Chapter Text
Jason hated to admit it, hated it right down to his very bones, but spending his evening patrolling with Dick was… fun. It was intense and overwhelming and he hadn’t laughed like that in so, so long.
“You should come back to the cave with me,” Dick told him as they landed on another roof. “Agent A really should get a look at your wrist. I’m just hoping it’s only sprained, you know?”
He was smiling. He was smiling at Jason. Like Jason had been back in the Batcave since-- since--
Soldier, soldier. A good soldier. A magical soldier.
He stumbled back. One step. Two. The invasion burned, hot and scorching, it burned like a thousand suns. Dick’s easy acceptance. The idea that Jason - fucked and twisted and so, so wrong - would be welcomed back without hesitation burned.
Dick peered at him, light concern and easy love twisting, turning, shifting. Something-- something new. Something Jason wasn’t.
“No thanks,” he choked out after two, three, four tries to get enough air in his lungs to breathe.
“You sure?” Dick asked, like his concern meant Jason would just be fine.
Jason took another step back, his hands were held between himself and Dick, defensive. As though they could protect him from the endless heat that emanated from Dick’s light.
Jason was made of shadows. He could never stand in that light, not anymore.
“Healing factor.” Jason knew the only reason Dick couldn’t hear his panic was because of his helmet, even so, Dick knew him well enough to read it in every line of his body.
Jason had to get out.
“Thompkins,” he blurted. “I’ll see-- I’ll see the doc. If things don’t get better.”
He was gone before Dick could reply, shoeing across the rooftops and taking jumps he might normally use a grapple for.
He had to get out, get out, get out. Get out before he was burned to nothing but ash and smoke and dreams.
Jason’s nerves screamed at him. Still lit up with a fire that Dick had started days earlier. Jason hadn’t left his safehouse since he’d gotten back. His sprain was healed. He was fine.
His nerves burned.
That was okay. They were supposed to sing as he walked into Black Mask’s core territory without a hint of hesitation. Or back up.
What was a song if not a symphony of screams? What was Jason if not a song?
The gunfire was immediate. Kill on sight. Jason knew Black Masks orders.
He ducked and wove and hid behind elements of his environment.
And when he shot back, he didn’t aim for hands and knees and shoulders. He aimed for heads and hearts and arteries.
People screamed as they died. An agonized song, sung for the heavens.
Black Mask was a bastard. A fucked up piece of shit who had not a singular care for the world or the people around him. He deserved the sweet embrace of death and Jason didn’t care how many people he needed to kill to win.
By the rise of the sun, awoken to chase away the shadows, Black Mask would be dead. Or Jason would. It didn’t matter.
Because Jason burned.
Jason woke up slowly. The world coming into hazy focus around him.
“Tim! He’s awake!”
Jason jerked around, gaze swinging to catch on blonde hair and purple. Brilliant, blinding purple.
He winced. The motion jostled his head. Unacceptable, according to said head.
Stephanie beamed at him. Harsh and bright and unrepentant.
Jason wanted to shrink back from her stare. Instead, he leaned forward in challenge.
The door behind her was shoved open with more force than Jason thought was necessary and his goodman replacement came trotting in.
“What the fuck,” he snapped, reaching for his one of his pistols.
Tim clocked the action and snorted. “Going for your guns is not an option, Jason. I took them five hours ago.”
“What happened?” He demanded.
Last he remembered, he’d been close to storming Black Masks compound. He didn’t remember killing the man, but he was alive, so he must have.
His head hurt like a motherfucker.
“You were an idiot,” Stephanie told him lightly.
“Barbara sent Steph to go check out the reported activity you were the cause of. I followed her when I heard what was happening. Someone got you in the head hard enough that you dropped, even with your helmet, and we swooped in to save your ass, your welcome.”
Jason blinked at him. “What?” So they had both made it to dawn.
Somehow the morning rays hadn’t burnt him to a crisp.
Tim rolled his eyes. “For someone who likes to think of himself as a highly trained combatant and combat analyst, you made a stupid decision and Steph and I saved you.”
Jason… Jason had known exactly what he was doing.
“Where are my guns?” He demanded.
Tim clicked his tongue. “Not here.”
When Jason glared at him, he shrugged. “If you had access to them, you’d threaten to shoot me and maybe Steph. And there’s only about a sixty percent chance it would be a bluff. So. No guns.”
“He’s got a point,” Steph said when Jason didn’t respond.
Tim wasn’t wrong. Maybe if he had his guns he could point one at Tim’s pretty little head and threaten to pull the trigger. Maybe then they’d all leave him alone and stop trying to burn him alive.
He opened his mouth to speak, but there were only ashes in his throat as words failed him.
“You have a concussion,” Tim told him, matter of fact. “Dick said you have a healing factor and I can see it at play, things should be a lot worse for you. For now, Steph and I are going to take turns making sure you don’t go back to sleep. Sit tight.”
Jason wished he had his helmet back. His expression of utter shock, gaping like a gutted fish, was far too visible without it.
Which… reminded him. “My helmet. There’s a bomb.” How the hell had his replacement gotten it off his head without blowing them all sky high?
Tim pursed his lips. “Yeah, I noticed. It is not going to be there when you get it back. Tough shit.”
“What the fuck?”
Tim shrugged. “Listen, no one other than us and Barbara knows you're here. Take a breather and stop trying to die, yeah?”
Tim was bright. Too bright. A good replacement for the fucked up Robin he was.
It burned. It seared. It was reburning already peeling skin and then rubbing salt in.
Jason swallowed.
Steph bullied him into helping her with her English essay.
Somehow, he was surprised the book - Animal Farm - didn’t turn to ashes under his touch.
The warehouse was in his territory.
It was not under his control.
They were selling to all sorts of people.
They were selling to kids.
Nicotine stained his fingers, once. He was lucky all he’d felt was the burn of a cigarette. Nothing worse to flame his lungs. His body. His mind.
He set the charges before he leapt down for the confrontation. Five minutes. Four. Three… two… one…
Jason didn’t really care if he made it out. Dying in another warehouse, burned and battered by bombs he’d set this time. It’d be a closed circle. Poetic.
Jason still sprinted for the door. He was burning. He was fuel. He was not going to go down without a fight.
Death was coming for him. Bright with its searing pain. He intended to claw at it, ever inch of the way.
He was clear of the building, if only just, when the explosions rocked his body. Throwing him forward.
Jason could almost taste the rough burn of concrete through his helmet.