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Jason didn’t think it could get any worse, but the universe just loves proving him wrong on that front.
Beaten within an inch of his life with a crowbar? Don’t worry buddy, I gotcha. How about we make it worse with some explosives?
Your alternate self got kidnapped and tortured by the Joker? Golly gee, really gotta step up my game now! How about we make him so fucking traumatized he will tell you which knife is best to torture him with?
Fuck. Fucking fuck. Jason wants a fucking refund on this whole dimension travel bullshit. Because this? This is some A-grade clusterfuck. He’d rather deal with goddamn Sionis on crack than— whatever this is. Jesus.
“Stop,” Jason says, because there’s nothing getting through to the kid except clear orders.
Jay— younger Jason, because referring to them both by the same name had given him a headache by hour number three— freezes, a look of fear flitting across his face before the blank mask falls back into place.
Now Jay’s just standing there again, staring through him, bottom lip trembling almost imperceptibly.
His hand is still on the blade of the kitchen knife, the handle pressed to Jason’s chest.
He’s got a weapon in his hand— sharp, deadly, because Jason doesn’t keep blunt knives, not ever— but he’s not trying to fight back.
The steel is biting into Jay’s palm, blood running down his arm, and he’s not fighting back, even though he could. Jason knows he could. It’s one of the first thing Robins learn; to reverse the grip on a weapon.
But Jay doesn’t.
And Jason doesn’t know what to do.
He sighs, and Jay flinches, stiffening when Jason raises his arms slowly to unlock the kid’s steel grip around the blade.
The kid lets go as soon as he realizes what Jason wants from him, looking almost relieved—
Right until Jason puts the knife down on the counter, and then his expression drops right into terror.
He takes the kid’s hand in his. Slowly, carefully. Eternally mindful of the scabs that are just beginning to form over all the little nicks and cuts.
“You don’t need any stitches,” Jason declares after a moment, prodding gently along the cut to determine its depth, but it’s shallow and precise and should be quick to heal. Much quicker than most of the other injuries, at any rate.
“Thank you,” Jay intones.
At least he’s standing, Jason tells himself. He couldn’t even do that much yesterday.
“We still need to get you cleaned up,” he repeats, because as much as he wishes it, a sponge batch on the kid’s face isn’t gonna do much with the accumulated grime of however fucking long he’s been in Arkham. Jason is tempted to do a full bloodwork on the kid because that place must have been crawling with every disease known to mankind. But for now, a bath will have to do.
Jay’s entire posture goes rigid, breaths coming in tiny little bursts even as he’s visibly trying not to outwardly react. And Jason wants to go back and revive the Joker and flay that piece of shit alive for—
Okay now, deep breaths. One step after the other. Traumatized child takes priority over the violence and rage simmering just below Jason’s skin, acid green.
“Jay, I need you to listen to me.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy says dully, eyes distant and unfocused.
Tonight, Jason feels himself. Tonight, when the kid’s knocked out again from all the painkillers, he’ll go out and bash Bruce’s head in for leaving Jay with that madman. For not coming for him. And after that he’ll go after Dick. And then the Replacement. Every single one of those hypocritical assholes until they’re all spread out at Jason’s feet with a hole in their fuckin’ heads—
Focus. Traumatized child.
“I’m going to draw you a bath,” Jason says, as calmly as he can manage. “And then I want you to wash yourself-” a tiny little sob escapes the kid, high pitched and gasping, and Jason wants to call it quits. That kind of terror isn’t worth it. But some of the wounds are bad. Deep. And risking them getting infected is worse. He’s honestly not sure how the kid hadn’t gone septic until now.
Or what Joker did to prevent it.
“I have some clothes put out for you by the sink. They’re not gonna fit well, but at least they’re clean. And I’ll wait outside the door, until you’re all done and dressed again, okay?” Jason frowns at the remains of the kid’s Robin uniform.
He’d gotten rid of the dented chest plate last night as well as all the other removable little pieces of armor, but even that much had sent the kid into a near catatonic state of hyperventilation. He wanted to do more, to get the kid out of that blood and filth-stained suit entirely and bundle him up in a metric ton of blankets to compensate for all the bullshit he’d had to go through, but… well, Jason was a good thirty seconds out from a breakdown himself. So, he doesn’t feel as guilty about drugging the kid’s water as he probably should.
At least Jay had gotten a dreamless jig he of sleep out of it.
All that Jason got was a too silent, strange apartment, with a brutalized kid on an equally as strange couch, and a dented chest plate with a scratched yet still gleaming R.
He really, really needs to find one of the Bats and blow off some steam.
“Can you… get out of those yourself?”
“Yes, sir,” Jay says weakly, a glimmer of hope there and gone again in the way he glances up for a nanosecond before his gaze drops back down.
Jason doesn’t really believe him. The kid still looks dead on his feet despite being bundled up on the couch for most of the day. A house of leaves would look more stable than he does.
“Okay,” Jason says, trying really fucking hard to breathe in through his nose, hold, and exhale through his mouth. And not— leap out the window to shoot the next best perp.
One step after the other, Todd. One step after the other.
