Chapter Text
It’s the beeping that brings me back.
Not the gentle kind you hear in movies, the ones that lull you into a sense of sterile peace. No, this one’s sharp. Persistent. Scratching its claws deep into the porcelain cracks of my skull, peeling away what’s already broken so it can chew on whatever brain matter isn’t currently leaking out of my nose. I want to tell it to leave me alone, I doubt it would listen. Not with the way I can feel the gravel tearing at my throat every time I swallow around the- what the fuck is that. It pushes my tongue down, and I try not to panic when it makes me gag and choke.
I can hear gentle shushing, calmer and deeper than that stupid whiny beep that mimics the rabbiting pace of my heart. There’s a hand in my hair, too, a soothing weight masking the pressure behind my eyes. Maybe it’s Bruce, but I doubt he’ll want to see me at all after how much I’ve disappointed him and the team – oh god, what will the team, my brothers, think of me now? I’ll never be able to go back, I’ll-
The backs of my eyelids are dark, confined, and speckled with the flashing lights of blind panic and a disproportionate amount of morphine-to-pain ratio.
Part of my mind registers that it’s a different voice the second time I wake up, still deep but not quite Bruce. Maybe Roy. Or Dick.
It’s probably not Dick.
Scratch that, it is definitely not Richard Grayson.
A slightly spiteful, evil part of me hopes that it could be Roy. But he’ll be looking after Lian, and I don’t want to take him away from her. Not when I’m fine on my own.
The ceiling above me is that horrible bleach-white, and speckled with tiny holes, as if hit by a flurry of needles from years of panicked patients and blood-tests. Fluorescent lights tick and hum overhead, flickering just enough to make me feel like I’m losing my mind. Maybe I am. When I try to shift, my limbs are nothing more than dead weight – neither part of my brain knows whether it’s from the stiffly starched sheets or the ‘injury’. Neither part of me wants to know.
There’s a dull ache in my spine that has decided to make its presence known. A sharper one in my neck clenches my jaw shut, and a pressure around my ribs stutters every breath out of me like a shitty negotiation tactic. I blink slowly, once, twice, and the world sharpens just enough to make out the IV in my arm and the wires snaking across my chest.
Hospital.
Gotham General, if Leslie was right. Which means Bruce probably rode here with me, probably paced the hallway like a caged animal, probably threatened half the staff to get updates. I wonder if he’s still here.
I turn my head a fraction—just enough to see a shape slumped in the chair beside me. Black coat. Broad shoulders. Tension radiating off him like heat from a furnace.
Bruce.
He’s asleep, or pretending to be. His jaw is clenched even in rest, and his hand is curled around the edge of the seat like he’s ready to spring into action. There’s a crease between his brows that wasn’t there before. I want to say something, crack a joke, tell him he looks like he lost a fight with a worry line—but my throat burns and the words die before they reach my tongue.
A nurse slips in quietly, checks the monitors, scribbles something on a chart. She doesn’t notice I’m awake until I twitch my fingers—barely a movement, but enough.
“Oh,” she says softly, stepping closer. “Jason? Can you hear me?”
I nod. It’s slow, painful, but it’s a nod.
She smiles, reassuring and practiced. “You’re in Gotham General. You had a seizure on the ice. Do you remember what happened?”
I close my eyes, try to rewind. The game. The hit. The cold. The vomit. Bruce’s voice. The nickname.
“Sort of,” I rasp, voice like gravel. “Did we win?”
She laughs gently. “That’s not the important part right now.”
“Depends who you ask,” I mutter, and it hurts to smile.
Bruce stirs beside me, eyes snapping open like he never really slept. He’s on his feet in seconds, looming over me with that look—equal parts fury and fear. “You scared the hell out of me,” he says, voice low.
I shrug—or try to. It’s more of a twitch.
“Sorry,” I croak. “Didn’t mean to.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just looks at me like he’s trying to memorize every inch of my face. Then, quietly: “You’re going to be okay. Leslie’s running tests. We’ll figure out what caused it.”
I nod again, slower this time. “The guy who hit me?”
“Suspended,” Bruce says. “Pending review.”
“Good,” I whisper. “Hope he’s benched for a while.”
There’s silence after that. Heavy. But not uncomfortable. Bruce sits again, closer this time, and I feel the weight of his presence like armour.
I’m not okay, not yet. But I’m here. And for now, that’s enough.
Except… it’s not.
Because I can’t feel my legs.
I’ve been trying not to think about it, not to acknowledge the creeping dread that’s been gnawing at the edges of my mind since I woke up. But it’s there. A cold, coiled thing in my gut. I wiggle my toes—at least, I think I do—but there’s no feedback. No twitch, no shift in the sheets. Just… static.
I glance down, but the blanket is tucked too tightly around me to see. My heart stutters.
“Bruce,” I say, voice cracking. “I can’t—my legs—”
He’s already moving, pressing the call button, his hand finding mine and squeezing it tight.
“It’s okay,” he says, but his voice is too calm. Too measured. “We’ll get answers.”
I want to believe him. I really do. But I’ve been broken before. And not everything heals the way it’s supposed to.
Bruce doesn’t let go of my hand. Not even when the nurse returns, flanked by a doctor with a clipboard and a face carved from granite. They speak in hushed tones, like I’m fragile glass and the wrong decibel might shatter me. I hate it. I want someone to yell, to tell me I’m being dramatic, to say it’s just swelling and I’ll be fine in a week. I want someone to lie to me.
The doctor steps closer, eyes scanning me like I’m a puzzle missing half its pieces. “Jason,” he says, voice clipped but not unkind. “We’re still waiting on the full imaging results, but there’s some preliminary data from the spinal MRI.”
I brace myself. I don’t know what for. But I brace anyway. “There’s trauma to the lower thoracic region,” he continues. “Swelling. Possible contusion. It’s too early to determine the extent of the damage, but… you may be experiencing temporary paralysis.”
Temporary.
That singular word hangs in the air like a noose. It’s supposed to be comforting, I think. But it feels like a cruel joke. Like someone dangling hope just out of reach.
“Temporary,” I echo, voice hollow.
Bruce’s grip tightens. “We’ll do everything we can,” he says. “Leslie’s already coordinating with specialists. You’re not alone in this.”
I want to scream that I am. That no matter how many people crowd around me, no one else is trapped in this body. No one else feels the phantom itch of toes that won’t move. No one else has to wonder if they’ll ever run again, fight again, be whole again.
But I don’t scream. I just nod. Because that’s all I can do.
The doctor leaves, promising updates. The nurse adjusts something on the monitor. For some reason, Bruce stays.