.  

He had expected many things— Black Mask had never been the most creative person when it came to torture— but the rope getting jammed between his teeth somehow didn’t make the list. He involuntarily winced when the thick cord shoved itself deeper across his mouth, pulling back the corners of his lips. Still, he struggled, twisted and tried to throw off the hands manhandling his head as best he could. But the rope only tugged back further before he vaguely felt it twisting into a knot at the back of his head. 

He thought that was it. It hurt a whole lot: bits of his lips and the inside of his mouth getting pinned between the rope and his teeth, his jaw getting stretched open with how thick the rope was, his headache worsening with how rearranged his skull felt. 

But that would have been it. 

Then there was a tug backwards on the rope, causing a hiss of pain that he couldn’t trap between his teeth to slip out. His bound arms were tugged upwards slightly, wrenching the wound his shoulder around. He tried to put up a token of a struggle despite the pain, but Black Mask likely got tired of putting up with him as a fist slammed into his jaw.  

Vision flashed, head reeling, brain throbbed, ears ringing; he was dazed. He vaguely tasted fresh blood with a stronger wave of nausea. 

Once coherency trickled past the pain of everything else, he noticed the lack of hands trying to rearrange him. He tried to clear his vision, to assess the situation, to figure out what else Black Mask had up his sleeves. But he found that he couldn’t really ease his head from the painful wrenched-back-position it was left in, like something was holding it back. However, when he tried putting more force in the movement- 

The coarse rope between his teeth scraped further into his mouth as his bound arms were dragged upwards with the motion, pulling at his shoulder wound. His head spun, more blood starting to trickle onto his tongue. Confused, and more than slightly alarmed, he tried once more, wrenching his head forwards.  

Again, the rope bit further into his lips as his arms got twisted upwards. His chest ached as he struggled to breathe against the feeling of getting trapped and the onslaught on pain. His arms twitched back down and the thing between his teeth tore deeper. 

Panic was starting to encroach, and it took everything within the fibre of his being to not struggle. There was connection there. A simple connection. An obvious connection if he could just think past the awful tugging and scrapping in his mouth and the twist of his left shoulder and his pounding brain and panic skipping through his heart- 

Facts: every time he tried to move his head forwards, the makeshift gag between his teeth pulled backwards. Adding to that, his crisscrossed bound arms got pulled with the motion. When he moved his arms back down, the rope and his head got dragged with it as well.  

And all that equated to Black Mask being an absolute devil of a sadistic menace and had attached the rope in his mouth to his restrained arms. A rock and a hard place kind of deal. 

Maybe Black Mask was rather creative after all. 

How mad would Batman be if he killed Roman Sionis? Maybe he could claim self-defence?  

Although with their track record, Batman likely wouldn’t care for the excuse. Just another proof that the insane Red Hood needed to be put down like some rabid dog. For the record, if he was as mentally instable as everyone seemed to have convinced themselves, then Bruce should be in Arkham as well. At least Jason wasn’t delusional enough to not realise that some people needed to be wiped off the planet. 

Fortunately, he mostly worked alone and didn’t have to deal with other idiots’ morals. And, boy, did the entire conglomerate of Bats had them in the dozens. 

(The part of him that yearned for a rebuilt relationship reminded him that if he didn’t work alone, he could rely on an escape assist. But that piece could go play in traffic or something as it was entirely senseless. He could perfectly well break out on his own. He just... needed a minute. Besides, allies or none, he knew what happened the last time relied on hope. And the many times he had been let down by his own family. He didn’t need people who wanted a dead boy. And they wouldn’t want him. He was better on his own.) 

Just thinking about Batman just made his head hurt worse, with his stupid bat ears and his stupid bat lectures and his stupid bat moral high ground and his stupid ‘soldier’ shrine. 

Jason managed to supress a flinch when a gloved hand pressed into his cheek and dragged him away from his internal Bat-bashing. His eyes opened to Black Mask watching, probably drinking any visible traces of pain, and Jason had to wrangle the instinct to give in to his raging fury. Bound as he was, he would only worsen his injuries and make any escape even less likely.  

His attempt at spitting out a curse at the menace looming over him earned only further chaffed lips and a tongue full of blood and rope fibre. 

Undaunted, the fingers on his jaw didn’t leave. A thumb found its way to the rope, before following the line to where it tore open his lips. 

Jason forced himself to not react, no matter much he wanted to pull away from the touch. Even when it moved to the raw rope burns across his lower lip.  

The buzzing in his brain seemed to have increased. 

Much to his relief, the hand left. He didn’t realise the breath he was holding but did all he could to not appear too relieved. Knowing Black Mask, the guy would be more likely to do something if it was clear that Red Hood absolutely did not want it happening. 

Jason didn’t know if it was something that Sionis would line up for a torture session, or the sadist was only trying to prompt a reaction out of him. He, frankly, did not want to know, did not even need to know. 

With careful manoeuvring, Jason managed to somewhat straighten his neck to watch as Black Mask stepped away. It was a bit of a strain, but it worked. 

“I think it is about time we turn this up a notch, don’t you agree?” Sionis gave him a glance as he picked up the pliers from the table of torture tools. 

Red Hood’s glower deepened. 

- 

The first one had been manageable. It hurt like an absolute truckload of acid (so what if he was being a bit dramatic), but he breathed through it. Pain management was one of the things he had been trained in. Torture tolerance 101, or something.  

The second was worse, but he had bit the rope in his mouth hard and still forced himself to breathe.  

But those have been quick. A grab and tug and tear out. 

The metal was no longer cold by the time it wormed its way under the third nail in his left hand, warm and wet with blood. His thumb and index finger were throbbing. But it did nothing to mask the searing in his middle finger. Instead of wrenching it out, like the other two had been done, Black Mask probably thought that it would be amusing or something to drag the pain out. 

