Chapter Two

Jason startles awake.

At first he thinks he’s dreaming. He’s in the Batmobile. In the jump seat, where he spent so much time before. He’s sitting above the floor, leaning against the wall, and his leg barely hurts at all.

Someone is watching him.

Jason startles again. The girl from last night sits in the gunner’s seat, craning her neck to look back at him. She doesn’t even blink when he makes eye contact.

Last night.

Jason remembers darkness. Fire. Flashes of pain and panic. The shadow, the hunter, the Bat, standing in front of him.

A hand on his face.

An arm around his shoulders.

Static, where words should be.

Jason curls his shoulders forward, tensing his muscles in a facsimile of a stretch. By now the gaps in his memory are familiar. He’s spent enough time navigating the holes to find them irritating instead of terrifying.

He can’t remember if he had the same problem before, but now, he knows how to work around it.

Where am I?

The Batmobile. He looks around the cabin. He’s in the Batmobile, but not the Batmobile from his dreams. The jump seats are different colors. The floor is thin carpet instead of exposed metal. The cockpit has a different shape. He doesn’t recognize the sound of the engine.

How did I get here?

That one is obvious: Bruce brought him here.

Bruce sits in the driver’s seat, holding the controls. The girl in the gunner’s seat is a stranger, but Bruce looks exactly the way Jason remembers him.

Bruce found me.

Jason waits for the joy. The pure euphoric rush of getting the thing he spent months hoping and praying and begging for.

Bruce found me, he thinks again, searching for the emotions that come with it.

All he finds is bitterness.

The girl reaches across the cockpit and pokes Bruce’s shoulder. When he looks over, she points at Jason. Bruce grunts. Jason flinches.

Fear curls in his gut, under his skin, even though he knows he’s safe. Bruce found him. Bruce took him away from the League and brought him to the Batmobile.

Bruce doesn’t remember him.

“Get him some water,” Bruce says to the girl. He makes the hand sign for water as he says it.

“Wa-ter,” the girl says, sounding each syllable out. She copies the sign, holding up three fingers and touching them to her chin.

“Yes,” Bruce says. The girl nods.

“Water,” she says again. Then she climbs back to the cabin. Her face is familiar. Dark eyes, dark hair, wide flat nose, white scars. Jason thinks he should know her name. He can’t remember.

Something with a C. Or a K?

The girl reaches into a compartment on the wall and pulls out a metal canteen. She hands it to Jason.

“Water,” she says. Jason shies away from her gaze. He looks at the canteen instead, focuses on holding it without dropping it.

Eye contact is bad. That mistake would get him beaten, with the League, but—Bruce wouldn’t do that. Bruce doesn’t keep slaves.

What does that make you?

“Thank you,” Jason says. He adds the hand sign—fingertips touched to his chin and lowered—one of the few signs he remembers.

The girl’s face lights up. “Thank you!” She repeats the sign. She grabs another canteen and returns to the cockpit to hand it to Bruce. “Water,” she says.

Bruce takes the canteen. The girl looks at him for a few seconds. Then she repeats the sign. “Thank you.”

Bruce makes a soft grumbling noise under his breath, but he signs thank you back to her.

Then he looks at Jason over the rim of his canteen. “You know sign language?”

Jason flinches. “A—a little.” His voice scrapes against the sides of his throat. He isn’t used to speaking. “I don’t…”

I don’t remember. He used to know whole sentences. Bruce is the one who taught him, who gave him a way to communicate when the noise in his head got too loud. He lost almost all of it in the warehouse.

He lost everything in that fucking warehouse.

“Cass has language difficulties,” Bruce says. “We use a combination of words, signs, and body language to communicate.”

Cass. Jason feels a rush of relief. That’s her name. Cass—something. Cassandra? Cassiopeia?

“Okay,” he says. Bruce seems to prefer verbal responses. Jason thinks he remembers that, from before. They used to talk a lot. He used to talk a lot.

Bruce turns away. He takes the controls, and Jason hears the engine wind down to a low purr. The car stops. Bruce flips a switch on the dashboard and leans sideways, towards something on Cass’s side of the cockpit.