He leaves to draw the bath without another word, desperate to get away from the kid’s vacant stare for a moment. But the tub isn’t a large one, and Jason can only spent so much time adjusting the water temperature before it gets ridiculous and he collects the kid from the adjacent kitchen.
He tries not to hover as the kid hobbles into the bathroom and waits several second inside the doorframe with that haunted, terrified look in his eyes before he slowly closes the door, terror slowly morphing into hopeful, aching relief just before the door clicks shut.
The key inside the lock doesn’t turn like Jason expected— hoped— it would. But… small steps. At least the kid took him at face value and closed the fuckin’ door.
Fuck.
“You good in there, kid?” Jason calls out after a timed two minutes. He’s pitiably nervous about not seeing whether the kid’s about to brain himself against the lip of the tub, but given the circumstances… well, his hindbrain can just shut the hell up.
“Yes, sir.” Is the muffled response a few seconds later, and Jason exhales in relief.
“‘Kay, good. Let me know if you need help with anything.”
Jason’s pretty sure the kid would rather chew off his own leg than ask for help— pretty sure that help in the kid’s mind equates to something more sinister than what Jason means— but still better to put it out there. Just in case.
The next twenty minutes are some of the most tense of Jason’s life. Even periodic check ins can’t assure him that the kid isn’t doing something stupid while he’s standing just outside the door, because wouldn’t that be a fucking joke, having the kid kill himself because Jason was trying to give him a tiny piece of autonomy back? That’s just the kind of fucked up humor the universe would have.
And then the door clicks open, and Jay’s drawn, pale face appears in the gap. Scrubbed red and clean, with the open wounds standing in stark relief, Jason’s spare set of clothes hanging off his thin frame, and he almost goes weak kneed with relief.
“Hey,” Jason says quietly, a little awkward. The kid still won’t meet his eyes, but he doesn’t flinch as much as he would have before. Or at least that’s what Jason tells himself. But most likely the kid’s just exhausted. “You good?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jason sighs.
“Sure, okay. Come one, we need to clean your wounds and bandage them.”
“I’m clean,” the kid whispers, voice breaking, one hand curling into the hem of his oversized hoodie. “Please.”
Jason wants to break something. He wants to go outside, find Batman, and smash his fucking face against the concrete until the sick, nauseous feeling in Jason’s belly goes the fuck away. He wants to hide his face in his hands until all of this goes the fuck away.
“How about this,” Jason starts, stops, desperate to find the words that will make the kid stop expecting him to- to—Christ….
Deep breaths. In for three, out for five.
Think, Todd. Something to make the kid cooperate with marginally less terror. What was it about last night…?
“When- when we’re done, we can go outside for a little. Catch some fresh air, yeah? Well, Gotham-fresh, anyway. So, how about it?”
A glimmer of hope sparks in Jason’s chest when the kid’s eyes flick up almost imperceptibly fast, a look of desperate longing, there and gone again in the blink of an eye.
“No, thank you.”
Okay, deep breaths. Deep fucking breaths.
“Why not, kid?” he asks, doing his best to channel the soothing Robin voice he remembers using on smaller children or scared civilians. It’s still tinted with a thread of green rage, but over all passably enough considering Jason is itching to saw someone’s head off with a rusty steak knife.
“I don’t want to go outside, Sir.”
“Don’t want to, or aren’t allowed to?”
The kid’s silence tells Jason all he needs to know.
Well, fucking fine. He can deal with that shit. He’s the Red Hood. Criminals wet themselves at the mere thought of him. A traumatized teen isn’t going to do him in.
“Fuck that.”
Jay freezes, a deer caught in the headlights.
“We’re takin’ care of your wounds and then we’re taking a stroll. I need a smoke. And you need fresh air.”
The kid’s face is so fucking hopeful.
“I’ll be good, sir,” he promises, eyes large and wide and desperate, the gruesome, inflamed J burned into his cheek reflecting the dim light as he raises his head slightly. “I swear.”
“I believe you, kid,” Jason rasps, running a hand through his hair instead of punching the wall, “I believe you. Now come one, we’ll make this quick. Make sure there’s no infections. You remember the protocol for injuries, right?”
An eerie sort of stillness falls over Jay’s body.
“Yes, sir,” soft, tremulous, “They’re for my own good.”
It takes a second for Jason’s brain to compute that statement, and when it does, a tidal wave of acid green bubbles up behind his rib cage and drenches the world in hues of Lazarus water.
But then Jay flinches away from him, eyes wide and fearful, and the green ebbs away into angry resignation.
“Sorry, kid. Sorry, I- ” He breathes deeply, in for three and out for five, and blinks until the green veil over his eyes is gone. “Sorry, it’s all good. Just—that’s not what I was going for. I was trying to say- remember—”
Jason cuts himself off, frustrated. He wanted to use the Robin protocol as a point of reference, but even the thought of mentioning Batman’s rules for his little child soldiers is enough to drench the world in shades of washed out green, so he doesn’t.
In the end he settles for something entirely else.