Jason ground his teeth into the rope in mouth as the pliers gripped the nail and nudged it upwards, not enough to pull it out or snap it, but enough for it to scald. It took all his self-control to not wrench away from the hand curling around his finger. Another twist had him choking on the blood and saliva pooling in his mouth, the ability to swallow taken away by the thing keeping his jaws apart. He managed turn his head slightly to spit it out with a cough somewhere to his right, disappointingly missing the Sionis’ pristine, polished shoes by an inch. 

“Disgusting,” he heard Sionis mutter, as if this whole thing wasn’t his own doing. The guy really had no room to complain.  

Jason, on the other hand, believed himself to deserve at least a shower to get rid of all the blood, grime and the bits of saliva (ew) and maybe even a nap. A nap sounded really good. His head ached, and he was getting tired. 

He managed a garbled few choice words, even though trying to talk tore his mouth onto the rope.  

The grip on his finger left, leaving only the warm metal against his agonised finger. He didn’t get to dwell on the change when the pliers tugged down, his arms pulled with it. The rope yanked back, digging ever further into his skin even as it dragged his head with it. Simultaneously, the nail strained against its bed before it belatedly tore off, and he barely managed to choke back a scream of pain, head swimming nauseatingly.  

Something wet was trickling down his cheeks and he hoped that they were blood because the alternative would be tears and that would not be something he could live with. Blood was definitely dripping from his throbbing fingers. He could barely feel them, but ripped fingernails would undoubtedly tear skin. 

He vaguely managed to catch Sionis clicking his tongue over the increasing ringing in his ears. 

“You’re more thick-headed than I thought.” 

Jason wrenched his eyes open to glare at the blurry shape of Black Mask looming over him. He hated the rough rope gagging him, longing to sink teeth into that stupid, pleased face, to claw out every single vital organ and leave the body to bleed out. He could picture it: skin flayed open, those shiny polished shoes glistening with blood, throat turned inside-out. 

He was snapped from his fantasy of murder by fingers strangling his neck. Hard. 

His arms instinctively jerked in their bonds, grating and digging the gag it was attached to into bloodied skin. He choked, limbs trying to wrench out of their restraints to stop the hands wringing his throat. He tried twisting his head, to throw off the thing strangling him. 

The only thing that that succeeded was dragging the taut rope across his mouth.  

It was a burst of pain and blood and shredded skin as he gagged airlessly. Darkness encroached his vision, swimming, swimming, swimming. 

The weight on his neck lifted and he choked on a gasp, reducing him into a coughing mess, still unable to breathe properly with his head wrenched back and blood flooding the back of his throat. He wanted to lift his head, to let the liquid pool out of his mouth. But he couldn’t get his arms to move properly, the rope tugging him back at every try.  

Without warning, fingers dug into his hair before his head was wrenched forward. His vision went white. Instantly, a sharp pain exploded from his right shoulder and his entire mouth. His brain flipped at the abrupt change of gravity, all while registering nothing but aching, burning, nauseating agony. 

He might have blacked out; it was hard to tell. But the first thing that slipped past the echoes of pain in his brain was a distant amused chuckle. He ignored it in favour of stabilising his breaths and trying to not further aggravate any injury.  

He was relatively certain that his right shoulder, if not both, had popped out of its socket. His left arm lost in a lava pool of agony; right upper arm screaming of an unidentifiable pain. He could barely feel his mouth, lips and lower cheeks probably ribboned to shreds. It’ll probably leave scars, and he tried not to shudder at the thought of having bright marks stretching from his lips like an overly wide grin. His jaw ached with how the rope was stuffing between his teeth. At least he no longer was drowning in his own blood, warmth dripping out past his lips. Small mercies.

He forced his eyes to open, vision still swimming, but slowly focusing. It still blurred over every time the thudding in his skull reached loud peaks, but he would take what he could get. The sight of his own lap greeted him, blood splattering it red. And... vomit? He never wanted a shower more than he did then.  

A gloved hand ghosted his cheek once more and he suppressed a startled jump, forcing out a wordless snarl. It probably wasn’t particularly threatening, with how he couldn’t even lift his head. But it was all in the principle of it. 

Predictably, Black Mask was completely unfazed. Before he could decide whether it would be worth to yank his head away, a gloved finger pressed against the tender lacerations. He managed to swallow back a pained whimper.  

But not the choked gasp when the digit forced itself into the non-existent space between his skin and the chaffing rope. The leather burned as it dragged against fresh wounds and the rope gnawed hungrily at the other corner of his lip. It was hard to keep his ragged breaths steady as pain tried to force his body to struggle.  

Fingers nudged his head to tilt upwards, and, not wanting the rope to tighten any further, he let it, shoving down the pain of his shoulders getting moved in favour of maintaining a murderous glare.  

“Still got some fight left in you, eh?” Sionis tilted his head, as if considering. 

Jason’s snarl choked into an embarrassing whimper when the thumb tugged at the taut rope. 

“Well, that is good. I still have one more thing left for you.” With not a thought towards gentleness, the hand abruptly left him, leather rubbing against raw wounds. He distantly felt skin tearing further. “But first...” 

Jason barely managed to keep his head upright despite the weight of his limp arms tugging at his lips. Deep, steady breaths were hard to come by. His chest felt tight and he couldn’t figure out why. His shoulders were in massive burning pain, with his arms still pulled behind him. Head still throbbing, it was a little hard to arrange his thoughts. Something at the back of his skull was searing. 

He might actually throw up again. Or pass out. Whichever that came first. 

Sionis turned before snatching something from the nearby table. Jason barely had time to register the shape of a hammer before his right knee cracked as a surge of pain flooded into his mind, his reflex of a flinch yanking at the smashed joint. There was barely a pause before something slammed into his left knee as well. He might have screamed; it was hard to tell. It just hurt and hurt and hurt and his head was reeling and spinning. He tried to catch his breath to control the pain. 

But a sharp weight smashed into his chest, and he felt something give way. He choked on a ragged breath, vision blurring, lips burning brighter when he tried to curl into himself and he couldn’t breathe. 

He struggled to regain the air he lost, chest seemingly unable to contain any amount of air. His head ached and felt light. There was a tug on the rope in his mouth, small at first, before it dragged and yanked back. The pressure on his already agonised wounds increased too much before something slammed into his face and he blacked out. 