“Thirty minutes,” he says. “Dr. Thompkins, I need you here.” He flips the switch off again.

Thompkins? Jason knows that name. It ignites something deep in his brain, memories he didn’t think he had anymore. Dr. Thompkins. Leslie. The doctor. Is she here? She didn’t travel with Bruce before. She would meet with him, but she kept to her vehicle and Bruce kept to his. When did that change?

“Dr. Thompkins is going to give you a checkup,” Bruce says. Jason looks at him. “She won’t hurt you.”

“Okay,” Jason says.

Cass climbs out of the cockpit. She stretches her arms over her head and gives Jason a long, considering look. Then she turns and slips out through one of the Batmobile’s gullwing doors.

That leaves Jason alone with Bruce.

He shouldn’t be scared. It’s Bruce. He knows Bruce. He knows that Bruce doesn’t want to hurt him, that Bruce doesn’t hurt people who can’t fight back. Some part of Jason still wants to put his hands over his head and slide out of the jumpseat onto the floor before he gets hit.

His leg twinges. He wishes Bruce would stop looking at him.

The door opens again and a woman carrying a black bag steps inside. Jason glances up at her, and their eyes meet.

“Hello,” the woman says. She has silver hair. “My name is Leslie Thompkins. I’m here to help.” She turns to Bruce. “Where will you be?”

“Infirmary,” Bruce says. He leaves the cockpit, bringing something with him—a long-handled radio receiver with a long cord on the end. He holds it out to Jason. “This goes to the radio,” he says.

Jason takes it from him. He’s safe, he knows Bruce is safe, but it’s still hard to control his breathing with Bruce standing so close.

“This switch turns it on and off.” Bruce motions to the switch on the side. “If you need anything, turn it on and speak into it. Someone will come to help.”

Jason stares at the radio receiver in his hands. He used to run radio communication for Bruce all the time. He knows that. He stares at the receiver, the handle, the long cord, and waits for it to draw some memory up from the depths of his brain.

Nothing comes.

“Okay,” Jason says. Verbal responses. Verbal responses are good.

Bruce leaves without another word.

“Alright,” Leslie says. She sits down in the other jump seat, across from him. “I have some questions to ask you. I also need to check your breathing, your heartbeat, your blood pressure, and your eyes and ears. I will have to touch you for some of those tests. If anything makes you uncomfortable, you can tell me to stop, and I will.”

Jason nods. He doesn’t remember this, exactly, but it feels familiar; he must have heard Leslie say something like this before.

“Do you want to start with the questions, or those tests I listed?”

Jason shifts in his seat. Neither option sounds too bad. He knows Leslie won’t make anything hurt more than it has to. Tests, he thinks, start with the tests. Get it over with. He imagines Leslie standing over him. Touching his back. Touching his chest. Taking his face in her hands and lifting it—

“Questions,” Jason’s voice says. He feels his hands shaking. He curls them tighter around the radio. “Please.”

Leslie smiles. “Alright,” she says. “How many years old are you?”

Jason breathes in. It’s not a hard question, but it means he has to think about before.

When he—when they—when he ran away, he was fifteen. Maybe. He doesn’t know his birthday, but he knows he was born at the end of summer, so he and Bruce picked a day and called it his birthday and celebrated—

He knows he was fifteen, when he ran away.

After that—

Blood. Pain. Smoke. Fire.

Laughing.

Laughing and laughing and laughing.

After that.

Jason wrenches his thoughts away. The League. He wasn’t in the wasteland for long. He wasn’t in the warehouse for long—he doesn’t think—no matter how long it felt. How long with the League. He tries to count the seasons since the League found him. He did try to keep track, but they were always on the move, and seasons in the wasteland can be… strange.

“It’s alright if you don’t know,” Leslie says.

“I know,” Jason says. He does know. He does. “I’m—seventeen. Or eighteen. Maybe.”

“Alright,” Leslie says. She writes something down in a little paper book. “Thank you. Now, when I say ‘he’ or ‘him’, are those good words to refer to you?”

“Oh. Yes.”

