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On the rare occasion Jason actually ventures into the Diamond District or Old Gotham during daylight, it’s usually to meet with one of the other bats for batbusiness. Even more rarely, he meets someone for lunch at some bougie coffeehouse that makes Jason’s skin crawl. Most often, when he meets with anyone, they come to him, not quite into the Alley, but just across the river from the Bowery, or sometimes closer to Robinson Park, about as far south as Jason is willing to go.
All that to say, Jason never imagined he would be walking through the front doors of Wayne Tower, smack in the middle of Gotham’s richest neighborhood in broad daylight with the sun beating down on his back and men and women in suits worth half a grand all around him. But, well, Jason guesses this is what he gets for taking over the Wayne Foundation’s satellite office in Burnley. Climbing the ladder was not his intention and coming back into the spotlight even a little bit as Bruce’s prodigal son was never on his agenda. And yet, Jason squares his shoulders as he steps out of the rotating door into Wayne Tower’s first-floor lobby, on his way to deliver the most important proposal of the year to Wayne Enterprises’ board of directors.
Jason wants to go back to bed, turn tail and leave, take back every step forward he’s taken in the past three years to reach this point. He’d take the Red Hood helmet any day of the week over facing down a table full of a couple dozen rich assholes who need to be not only told but convinced that giving money to the poor is a good thing.
It makes Jason’s skin crawl.
The things he does for people, honestly.
Jason waves to the security guards and the receptionist, all employed courtesy of Jason’s personal recommendation. He swipes his badge at the turnstile, a small part of him still surprised when the little indicator light blinks green, despite his being an established and trusted representative of the Wayne Foundation for several years running. Regardless, he walks up to the elevators without pause.
He presses the “up” button and waits.
The building is tall enough that he expects it to take a couple of minutes for the elevator to make it down to the lobby, but it arrives in only a few seconds. Stepping inside is an act of courage. Elevators are uncomfortable at best, triggering at worst, and honestly if Jason could avoid them he would. But, well, he’s not climbing thirty plus flights of stairs in a three-thousand-dollar custom-tailored suit right before the most important meeting he’ll be in all year. He has to make the best impression he can and showing up sweaty and breathless ten minutes late is definitely not going to leave a good impression.
Jason’s been having a good week, though, and honestly, he’s doing better with managing his lingering claustrophobia. He’s not too worried. He’ll have enough time once he reaches the thirty-second floor to steady himself if he needs to.
He breathes in deeply and scans his badge again as the elevator doors close. He doesn’t close his eyes, knows from experience that the darkness only makes it worse. He presses the button, stomach lurching uneasily as the elevator begins its ascent. Music chimes happily through the speakers, some funky little bop that Jason thinks might be some kind of polka.
The elevator shudders around floor fifteen but carries on climbing. It’s an old building and an elevator that sees frequent use. Jason’s not sure the last time it was updated. The number ticks higher.
At floor twenty, the elevator shudders again, and Jason’s breath catches.
His eyes close, against his better judgement.
There’s a loud grating noise.
The sound of something jamming.
The music stops.
A sharp yank that nearly knocks Jason off his feet.
Jason leans back against the wall, bracing himself on the rail. He forces his eyes open, even as his chest tightens. The lights flicker. The door stays closed.
Hand shaking, Jason reaches forward, pressing the call button at the bottom of the elevator panel.
“Hello, how can I assist you?”
“Uh, um. The, uh, the elevator’s stuck. Doors won’t open.” His words come out a little breathless.
“Okay. Can you tell me how many people are in the elevator and what floor you’re at?”
Jason rubs his palm against his chest, feeling the way his heart pounds under his skin. “Just me.” He glances up at the display over the door. “Um. Twenty-one.”
A hum of crackles through the speaker. “I’m going to get ahold of building maintenance and let them know what’s happening.”
There’s a resounding click, and Jason knows he’s been disconnected.
Alone in the silence, he isn’t quite sure what to do. He has no way of knowing how long it will take for the right people to come get him out. The only sound is the echo of his own too-quick breaths in the small space.