- 

When Jason came to, it was to a sharp smack across his head. 

Gasping and wheezing, his brain struggled to comprehend his surroundings. It was an immense struggle to breathe; his shoulders were sending throbbing signals of fiery pain to his brain. His mouth was in the limbo of numbness and aching hurt, something between his teeth pressing deep into his jaw. There was a sharp, loud throbbing in his skull, overwhelming his attempts to remember why he was in so much intense pain.  

He dragged his eyes open— and that took far more focus and energy than it should. His vision was blurry as he tried to assess his surroundings.

Tried being the keyword. Between the pounding headache and his unfocused sight, he couldn’t really see much of anything. Glimpses of movement were happening to his right. There were voices as well. Vaguely familiar. A dangerous kind of familiarity.

Seeing as his sight was shot, he tried to focus on the various pains of his body instead. The thing between his teeth was coarse, soaked with blood and something sour and thick enough to strain his jaws. A rope, his mind realised. Remembered. There were vague flashes of the thing jamming into his mouth, its coarse strands clawing at his lips.  

The soreness in his shoulders was blamed on the fact that he was hanging by his wrists above his head. But there was a deeper ache than just that. Dislocation? Broken?  

His knees throbbed with a warning to not move them, distant memories of a hammer flitting into his mind. Likely broken. And then there were his struggling lungs, chest struggling to stretch around a breath.  

Brutalised wouldn’t even come close to describing how he felt. 

But that was the ‘what’ of his situation. The ‘why’ still kind of alluded him, trapped behind the walls of nausea, pounding headache and pain. And a distant, foggy darkness that was slowly washing over him. Was it exhaustion? He was definitely tired.  

A harsh tug on the rope in his mouth wrenched a pained gasp out of his struggling lungs as his eyes flung open—when had he even closed them?  

His sight was still tunnelled like some vignette, but blobs were more identifiable. Like the one in front of him that was Black Mask. He fixed a glare; flashes of incoherent memories of torture trickled to surface, as did the realisation that he was probably concussed. That sucked. 

“Cute,” Sionis remarked, seemingly amused. “Once we do a round of this, will you still be as much of a rabid, snarling mutt, I wonder?” 

A coil was slowly unravelled from around a blood-splashed white suit sleeve (Roman SIonis was really his own brand of pretentious, wearing a freaking expensive, branded suit and polished shoes to a torture session). It was a long cord. One of the ends seemed to split into several thick strands. The two details whirled around in his brain as he tried to make sense of them.  

Sionis’s monologue went on, “Typically, it is done on the back. But I prefer to see.” 

The mysterious multi-ended cord was thrown over a shoulder.  

Oh, was his belated realisation of what was happening.  

His sluggish brain barely managed to catch the motion before claws tore across his torso. He choked on a sharp inhale at the burn. But it didn’t stop. The cat o’ nine tails went again, twice in quick succession. A gasping cry left his throat as the cords tore and pulled at the wound in his abdomen, barbed ends catching into torn skin. And again, as a tail managed to rip at his lips, making it tug on the tight rope stretching his mouth. 

“Now that looked like it hurt.” 

The words twinged something in the back of his mind, laughter and green and burning and- 

He wrenched his mind back to stay focused. Present, that was important. He could not afford to be trapped in memories.  

Once more, he found that his eyes had screwed shut without him realising it. He blinked at sight of his shredded shirt, at the blood spreading behind and into it.  

Huh, that was a lot of blood. That wasn’t good. And the bright gaping wound was visible, exposed flesh barely tangible through his murky vision. 

Distracted by the drips and swirls of red, he didn’t expect the next hit clawing at his side. He flinched when the tail struck again. It burned, it was not just the whip’s ends flaying him open, it was mixed with the force of the things slamming into his throbbing, aching ribs. Breathing was quickly getting harder. 

He needed to get away. 

There was barely much to be felt past the tearing pain of his shoulders. He couldn’t tell if his fingers were moving, much less get them to dislodge whatever it was keeping him bound. 

Trying to coordinate his legs was as much of a struggle. Especially when another lash of tails slammed and tore at his chest, and something deep within moved. 

But once he managed to shift his left leg, he realised that maybe that wasn’t a good idea. He belatedly remembered that his knees had been broken just as a lance of searing agony flooded up from his leg. A scream tore from his airless lungs, his vision flashed, his brain churned against the tide of pain.  

Even when it simmered to sharp throbs, he couldn’t seem to properly get himself to breathe. What more when multiple somethings clawed at his chest again; each heavy slam, every tearing slash forcing out what little air he had.  

His eyes squeezed shut as he tried to focus on breathing. It was a simple pattern. In. Out. In. Out. Focus. Keep calm. In. Out. Manage the pain. In- 

Something shoved into his torn open left shoulder. Something burning and searing and sharp- 

He tried to swallow the agony and regain the air he lost in a pained scream. It was difficult to focus. Blood and bile were pooling and dripping from his mouth. He heaved another choked breath. His head ached, the nausea urging him to throw up again. 

As he dragged his eyes open, something moved across his blurry vision. A hand, black, gloved. 

He startled when a weight pressed against the open wounds in his chest, realising a beat later that it was the gloved hand. It stung, but it was muted among the other fiery signals getting sent from other parts of his body, his shoulder most prominently, still fiercely searing in waves. 

The hand drifted up to his head, and just as he tried to jerk away, fingers caught the rope still jammed in his mouth. His breath hitched at the sting, reluctantly following as the fingers tugged up. 

The skull-like image of Black Mask swam into view.  

“I’m feeling generous and will let you choose what comes next.” 

Jason scowled, wanting to retort with just where Sionis could shove his generosity. But articulating was difficult between his spinning head and the gag. 

The movement of Sionis’s other hand caught his attention and his heavy eyes followed, seeing the medical cart stocked with various metal objects and ominous containers, one of which was opened with bright whites inside. The hand drifted to a blowtorch. “I can either put this to your leg or,” it moved to the cat o’ nine tails, dripping blood, “I mark your back, and you have to count every single one of them.” 

