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Lightning cracks across the sky as thunder shakes Gotham to its core. The torrential rain is as much a mercy to this city as it is a curse. Rivers of water washes away the muck covering every surface, but the downpour also aids the criminal underbelly in hiding their dastardly deeds from the Bats. On days such as these, several gangs tend to make their moves. On the bright side, rain deters many rogues. For example, Scarecrow’s fear gas can’t stay airborne for long, Joker can’t stand his makeup running, and Two-Face hates feeling water on his burned half.
The problem is, a certain vigilante prefers to avoid the rain as well. And unfortunately, he’s in no position to reveal his weaknesses to his reluctant coworkers. Jason is still on the rocks with the Bats. After all, it’s only been a few months since they started tentatively working together, and they’ve made it abundantly clear that they have zero interest in him outside of work. Even then, they hardly interact with him.
And since he can’t be going around broadcasting that bad storms risk sending him into a panic attack, he has no choice but to steel himself and venture out into the storm when the Big Bad Bat summons him. Apparently, a gang neighboring Jason’s territory is receiving a massive shipment of weapons, and they can’t risk those making their way onto the streets.
As Jason splashes across the soaking rooftops, he carefully monitors his breathing and focuses solely on the mission at hand. If he let his attention waver even a little, he can feel the panic closing in on him. So, he holds a death grip on his mind and trains it toward actually useful thoughts. He’d have plenty of time to freak out after he vented some anger on some scumbags.
When he arrived at the rondevu point, he stood stiff on the outskirts of the Bats’ circle and paid close attention to every word that came out of Batman’s mouth even as the raindrops slid mockingly down his helmet’s visor. A few of the kids gave Jason a somewhat confused look when he didn’t mock, tease, quip, or argue, but he was too preoccupied with fighting down the roiling panic in his chest.
Each probing glance made him feel as if his very soul was being ripped out and examined for flaws, sins, blood, and pure evil. It only cemented the fact that he didn’t belong. They didn’t trust him and despised his very presence. He was nothing more than a necessary evil they barely deigned to allow to risk his life beside them. It made bitterness spring to life in his mind and buried sorrow-filled agony further into his heart.
When Batman ordered everyone to move out, Jason immediately turned on his heel and stalked away from the gaggle of birdies. He couldn’t risk them finding out about his trauma and being around them only made his anxiety worse. Moving stiltedly, he makes his way up a crane that overlooks the maze of shipping containers. And once he reaches the top, he sits eerily still and waits for the signal.
While Jason can be patient, he can’t be patient and panicking. The longer he sits in the sky with the wind screeching past him, trying to hurl him to another untimely death, and the freezing rain mercilessly pelting him, the further he slips into his memories. His fingers begin to ache and sting, the first sign that he’s approaching a full-on attack.
The slivers embed themselves deeper into his hands as he tightens his grip on the glacially cold crane he’s perched on. It’s not long till he feels, and almost worse, hears his fingers snap as the slender bones shatter. It doesn’t matter that he’s high above the ground, it feels like he’s six feet under and trapped in his coffin.
Suddenly, a sharp “Move in” from Batman startles Jason from his thoughts. The phantom pain is still lingering, but he needs to pull himself together. Stealing a few precious seconds to pull himself together and force air into his lungs, he shoves his fears aside and leaps off the crane. Halfway down, when he grabs his grapple, he realizes that his hands are stiff, sore, and shaky. All incredibly bad things for having hurled himself into freefall.
Gritting his teeth and forcing his hands to cooperate, Jason points and shoots, praying that he doesn’t die this way. The Bats would probably dump his body in the harbor and turn his second death into another degrading example.
The line catches, and after a painful yank on his shoulder, he glides smoothly through the air and right into his designated targets. Batman, Nightwing, and him were acting as the heavy-hitting distractions while Red Robin and Robin were securing the shipment, a thing Jason was grateful for because he needed to move. He needed to feel his fists smash into his enemies and ache from something besides the coffin. He needs to feel himself move in order to reassure himself that he’s not trapped beneath the suffocating dirt.
It’s a dance of violence that Jason’s well acquainted with and the only thing he’s good at. What he was forged in the pit for. The longer he follows the bloody flow, the further he retreats from the panic wanting to drown him. The feel of hot blood on his cold hands, despite being unable to really feel it through his gloves, is a comfort. The screams of his fallen foes a symphony assuring him that he can be heard too.
However, though he may not be falling into a panic attack anymore, shame and disgust rise to the surface in its stead. No wonder the Bats think he’s a monster. He’s nothing but a violent shell.
