Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason Todd was—quite justifiably in his opinion—pissed the fuck off tonight.

His jacket was torn, he noted with a scowl, on the sleeve of his right shoulder. It was a lucky shot on the clown goon’s part, and Jason was pissed he got hit at all by the bumbling idiot. The makeup-smeared freak couldn’t hit a brick wall point blank, let alone one of Gotham’s best anti-heroes. But Hood had been off his game all night and it showed with the oozing bullet graze on his arm.

The wound ached in protest with his every movement as he punched the man below him, but he was too high on anger-induced adrenaline to care.

Landing a last knock-out shot to the clown’s broken nose, he let the unconscious man drop from the grip on his lapels, deadweight landing with a thump on the concrete.

Jason stood from his crouched position, panting as he surveyed the alleyway for any possible runners, taking in the crumpled forms of his victims that were slightly(quite a bit) more bloodied than usual, broken bones and countless cuts being administered generously by his red stained hand. Sure, it may have been an overreaction on his part, but he was struggling to keep the green out of his vision as it was when the gang went after one of his best informants.

The working girl—Violet was her name—was headed home for the night when they’d jumped her.

Hood was proud to note that two of the men had already been taken down a notch with a nice kick to the nuts by the time he got there. He just kept the rest off her while she got away, blowing him a kiss in gratitude as she left. He was more than happy to finish the job.

He was angry and they were being assholes, sue him.

Now, the Pits sung in his mind at the sight of broken bodies littering the slimy pavement, relishing the pain inflicted by its host. But it still buzzed for more, unsatisfied still, even after a night filled with harder hits and bloody fists. What more did it want?

The Pits had been more active lately, jittery in a way that reminded him of a little kid eagerly awaiting Christmas morning, and whatever the Pits was excited for was probably going to be bad. Jason wasn’t looking forward to when the ball drops.

With the ever more present parasitic influence, his mind was a hazy mess of green tinted anger that only seemed to get worse and not better with each hit he dished out. Every scream of pain and terror, each crunch of a snapping bone, splat of spilt blood—

Jason shuddered. The alleyway suddenly felt rather claustrophobic, the crimson spattered walls too close for comfort.

Without as much as a glance back at the mess on the ground, he jumped up. With catlike grace, he kicked up onto the wall in front of him, twisting midair to plant his feet on the brick and then kicking off to the opposite wall, bending his knees to spring of that one and up onto the roof. An impressive feat of gymnastics that would make Dickybird proud…

He didn’t want to think about Dick right now, not that goody-goody of a brother. If he saw how Jason had relapsed…

Instead, Jason plopped down on the edge of the rooftop with his feet hanging off and ripped his signature red helmet off his head to run a (totally not shaking) hand through his sweaty black locks.

His shoulder throbbed in the cool September breeze, the blood that dribbled down the length of his bicep sickeningly warm in contrast. His adrenaline high was ebbing, allowing all the other aches of his body to make themselves known as well: bruised ribs from a roundhouse kick received earlier in the night, a knife slash that had made it through the Kevlar on his thigh and down to his flesh, and various other spots of black and blue he’d surely find under his armor later.

He’d been sloppy, really sloppy. With the Pits keeping him on edge and from any proper sleep, he was having trouble doing the simplest of things, causing him to make stupid mistakes a vigilante of his caliber shouldn’t be making.

Jason growled his frustration at himself and his inability to breathe without wanting to scream in pain. But in true vigilante fashion, he was going to ignore everything he should be addressing until after he was done for the night.

Good ol’ self-care; he’s great at it.

Maybe he will turn in early though, it was a relatively quiet night for Crime Alley. A few armed robberies, a couple cases of attempted assault (those he had no remorse for leaving with mangled crotches), and a few street kids he’d directed to the good shelters to get out of the cold. Other than that, there wasn’t much worth bleeding out for. He’d go a last lap around the perimeter and call it good.

With a last deep breath of cool autumn air filling his lungs, he shoved his helmet back on, grabbed his grappling hook, and leapt from his rooftop perch to swing into the night.

-•••-

As much as he may deny it, Jason missed his Robin days. Back then, it felt like he was making a real difference in the world, taking down the bad guys with witty quips and quick flips, right by his dad’s—by Batman’s side.

It was nights like these like reminded him of the days when he felt like he could take on anything because he had somebody to watch his back. When he could look at his dad—Bruce without (guilt) anger.

But reminiscing wasn’t enough to make the present like the past. He wasn’t that innocent little kid anymore, so happy to have a family and a purpose that he forgot about the evil of the world.

He’d been naïve.

He’d been let down.

Now nights like these were made up of bloody alleys and aching shoulders.

But as much as the memories of those times had been soiled by too many mistakes on every side, he still missed it. Especially the feeling of grappling around Gotham City, high above the troubles on the ground. Up in the air, he really did feel like a robin, like he was flying.

It felt good to be swinging through the city again. It had been too conspicuous to do when he’d been hiding more determinedly back in his Pit controlled days, so he hadn’t. At least he thinks so. Not that he was really aware enough back then to even think about it. Those days were hard to remember beyond an overwhelming sense of pure anger.

Back then, his life had revolved around getting revenge. Revenge on that bastard of a man, Joker, for taking his life. Revenge on Bruce for not making him pay. Revenge on Replacement for stealing his title. Revenge on the world for the shitty hand it dealt him.

Those days…

Were his current days much better?

Was he?

Jason pulled himself out of his thoughts just as he was about to slam into a building side. Swearing loudly, he maneuvered his body, altering the course of the swing to arc back up into the air, just barely avoiding a clipping the corner of the structure’s wall.

His heart was in his throat at the close call. He should probably pay attention to his surroundings while he was stories above the ground. He really didn’t want to end up as a splatter on the concrete tonight.

Besides, there wasn’t much point of him being out on patrol if he missed every possible crime in his distraction. Also, looking around…

Jason had no idea where he was.

He knew he was definitely still in Gotham (that wasn’t hard to deduce what with the sound of gunfire and permanent gloominess that hung in the air), but he wasn’t in Crime Alley anymore.

Why had his mind led him here? It wasn’t muscle memory, he didn’t think, as he was definitely more used to his own turf than Batman’s by this point. Yet here he was, downtown Batville, because his sleep deprived mind was feeling sentimental.

His hot breath echoed uncomfortably in the confines of his helmet, making him wish he had left the damn thing at home and just stuck to a domino. He really wanted to face plant in bed right about now.

But that required knowing how to get home, which required knowing where he was. So, he yanked down on his grappling gun to pull the line taut and pulled himself higher by retracting the line. He landed in a catlike crouch on a roof edge and scanned the streets below, looking for landmarks or street signs that could give him a reference point to work with.