Leslie nods and writes that down, too. “Alright.” She looks up. She looks him in the eyes—just the one eye, but like Bruce, she doesn’t flinch away. She looks at Jason like she wants to see him, all of him, bad eye and brand and all.

“That burn scar.” Leslie touches the left side of her face, under her eye. “How old is it?”

Jason swallows. He wants to mimic her, to put his hand over the raised skin. He resists.

“Two years,” he says. His voice is small. “I think.”

“Did the League of Shadows give it to you?”

Jason nods.

“And before that?” Leslie says. “Were you with someone else, or were you free?”

Blood. Pain. Smoke. Fire.

“I wasn’t,” Jason starts. Something coils in his throat. Something thick and bitter that coats his tongue like oil. He remembers the day they branded him. How hard he fought, when they picked him up by the hair and dragged him across the camp.

How he panicked, when he realized what they were about to do.

“Before that—I was—the League,” Jason says. His voice is draining away, losing ground to the bitter tang crawling up his throat. “They had me—a long time, and they didn’t brand me until—”

Until he finished healing. Until he tried to run. All the time thinking maybe today Bruce will find me.

“Thank you for telling me,” Leslie says. Her voice is gentle. “Did the League take you from someone else? Or were you free before that?”

He can’t remember. He can’t remember anything but blood and pain and a knife searing into his face and knowing, knowing he was going to die. He can’t remember.

“I was free,” he whispers.

“Can you tell me your name?”

Jason. My name is Jason.

He remembers that. He held onto his name, he clung to it, through everything they called him, every insult and slur they made him answer to. Jason. My name is Jason. He said it to himself, over and over, desperate to remember. Jason Todd. My name is Jason Todd.

He opens his mouth to answer.

Nothing comes out.

Jason. My name is Jason. Do you remember me? I was Bruce’s son. I’m the one he threw away, the one he left for dead—

He tries to speak. Leslie asked him a question. She asked his name, something no one has cared about since he ran away. The least he can do is answer. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a wheezing breath. He gasps and tries again. His throat closes over the words. He sobs.

“Oh, dear,” Leslie says. Jason drags a hand over his face. His body wracks with sobs. He doesn’t want to cry. It hurts. Tears and snot mix on his face, staining his fingers. He never wants to cry.

It doesn’t matter what he wants. He doesn’t get to decide what happens to his body.

“Oh, dear,” Leslie says again. She moves across the cabin and rests a hand on his back. Jason lets her. He curls in on himself, and the spears of pain through his ribs only make him cry harder. Leslie stands next to him, stands guard, rubbing light circles over the scars on his back.

She doesn’t ask his name again.

The questions after that are easier. All of Jason’s fear and horror leak out with his tears, so he just feels numb. Questions are just words. The answers are just words. None of it can hurt him.

How long has your leg been injured?

Two years. Maybe three.

What about your eye? The same?

Yes.

I’m going to name some diseases. I need you to tell me which ones you’ve had before. Measles, mumps, chickenpox, the flu—

The numbness lasts through the physical exam, as Leslie puts her hands on his back and listens to his breathing and shines an electric penlight into his eye. It doesn’t hurt. Jason stays still, looks where she tells him to look, and it doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t mind.

“Alright,” Leslie says, at last. She tucks the light back into her bag, with her notes and the device she used to listen to his breathing. “That’s all for today. You did very well.”

Something warm kindles in Jason’s chest at the praise. He does his best to ignore it.

“I’m still getting Cassandra up to date on her vaccinations,” Leslie says, “so it won’t be hard to set up a schedule for you. Have you heard that word before—vaccination?”

Jason nods. It sounds familiar. He couldn’t explain it, but he doesn’t think Leslie wants an explanation. She just wants him to follow what she’s saying.

“Good,” Leslie says. “I want to keep an eye on your ribs, and your leg, for that matter, but neither of those are an active danger. We can talk about your long-term options later.”

She stands up to leave. Then she stops by the door of the Batmobile and looks back at him. “You’re doing very well,” she says again. “A lot of things have changed in the last day. It’s alright if you’re not used to everything right away.”