Internally, Jason rolled his eyes. Between burning his leg to an agonising crisp and humiliating himself with something that would not be as damaging. Sionis really like these choices. First was that whole painfully attaching his gag to his arms thing. Now this. 

So, Jason picked the most sensible choice. His own.  

With all his obstinate, stubborn energy, he turned his glare to Black Mask and growled out a swear around the rope prying his jaws. 

Maybe if he was feeling a bit more coherent, he would have realised that it was, in fact, a terrible choice.  

Or maybe there wasn’t a choice at all. 

But brain addled as he was, he could only catch Sionis snatching a handful of sparkly white from the opened container. Before something slammed onto his mouth.  

The force wasn’t even the thing that hurt. It was the burn. Needles of hot coals seared into every inch of open wound. And the lower half of his face was a mess of torn skin.  

He choked on a scream as the things pressed and ground into every crevice of exposed flesh. It was as if thousands of teeth were gnawing into and under his skin. His scraped raw tongue burst into floods of pain. The fire nauseatingly engulfed his entire mouth, jaw, face. It burned and scorched and clawed and tore and- 

The nausea and pain quickly overwhelmed him as he retched. And even that hurt. Like a floodgate opened, more vomit surged up his throat, burning across his mouth as it spilled past his lips. His brain was an incessant throb, growing worse and worse. Trying to gasp in a breath between everything was nearly impossible. 

He couldn’t tell how much time had passed—it felt like an entire hour of relentless agony— before he could finally reel in the impulse to choke out another wave of bile and blood. Everything from his abdomen to his chest to his head hurt. All strength seemed to have left him, drained. His mouth still prickled and pulsed with aches. The taste of blood, vomit and something salty heavy on his tongue— and that must have been the thing stuffed into his wounds, salt. 

Another painful heave of air. He dragged his eyes open. His vision was worse than before. Only managing spots of colours amongst the darkness.  

He flinched when a hand touched his head, accidentally pulling something painful in his chest. His hair was tugged, and he limply let it, too in pain and exhausted to bother. 

“Painful, isn’t it? Rubbing salt in wounds isn’t just an expression, after all.” 

Jason couldn’t summon much energy to react, locking a glare in the general direction of the voice and hoping his murderous intent translated through that look alone. 

“Now, how about we try that again? The blowtorch, or the cat?” 

It was too much of a pain and chore to try articulating, so he let his stubborn stare speak. 

Sionis seemed to take the glare for what it was as he reached for neither of the mentioned tools. His hand wrapped around a stun gun.  

Jason could hear his heart in his ears as his eyes followed the device’s approach. Apprehension was thick in his chest. Fingers left his head barely before the end of the thing jammed into his side, right into one of the many clawed wounds. 

Pain spilled and charged throughout his entire body as his muscles spasmed. A cry locked in his throat, air lost from his lungs. His legs kicked out uncontrollably, broken knees jerked and wrenched. He couldn’t twist his body to run from the source of pain, not a single command making past his spinning brain. 

He didn’t know how long it had gone for. Only that it was too long.  

He couldn’t even tell where the burning sensation was coming from. Only that his entire body hurt. Every nerve was screaming, every inch of him burning with relentless pain, every forced jerk and twist of his limbs worsening the incessant throbs of existent injuries. 

Eventually he found himself able to choke in a gasp of air. His head ached fiercely, heart erratic in his ears. His chest heaved desperately with shallow, painful gasps. His right leg twitched, and he blearily heard a whine as the broken bones grated against itself. 

A voice growled in his ear, “You should know by now that your little stubborn stunt is not helping you. I am sure that the options I gave are not as painful as this or the salt.” Fingers touched his head again, but instead of tugging, it seemed to... pat his head and gently card back strands. 

Jason slammed down the small part of him that wanted to lean into the touch, the lackpain, the respite, the comfort.  

Instead, he stoked the fire of his anger and desperation and let it roar into flames. His jerked his head back with a snarl. He wanted to bite the hand still in his hair, to claw Sionis’s eyes out, to snap every single bone, to choke the life out of the body until all that was left was a bleeding, broken corpse. 

But reality really was quite different as the rope in his mouth was turned.  

Coarse strands tore against his tender, bleeding lips and skin. His flinch seemed to dig it further into raw wounds, still recovering from the burns of the salt.  

He screamed as it suddenly yanked backwards, something stopping his head from following the motion. He tried to struggle, to throw off whatever it was causing the pain, but it didn’t stop. It dug and tore and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move couldn’t stop the pain and agony as it burned burned burned- 

The rope loosened abruptly, barely so, but it was no longer ripping impossibly into his skin. It still throbbed.  

He still struggled to breathe, hurt burn pain being the only thing echoing in his head. It was hard to think past it. 

A hand wrapped his cheek, stinging as it touched the raw wounds, before something brushed under his eye, and he couldn’t find it in him to react. 

“You are truly a masterpiece when you cry,” the words were slow to register.  

And when they did, he realised that tears were spilling from his eyes. He wanted to lash out, to do the bare minimum of pull away from the touch. But exhaustion and throbbing pain were heavy. And he still couldn’t quite get enough air into his lungs. 

“How about we make it a bit easier, hm?” the muffled, distant voice continued. “Say... you pick whether I flog your back with the cat three times, or I put salt into every single open wound on your body. Including here.” There was a stinging tap on the torn skin of his cheek, the small action enough to have vomit threatening to climb up his throat once more. 

He forced himself to process the words past the pain pain pain in his head. He knew that Sionis was trying to chip at his mind, giving an easy choice between intense agony and something obviously milder. Less painful. He shouldn’t choose, because that would just open a floodgate that he didn’t know if he could close again. 

But the thought of being able to escape something that he knew would be agonising was tempting. A small part of him yearned for it, rationalising that the clawing whip wasn’t too bad, that it was just three lashes. That if he didn’t make the choice, Sionis would undoubtedly do something much worse. And he longed for a respite from everything, however small. 

