Chapter Text
The first time his father raises a hand to him, Jason doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cower, just feels the sting of the slap on his face and bears it silently. Stoic, brave little five year old soldier.
Even before the first hit, Jason had already become accustomed to the swing of his father’s fists. In the sound of a raised voice, the muffled thud of his mother’s skull against the door, violence has long been part of the rhythms of Crime Alley, the steady tempo of his life.
He knows to look out for the staggering gait that points to a late-night drunken stumble, can identify three different types of beer from the scent on his father’s breath alone. He knows all the best places to steal away to when his mother whispers with a brittle smile, hi baby, daddy’s had a hard day today, so why don’t you go play hide and seek for a bit?
The first time his father lashes a belt onto his back, he cannot fight the scream that rushes from his throat, but with every whistle of leather through air, it almost becomes easier to endure. Each new beating brings a new scar but also a new strength and not before long, he has hardened himself enough that he barely feels anything at all.
For the times when it all gets too much, when his skin feels too hot like he might just burst and break apart if he continues to stay quiet, he realises that there are certain types of vulnerability that are tolerated.
He finds this from the way his father’s eyes seem almost to shine when Jason shrieks, and it turns out that shows of pain might even be appreciated . He learns next that tears decidedly are not acceptable when his father sees the wetness on his cheeks and repays it with new streaks of liquid down his back.
For the three more years that Willis is alive, he shows Jason what a world of pain can feel like. Jason learns quickly that strength does not always mean silence but weeping is what reveals weakness. So through it all, he screams and he yells but he does not cry.
Truly, his father has taught him well.
They are leaving from a domestic abuse scene when Jason off-handedly mentions that their perp had the same belt of choice as Willis. He almost walks right into Batman when Bruce stops short and whirls around.
“Jason, why didn’t you tell me that your father used to beat you like that?”
Jason frowns. He doesn’t understand why Bruce is making such a big deal out of it all of a sudden.
“Wasn’t that bad,” he shrugs. “Willis was an asshole but all he did was smack me around a couple times. Hell, Johnny-No-Thumbs gave it to me worse that one time I tried to steal his wallet from him!”
Besides, he’s dead now, Jason thinks but does not say.
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose and takes three deep breaths while Jason waits awkwardly by the side. Finally, he brings his eyes back up to meet Jason’s.
“I really wish you wouldn’t just say things like that.”
Jason frowns. Wasn’t Bruce the one who talked about wanting ‘open communication’ and all that?
“Why?” He asks curiously.
Even under the cowl, Jason can see that Bruce’s smile is strained. “Because it makes me so angry to hear about everyone who hurt you.
“But it’s just pain,” he argues back. “I can deal with it.”
He never forgets how Bruce’s eyes turn so sad. “I know you can, Jaylad. I just wish you didn’t have to.”
Jason just looks down in response. Bruce’s sorrowful expression wakes something sharp and uncomfortable in his chest.
“I promise that I’ll never be the cause of any more pain for you.”
Even though he can sense the burning sincerity in Bruce’s intent, Jason still laughs at the notion. He never truly believes Bruce’s promise, but he doesn’t forget those words either.
The first time Bruce breaks his promise, he hurts Jason in a way Jason never even knew he could be hurt.
Doesn’t realise how much Bruce’s trust mattered to him until he was confronted with the fact that he never had it in the first place.
The first time Bruce hurts him is far from the last but it hurts him in a way that makes him wish for the belt again.
Words have never meant much in a place where promises are worth only as much as you’re willing to pay for it and promises made through a haze of heroin are not really promises at all. Somehow, it turns out that words can be knives.
(He doesn’t know why he is surprised. Bruce has always been able to turn anything into a weapon.)
So he runs, back to Gotham, back to his old home, then off to try and find a new home, and all the while, echoes of Bruce’s voice (the only real home he’s ever known, but then again, maybe not) rushing through his brain.
His mother’s words are another candy-coated poison barb and a stab in the back can feel just like the real thing.
When his bones splinter and break on a dusty warehouse floor, it is still those five words that run through his mind.