The streets were empty, the quiet only occasionally broken by the sound of a speeding car or police sirens in the distance. The area was rather run down, the buildings looking long abandoned, upkeep nonexistent with boarded doors and window frames with their glass sprinkled on the cracked sidewalk. He was too far from the street signs to read them, but he could tell it would have been pointless to try anyway as they were covered in messy graffiti.

He was around the docks he thinks, but in the older side that was only inhabited by the odd gang that might pass through. He didn’t usually come here, not unless something big were to bring him in to investigate and/or interfere. Which there wasn’t, so he wasn’t sure why he felt drawn to the area.

The Pits was louder in its buzzing, putting pressure into his skull that was giving him a headache. It wasn’t so happy anymore, more scared than excited. It seemed to recognize something nearby, and didn’t like it.

So why was he here? Was it the Pits to draw him in, and if so, why did it suddenly want to get away? What was he missing in this?

Whatever it was, he knew he couldn’t leave if he tried. No way would he be able to drop this after he was already involved.

He might as well do a perimeter check, look for any suspicious activity that might grant him a clue as to what the hell was going on tonight.

Heaving a bone-weary sigh, Jason hauled himself to his feet. He carefully stretched his arms above his head, being mindful of his numerous injuries. Despite his care, his shoulder twinged in protest.

Deciding to let his arm rest, he took to roof hopping instead of swinging. The buildings were close enough in proximity and height that he could cross them relatively easily. Which was good because, even though he was still quite capable, his body was running on fumes. He doubted he would be able to make the jumps if they were any further apart.

Pushing forward, he made sure to pay more attention to his surroundings, keeping a sharp eye out for anything even remotely suspicious. The alleys he was particularly attentive to, as they were the usual hotspots for sinister dealings.

It was for that very reason that he actually noticed a faint glow flickering in an alley down between the buildings he just crossed.

He skid to a stop and crept his way back to the roof edge to peek down. The eerie green light was just bright enough to cast faint slithering shadows along the walls and down the sidewalk. Something down in the dead-end was definitely the source, but he couldn’t see it from his current position.

If that wasn’t suspicious, he didn’t know what was.

Now, a normal person would surely have left by now. Home-grown Gothamites knew to keep their noses out of other people’s business. Being curious gets you killed. Someone with any lick of sense would have turned tail and gone by now, never to look back.

But Jason wasn’t a normal person, he was anything but. He was an undead vigilante with a hard left hook and a knack for getting into trouble. Plus a terrible headache from three consecutive nights without sleep. He wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders.

Not to mention that the Pits was practically screaming in his mind, panicked and terrified. It shoved feelings of fear into his mind, telling him to runrungetaway.

But beyond the green tinted vision, he felt drawn in. Something about the pulsing-like-a-heartbeat energy was so familiar, like a dream he had forgotten, right at the edge of his remembrance but keeps slipping through his fingers. A feeling of longing to be reunited stabbed at his heart. He wanted to chase it down, grab it, and hold it forever.

So, in something akin to a trance, Jason slipped from his hiding spot down to the asphalt. His boots hit the ground with a crunch of gravel, knees instinctively bending just right to absorb the impact of the fall. His attention was focused solely towards the glowing mass on the ground in front of him.

It cast a sheen onto his helmet, filling Jason’s sight with a green just a shade off from the Pits’ disgusting color. But this light felt kinder, comforting to Jason’s aching body, almost as if his soul was being hugged.

Reverently, he approached it, and with each step the Pits scrambled backwards in his mind, trying to get away. If it were a cat, it’d be hissing and spitting right now with how viciously it seemed to hate whatever it was. Jason, however, moved closer.

Up close, it looked like a smooth, round stone, about the size of an egg, semi-translucent and swirling green and blue, sitting on top of a lumpy pile of something woolly.

Against his better decent judgment, he slowly reached out a gloved hand towards the shimmering stone. His fingertips brushed the surface, and he jolted.

Electric shock zipped up his arm and permeated his entire body. He yelped as he yanked back, expecting a painful burn to accompany the lightning sensation. But he just shivered intensely with a wave of goosebumps traveling from his head to his toes.

He studied his tingling hand, checking for burns he didn’t find. His stomach churned like he’d just gone on a roller coaster loop-the-loop a couple times.

“What the hell was that?” he murmured as he shook his hand out.

Catching movement from his peripheral vision, his head snapped up to the stone which was now… floating?

Wide-eyed, Jason watched as the orb slowly rose up in the air above his head. It began to spin, pulling the air around it in. Jason had to shield his eyes even with his helmet on, as energy was pulled into the vortex-like anomaly, making it burn brighter. Glowing swirls spun around the stone, gradually getting faster. The mass of spiraling light wrapped around the orb, creating a bright ball of energy. Wind whipped around him in a frenzy. Pressure filled Jason’s ears as he was pulled towards the mass and had to dig in his heels to resist being dragged in.

Like a black hole, the stone sucked all the light of the alleyway until all that was visible was the fiery tornado surrounding the orb. Then, in a grand crescendo, it all condensed into a ball with the stone in the center.

And then it stopped.

The air stood still. Jason panted as he stood ridged and trembling. His mind was blank, unable to comprehend what the hell was going on. Even the Pits were quiet.

He snapped his focus back to the ball, which was starting to bubble. It writhed and morphed, stretching out into a hot white silhouette. It pushed out two lengths to the sides and two on the bottom, sprouting from a torso with a round head rising up on top.

Jason’s breath halted.

It looked like a child.

In fact, as the light died down, he could see that it was a child. A fair skinned little boy with wild black hair flowing above his head like gravity had no hold on it. A boy who was floating in the air, until he tilted to the side, losing his aura of light as he started to fall.

Jason jolted out of his frozen state, rushing forwards and sliding on armored knees to catch the boy in his arms just before he hit the ground. He held the boy under the shoulders and legs, bridal-style, the child laying limp in Jason’s shaky but firm hold. Jason could do nothing but stare.

What the fuck just happened?

That was the weirdest fucking thing he’d ever seen. And that’s really saying something, he’s seen way too much weird shit in his lifetime. But this really took the whole damn cake.

A child.

He was holding a child. One who just formed from a magic rock he found in an ally.

This was really not sinking in.

Jason nearly dropped the poor kid as he shuffled in his sleep, turning to bury his scrunched up face into Jason’s chest, a little hand reaching to clench onto his shirt. He settled with a soft exhale, relaxing into Jason’s arms.

He was so tiny. Jason couldn’t tell how old he was. He could be anywhere from three to six, it was hard to say. Jason hadn’t really had much experience with little children beyond the Crime Alley street kids. Those kiddies were vicious little suckers, so independent that Jason sometimes forgot how young they were. It was different to be holding a vulnerable sleeping child in his arms.