But he hadn’t had the chance to dwell on it too long, as suddenly there was a burst of ruckus, and explosion of metal crashing and yelling.  

The touch left him as something dug into his hair and yanked back. His breath hitched as it pulled on something painful. It hurt. His brain spiked and pound and spun. And there was something cold and sharp pressing up against his neck. Even overwhelmed with agony, he recognised the blade threatening to breach skin. 

There was a yell just by his ear, incomprehensible past the churning layers of pain pain pain so much pain. He wanted it to stop hurting, but it wouldn’t. And the shouting continued, loud and confusing.  

Was Black Mask trying to get him to choose again? Will he be in more pain for not complying in the little game? It wasn’t like he would not be suffering even more in the long run. 

The hand on him disappeared, but his neck bloomed with muted pain, the thing pressed up against his skin tearing as it lifted. Yet, it didn’t gouge his throat like he thought it would. Too tired to hold his head up, he let it fall and hope that unconsciousness would take him soon. 

The yelling was still there, loud voices and sounds echoing incomprehensibly. But it was getting distant. So was the pain. 

He was past ready to pass out. To just get away from the agony firing from his body. 

But because the universe hated him, something dragged him from the depths of his mind. 

A something that touched the side of his head.  

He flinched, breaths hitching. Pain, his mind warned him. He couldn’t tell why the fleeting contact mean pain, or what hurt, or was happening beyond the throbbing across his body. 

But all semblance of confusion disappeared when fire engulfed his mouth. His lips strained and screech as something seared across, jaws ablaze with a deep incessant ache. He wanted to struggle but couldn't think past the agony, could barely breathe, much less move. 

He didn’t know how long it was before the pain eased. But even the slight respite didn’t last.  

Something rough tugged at the corner of his lips. It pulled at his skin, tearing and tearing.  

“...Breathe,” he managed to catch past the blind klaxon of pain and panic, only vaguely registering that it didn’t sound like Black Mask.  

His chest hurt, burned. He couldn’t get himself to breathe. Couldn’t remember how. All he managed were airless gasps and a desperate whine, pleading for the deep overwhelming hurt to stop. 

The voice was talking again. But he couldn’t focus on it as his leg was moved.  

A loud crack echoed in his ears and across every inch of his being as pain engulfed his knee. His throat locked on a scream, another breathless whine echoing as his other leg was also shifted. 

The fog of exhaustion returned in a blanketing tide. And he didn’t stop it from dragging him into its depth.  

But just before unconsciousness could fully seize him, a voice drifted.  

“Rest, brother. Safe.” 

Which was strange, because he had no siblings. He was alone. 

- 

An aching head and stifling air were the first things he coherently processed. And then there was the pain. Every inch on him seemed to be throbbing. 

There were sounds, muted. But one in particular forced his eyes to slide open. It was high pitched and screamed in bursts, getting increasingly frequent and fuelling him with thrums of panic. 

He expected to see flashes of red numbers. But he was met with a dimly lit room.  

He blinked, something about the place was prompting him to remember. His eyes drifted trying to think past the lingering fuzziness in his brain. 

The last thing he could recall was... pain? A lot of it. Incoherent. Blurry.  

Thinking hurt.  

And there had been someone. A good someone or a bad someone? With his luck, probably very bad. He hoped it hadn’t been Joker again. 

He didn’t get to explore that train of thought as his head turned and caught sight of a clear indicator of where he was. 

Not far from his head, was a sort of table with a softly lit lamp. And right beside it, was a worn-out Wayne Enterprises mug. 

Oh.  

Shoot.  

Not good. 

The shock shoved all sense of lethargy out the window as he catalogued his surroundings once more. It looked like the Batcave’s medical bay. He could count the times he had been to the cave post-death on one hand, and only once to this little clinic corner of the place when he had dragged a profusely-bleeding-from-a-head-wound-and-barely-conscious Nightwing. (Not because he cared whether the idiot died, he just didn’t want people to blame him for a death he hadn’t caused. That was all. Nothing more.) And then, he had managed to quickly escape a distracted Batman, who was half-way through drilling a bunch of accusatory questions when the aforementioned probably-dying Dick Grayson was taken note of. 

But that did not explain why on Earth was he there again. He trie to maintain an amicable alliance of convenience with the Bat crew. Not because he wanted to join them, it was just easier to have this weird, tentative, fragile agreement than to have to split his attention between controlling the criminal activity and warring against Batman and his little flock. They left him alone, and he did them.  

Maybe there were team-ups and occasional assists, but they were out of necessity and convenience; an operation too close to his turf, joint cases, things that would threaten his people should he not lend a hand.  

But there was nothing more to the interactions, the reliability, the occasional smiles, the small laughter, the little happiness- 

Nope. None.  

Point was that they were allies. His methods were still not Bat-approved and neither was he. He hated them and they did him.  

And he avoided being in the Batcave if he could help it, mostly as to not be on enemy’s turf but partly also because of that stupid glass case of a memorial— mocking him being alive. 

Of course, that, again, explained nothing as to why he was where he was. Bringing an enemy with a history of homicide into one’s house was a death wish.  

Not that he would kill the first Bat or Bird he saw. Maybe. He wasn’t too certain on that. 

He’d entertained the thought that they had probably decided to take him prisoner. But he wasn’t in the Batcave holding cells. He wasn’t even restrained. 

Maybe this was some sort of attempt to earn a favour. They patched him up from whatever situation he had ended up in, and later they could hang it over his head. 

Guilt trip sounded about right. 

But whatever the reason was, he wasn’t going to stick around.  

His body and the many bandages he could feel under the loose shirt— that was definitely not his— decided that that was the appropriate time to remind him that there was a reason that he was in the medical wing of the Batcave. 

His left arm was stuck to his chest with a sling and flared up when his tried to force any movement. The right upper arm had wrappings, but the pain was manageable as he tried to push himself up, chest twisting into itself. He heaved in a breath to keep his focus and realised the stupid oxygen mask on his face. He ripped that off and managed to at least sit up with only a pounding skull, an aching arm and muted throbbing from his knees. Small victories! 