Jason nods. He understands the words, separately and together, and he knows why Leslie is saying them. He thinks he’s heard her say them before.

It doesn’t quite make sense. Jason has to adapt. He has to figure out the rules as fast as he can. It’s the only thing he can do to stop them from throwing him out, pushing him down, beating him—

Except Bruce doesn’t do that. Except Leslie just said that it’s okay.

“If you need to see me again,” Leslie says, “I’m usually in the infirmary car. You can always ask for me.”

Jason nods again. Then Leslie is gone.

He gets a moment of peace, a few seconds to put his hands over his head and breathe through the static filling his brain. Then the door opens again, and a pale teenager in a red hoodie sticks his head in.

“Hey,” he says. “I got you some food.”

Me? Jason chokes the word back just in time. Then he feels stupid, because talking is allowed here. He knows that.

“You got… me…?”

“Food,” the boy says. “Yeah. Here, I’ll trade you.” He holds out a canteen, shaped differently from the ones for water. Jason takes it. The boy takes the radio receiver. “It’s broth,” he says. “You’re supposed to start with that.”

Broth. Jason grips the canteen and screws it open. The smell that rises from inside makes his stomach turn over.

“Make sure you go slow,” the boy says. “You don’t want to throw up.”

He imagines throwing up inside the Batmobile. Spewing water and stomach acid over the carpet floor. Steel-toed boots stalking toward him—Bruce’s hand grabbing the back of his head and shoving it down—

No. Jason doesn’t want to throw up. He holds the canteen tighter and slowly tips it back to take a sip.

Flavor bursts across his tongue. The earthy taste of potatoes and onions mixes with peppery herbs and a hint of sweetness. The broth is still warm. It floods Jason’s mouth with the taste of home.

Climbing into the Batmobile. Settling into his seat. He sheds his scarf and his gloves and hangs them over the vent to dry. Bruce in the front seat, giving him that little smile that’s so easy to miss. Alfred at the back of the car, stirring something—

Alfred.

This is Alfred’s broth.

Jason takes another sip, chasing the memory. Alfred used to travel with them. Alfred always traveled with them. He always rode in one of the jump seats. When they stopped, even for a few minutes, he would go to the back of the car and turn the hot plate on so they could have something to eat. Hot tea, warm bread, soup boiled out of a handful of leftovers as if by magic. Alfred was always making food. He always said—he always said that—

Jason can’t remember.

He remembers Alfred. He remembers gentle hands, lavender-scented soap, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled—but so much is missing. The sound of his voice. His laugh. The things he used to say.

Is Alfred here? Does he remember me?

Maybe not. Jason didn’t remember him.

He doesn’t think about that. He keeps drinking. He tries to savor every second of it, every faded memory that comes with the taste. He forgot about this. He forgot having warm food, freely given, that he can eat as slow as he needs to.

The kid settles in the gunner’s seat. He spreads a stack of paper maps out on the dashboard. Jason hears them rustling and looks over. He used to do that. It used to be his job to open up the maps and track their course across the wasteland.

Now Bruce’s new son does it. The kid clearly has some experience. Jason watches him, trying to think back far enough to remember his name. He knows he heard it.

Something short. Something… with an M? It’s just out of reach.

The door opens. Jason’s eye snaps back to it, just in time to see Bruce climb in. He’s not wearing armor anymore. He looks tired. He has a black metal bar in his hands.

Jason flinches back. No, no, please—

He wants to get on the floor. He wants to get on the floor and beg, but that will just make him easier to hit—

“Lad,” Bruce’s voice says.

Jason flinches again. “Please,” he says, before he knows what he’s saying. Not again, please— “I—I-I’m sorry—”

“I am not going to hurt you,” Bruce says. “Can you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“You—y—you’re not—” Jason takes a breath. He closes his eye, opens it again, and he tries to think. His leg hurts. He’s on the floor. He doesn’t remember that. He wonders if Bruce hit him.

I am not going to hurt you.

Bruce said something like that before.

“I am not going to hurt you,” Bruce says. Again. “I don’t have the cane anymore. It’s over there.”