He had no idea what to do. All he knew is he definitely couldn’t leave him here, and he didn’t want to drop him off to some shelter, not where Jason wouldn’t know if he’d be safe. Even the thought of leaving the boy tugged uncomfortably at his chest, like his very soul was protesting being away from the child.

No, he resolved with determination, clutching the boy closer to his chest. He would protect this boy, with his life if he had to.

The boy shuffled again, whining softly in his sleep. Jason instinctively loosened his grim and rubbed his thumb through his hair, watching the child’s pained expression melt into contentment.

Damn was this kid is cute.

Jason sighed, long and hard. There was no other option. He was going to be bringing him home.

Fuck.

He better not be turning into his dad.

Chapter Text

Jason made it back to his apartment with the boy still sleeping securely in his arms.

If asked, he wouldn’t be able to say how he got home, he couldn’t even remember. He’d been in a daze the entire time, only snapping out of it when he reached the fire escape of his building.

Carefully shifting the child to a one-arm hold, he placed his now free hand flat on the glass of his window and slid it up. Apparently, he had left it unlocked. Not a mistake he was happy about making. Forgetfulness is a killer in a city like Gotham, he couldn’t afford to get lax with his security.

Anxiety itched at his instincts as he scanned his shadowy apartment. If there was one thing being a Bat has taught him is that the most innocent of settings can hold the most gruesome things, and this shady little flat in the middle of Crime Alley was far from a secure place.

Anyone could have gotten in due to his ignorance. A squatter, a robber, hell the Joker could have come in for all he knew.

He knew he was being irrational but he didn’t really care. A few dozen near(or full)-death experiences too many would make anyone a little paranoid.

Jason silently slipped through the window and drew a pistol from his jacket and turned off the safety with a click. With soundless steps, he crept into the living room, gun lowered to his hip at the ready.

He scrutinized the room and adjacent kitchen with a trained eye—gaze sliding over dirty dishes in the sink, a threadbare couch he slept on more often than his bed, the sad coffee table all but literally on its last leg—double checking every detail, ready to put a bullet through the next thing that moved.

Counting the area in view as clear, he moved to the bedroom. Pausing at the doorway, he pressed his back to the wall to the side, out of sight of anything that might be in the room. He inhaled quietly and tensed.

He whipped around to point his gun into the room, expertly taking in the area in a split second, pistol swept over every possible hiding spot.

Nothing.

Same with the bathroom when he checked.

Jason holstered his gun with a huff, breathe crackling through his helmet’s voice modifier. He’s being jumpy.

And without imaginary threats to keep him on high alert, there was nothing to keep adrenaline flowing through his aching bones. He couldn’t stop himself from slumping, the tiny kid in his arms suddenly feeling like a bag of bricks. Jason hurried to put him down onto the lumpy couch before his body gave out and they both went crumpling to the floor.

With movements slowed by exhaustion, he slid the blanket draped over the back of the sofa down onto the child, tucking it under his chin.

Jason watched the boy’s face in the pale lighting leaking from his window. He was so little, fluffy black locks flopping onto his forehead, olive skin smooth with youth and cheeks chubby with baby fat. He was robed in an adult’s NASA printed t-shirt, more like a dress on his tiny frame. His expression was relaxed, lips slightly parted and drooling a bit out the corner of his mouth. He remained fast asleep, just as he had been since forming in that alleyway(Jason still had so many questions about that).

It was a cute image, albeit one that Jason could probably process better once he’s crashed for a year. But he doubted he’d get much more than a couple hours and he’d decided he’d have to settle for that. It was better than nothing.

As much as he wanted to face plant on the fluffy rug beneath him and pass out, he knew sleeping in his Hood getup would only cause him future pain. So gathering his resolve, he stumbled his way to his bedroom to change.

After a good ten minutes of struggle, he was finally out of his stiff Kevlar and into sweatpants, a loose black Wonder Woman t-shirt, and a fresh pair of socks that weren’t sticky with sweat. He made sure to swipe alcohol wipes over his cuts and slap bandages over them in a totally medically professional manner in between clothing sets, mostly to settle his inner Dick voice, scolding him to take care of himself.

And now he had nothing to distract himself from the fact that he had a kid in his living room.

Jason dazedly started to pace back and forth in the space between his bed and the cracked door that led to the main area, repeatedly running a hand through his hair as if to untangle the thoughts in his head like the knots that caught his fingers within greasy locks.

What the hell is he doing? Bringing a kid home—what the fuck was he thinking?

Well he obviously wasn’t thinking if he’d barely spent a half second in debate before he took to the kid home like a damn stray. Magical shit or not, the kid might still have a family that Jason was keeping him from. This could very well be a kidnapping and he hadn’t even batted an eye before deciding this random child was up for the taking.

This could lead to a slew of problems if the blame was traced back to Jason, involving police and lawyers and possibly (definitely) Batman. He did not need any of that right now, he had plenty of his own shit to deal with, he could not handle anything else. Besides, he was plenty capable of berating himself, he didn’t need any more help in that respect. Glares of deep disappointment from his old man would only be icing on the fucking cake.

Hell, his parents are probably out there right now, worried sick, completely unaware that their kid is in stranger’s place because Jason was too fucking sleep deprived to use his last brain cell.

Jason leaned back into his bedroom wall and covered his face with his hands, groaning long and low into them as he slid down onto his ass.

The kid could be at home right now, being loved to death by his family members instead of sitting stuck in Jason’s shitty little apartment against his will. Maybe he has a family to go back to with a mother, father, siblings; who knows? The boy must have gotten lost, or taken from them. Snatched from his parents and dragged away to the dark corners of the city.

Or…

Or he was abandoned.

Left alone in a dirty alleyway in the middle of villain turf, on a cold autumn night.

The thought alone was enough to make Jason’s blood boil.

That sort of thing, unfortunately, wasn’t unheard of, especially if the kid really was a Meta. Some sick bastards are just too stuck with their heads up their asses to realize that Metas are people too, regardless of if it’s their own children their hatred is aimed towards, leading to far too many cases of abuse, neglect and abandonment.

So which was it? Is Jason holding the kid back from a loving family? Or keeping him safe from a shitty one?

He dragged his hands down his face with a bitter sigh. This is too much for his fried brain. He needs sleep and a lot of it. He’s not thinking even remotely straight, a fact that became ever more apparent when he realized his pants were on backwards.

Not even bothering to remedy that mistake, he heaved himself up to his feet with a grunt. Shuffling his way to the bed, ready to go into a coma, he paused and glanced back to the door in worry.

What if the kid woke up?

In a stranger’s place.