Yet, the small exercise had him panting— gasping really. Moving hurt, breathing hurt. 

What on Earth had happened to him before the Bats had dragged him there? His jaw pulsed the more he tried to think. There was pain, that much he could recall, but everything else was a blur. 

And that incessant erratic heart monitor wasn’t helping his gasps for air, yelling at him to run, escape, time was running out! 

He ignored the hitch and twinge in his chest as he tried to forcibly breathe, right hand reaching up and yanking away the irritating thing connecting him to the screaming heart monitor. The machine didn’t shut up, but the high-pitched buzz was better than the erratic beeping of his pulse. Staring down at the IV line at his hand, he decided he was already hurting anyways, not to mention in a rush, and carelessly yanked it out with his teeth.  

There were blood and more than a slight sting. He ignored those too. 

His jaw was starting to ache as he gritted his teeth, phantom pain chaffing at the corners of his lips, pulsing across his molars. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision and rearrange his thoughts, he moved to the second part of his escape plan. 

Maybe he should have put more thought to pain in his knees before moving them.  

Fire shot up his legs at the slightest nudge, despite the stiffness cocooning them. His vision spun as he hissed a breath through gritted teeth. But he persisted, dragging his limbs inch by inch across the medical cot.  

The nauseating pain got stronger. He was starting to feel sick. 

Pausing to let his head clear, he heaved in a breath. It hurt. He hated it. Ribs probably broken or something equally stupid. The urge to vomit was still there. But he needed to get a move on before- 

“Oh, for fu- Jason, are you for real?!” 

The sudden voice startled him as his blurry gaze darted to the distant med bay entrance, the door having opened without him noticing. A silhouette stood in the doorway. 

“I leave for ten minutes...” 

It took a few blinks too many to recognise that the person facing him was none other than Dick Grayson. By the time the realisation hit, the older man was already trying to manhandle him back and killing his tedious progress, the touch making him belatedly flinch. 

It seemed like spatial awareness and reflexes were not in his favour.  

With his left arm useless, he tried to shove Dick off with his right hand. His tongue finally having caught up with him. “Buzz off,” he did his best to snarl, though it was more of a rasp— and his mouth flared with pain at the attempt, dry throat grating against itself, the surrounding skin crackling with a searing ache.  

But as if he was not threatening in the least, Dick continued to push him back. “You have both knees and four ribs broken. And I am sure that your concussion hasn’t gone away. Just what was your brilliant plan?” 

He struggled still despite the added pain it caused. Attempting to speak around his lack of oxygen was equally difficult. “Well, if you don- don’t want me to wander around without... supervision, you are welcomed... to drop me off some-” The fight left him abruptly when his nausea kicked up tenfold and his head was one echoing, spinning ache, mouth forced shut to keep his stomach from rebelling. Talking also made the throbbing in his lips and jaw worse. Not to mention his raw tongue burning every time it curled or scrapped across the roof of his mouth. 

Dick, irritating extraordinaire, took advantage of his lack of struggles and situated his body squarely back onto the cot. “You are staying right here, and you are not going anywhere.” 

Feeling trapped and threatened, Jason pushed the pain aside and bared his teeth. “I don’t need to take orders from you.” His ribs ached horribly around his struggling breaths. 

Dick seemed only increasingly frustrated, straightening and running a hand through his hair. “If I have to restrain you to make sure you stay put and don’t hurt yourself, I just might.” 

The thought of getting locked up made Jason waver, if only but a moment. He barked out a laugh instead, sardonic, ignoring the way it disrupted his breathing. It was hard to properly think past the pain that was steadily getting brighter. And then there was the building exhaustion, heavy and dragging. “Maybe you should. Never know when I might go berserk and slice someone’s head off. I’m surprised Bruce didn’t feel the need to tie me down.” 

What little he could see of Dick had crossed him arms. “Bruce doesn’t even know you are here.” 

Any retort died on Jason’s tongue. Something about Dick’s words didn’t make sense. Bruce didn’t know he was in the Batcave? How... That wasn’t right. That couldn’t be.  

“He’s off-world, JL mission.”  

Finally, words found him again as he scoffed, “Yeah, and of course we don’t live in an era where intergalactic communication is possible.” 

Something akin to anger flashed across the frustration in Dick face. “We didn’t tell him.” 

The rage Jason had managed to shovel together slipped away once more. That didn’t make sense. Why wasn’t Bruce notified? Surely having Red Hood in the Batcave was dangerous enough to inform Batman.  

Dick let out a sigh, fiddling with some machine to the left and finally silencing the screaming heart monitor, before sinking into a chair beside the cot. “He... always gets weird whenever you’re hurt and you do the same whenever you see him, regardless the situation. I’m not...” He rubbed his face in his hands. “I know that if we tell him, he will show up and... I know that you wouldn’t like it. Nothing good will come out of that.” 

Jason blinked in surprise. He wanted to lash out, to yell that Dick didn’t know anything about him.  

But the argument was lost somewhere in his throat and the tiredness clinging to his bones. The notion of Dick taking his feelings into consideration was... confusing. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone cared what he thought or wanted.  

After a few beats of silence, he landed on a derisive laugh, “Of course he would show up.” Keeping his eyes open and his tough guy act up was getting harder. So was breathing, he was sick of not being able to breathe properly. 

Dick’s scowl deepened. “He will come out of concern. Not for whatever self-deprecating reason you have in your head.” 

That... couldn’t be true. Bruce hated him and he hated Bruce. And that was that. Anything resembling worry had no place in that equation. Anything that wasn’t in the realms of disdain, disappointment and judgement, just... didn’t make sense. 

Suddenly, Dick got up and disappeared, reappearing a blink later holding a gauze and reaching across the bed for Jason’s right hand.  

Oh. The ripped out IV line. 

