Chapter Text
Jason's chasing down who's got to be the fucking, whatever, manager of this set up—definitely higher up than the poor mooks being used as fodder on the lower levels, because this jabroni's got key cards he's swiping and he knows the layout of the place.
Ill will to Batman for making him agree to no critical wounding—the hallways are too low to acrobat his way to an advantage, and he doesn't want to risk getting the guy with a blade. It's fine when the Boss does it, but God forbid Jason use equal force, blah blah blah.
Exacting and non-Newtonian standards by whom so set? The Boss, The Father, and The Arbitrative Spirit.
"Hey Lewy! Lewy-boy!"
Another quick turn inside the labyrinthine depths of this depot of capitalistic greed. Why is a money man so goddamned quick, there's no reason for it whatsoever—marathons in his freetime? Dumb. He's running to dead ends anyway, so Jason's phoning it in a little, but still.
"Lewy," he sing songs. "I'm gonna get you no matter what, so do me a favor and stop fucking fleeing. I know there aren't no exit up here, Lewy boy—five stories up is a long way down, and I've heard things about the view halfway."
He sucks his teeth. Not his best work.
The guy shoots out wildly, hitting the wall, ceiling, and, incidentally, a big, red target, cracking part of his helmet and shorting out his comms and voice projection. Annoying, but another point in the pro column for helmets; gives Batmans and criminals something to aim at that ends up with only baby-level concussions.
Finally Mr. Lewis Anderson ducks into a room; Jason's close enough behind that he can slip in before the asshole starts shooting again, but not close enough to grab the gun off him. Jason weighs the over under, ends up about seventy percent sure he's not about to die. A bookkeeper for a small trafficking set up isn't really about that; they'll kill over time, but they're too cowardly to do it with their own hands. He removes his helmet, tosses it to the ground.
"Look man, I already don't want to be here, so how about you put the gun down and we take you in easy." Jason's even got his hands up placatingly.
"I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to—" The guy is a quivering pile of pathetic.
"You…didn't mean to traffic people. You just got real comfortable moving their hard earned money around."
"I didn't—they threatened me!"
"Okay, I don't really give a shit, that'll all shake out in court. Sure. Due process."
"I can't go through that, I can't—you're going to find out—I didn't mean to—"
That's never great.
"What are we going to find out, Lewis."
"They—they gave us access to the girls, they—I didn't mean to—"
Plan changed. Jason starts inching closer, into jumping range.
"Stop!" He points the gun at Jason. "Stop, I won't—I can't go to prison—"
He points the gun at himself. Jason just knows he's going to get blamed for this. Called it on the coward thing, though.
Jason lunges, too late to stop the trigger being pulled. He lands on the man as the gun goes off, tackling a body and getting showered in blood for his effort.
"Oh goddamnit," he bitches, standing back up and trying to shake off some of the gore. "What I get for trying to talk someone down instead of fucking kneecapping 'em. 'All efforts and attainments are equally valueless,' after all."
Giving up on the whole…viscera…situation, he picks up his helmet, trying to reconnect his comms when the doorway behind him fills with the hulking shadow of a disappointed father. His hands drop to his sides.
Fantastic.
"Look," but the Bat is swinging at him before he can even start; instinctively Jason flings his helmet at the attacker, but Batman, well. Bats it away.
"Red Hood." A little excessive on the vitriol, if he bothered to ask Jason.
"Holy aggressive, Batman!" Jason's so surprised it puts him at a disadvantage, purely on the defensive instead of his usual preference: retreat. "Did you get dosed with something," he ducks under a fist but Batman gets him hard in the side with a knee, "Or are you seriously," he jumps back from a left hook feint, right jab, "This torn up," he's getting boxed further into a corner of the room—B's not holding back and Jason's not sure if it's kosher to play dirty, not if B's under outside influence—"About that fuckhead being dead?"
"No loss of life is acceptable," and Jason blocks, blocks, blocks, gets hit, evades, gets hit, gets hit, gets hit—starts to grow a touch concerned; B is rattling his bones and bruises are forming immediately, he can tell. Batman's forearm smashes into his cheekbone and nose, and Jason licks at the blood. "Why can't you understand that?"
Batman's out of breath, but not all from exertion—that's that patented righteous fury right there.
"Come on, Batman—even he thought the world was better off without him," Jason jumps, twists to avoid some sort of goddamn kick combo. "Jesus Christ, you been playing Mortal Kombat?”