With no memory of how he got there.

Alone.

Yeah, that’s totally not going to freak out a four year old.

Wracking his brain for a way to make the kid less likely to flip, he wasn’t sure what he could do besides be in view if the kid wants to talk. Or to catch him if he tries to make a break for the exit. Not that Jason will hold him from leaving, but rather so he doesn’t get himself killed out in the outrageously-crime-ridden city of Gotham by going out alone.

Making up his mind, he slipped his way back to the main room and snagged a chair from the little dining area adjacent to the kitchen. He placed it off to the side of the couch so he could be easily in view but not be right in the kid’s space.

Jason plopped down heavily onto the wooden chair, wincing at the accidental aggravation of his wounds. He slumped down to rest the back of his head on the chair back, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He was prepared to either be awake all night, or to wake with a headache and a crick in his neck. Either way, he was just glad to be resting his weary body. His every aches were still uncomfortably present, but nothing was truly life threatening so surely, he reasoned, a proper check up could wait until morning.

In the following quiet of the night, softly broken by the distant city sounds of speeding cars and gunfire, Jason’s bleary gaze lingered on the lump on the couch, watching the boy’s peaceful expression as he let his shoulders loosen.

It’ll be fine, he can figure things out in the morning. He can get Babs to run a citywide check for possible guardians, and if they’re good people for the kid to return to. If they’re found and have clean background checks, then fantastic, he can give them their child, stop stressing about the whole situation and just move on with his life.

(Jason couldn’t shake the underlying feeling of dread. Something was wrong with the whole situation, like he’s missing a piece of the puzzle. It was making his stomach churn. He ignored it.)

Jason pushed out a long breath as his eyes slipped closed and he slumped further down in his seat.

Yeah, everything will be fine.

-•••-

Shit.

Everything was not fine.

Chapter Text

Dick was an older brother.

Thus, he was not a stranger to the annoyances that younger siblings are so proficient at providing. It’s basically their job to test his patience, and boy do they aim for employees of the year.

Don’t get him wrong, he loves the messy lot of them with his whole heart—always has, always will—but damn if they don’t get on his nerves.

And the current moment was a prime example of said sibling behavior, with a surprise wake up call he didn’t ask for, nor remotely desire.

He jolted from sleep, pushing himself up onto his elbows from his sprawl on his stomach. It took him several seconds of unfocused scrutiny of his room to realize the lack of inherent danger before he registered the headache inducing ringing as his phone. When he did, he let his arms fall out from beneath him, face planting onto his pillow with a groan that wilted into a soul-weary sigh.

It might have been fine in it weren’t—he craned his head to the side and checked his annoyingly bright digital clock—5:53 in the morning on a Saturday. After a harsh late night patrol and crashing into bed about three hours before. This was also his first free day from the police station in about a month and he was planning on spending the entire day in blissful unconsciousness. And he still very much wanted to stick to that idea.

So he ignored it.

It rang twice more and then silenced.

Dick mushed his head back into the comforting suffocation of his pillow as he melted back into his mattress with a long exhale. He was just drifting back off when his ringtone sounded again, dragging him from half formed dreams to the grating sound of sibling dependency.

He groaned into his pillow dramatically, like the mature adult that he was.

Giving up on any more rest, he slid his arm out to snag his phone from off his bedside table, blindly swiping his hand over the surface until his fingers met smooth screen. Pulling it to his face, he blinked blearily in the screen’s light, trying make his brain comprehend the contact name.

Littlewing, with wing emojis framing the name on either side.

Jason.

Dick sat straight up onto his knees, suddenly a lot more awake. It’s usually never a good thing when his headstrong little brother calls him. All his siblings are stubborn about asking for help, but Jason is to a fault. So on the rare occasions that he does cave into calling Dick, it’s usually about something so bad that even the infallible Red Hood can’t handle it alone.

So probably not a social call then.

Shit.

He blinked when the ringing stopped, his heart dropping a bit when he realized he missed the call again. Instead of waiting for a third opportunity, he pulled up Jay’s contact and gave his own ring. It rung softly three times before it was picked up. Immediately, Dick’s ear was filled with the roar of wind over a mic. He must be on his motorcycle with his earbuds rather than a helmet.

Which likely meant he was in a rush to get to his bike if he forgot his helmet. Which means something is up. Dick’s older-brother anxiety was definitely kicking in now.

“Dick! For fuck’s sake!” Jason shouted over the din of rushing wind and a rumbling bike, sounding half angry, half panicked. “Answer your damn phone for once!”

Dick stomach flipping worsened at the fear evident in his brother’s voice, guilt and worry immediately filling his chest. Jason sounded a lot more panicked than Pit rage-y, which was a sure sign that Dick really fucked up by not picking up the phone the first time, because something was clearly seriously wrong.

He was already scrambling out of bed to grab his shoes scattered across the carpet and slip them on by the time his mouth caught up to his racing brain.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, voice hardened with authority to cover his fear.

Dick got a strained curse in response, and his already frantic heart stuttered.

“What happened?!”

Jason huffed tightly. “Nothing, nothing. I almost missed a turn, I’m fine.”

Dick swore under his breath. Jason does not almost miss turns.

But as much as he’d like to spew out a stream of questions and/or profanities, at least one of them had to keep a somewhat level head. A responsibility that, unfortunately, seems to fall upon him.

“Be careful, please,” he pleaded, grabbing his keys and slipping out his apartment door. “And what is wrong?!”

“I-I don’t know what to do, Dick!” Jason stumbled frantically (Dick hates the stutter he hears; it means Jaybird is panicking). “He’s barely breathing and his heart—I didn’t know if I should do chest compressions or-or—fuck! I don’t know! I don’t want to hurt him, he’s so tiny—”

“Who, Jason?” Dick interrupted urgently.

“A kid! A little, little kid—I don’t know! I—he—I found him in an alley last night, and—he—” A pause, forcing himself to slow down. His next words were that much heavier.

“Dick, he won’t wake up.”

Jason was nearing on a panic attack; Dick could hear it in his strained words and too quick breath. Dick himself was closing in on giving into his own dread, but he swallowed it down, pushing it to the side. He took a breath (when had he started holding it?) and quickened his pace from a fast jog to a full on sprint to his car.

“Okay, it’s okay. Where are you right now?”

Jason swore several times in rapid succession, but didn’t answer him. Dick slammed his car door closed.

“Jay!”

“Shit, Dick, he’s hurt! There’s blood—he’s still bleeding!”

Jason sounded genuinely scared and that, just as much as his words, had Dick fighting for control over his shaking hands, clenching them hard around the steering wheel until it hurt, stupidly fancy leather creaking in his grip.