He closes his eyes. Not small if he can’t see it. But it’s dark, and it was dark then, and fuck this is awful. Jason lowers himself to the floor, tipping his head back against the wall. He curls his fingers against the chilly tile flooring. Not silk. Not soft. Cold, hard marble. Because Wayne Enterprises is always extra. Of course there’s marble tile in the fucking elevator of all places.
Jason huffs out a strained laugh.
His phone buzzes in his pocket.
Fuck.
The meeting.
Jason pulls his phone out of his back pocket and rests his thumb on the fingerprint scanner, watching the screen unlock. He pulls down his notifications, grimacing at the text from Bruce sitting at the top of the list.
Good luck with the meeting, lad.
With trembling fingers, he taps out a reply.
elegair stcuk mighr bel ate
He closes his eyes as he hits send, already forgetting the mistake that was last time. His eyes shoot open barely a second later.
A minute passes, by Jason’s count, as he stares at the seam of the elevator doors.
His phone rings.
Jason mindlessly swipes to answer, not even bothering to check the caller ID. Too much of his attention is on keeping his breathing steady. It’s only kind of working.
“—ey—lad—you—kay?”
“Hm? B?” Jason glances at his phone. Takes a deep, shuddering breath as that sinks in. Crashes down, really. “B.”
“—want—to—sure—were—kay—en—el—vat—uck.” There’s a pause between the staticky relay of Bruce’s words. “—ang—in—ere?”
Jason frowns, face getting all tingly in that way that means he might cry. Fuck. “D’you—do ya know if, uh, if maintenance is comin’ yet?”
“I—know—I—check—you—wait—a—ute.”
“Y’re all staticky, B,” Jason says, not quite sure what Bruce was trying to say. He hates the way his voice cracks as he speaks.
“I—with—ten—if—hold—for—min—”
“Y’re gon’ check?”
“—can—you—me—Jay.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure. Um. You’ll call back, though?”
“—course—lad.”
Jason hums, breath picking up as the call ends. Silence falls again, and he tries his best not to close his eyes. It’s his instinct to close them when he tries to focus on his breathing. He runs his fingers across the marble, warm now. Cool to the touch is more grounding, so he reaches for a new spot to continue making small patterns. Every few breaths, the air catches in his throat.
A few more minutes pass but Jason doesn’t bother keeping count. One minute was too many. Five minutes is an eternity. His phone doesn’t ring, and Jason wonders if his signal dropped off, finally cut off completely by the metal box he’s sitting in.
He doesn’t check. He doesn’t want to know if Bruce forgot to call him back.
He waits.
And waits.
And he doesn’t count the minutes or check the time or listen too closely for the sound of help arriving. He waits.
He’s holding his breath in the middle of a breathing exercise when the lights flicker.
Then flicker again.
Then go out entirely.
Jason keeps holding his breath, eyes wide open as he waits for the lights to come back on. A few seconds later, all the air leaves his lungs in a rush, and the lights are still out, and Jason thinks maybe this is karma or something, but for what he can’t for the life of him imagine.
He tries to take a deep breath but barely makes it a second before he’s breathing back out, a few short breaths away from gasping.
Something shrieks, and it sounds ever so similar to a crowbar on concrete and Jason shakes, eyes closed. His hands end up in his hair, palms pressed against his eyes as he curls up on the hard, cold floor and tries to focus on the fact that it’s not silk, but concrete isn’t much better. The same shrieking echoes again, grating on Jason’s ears and, for the life of him, he can’t tell if the sing-song chattering and high cackle are real or imagined.
He tells himself he’s not lying on a bed of silk, but the whole world’s gone dark and though he can’t find the walls when he reaches for them, he knows they’re there.
Then there are hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently. Jason tilts forward, head bumping against something soft but solid, something as familiar as the arms wrapping around him.
“It’s okay, Jaylad. I’m here, you’re okay. You’re safe, honey, I promise,” a voice murmurs in deep baritone, a voice Jason knows in a way he hardly knows anything else. It’s safety, familiarity, protection. It’s nights spent curled up in his father’s arms because the nightmares were too much. It’s knowing someone will catch you and knowing that if you slip over the edge, someone is waiting for you at the bottom.
Jason breathes in deeply, taking in the scent of Bruce’s obnoxious cologne, and falls.