For whatever reason, Dick didn’t bother to reattach it, merely wiping and covering the wound. “I know Bruce can be a pain pretty much all the time and he is trash when it comes to emotions. But he... he cares. In his weird way.” 

Jason scowled at the newly wrapped bit of his arm; the white bright against the red that had dripped onto the sheet underneath. There was no way Dick thought he would believe that. He wasn’t that dense. The first Robin hadn’t been there when Bruce accused him of killing back before he had died. Neither when Batman had chosen Joker’s pathetic life over him. But he was too tired to give Dick the laundry list of evidence that proved otherwise when Bruce wasn’t even there; his blinks were already dragging too long. So, he went for the first other thought he could grasp. “Why do you care?” It came out with less bite than he wanted. 

Despite so, a flicker of shock passed over the fatigue on Dick’s face. 

He steamrolled on, the fledgling fury barely masking over the exhaustion and agony that came from his multitudes of injuries— he was starting to get lightheaded and nauseous again. “Why did you bring me all the way here? I’m not one of you. I’m not part of your happy family. When will you get it through that thick skull of yours that you mean nothing-" 

“Jason, will you stop!” It seemed that he wasn’t the only one who had given in to their anger. Dick had gotten to his feet once more. 

Jason found it in him to push to sit halfway up despite the pain, his chest protesting the movement, head spinning dangerously. The urge to throw up returned, but he was done having Dick looming over him. “At least one of us isn’t delusional!” he screamed through the ache in his throat. In his heart. “I know better than to believe that you want me around. None you trust me. None of you like me.” 

Dick’s face flickered to something indiscernible.  

“And I don’t care about any of you. I don’t need you.” It felt good to say it, the satisfaction shutting down any semblance of emotional pain. It didn’t hurt. Not at all. 

For a moment, Dick merely stared, expression still difficult to read. When he spoke, all traces of anger were gone. “If you are so bent on believing that, then why do you always join us for joint missions? Why did you help us look for Tim when he went missing last week? Why did you bring me here when I cracked my skull five months ago instead of letting me bleed out? Why do you ally yourself with us and help us if you don’t care?” 

Because it was convenient. Because he didn’t want Batman to breathe down his neck just because the Bats were dense enough to get caught or severely injured not two blocks from Red Hood’s territory. Because it made his work easier. 

All the arguments that he had reasoned to himself in the past died in his throat. He wanted to spit the facts out, to convince Dick because maybe then, he could finally believe it himself. But his head hurt was rapidly getting nauseous, and he knew that it was more than just the lingering injuries. Besides, the older man was just as stubborn as he was. 

Dick was silent, as if awaiting an answer, expression ever unreadable and Jason found himself unable to look, staring instead at the foot of the bed. 

Sure, he had always enjoyed the newfound casual relationship with some of the Bats; debating about the merits of physical books, audio books and e-books with Babs; mutual morning coffee delivery with Tim under the guise of information exchange; hanging out with Dick with the pretence of staking out.  

But as soon as the little interactions were over, as soon as he had arrived back in his safe house alone, a sick feeling would replace any form of joy. Because there was no way that the other person found him good company.  

Tim would tense whenever he made sudden movements, not a shocker seeing as what he had done to younger man in the past. 

Dick’s expression would flicker to sadness whenever their chats had any allusion to Jason’s death, grieving the good soldier who died in service too soon. 

Bruce and he had yet to have a civil exchange without one of them snapping, even their ‘business only’ conversations often end in bitter retorts and furious glares. 

The way the mood had soured as soon as he had stepped into the Manor’s dining room, when he had lured himself with the fantasy of happiness and attended Alfred’s birthday dinner— unwillingness to be more of a disappointment to Alfred being the only reason why he had forced himself to stay.  

And all those enjoyment and peaceful company were just a taste of what he could have had.  

If he hadn’t died.  

If he hadn’t started a war with them.  

If he hadn’t listened to the temptations of violence and vengeance.  

If he hadn’t messed up in so many ways.  

If he had just came back right. 

If he was better. 

But he couldn’t go back. Not anymore. He knew he was far in too deep. Too many blood on his hands. Too many scars on his mind. Even if everyone pretended it all to be fine then, it would all just explode in his face eventually. It always had, every single time he let himself be lured into a false sense of security and comfort. 

And a painful, isolating devil was better than a backstabbing angel.  

It was better. It had to be. 

A warm weight landed on arm, fingers gentle and firm, but he still couldn’t bring himself to look. 

“I can tell you the reason why I always do the same for you,” Dick spoke softly. “I care about you, Jason. We have our differences, our past is a train wreck, we both have done so many things to hurt each other. But in the end, you are still my brother.” 

Jason felt something in his chest constrict, something hurting beyond the injured bones. He was getting tired, emotionally and physically. Thinking, feeling and trying to stay up were draining activities, apparently. He had no brother. Not anymore. 

“And I am sure that Cass had the same idea when she rescued you earlier.” 

Cass? The Cassandra Cain? No. That- That didn’t make sense. Cassandra had no reason to have any kind of positive feelings towards him.  

He could imagine Dick feeling the need to save his life. But not Cassandra. 

She was the one who was loyal to Batman while Jason was contrary. The one who resented the idea of killing others while he believed that such methods had its place. The one whose only interactions with him had been and exchange of aggression and violence. The one who could not have saved him because he was everything she stood against.  

Cassandra couldn't have been the one that had saved him. But the denial didn’t leave him, caught in his chest.  

He was getting even more lightheaded. And in the next blink, he found that he was on his back again, vision swimming. 

Dick’s hand had moved and was a firm anchor around his wrist as older man spoke, “You should rest, Jay. We... We’ll talk more later, yeah? Sionis gave you quite the beating.” 

There were lulling motions across the back of his hand. It made his eyes heavier, despite his head fighting to stay awake.  

It took a moment for him to realise that it was probably Dick’s fingers, gentle and comforting. Before he could convince himself to yank his hand away, he had passed out. 

- 

When he woke up once more, it was with a bit more coherency than before.  