Somehow through the panic of his mind, he managed to get his car started and pulled out from the heavily secured parking garage under his apartment, onto the road and was now pushing seventy across a blissfully uncongested intersection, praying, more for other people’s sake than his own, that nobody cross his path.

“I’m headed to HQ, ETA six minutes. Have you called for medical assistance?” He listed off the typical phrases, falling back into a vigilante mindset. It was easier to call upon his training right now than it was to think about anything beyond getting to the cave and helping his brother and whoever else it was that was hurting.

“Yes,” Jay managed to reply, before, probably unconsciously, dropping his voice to a softer, more worried tone. “Come on, kid. You gotta keep breathing for me, we’re almost there.”

Speaking to the child, Dick noted.

Not that Dick wasn’t having to force himself to breathe as well, the reminder causing him to suck in and push out a stressed gust.

“Good, Jaybird.” He made sure to ease off the leader voice a bit, keeping his voice level but not as stark. “I’ll meet you there.”

He paused, tapping his thumbs tensely on the steering wheel, wondering how much reassurance would actually help right now.

He chose to try anyway.

“He’ll be okay, Littlewing,” he managed past a lump of fear in his throat—past the guilt of it possibly being a lie. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Jason didn’t reply. He let the rushing wind take over the mic, before he ended the call.

Dick didn’t take it personally, just pushed his foot further to the floor, praying that his promise to keep his family safe wouldn’t be broken.

Please, not again.

-•••-

Dick was thanking whoever above was listening that he happened to be staying at his apartment closest to the manor that weekend.

Seven short (excruciatingly long) minutes from his flat and he was pulling into the Batcave.

He had beat Jason, he noted absently as he leapt from his car and slammed the door shut a little harder than necessary, but he heard Jay’s motorcycle rumbling down the tunnel immediately after.

Dick’s heart was pounding a little bit too loudly for his liking, but he ignored it as he rushed to meet his brother, who was currently skidding to a stop that was both worryingly quick and impressively graceful.

Dick did a habitual scan of Jason as he ran to his side. He had his signature leather jacket wrapped diagonally around his front with the sleeves tied behind his back in a hasty but secure square knot. It was surely not good for the material, but Jay was obviously past caring about such a trivial thing when there was a bigger matter at hand.

The matter of which was a lumpy jacketful held securely to his chest. Dick could just see a tuft of black hair sticking out over the top of the makeshift child carrier, but then Jason swung off his bike and he caught sight of a sweat soaked, tear streaked little face, scrunched with discomfort.

Dick’s heart twinged. An adorable little face like that should not be screwed up in pain. And Jason’s face shouldn’t be equally as anguished, fearfully watching the boy in his arms shiver.

“Jay—“ he started as he reached out a hand. But Jason was already rushing past him, focused solely on the child and getting him to the med room.

Dick gave up trying to find something to say, knowing anything he did get out would fall on deaf ears, and instead fell into step beside his brother.

Alfred was standing ready at the door of the medical room and, to his credit, barely blinked at the sight of a newcomer before he was ushering them into the room and to the prepared bed.

Jason was quick to slip his tied jacket sleeves over his head and gently lower the kid down onto the mattress. He slipped the jacket away from the boy’s body, and Dick sucked in a breath.

The child was shaking as tears slid down his flushed cheeks, black hair matted onto his forehead with sweat. He looked ill and barely, feverishly conscious, eyes half-lidded and glossy.

He was small and a tad too skinny, his dress of a shirt clinging to his skin on his chest, sticky with red.

Blood.

Sticky with blood.

Dick felt ill.

Jason murmured reassurances to the boy whose little fingers clenched desperately in Jason’s shirt. Jay didn’t seem to mind at all, kneeling beside the bed, keeping himself close to the child as he whimpered in distress.

Dick clenched his jaw and watched blankly as Alfred slipped to Jason’s side with a bowl of water and a washcloth in one hand and a suturing kit in the other.

“If you could lift his shirt, Master Jason,” he commanded swiftly, the first real words spoken since they’d arrived.

Dick snapped out of his frozen state and rushed to assist in any way possible.

Jason was gently shushing as he gingerly peeled the fabric up from around the boy’s bloody chest, slowing each time he whimpered.

Dick took it upon himself to hold the child’s other hand that was unoccupied by Jason’s shirt and kept it from grabbing at the source of discomfort, letting the surprisingly strong little fingers grip his own.

When the garment was finally pulled up to the neck, Dick couldn’t suppress a horrified gasp at what he saw.

From the collarbone to the lower abdomen was an angry, bloody upside-down Y. Messily cut, like the boy was awake and resisting as a knife dug into his chest.

As he had been vivisected.

The kid had been fucking vivisected.

Dick was definitely going to be sick. Jason was definitely going to kill someone, his face shadowed with sharp fury.

Dick wouldn’t even stop him. In fact, he’d hold them down, maybe give a couple hits of his own.

Because what kind of fucked up, disgusting monster could hurt this innocent little kid? Who could look into those baby blue eyes and make them fill with tears? Whoever it was, Dick promised himself they were going to receive a long, painful death.

Even as the two brothers shook with varying amounts of rage and horror, Alfred got to work on dabbing away blood from the surrounding skin, examining the wound with a calculating eye.

It must have been torn open recently as it was oozing fresh red drops all down the sides of his torso. As the blood was wiped away, the raw flesh underneath was revealed more and more. Dick’s blood boiled at the sight.

It was deep.

Deep enough to mean they completely went through with the procedure and put their slimy hands inside of the boy’s chest; fucked around with things that should never see the light of day.

Jason growled with a level of rage so intense, Dick had to reach over the boy’s head and set a hand on his little brother’s to keep him from hurting himself as he seemingly tried to cave the metal of the bed frame, clenching it as if it were the people he was imagining strangling; even if he was in full agreement with the sentiment.

Because, fuck, did he want to rip those disgusting, invasive hands right off their bodies—tear into the bastards that tore into this child.

Thank the heavens for Alfred; miraculously able to keep a level head even while looking like he wanted to join in on the upcoming massacre. He opened the suturing kit with a crisp snap and got to work on threading a needle for stitches.

Dick, however, was hardly paying attention to what the butler was doing, his eyes locked onto the pained expression of the kid. He smoothed the hair back from his sweaty forehead, gently running his fingers through the locks and brushing out the knots. He couldn’t help the twitch of his lips as he watched the boy’s face relax the tiniest bit.

“Oh, dear,” Alfred murmured worriedly, breaking Dick from his stupor. “That is not ideal.”

The brothers’ heads snapped up to the butler.

“What’s wrong?” Jason demanded.

Alfred shook his head, lips pressed together tightly. He looked ever so slightly disconcerted as he glanced at the needle and thread in his hand, the end of the line looking a tad melted.