Jason glances up, just high enough to see Bruce’s hands. His hands are empty. And a lot lower than they should be. Bruce is crouching, holding his hands out in front of him. He’s too far away to reach Jason.

Bruce moves his hand—slowly—to point at something on the floor next to him. The metal bar. It’s out of his reach. He could still grab it, but—he isn’t. He isn’t moving. Jason looks at the bar.

It’s not a crowbar. It has an angled part at the top, but it’s the wrong shape. It’s—

Jason’s brain catches up with him. It’s a cane.

“Is that—” He looks up at Bruce. At his eyes, this time. “That’s a cane?” he says, because he can’t finish the question: Is that for me?

“Yes,” Bruce says. “That is an adjustable metal cane. Leslie recommended it to help you walk.”

Oh.

Jason drags himself up into a half-sitting position. Bruce stands.

“May I help you up?”

Jason blinks. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard that question before in his life. It makes sense that Bruce said it, though. That’s the kind of weird shit Bruce used to say.

“Okay,” he says.

When Bruce puts his hand out, Jason is ready. He doesn’t flinch. He takes Bruce’s hand and lets Bruce pull him onto his feet. Bruce hands him the cane. Then he steps back.

“See if it helps,” he says.

Jason sets the cane against the floor. He has to think about it for a minute before he shifts some of his weight onto it. He’s spent so long standing on one leg—trying not to aggravate his bad leg any more than he has to—that it doesn’t feel right.

But it doesn’t hurt.

He lets out a breath. He takes a small step, just to see if it makes a good brace. It doesn’t hurt. He could stand up for hours. He could walk—he doesn’t even know how far. A mile. Two miles. It wouldn’t even hurt.

He can’t remember the last time he stood this straight.

“Does it help?” Bruce says.

“Yes.” Jason looks up at him again, because it’s Bruce. It’s okay to look at his face. “Thank you.”

“Good.” Bruce looks at him for another few seconds. Then he nods at the jump seat. “Sit. We’re leaving.”

Jason drops into the jump seat. He rests the cane against the wall next to him, arranging it to be sure it won’t fall over when the car moves.

He keeps looking at it, as the engine turns over and the Batmobile speeds up and the landscape outside passes them by.

A cane. A real cane, with a smooth handle on top and a bit of rubber on the end to stop it from slipping. Nicer than anything Jason could have made for himself, and he didn’t even ask for it. He didn’t even have to beg.

The kid shifts around in the gunner’s seat, fiddling with the controls on his side of the dashboard. Next to him, Bruce is silent and still. His hands rest on the steering, holding a steady course.

“I have Metropolis on our ten,” the kid says. “North by northwest.”

“We’re not going to Metropolis,” Bruce says. “Get me New Baltimore. One to sixty-two five.”

“Copy you.” The kid shuffles through his stack of maps. Tim. That’s his name. Jason is pretty sure. “How about some music?”

“What music?”

Tim hits a button on the dashboard. A familiar guitar riff fills the car.

Jason lifts his head. I know this song.

“No,” Bruce says.

“Come on, B, you’ve heard it a million times—”

“That’s why.”

Jason bobs his head in time to the drums. He knows this song. He’s heard it a million times, too.

Darling, you got to let me know. The guitars rumble through the speakers. The drums pulse. Should I stay or should I go?

“Turn it off,” Bruce says.

Tim twists a dial. The volume lowers, but the song keeps playing. If you say that you are mine…

“I said off.”

“But I need it to work!”

“No, you don’t.”

Tim twists his face up in a frown. “Let me rephrase,” he says. “I want to listen to this while I work.”

“Hm.”

Jason can imagine the look on Bruce’s face—the look that always goes with that particular grunt.

So if you want me off your back / Well, come on and let me know—

“He likes it!”

Jason looks up. Tim is pointing back at him. He stops moving. “That’s two against one. You’re outvoted.”

Bruce hums under his breath. The noise is so low it’s difficult to hear—it isn’t really meant to be heard—but Jason hears it, and Tim hears it, and they both know what it means.

Should I stay or should I go?

Bruce looks over his shoulder at Jason. “Is that true?” he says. “Do you… like the music?”