The thought made him hesitate for just a moment, no longer than a blink’s worth of time, but it was enough for a goon to slip through his defense and tackle him to the ground. Jason splashes into the mud heavily, and his whole body freezes. He’s no longer at the shipyard fighting second-rate thugs. No, instead, he’s clawing his way through the dirt after freshly escaping his coffin but not the clutches of death.
There’s mud under his nails and dirt in his mouth. It’s freezing cold and he can barely move. He can’t breathe and no one is coming to save a dead boy.
Suddenly, hands are hauling him up until a large, black shadow is towering over him and berating him in a deep gravel. Dazedly, Jason realizes that Batman must have finished off the last three guys left while he was lying pathetically in the mud.
While Jason didn’t know what the Bat was saying, he could tell he was mad. It was too much. He couldn’t do it. Throwing Batman’s hands off of him harshly, he quickly disappears into the night, ignoring the shouts ringing out behind him. He had to get out of here. He needed to get home and out of the damnable rain before he started freaking out in a dark alley and got himself killed.
Even though he was racing at full speed, he was disoriented and could barely keep his feet moving beneath him. It took far longer to reach his apartment than he’d wanted, but at long last he was able to collapse through the window and onto the floor. The rain had washed most of the blood and mud off, but he needed the suffocatingly soaking suit off.
Dropping his gear in the corner, he changes into his warmest sweats and pulls on a hoodie before making a beeline for the kitchen. He needed warm tea. It’d ground him and warm him up while hopefully pushing away any more flashbacks. You can’t taste dirt if you're flooding your system with chamomile. Hopefully. Alcohol would probably be better, but the last time he tried that he woke up on the floor covered in his own blood. He still doesn’t know what happened.
He’d just pulled out one of his favorite crimson mugs when a particularly loud clap of thunder made him startle so hard he dropped the cup. The fragile porcelain shattered into a thousand little shards on the tile, and Jason stared at the fractured pieces in shock before he broke down into huge, gasping sobs.
It’d all been too much, and this had been the tipping point. Bending down to pick up the glass, he loses his balance and falls to the floor. Kneeling amongst the shards that may as well represent his life, he falls apart on his kitchen floor.
How wretched could he possibly be? All that happened tonight was that he got rained on, thrown in some mud, and broke his mug, yet here he is crying like his whole world was ending. No wonder he was alone. He deserved to be miserable.
“Little Wing?” a tentative voice softly asked from beside him. Jerking back, Jason realizes that Nightwing had gotten inside without him even realizing it.
Not even bothering to try and preserve his dignity, he sobs out, “Go away Nightwing. Tell Batman I’m done.” As he says this, he realizes that it’s true. He wants to be done. He just hasn’t quite decided in what way he’s done yet. Done with Gotham? Done with being a vigilante? Or done with something else? But no matter what else he’s done with, he’s done trying. Trying to regain a scrap of Batman’s love and respect. He’s done being his soldier. And as much as it breaks his heart, he’ll walk away from the Bats and never look back. It hurt too much and he can’t do it anymore.
Sitting down on the floor next to him, Nightwing says gently, “I’m not here because of Bruce. Can you tell me what’s wrong? How can I help?”
Agitation bubbles up, and Jason snarls, “You can leave.” Right then, a fresh wave of thunder shakes the earth, and Jason can’t keep himself from flinching violently. Part of him feels sick for revealing his weakness, but he couldn’t help but notice that Nightwing flinched too.
The other man must have noticed his reaction, because he gives Jason a subdued smile and says simply, “I don’t like the rain.”
Jason stares at Nightwing for a moment before staring at the floor and quietly saying, “I don’t either.”
Nightwing nods in gentle understanding. “Can I check your knees?” At first, Jason was confused. What was wrong with his knees? But then he looked down and realized he was bleeding. Looking at his hands, they were still too shaky to be of any real use, so he silently nodded.
Helping him stand, the hero guided the villain to the bathroom and got to work with careful hands and soothing words. As Nightwing bandaged him up, Jason asked, “Why are you here.”
“Because you were frantic and needed help. I can’t let my little brother struggle through this alone.” It took Jason a second to process that, but when he did he slumped over into Dick’s waiting arms and sobbed into his shoulder.
When he managed to catch his breath, he asks, “You really mean that?”
Dick smiles, and although it’s tired and weary, it’s full of love. “Always.”
With those words, the panic began simmering down and the aching, bleeding wound in his heart healed just a little bit. He still felt miserable, but it felt far less overwhelming. If Dick was still willing to put up with him, he just might be able to bear this.