Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jason’s hiding but he knows they’re going to find him. His dad’s friends always find him and his dad never protects him and it’s going to hurt, just like always.

Jason pushes himself farther back into the corner. He’s in the cupboard under the sink in the bathroom and they haven’t found him here yet, so maybe –

No, he’s in the dark space under his parents’ bed, and he can hear his mom crying and the sound of flesh hitting flesh –

He’s digging through garbage, trying to find something to eat and hoping that the big kids who hang out around here won’t catch him in the act – only now he’s digging through trash because he has to hide, he has to hide, they’re going to find him if he doesn’t hide and they’re going to punish him, he doesn’t want to break another bone, he just wants some food, he just wants to be safe, he just wants not to hurt, and maybe if he just goes faster, if he just digs faster, maybe he’ll find something, maybe –

White-hot pain slices through the side of his hand.

Jason wakes up to blood.

+++

Between the lingering nightmare and the pain, it takes Jason a full minute to remember where he is. Bruce’s house , he thinks, taking a deep breath, then another. I’m in Bruce’s house. I’m not in the apartment. I’m not on the street. I’m in my room, my room, in Bruce’s house, and I’m safe. I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m –

I’m bleeding .

Jason looks stupidly at his own hand. There’s a gash down the outer edge of it. It’s bleeding profuslely. That makes sense , he thinks. I was digging through trash. Except – no, he hadn’t been digging through trash, he’d been dreaming, which means –

Jason feels his heart sink to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees as he reaches under his pillow and pulls out the knife. It’s a small knife. He’d found it on the street and kept it under his clothes, just in case, for months. He hadn’t had time to draw it when Batman found him, so it had stayed with him on the ride to the Cave, then on the climb up the stairs to Bruce’s house. He believes Bruce when he says he won’t hurt Jason, but only an idiot would throw away a perfectly good knife. Jason had stowed the knife under his pillow, reasoning that what Bruce didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Now, the knife’s edge is red. As is the pillow. As is the bottom sheet, and almost definitely the mattress that cost more than Jason’s mom’s entire apartment –

Jason scrambles out of bed, heart pounding, and tiptoes to the door. He listens for a moment but there’s no sound in the hallway, so he presses the bleeding part of his hand against his stomach in hopes that that will staunch some of the flow and slips out the door, towards the bathroom. The door to Bruce’s room is a looming depth of shadow at the end of the hall. Thankfully, there’s no light under the edge. Jason lets out a quiet breath as he shuts the bathroom door behind him.

Band-aid , he thinks wildly, opening and closing cabinets. There’s got to be – somewhere –

He finds some in a small box, then has a terrible time getting one out, which is how he realizes that his hands are shaking badly. There’s blood on the white counter now, too, and – yup, blood on the doorknob. Shit . Jason turns on the faucet and sticks his hand under it, then has to bite his lip to keep from yelling from the pain. He pulls out a tissue from the box on the back of the toilet and tries to wipe up the blood from the counter with one hand while keeping his other hand under the water. Blood smears pink and awful against the white porcelain, and Jason has to bite his lip again to keep from crying, which is just – it’s just pathetic , is what it is, because he’s been hurt way worse than this a bunch of times.

You’ve never been thrown out of Bruce Wayne’s house before , says a practical little voice in his head. This will be a new experience .

Shut the fuck up , Jason tells that little voice sternly, because if he bandages his cut and cleans up the blood, Bruce will never have to know about this and everything will be –

“Jason?” says Bruce’s voice from the other side of the door. Jason jumps about a foot in the air, spraying blood and water across more of the countertop. 

“No!” he yelps, then backtracks. “I mean. Yeah, I’m in here, but I’m fine, really!”

“Jason.” Crap . Now Bruce sounds worried . “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” Hadn’t he just said that? What’s Bruce doing? “Don’t come in here!” 

“Why not?” Jason grimaces. Damn Bruce and his questions .

“Because…” Jason flounders. “I’m…taking a shit?”

“With the water running?” Damn Bruce and his detective-ing!

“I’m…warming it up? For...when I wash my hands?” Jason’s pretty proud of that one. He likes to think that Bruce almost buys it, too, except –

“Jason.” Bruce’s voice is serious, now. “Is this blood on the doorknob?”

“No?” Jason’s voice is too high, too strained – it’s obviously a lie – but Jason’s breath is coming too fast and shallow for him to talk normally. “No, no, no, it’s not blood, it’s not blood, I’m fine –”

“Jason, I’m coming into the bathroom,” Bruce says, which is all the warning Jason gets before the door swings open.

Jason leaps back from the sink, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest and half-turning so that if Bruce wants to hit him, he’ll just hit Jason’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he yells, scrambling for anything to say that might make this hurt less . “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I know I shouldn’t have kept the knife, I wasn’t going to hurt you or Alfred or anything, I just couldn’t – and then I didn’t know I was bleeding until it was too – too late and I got blood everywhere and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please don’t kick me out, I’ll pay you back, I swear, just give me some time, I promise, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please –”

Bruce doesn’t say anything. Just steps forward and goes to his knees before Jason, his eyes fixed on Jason’s hand.

“Jason,” he says gently when Jason stops to gasp for breath. “May I see your hand?”

“No,” Jason says immediately, turning further away. “It hurts. I don’t – I can’t –”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Bruce says, still in that same calm, gentle voice. “I just need to know how badly you’re hurt, so that I can help you. I won’t touch your hand at all, if you don’t want me to. Just – please show me the cut.”

Jason holds out his hand warily, ready to snatch it back at a moment’s notice, but Bruce – true to his word – doesn’t touch it at all. Just looks at it seriously, then nods.

What follows is the most gentle and least painful tending to a wound that Jason has ever experienced. It feels like he blinks and he’s sitting on the small sofa in Bruce’s room with a bandage on one hand and a mug of tea in the other. Alfred is bustling around in Jason’s room, switching out sheets and doing some sort of stain-removal magic. Bruce is on the sofa next to Jason, his arm around Jason’s shoulder. 

“How are you feeling, Jaylad?” he asks softly, and Jason hums.

“Better,” he says, sleepy. Then: “I thought you were gonna throw me out.”

Bruce makes a low, wounded noise. “Why did you think that?”

“I got blood on the bed and the door and the sink,” Jason answers, matter-of-fact. Bruce’s chest is so warm, and it’s right there. Jason leans his head against it, then nuzzles his forehead against Bruce’s shirt a little, enjoying the feel of the cloth against his skin. “I hid a knife from you, and then I was stupid and cut myself in my sleep. Lied to you in the bathroom, too,” he adds, remembering. “You could hurt me to punish me, then throw me out.”

Bruce makes the same wounded noise. “I’m not going to do that, Jay,” he says, so firmly that Jason can’t help but believe him. “I’m never going to hurt you, and I’m never going to throw you out. You’re safe here. Always.”

Jason angles his head up against Bruce’s chest, so he can see Bruce’s face.

“D’you promise?” 

Bruce’s arm comes down around him and tucks him even more firmly into Bruce’s side. Jason can feel the rumble of Bruce’s voice, deep in his chest, right next to his heart, when he answers: “I promise.”