And in more pain. His legs felt like someone had chucked them through the mincer, the entirety of his torso was a pit of agony. Getting ribboned to shreds and smashed ribs would do that, he wryly thought. The left shoulder screamed if he remotely thought its way, hand dully throbbing, left arm a simmer of ache. 

The oxygen mask was back on his face and the IV in his arm. 

Well, there went all that tedious progress.  

At least his vision was clearer. And that meant that he could see that he was still in the Batcave. 

And that Dick was still at his bedside. 

He would be appalled by the notion of Nightwing sleeping while in the presence of Red Hood, if he wasn’t more disconcerted by the hand that was around his elbow. 

It was hard to deny the comfort it brought. He had spent years waking up alone. And the times he hadn’t, the company hadn’t been all that pleasant. 

He didn’t bother throwing it off. Only because he didn’t want to risk Dick waking up and pestering him about the magic of friendship and familial cooperation or something equally insane.  

Just as he was considering going back to sleep— and pretend that he had never woken to something nice for once in his second life— another presence made itself known. 

There was a figure to his right, silent, watching. He tediously turned his head to take a better look, a little apprehensive but curious all the same. 

He had never seen Cassandra outside of being Black Bat, all silence and barely visible shadow. Apparently when she wasn’t running across rooftops and spooking people, she wore rather colourfully with a pair of bright yellow trousers and a dark green shirt underneath a pastel purple hoodie. She looked rather unassuming. It was jarring. 

But her watching eyes still resembled Black Bat’s boring white gaze.  

He blinked to be sure that he wasn’t hallucinating. 

Before scowling. 

It was one thing to have Dick anchoring his arm, but Cassandra hawk gaze was another level of annoying. And terrifying. 

He wanted to throw a fuss, maybe an insult or a swear or two, demand why was the Bat prodigy at his bed-prison, maybe even risk Dick waking up so he could yell at him too. 

Yet none of it happened. 

Cassandra’s movements were clear and slow, but Jason still flinched when a hand landed lightly on his arm, brain flashing to coarse fibres digging into his skin. 

A smile lifted Cassandra’s lips. “Brother.” 

And with that, a different hazy memory returned. 

“Rest, brother. Safe.” 

It was the same voice he had heard back when his body had been passing out from overwhelming pain. When his brain had been overrun with too many agonising waves of hurt and the last vestiges of his consciousness had slipped away.  

It had been Black Bat.  

She had been the one to stop that blade from slicing off his neck. To stop the agony tearing at his flesh. 

Which meant that... 

His anger faltered. The retort of not having a family died on his tongue.  

Because she must have been the one who got him out. 

But the question remains. 

“Why?” he managed to croak out past the confusing mess of his thoughts. You hate me, Bruce hates me, he couldn’t find it in him to say. 

Cassandra gave a pat on his bandaged leg, a fleeting gentle touch. It bore no resemblance to the strength Jason remember fighting against some months back, when Dick and Cassandra had to pull Bruce and him apart. 

She had been a wall then, small yet immovable and fierce despite how much Jason had struggled her hold, lost in a whirl of snapped patience and apparently some strange rage inducing toxin.  

But her hand was light on his calf, just enough weight for him to feel it past the bandages, before it disappeared. “Differences in ways. Disagreements. But still,” she leaned forward and reached out, giving a light prod at an uninjured area of Jason right arm, “family. And family help each other.” 

Jason stared at her uncomprehendingly.  

She made it sound so... simple. As if all that hurt and fight between him and everyone else hadn’t existed. As if he hadn’t insulted and trampled all over Bruce’s morals and ideology, half the time out of sheer spite. As if there wasn’t a shrine in the Cave, proclaiming and immortalising his death like he wasn’t alive. As if he wasn’t broken and unstable and violent. 

As if they cared for him and wanted him around. 

He looked away, glaring at his right hand, nails pressed into the mattress. “I don’t have a family,” the declaration usually laced with poisonous anger in his head came out as a quiet, pathetic admittance. It hurt to say it out loud. He shook his head when Cassandra frowned in his periphery. “You don’t want me. You all wouldn’t.” 

Even if they did claim to care about him now, their relationship on an incline, it wouldn't last. Eventually, they would realise that he wasn’t the little boy who died years back. That he couldn’t be fixed. That he would always be damaged and broken. And they would throw him out and leave him. Maybe even put him in Arkham for good measure.  

And it would hurt. 

Like when he first realised that Willis had no qualms about beating up his own family, like when Sheila had watched Joker smashing every limb in his body, like the moment he found Catherine’s cold body. 

Like the moment Bruce had cut his throat open and left him for dead. 

No matter what happened, everyone he had grown attached to... everyone he had trusted would just... abandon him, not wanting anything to do with him.  

And Jason would stop at nothing to make sure that he would never have to face that again. 

He wanted to be alone. The pain would be predictable, expected even. It was better that way.  

But Cassandra didn’t seem to get the memo. “Jason.” A hand fell over his fingers, his nails already biting into his own skin without him realising. 

His eyes darted away from the point of contact and found browns gazing into his teals. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Cassandra’s words were soft, yet heavy with so much finality and conviction. 

And Jason almost believed it. It was harder to argue with Cassandra than with Dick.  

But he knew better. 

He tore his gaze away, choosing to stare up into the ceiling.  

Words meant nothing. Even actions mattered little. Those could be manipulated, crafted. 

What was important was intent. And when it came to the Bats, their intention had always been hard to read. 

Doubt, he had found, would always be the most reliable response to unknown variables. The safest response. 

And so, he told himself that everything Dick and Cassandra had told him meant nothing. That the whole rescue stunt was merely out of convenience. That their past of aggression and violence towards each other was more real than... this. 

Because that he could understand. That was familiar. That would hurt less, even if it meant being alone for the rest of his life. 

But even in the sea of denial, there was no stopping his yearning heart and dampness in his eyes. And he didn’t bother to stifle the urge as he twisted his right hand to grasp at the fingers around his. 

It would hurt later, he knew. But for then, he’d let himself pretend that he meant something.