He tries to flip out of the lock Batman grabs around his arm, but the Bat's ready for it, stopping a flurry of blows to catch Jason around the collar and slam him back against the wall.
Fuck but he should have kept the helmet on.
"You're done."
Yeah, no shit.
"B, if you wanted a hug you just have to ask, we don't got to do this dance every time."
So maybe he's not exactly practiced in defusing situations with B anymore. He used to be pro at it, and it's probably like riding a bike, but Jason can't bring himself to ameliorate any situations more than he already does. He already gives up so much.
As a response, he's slammed against the wall twice more before Batman presses his forearm to Jason's throat, pinning him in place. The armored gauntlet is cold and unforgiving and this is the first prolonged touch he's received from his father in. In a while.
Batman leans into him, pressing more of himself into the weight on Jason's clavicle. Jason tries to swallow, tries to breathe, tries to pry Batman's arm off the tender flesh of his throat, scar starting to throb in numb ache with his heartbeat.
He's…not positive he doesn't black out for a second. The only thing he can see is the rage contorting Batman's face—it's familiar; special—the kind just for him.
He hasn't pressed any of B's buttons in a while, but his nervous system still lights up at the sight of that anger, remembers every kiss of every knuckle, every pulse of every bruise—all the blood Batman's bled out of his son in offering to his ceaseless self-appointed crusade.
Not that Jason hasn't…egged him on some of the time, but with the lull into mild compliance that Jason's fallen into this past year, it's kind of heady to know he can still make the fucking Batman lose control—can still get Bruce to fucking look at him. Confusion at the current cause not withstanding, at least there is this one thing left just for him. Just between the two of them.
Kind of fucked up, maybe, what a kid will eat up for attention, but shit, he's no child psychologist.
"Your cavalier disregard for life stops. Now. How dare you. I let you in on this operation and you betrayed our trust, our mission—"
Jason fully can't breathe now; spots dance across his vision and he's too weak to keep scrabbling at Batman's arm. His hands slowly slip down the chestplate as his strength ebbs and ebbs and ebbs. He thinks Batman might still be talking. He tries to get his attention because he thinks—he thinks something's not right.
B's got Jason raised high enough that if he tipped his head forward their foreheads would be pressed together, like Bruce used to do when they were conspiratorially planning to sneak cookies before dinner, or before Jason went to sleep, or when Bruce seemed just—just really fond. His eyes would crinkle up with the warmest smile maybe ever.
Here in the harsh cold of not-memory, Batman shifts and throws Jason to the ground, hard, too quickly for Jason to stop his face from hitting the floor. Then Batman's knee is digging into Jason's back to hold Jason down and B wrenches Jason's arms together while he gasps grateful breaths. Talk about excessive use of force—Jason couldn't even crawl away in this state.
"Not very precious cargo anymore, I guess," he chokes out, spiteful, and not hurt, and pissy. He can feel Batman's hands tighten their grip and then still.
A self assessment in the reprieve lets him know at least one rib is broken, and his nose, and maybe—
"Batman. What happened?"
Just what he needs, fucking Nightwing to pile onto Jason's apparently evil lack of suicide prevention.
It sounds like more than one set of footsteps but Jason can't be sure. He might puke.
Ugh.
He hates throwing up.
Batman is still kneeling on him and the places he touches are lit up in pain and something worse, something that remembers better days. A wanting, betraying heat behind his eyes threatens to spill over.
"Red Hood murdered our suspected primary intermediary. I've subdued him."
What the fuck? Why the fuck would he even do that, it would fuck up the rest of the—the plan. Stuff.
Right, yeah. So he's probably definitely concussed, too.
Wait, accusations.
"Did not," but Jason is absolutely slurring.
"Damnit."
Nightwing being disappointed and sick of him is so past passe at this point. If he doesn't buck up and kill Jason with his own two hands does he even really care? At least Batman cares.
Jason loses time between imagining how Dick would kill him and probably more blacking out. This shit is so not doctor recommended.
He briefly forgets his whole…situation and tries to get up, abruptly reminded about bones and nausea. He has regrets.
People are still talking but it's mostly coming in Charlie Brown style.
Fucking. Brain, uh. Fucking shaken baby. Right?
Dad shook him and he was his baby.
Or.
"—self inflicted. We need to check—"
Jason loses the vomit battle and blessedly passes the fuck out.