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Jason had miscalculated, badly, but the way that information didn’t make him as desperate as it should have was odd—maybe he should be more worried about that.
Maybe it was because this wasn’t the first time he’d badly overestimated how much he was worth to Bruce—not even worth enough to keep his one rule—or maybe it was because something in him had broken—
Dull pain and a sudden impact on his temple made his head lurch, and suddenly he was looking down—had he fallen? When did that happen? He only knew it did because he was lying on the floor now, the gravel of the rooftop rough against his cheek—but where was his helmet? It was supposed to help avoid this sort of thing… Jason blinked a couple of times, trying to situate himself.
Blood coated his mouth, and Jason spat it out, but more blood trickled in right after, and Jason had a suspicion that it wasn’t simply from cuts on his mouth. The dull and throbbing pain deep inside his chest told him the same thing.
Above him, Bruce was shouting, and Jason, through the haze of confusion and pain, remembered that he had already shot the Penguin, that it wasn’t just a badly-planned thing anymore… And Bruce was angry about it.
Jason tried to support himself on his arms and stand up, but a brutal kick to his wrist made him fall back with a howl of pain. The searing ache spread from the point where a boot had connected with a crack.
He wouldn’t be holding a gun any time soon.
Jason breathed through the pain, chest spasming to contain a sob, which only made him more aware of the dull, deep ache he felt inside. It was like something had dislodged from place in his chest, the sensation grating and chilling, and Jason knew he should be more worried about it, but it was hard to keep his mind on that with the way his entire body burned and his head felt light and distant.
Soon Bruce would leave and then he’d be able to pick himself up and go—well, not home, because home was his friends, the mismatched family he’d started to build, but now they were gone…
Lying on his back, Jason resisted the urge to cradle his arm or his stomach, reminding himself that this wasn’t a Bruce he could show vulnerabilities to, the one who’d tended to his injuries when he was a child. The sky was spinning above him, and Jason knew that somewhere up there, Artemis and Bizarro should be , but they weren’t there anymore, and Jason had to go, had to find them, but Bruce—Bruce wouldn’t let him, not unless Jason explained—
He should’ve trusted Jason, but now he wasn’t above explaining that it had been a blank, not when he needed to go after his friends…
“Bruce—” Jason started, and suddenly he was—floating? No, not floating, Bruce had simply grabbed him by the collar, holding him up and snarling something on his face—everything sounded so distant, and it took too much concentration to focus on the words—and Jason was just trying to find strength to lift his neck and change the position from the painful arc that Bruce’s hold on forced him into. He tried again to speak again, the “Bruce,” that left his mouth weak even to his ears. That earned him a full-body shake that made it feel like his head was being split open. Jason couldn’t help the moan that escaped his mouth as white hot agony engulfed him.
All that Jason knew, right then, was pain.
Maybe Bruce was chastising him for using his name in the open… yeah, that had been a bad call. It was just… he knew Batman wouldn’t listen to him now, but maybe Bruce would…
Who was there on the other side, after all? Bruce? Batman? His dad? Whoever it was, Jason needed it to be someone who cared, because otherwise this wouldn’t end well for any of them.
“Listen to me—” Jason started, getting the words out as fast as he could, but it all ended in a pained moan when Bruce’s boot once again connected with his stomach, then his ribs in short succession. It all burned, and through the fire in his body, Jason tried to breathe, the burning sensation and the weight on his chest bringing back memories of a warehouse and smoke. He was in Gotham, and he was in Ethiopia—
—had he ever left?
And just as once, years ago, Jason had stared at a ticking clock and known that this was it for him, when a third kick had him doubling over, he knew it again… he could feel it, could almost taste death in the air.
He’d miscalculated—sure, Jason had expected an angry Bruce who wouldn’t pull his punches—his kicks, his throwing Jason against the floor—but he hadn’t expected this. Bruce didn’t even beat people he hated this way…
Jason had expected broken bones, but he hadn’t expected the deep, crushing pain that went beyond the burning on his ribs. Hysterically, Jason noticed that his mind simply ended up comparing the way his body had felt after Joker’s work with the crowbar. That Bruce would do the same thing… After everything, that was what made his eyes sting, but he couldn’t cry, not in the cathartic, releasing way he wanted to, because he could barely draw air into his lungs, the simple act of inhaling making him feel like there are knives being plunged into him by a heavy, unforgiving hand.
Punches were still raining down, but Jason wasn’t even following it all anymore, his vision blacking in and out.
There had to be something completely rotten inside him, that even Batman would’ve given up on him this way. Most days, Jason didn’t particularly care about whether he lived or died, but he didn’t want to go this way, not by Bruce’s hand.
And it was then that Jason realized that he didn’t really need Bruce. He’d been wrong before in thinking that way. He needed Batman, because it was Batman’s no kill rule, the thing that would stand in the way of Jason’s death. Through a haze, he recalled Bruce admitting to him that he wanted to kill the Joker; right now, Jason would bet that Bruce also wanted to kill him—or, at the very least, to vent his grievances without caring for the result, which wasn’t all that different, not really.
Bruce would’ve never done this to the others.
Jason would have alerted Bruce of just how close he was to breaking his one sacred rule, but he couldn’t breathe, much less speak; the burning sensation of the bones he knew were broken mixing with the fire in his lungs and crushing him. He tried to change his position and turn on his side, but Bruce chose that moment to grab him by his collar—again—and drag him across the rooftop.
Renewed panic flooded Jason’s veins—was Bruce going to throw him over? No, certainly not. The only reason why Bruce was being so brutal was because he didn’t know how bad Jason was, he would never actually purposefully kill him—
Bruce let go of him suddenly, and there was no hope of Jason holding his own weight. He barely felt the impact against the back of his head as darkness once and for all overtook him, the pain diluting as his consciousness stretched thin. In a way, it was fitting. If there was one thing Jason knew, was that the dead don’t hurt.