“New rule, kid,” he says gruffly, steering the kid out into the living room and towards the couch where he waits until Jay’s seated comfortably before retrieving the first aid kit. “Important rule, so I need you to listen to me, got it?”
Jay nods haltingly, eyeing the kit like it’s about to grow teeth and bite.
“When something is hurting you, I need you to tell me. So I can make it better. Understand? You won’t be punished, there’ll be no consequences, in fact, I—” Jason considers for a moment, then thinks ‘fuck it’, and says, “Each time you tell me about something hurting, or you needing assistance with something, we’re gonna go outside for a walk after, if you feel up for it, ‘kay?”
The kid’s eyes blow wide like saucers, disbelief warring with frantic hope before he visibly temps down on the emotions.
Jason waits anyway, reluctant to call it quits early, but at the same time fully expecting the kid to stay quiet or say no anyway. Jason’s always had trouble with asking for stars when the tech for airplanes hadn’t even been invented yet. Or something like that.
Point is, he doesn’t really expect anything to come out of this desperate, sad attempt at reaching a rapport with the kid.
Which is probably why it’s such a surprise when the kid’s eyes flick up to Jason’s face momentarily and he murmurs a small and fractured: “Yes. Please.”
Jason almost falls over himself in his haste to praise the kid for— well, reacting positively. Or reacting at all. Doesn’t really matter, this is— this is a step in the right right direction, right? Proof that Jason isn’t fucking this up royally?
Oh, fuck it. It’s a step, at least. Everything else is a problem for future Jason, that sorry son son of a bitch.
“Okay, great. That’s great. I’m- proud of you. Alright, we’ll start with your cheek.”
All things considered; Jason is done much faster than he expected.
The worst injuries weren’t surface level, mostly just smaller cuts and scrapes where the Robin armor gave way to the softer, more flexible parts of the suit. The abrasions and puncture wounds where the barbed wire had cut into Jay’s flesh only required some disinfectant and clean bandages, and though the kid had startled badly when Jason wrapped the gauze around his throat— slowly, carefully, gently, like dealing with a terrified baby deer— he hadn’t pulled away. Not that Jason expected him to.
The burns had been relatively easy to treat as well. Placed at random points on Jay’s body, in various stages of healing. Two dots, evenly spaced, reminding Jason of taser marks. Because of fucking course they couldn’t have spared the kid at least that kind of torture, Jesus. But compared to the fucking brand on the kid’s cheek, even that is tame. At least the scar doesn’t look red or infected enough at the moment to require antibiotics. He’ll need to check if it gets worse, obviously. But for now the iodine salve and the sterile patch of gauze should do their job just fine. And the ibuprofen will take care of the mild inflammation, if they’re lucky.
Over all, not as bad as Jason had expected.
Apart from some of the deep gashes running along the kid’s back that Jason had stitched closed last night, at least. Or the six broken ribs. Or the swollen ankle and knee. Or the badly healed break in the kid’s right hand. Or—
“Careful.”
Jason tugs the kid back upright when he tips sideways, dead on his feet and clearly exhausted from the ordeal of the last two days, but still reluctant to go back inside.
Not that Jay had said as much, of course. But Jason thinks he’ll have to learn to read the kid’s subtle body language if he wants any hope of getting through to him. To help him heal. If that’s even possible. Or at least help him rediscover the will to live as more than this— shell.
Jason knows, hopes, that the angry, rebellious teen he remembers being is still in there somewhere. Buried beneath a shit ton of trauma, surely. But there.
“Come on, kid. I think you should get some sleep.”
Jay nods, but his eyes are fixed on the distant sky, on the clouds perpetually hanging over Gotham City like a shroud, reflecting her sickly artificial light.
They hadn’t gone for a walk after all, not when Jay hadn’t managed to walk ten steps without needing to stop for breath. So Jason had done the next best thing and taken him up to the roof. And he’s almost convinced Jay likes this even better than going for a walk.
Robins always love the heights. The rooftops. The sheer endless expanse of concrete blending into the sky.
And as long as you don’t wake up buried under it… well, no. Jason still sees the appeal even after. So whatever. Or maybe it’s just a vigilante thing in general.
“Yes,” Jay agrees easily, but his entire posture is screaming reluctance.
“We can come back out here any time you like, okay? Shit, we can even have fuckin’ breakfast here if you want. And lunch. And dinner. But you’re dead on your feet, kid. Ain’t helping anybody if you keel over.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jason sighs.
He’ll just- he’ll try again in the morning. After he’s been out and bashed some criminals into the ground. And gotten at least two hours of sleep.
“Okay, come on. Let’s go.”
Jason doesn’t pause to ask before he picks Jay up, painfully aware how the kid is skin and bones and light as a fuckin’ feather.
Small steps. Small fucking steps.
He hates having to be patient.
But the kid’s the priority now. As is getting back at all the Bats for leaving Jay in that fucking hellhole to rot.
Small steps.
Hunting for mammoths isn’t a task for an hour. It requires precise planning. And time. And patience.
For now, he’ll focus on getting the kid back on his his feet.
And after that… well.
Jason’s got experience hunting bats.