“The thread does not seem to be sufficient for the boy’s wound.” He paused, a bit hesitant. “It appears to dissolve in his blood.”

Dick blinked.

“What? Is he not…?”

“Human? No.” Alfred turned back to the medical kit. “At least, not entirely, as far as I can tell.”

“Coulda told ya that,” Jason muttered distractedly, gaze back on the boy with one of his hands comfortingly covering the little one tangled in his shirt. “He was a rock when I found him. Did some sorta glowy-ass transformation and turned into a kid after I touched it. Weird as shit. Probably a meta or an alien or somethin’.”

Dick faltered in his hair brushing for a second, quick to restart when the boy whimpered softly.

“There’s… probably more to that story, but I’m not going to ask right now.” He turned back to Alfred, anxiety pushing confusion to the background. “What can we do instead?”

“I fear the same outcome may occur with bandages, but I am unable to think of an alternative at the moment.” The butler swiftly returned to the bedside with a thick roll of bandages. He gestured to the child with a medical-gloved hand.

“Master Jason, if you would?”

Jay looked dazedly at the man for a moment, before giving a distracted nod and moving to comply with the implied request, slipping his hand between the boy’s shoulder blades and gently lifting him upright.

The boy gave a pain choked sob at the movement, breaking into a strained cough and then an anguished high pitched whine when that only aggravated the injury.

Jason looked horrified to have caused such a reaction, wide eyes filled with guilt. Dick wanted to reassure him, but couldn’t think well enough to figure out how to do so, so instead, his own guilt squirmed sickeningly in his gut as he remained silent.

“Thank you, dear boy,” Alfred murmured softly, smoothly moving to wrap the tiny torso with the roll of bandages, careful to keep his fingers off of the sensitive skin of the heaving little chest.

Dick remained silent as he watched, listening to the sounds of the kid’s pain-hitched breathing and hoping they could get some pain killers into his system soon.

But would pain killers even work? He’s not completely human—maybe if they used an altered dose to accommodate his unique needs? But how much does that equate to? Would a regular dose be lethal? Not enough?

Shit, there were too many unknown factors. Would they even be able to help him properly?

No. No, he be fine and they’ll do everything they can and it’ll be enough.

It has to be.

Dick tuned back into reality just as Alfred pulled away from the bed to discard his gloves, grabbing the wrist of the rubber with his fingertip and pulling it inside out and then doing the same with the other in a manner that tucked them into each other before he threw them away.

A small habit that revealed years of practice. Practice that Dick is simultaneously glad their rock of a butler has and sad that it has to constantly be called upon. They all get hurt far too often.

Speaking of which—he glanced at his brother, who looked lost and tired as he gazed at the settled child in front of him whose chest was already sterilized and thickly layered with bandages. The boy had his eyes fully shut now, worryingly pale cheeks still wet with tears, but momentarily able to breathe without being moved.

But Dick could see the tension remaining in his frame, pain surely still coursing through his body, and wished he could make it better.

He propped his elbow on his knee and dropped his throbbing head into his free hand, too tired to know what to do with himself.

He listened to Alfred moving around the room, setting up a heart monitor and an iv and whatnot; the usual procedure once whoever was in the med room at the time was stabilized. He could hear the sound of supplemental oxygen starting to flow, the steady rhythm of artificial breathing mixing with a beeping heart monitor filling the air.

The sound was slower than he liked, almost as if the kid was shutting down.

“Is he okay?” he asked worriedly as he peeked over his fingers up at Alfred. “His heartbeat is so slow.”

Alfred glanced over at him from his cleaning up of supplies wrappers for a moment, before resuming.

“If he were a typical human, I would indeed question his physical stability,” he stated as he moved around the room, doing something Dick couldn’t see from his current position. “However, he has maintained approximately the same heart rate thus far with no further dropping, so I’m more inclined to believe it is merely the standard for him.”

Alfred moved to his side and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, giving a calm smile.

“I believe he is going to be alright.”

Dick nodded a little unsurely to the butler, and watched him move past his chair to squeeze Jason’s shoulder as well—looking a tad worried but unsurprised at a lack of reaction—before making his way out of the room.

Dick wanted to be reassured by Alfred’s words—he really did—but he still found himself holding his breath as he listened to the monitor.

The beeping didn’t falter at all, just remained at a steady, unnaturally lethargic pace. Most likely a part of his nonhuman anatomy, he reiterated in his mind.

He let himself breathe again, even as he continued to count the beats in his mind.

Just in case.

Beyond that, it was quiet. The sudden contrast of long minutes of panic to a moment of stillness was jarring; he wasn’t sure what to feel at the moment.

“Where is everyone?” he wondered aloud. It was unusual for the cave to be so still when medical assistance was called for.

Tim would usually be at the Bat computer in the cave, definitely nursing a cup of coffee he wasn’t supposed to have, and surely would have investigated the commotion of their arrival.

The same could be said for Damian, in the sense that he would have immediately demanded answers about the stranger they had brought into their lair.

Duke, Cass, and Steph, he was pretty sure he remembered being out of town for a mission, but his sleep-addled brain couldn’t recall where or why.

But the real question was, where the hell was Bruce? Surely he was at least aware of the situation, but he would have usually gotten involved by now. Yet he’s not there.

It was unnerving how empty the cave felt, his only company his stubbornly, worryingly quiet, pain-in-the-ass younger brother and an injured little kid he apparently picked up from the street.

Dick dropped his hand from his face to stare up at Jason, bags under his eyes to match Dick’s and a usually obnoxiously loud voice completely absent. He wasn’t expecting an answer to his question, but it was still frustrating to be met with silence.

“Jay.”

A twitch, but nothing more to signify his listening.

“Jay, what the hell happened?” He was demanding now. “You‘be been off coms for days, haven’t answered my texts, no one’s seen you besides on the news because apparently Redhood has been going on a rampage—and now you call me back only to tell me you need medical for a kid you found bleeding out?”

Jason clenched a hand around the bed frame. But he’s still looking blankly at the kid. Dick gripped angrily, desperately at his own arms with a bruising grip.

“I thought you were hurt! I thought you were cutting us out again!” He hated the way his voice shook a little. “I-I don’t know what you’ve had going on but I’ve been stressed out of my fucking mind and you—what the hell is going on with you?”

He’s breathing heavy by the end of his rant, feeling worn down and raw. Jason still wouldn’t meet his gaze, face downturned and shadowed. Dick looked away from him—away from the exhausted and exhausting presence sitting on the other side of a sterile white bed holding a sleeping boy.

His eyes ached. He squeezed them shut and ran a hand through his hair, letting fingers tangle in the locks and pull just enough to be grounding without really hurting. He forced himself to take a long breath, blowing the air silently out his mouth, trying to will away the pressure in his head.

Fuck.

He is so fucking tired.

Maybe he should leave, find a bed to crash in upstairs and not think anymore for a while. That sounds nice.

He shifted to stand, headed to the door—

“Dick, I—“

He paused at the tired voice of his brother, but didn’t turn back, just waited to see what would come out of Jason’s mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

Dick blinked.

He blinked again blandly, because seriously—

What?

There’s no way he heard that right. There’s no way his hardheaded, arrogant, antagonistic, emotionally incompetent stubborn ass of a brother just apologized.

He turned to look at his brother, prepared to either take or make a joke—

But all he sees is a face full of exhaustion and guilt and apprehension.

His little brother’s face.

His little brother with dark shadows under his tired green eyes, shoulders slumped with fatigue both physical and emotional, and a hand well acquainted with violence carefully cradling a little boy’s with a gentleness that looked foreign yet perfectly natural.

He was looking him in the eyes now, carefully steady in his gaze as Dick observed him. There were no signs of humor or insincerity showing in his expression.

He was being genuine.

Dick slumped, unable to hold onto his feelings of… whatever he was feeling. All he knew was he was tired and overwhelmed and a little stupidly proud of his idiotic little brother for manning up to apologize.

He suddenly felt the urge to hug the dumbass.

And you know what? Fuck it—

Dick marched over to his brother, grabbed his free hand and pulled him up into his chest. Jason froze, arms hovering awkwardly for a moment before he returned the hug with a sigh, leaning a bit heavily against his big brother.

“You’re an idiot,” Dick muttered into Jason’s shoulder.

Jason snorted.

“Takes one to know one, birdbrain.”

Dick squeezed him tighter in retaliation, reveling in the feeling of his brother’s back rising and falling under his hands as he breathed.

Jason flinched in pain—only a little bit, but Dick had learned to look for hidden injuries in his senselessly self-sacrificing mess of a family—and Dick quickly pulled back to glare at him right in his face.

“What did you do now, dumbass?”

Jason looked guardedly guilty—tense about being called out, but not quite willing to admit to anything. Like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but no one could prove he’d eaten any.

“Nothing, Dickiebird. I’m fine,” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. He stepped back from Dick and looked off to his left; a laughably obvious tell that still managed to slip through his training when he wasn’t actively repressing it.

“You’re more dim than you look if you think that was even remotely convincing,” Dick deadpanned, ignoring Jason’s squawk of offense. “Let me see.”

“There’s nothing to see,” Jason grunted, like the stubborn ass he is.

Dick felt his eye twitch. This is not a fight he wants to have right now, not without a cup of caffeine and some ibuprofen.

“Please, Jay, just let me see,” he sighed in exasperation, running his hands down his face. “It doesn’t have to be made into a big deal.”

“You’re right,” Jason scowled, “it’s not a big deal. So drop it.”

Dick groaned in frustration. This idiot—

He lunged at Jay and snagged his shirt, tugging it up his chest to try to see whatever injury he was hiding this time.

Jason hissed at the jostling movement, grappling with Dick despite his apparent pain. He grabbed both of Dick’s wrists and shoved them downwards, the shirt going with them to cover his torso again.

“Gah-! Fucking psychopath!” Jason yelled as he fought Dick back. “Cut it out!”

“Show me the fucking wound then, dipshit!” Dick growled back, twisting his hands out of their confines to take another swipe for the shirt.

“Fuck off!” Jason swung his arm down to smack off Dick’s attempts.

“Let. Me. See!” Dick grit through his teeth, moving to jump at him again, Jason falling into stance to meet him—

A long high-pitched note pierced through the air, causing both brothers to freeze midway to a smack down and stare at each other in horror.

That’s not a good sound.

They whipped around to the bed with the kid and—

They stood there—ears ringing with the sound of the heart monitor flatlining—and gaped at the empty bed with shock.

The kid was gone.

Chapter Text

Danny had no idea what was going on.

Everything was blurry and off kilter, the floor swaying like a child’s toy boat on a stormy ocean surface. He certainly felt seasick, maybe the little plastic dinghy was him, bobbing helplessly on a rocking tide.

His eyes wouldn’t stay open, his tilting vision half blocked by heavy lids, his bones frustratingly lead weight, uncooperative when he tried to will himself more awake.

He tried to look around, eyes squinted as he scanned his immediate surroundings. He could feel his stomach sinking by the second at what he was coming to conclude.

He had no clue where he was.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true, he knew he was in a corner of a room. He just didn’t know where the room was, or how he got there. Or what events of the past… however long it had been, had led to his arrival to wherever he was now.

Beyond the fact that he was completely unfamiliar with his current surroundings, he could see light grey walls, smooth when he ran a shaky, and oddly uncomfortable-feeling hand over its cool surface. White lights shone above him, stabbing a sharp needle of ache through his skull when his eyes flickered upward.

He couldn’t help a grimace that twisted his chapped lips at the feeling of discomfort that tainted his flesh. Why was he feeling so sensitive? What had happened to him? His whole body was a disconcerting concoction of numb heaviness and raw, pulsing soreness.

Fuck, he really did feel horrible. Achy and hot and gross. Was he sick?

He certainly felt ill, a repulsive feeling clinging to his bones, mercilessly cold as his body rolled with waves of intense shakes. It was making his head spin, ill-inducing and sweating.

He winced and curled a bit into himself with his next shiver, consequently bringing his attention back to just how much every part of him hurt.

Because it all hurt. Bad.

So, so bad.

His wrists felt and looked rubbed raw, like he wrapped them in sandpaper and then pulled and tugged without any regard for his skin. His throat desert-dry and stinging when he swallowed, voice tender from… from what?

Screaming?

Why had he been screaming? What happened?

His head was pounding, he couldn’t think straight enough to form a coherent thought to cling to. His eyebrows furrowed as he fought back the exhaustion that tugged at his sleeve, begging him to just lay down and forget to exist again.

He just might have done exactly that, but a flash in his mind had him pinching his eyes shut with concentration rather than rest. He could remember…

Light…

Reflecting off of long sharp metal, moving slow, as if in a horror movie, descending down towards him.

Lying there helpless and desperate, watching as his worst nightmare came to life, the knife drawing nearer and nearer—

His chest. Oh god—

Fuck, he could feel how it slid in his chest. It burned red hot, even as the icy blade froze his tearing skin. It hurt so fucking bad, maddening, blinding agony outside and inside, deep into his ribcage and tearing into his very being.

He knew that the knife was used. Used on him. Used by them, the ones he loved, trusted, defended.

He knew they dug into his flesh and that was why the pain was there, carved into the skin and muscles like a septic tattoo, a burning brand of his innocence betrayed.

He knew what he would see, so he kept his eyes shut.

He didn’t want to look. Looking would make it worse.

But not looking didn’t keep him from feeling the wetness that wept from his veins. He knew what lie in wait for him under his delusional denial. And just the thought of the red that was slowly seeping down his ribs had him dropping into terror.

His breathes were shallowing before he even realized he was slipping under the surface of panic, useless lungs pulling at air that didn’t linger long enough to let him breathe, only pushing into the agony that was his chest.

He curled further in on himself as he sunk into the ache that enveloped him. His hands shook, hovering over his sternum, wanting to squeeze the pain away, but too scared to touch in fear of angering the demon that clawed at his flesh with such delight.

He could still feel the dirtying touches across his skin; holding his arms and legs down as he tried to get away, smoothing his sweaty hair back in a scandalous imitation of affection, feeling the skin of his chest up and down with their cold rubber gloves as their blank goggles and giddy grins peered hungrily down at him, gleaming teeth coming down to tear into his soul.

Danny sobbed, gasping brokenly at the wave of fire it sent flashing through his being. It drove its jagged stake into his bleeding heart, eating away at his life as if he had a feast to spare.

He wanted to be still, to stop time and catch his breath and leave this horrible place, but his own body seemed determined to keep him stranded in this sea of misery, wet hiccups rattling his ribcage and shivers shaking his frame, holding him back from any chance of reprieve. Tears painted his face in the colors of his agony, air hissing through his clenched teeth as, with each shake of his chest, he struggled to breathe.

Danny jerked hard when he heard a shuffling step nearby, and tried and failed to swallow a pitiful whine from tearing out of his closing throat. He pressed himself closer into his cold corner, back and shoulder pressing against the hard walls, desperately trying to kill his stuttering sobs. They didn’t like when he cried.

“Please, please—I’m s-sorry,” he coughed through his cries, keeping his eyes to the floor he resided on like he was supposed to. “N-no more—please don’t hurt me a-anymore, please—“

He knew he shouldn’t, that it wouldn’t draw mercy, only encourage the tightening of his restraints, and pressure of squeezing hands around his neck. But he couldn’t help the damning pleas from spilling from red bitten lips as he trembled pathetically in a feverish pile on the floor.

He knew it was futile to try to gain empathy, to try to escape the onslaught of thoughtless violence, they always caught onto a trap he didn’t even know he had set; can’t fool them, little trickster, they’re too clever to fall for crocodile tears.

He knew it was a hopeless cause, and his subconscious must have agreed, too enthusiastically, because instinct overpowered logic and he unintentionally sought to pull power from his core.

Except, something was wrong.

No cold energy trickled through his bones, stopping a human heart and using its own termination to produce a source of power. His trembling hands flickered in and out of physical form in front of his eyes, cold formlessness and delicate vitality warring for reality.

Gravity tightened its greedy pull towards captivity on the ground, dragging him down harder the more he clawed at freedom’s feet, the weightlessness that before always offered him its hand, now slipping away from his begging grasp, uncaring of his sobbing pleas.

His ears swam with deafening nothingness, a radio channel between frequencies of comprehension, refusing to let his garbled hearing make sense.

Something pressed at the edge of his awareness, calling for attention he could only wish to give. A voice, maybe, but he couldn’t make out the words that tried to whisper over the roar of blood flow in his rumbling eardrums.

He could feel his mind leaving his body behind, like a wisp of smoke observing a corpse with mild disinterest. His head was airy, the edges of his vision staining dark as breath refused to lighten his heavy bones.

Why couldn’t he get his powers to work? He knew how to do this. How could he not when it was a part of his very being? His spectral form was an entire half of his soul, of his laws-of-nature-defying body. So why couldn’t he do this?

Now, by that time, he wasn’t entirely aware of what rash, worthlessly incompetent, masochistic part of him was holding the reins, but whatever part it was suddenly decided to get bold. Because it took a deep breath to gather courage it should not be allowed, tugged on a tender loose thread and then yanked it with a desperate strength that could only be born from pure blind stupidity.

The force pulled at the string leading straight to his core—his center of life force, the very thing keeping his decaying body held together—slipping past careful cross-stitches and delicate sutures to loosen a vital part of his soul.

And Danny could taste in his blood, and hear in his bones, and feel in his skin—as something in his chest—

Cracked.

And he choked on a mouthful of god-defyingly pungent pain.

His eyes glossed over as they widened beyond their lids, jaw falling open with a scream that would not, could not, escape his throat.

What had before been as natural as breathe filling and leaving his lungs, as effortlessly easy as the unconsciousness of blood-flow, now stole that same air from his tongue and wrapped around his soul to suffocate him.

He couldn’t breathe.

Oh god, help—

He can’t breathe—it hurts, it hurts it hurts—

Distantly, he he could hear somebody screaming. Was that him?

Fuck—hurts, it hurts—breathe, air—please!

He felt his own hands savagely claw at his chest, dimly aware of the wet crimson slicking his fingers and the large hands that wrapped around his wrists and held him down.

He thrashed in their hold, arching his spine and kicking his legs, his throat tearing with the ungodly howls that burned through his vocal cords. Voices above him shouted words he couldn’t understand, drowned out by his incessant agony. Waterfalls of his heartbreak spilled down his cheeks, salty when they touched his tongue as he bitterly sobbed through gnashing teeth.

Can’t it just be done? Can’t they just finish him? Let him rot peacefully in his coffin of decomposing shame forged by his regrets?

How much more must he suffer?

How long must he play prey for them? These monsters he thought he knew; wolves in sheep wool, he sees, as now they reveal themselves as ravenous predators, hungry for his pain, his blood, his life.

He fought the darkness creeping to cover his eyes, biting his bottom lip until he tasted iron.

He will not give them the satisfaction of another taste of his torment. He’ll go kicking and screaming, leaving festering claw marks on the hungry hands that dragged at him. They could enjoy a feast of starvation with their heartless curiosity being left maddeningly unmet.

But he was failing, the darkness was winning, ink slipping into the cracks in his consciousness, bleeding into his burning muscles with a siren’s song of promised repose.

He kicked weakly at his captors, missing all but a brush of fabric on his bare foot.

Weak. Pathetic. That’s what he was.

And so very tired.

Can he just rest?

His eyes were shutting without his permission, his thoughts melting into incomprehension.

“Please…” he begged in a whisper, his body slackening with breathless exhaustion. Begged for what, he didn’t know. An end perhaps; to the pain, to the noise, to everything.

No more, he wanted to say. But his head lolled, his eyes rolled back, and he fell into the waiting arms of unconsciousness.