He sounds unsure. He sounds—shy. Maybe a little confused, maybe curious, but mostly he sounds hesitant and hopeful, like the answer really matters to him. Jason looks for any hint of anger in his voice, in his face, and he finds nothing.

That’s the only reason he says, “Yes.”

Bruce’s mouth twists. Fear jolts through Jason’s chest. He cringes away, even though Bruce is too far away to hit him, and drops his gaze to the floor.

“Alright,” Bruce says. Jason hears him turn.

“Yes!” Tim shifts in his seat, and the music gets louder. “Another win for democracy.”

“Keep it down, please,” Bruce says. “I’d like to be able to hear myself think.”

Tim turns the music up louder.

Bruce sighs. He sounds annoyed. Jason can hear him, in the driver’s seat—not close enough to hit, but close, and he could cross that distance in a second—if he wanted to. If Jason annoyed him.

Jason squeezes his eye shut. Stop it, he thinks, stop it, he’s not going to hurt you! Bruce doesn’t keep slaves. Bruce doesn’t hurt people who can’t fight back. Bruce promised he was safe.

Jason still wants to put his hands over his head. He clutches the seam of his pants instead.

He stays like that for a while. He sits hunched over in the jump seat, worrying the thin fabric of his clothes. Bruce drives, across miles and miles of wasteland, while Tim shuffles through maps and offers opinions on which routes they should take. Ancient rock music plays over all of it. It sounds like the happiest time in Jason’s life.

It feels like some kind of dream.

Tim straightens in his seat. Jason flinches at the sudden movement, though he knows, he knows that Tim won’t hurt him. Tim isn’t even looking at him, too preoccupied with the radio. He turns the music all the way down, so it’s almost silent, and puts his headset on.

“Copy you,” he says, leaning forward to speak into the receiver. The transmission must be coming through his headset. “Yeah. Yeah, I hear you. No, we’re fine—we were up by the river for a while—League territory, yeah. Well, it used to be.” He grins. “Great. We kicked their asses, obviously.”

“Who are you talking to?” Bruce says.

Tim covers the receiver with a hand. “Kon.”

“Switch to speakers.”

Tim sighs, but hits a switch on his side of the cockpit. He pulls his headset down around his neck. “You’re on speaker,” he says.

A voice, young but already deep, fills the cabin. “Oh. Okay. Is—uh, is the Bat there?”

“Hello, Conner.” Bruce’s voice lowers to a rumble—the sound that strikes terror across the wasteland, that sends Jason’s heart racing in his chest. He curls his shoulders forward, like that will protect him, and tries to breathe without making any noise.

“Hi,” Conner says, sounding very unsure of himself.

“I was just telling Kon about the raid last night,” Tim says.

“Why?” Bruce says.

“He called earlier and couldn’t raise us. He wanted to know if I was okay.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” Tim says, annoyance creeping into his voice.

Bruce nods once. “Good,” he says. “Did you have any other questions, Conner?”

“No,” Conner says. “Uh, thanks, though. I’ll tell Clark you guys are okay. Talk to you later, Robin.”

Jason freezes.

“Copy that,” Tim says. “Over and out.”

Robin. Robin. Robin.

Jason’s fingernails dig into his palms. His knuckles turn white. He hears Tim’s voice, then Bruce’s, but he doesn’t hear the words. The only word that matters is the one echoing in his head.

Robin.

Breath catches in his throat. Jason chokes on it and starts coughing, which makes his ribs hurt, which makes him flinch, which makes the coughing worse. Tim turns in his seat to look back at him.

“Are you okay?”

He meets Jason’s gaze—just for a second—before he looks away. He has blue eyes. Jason doesn’t know how he missed it before. Black hair. Blue eyes.

Tim looks just like him. Like how Jason used to look. When he was young and whole and hopeful. When he thought Bruce could do anything. Tim thinks the same thing—Jason can tell. Tim looks at Bruce like he could lasso the moon if he only tried.

Robin. The voice on the radio called him that. And Tim answered.

Jason’s ribs ache long after he stops coughing. He gasps and wheezes for breath, too wrung out to try and stay quiet. Smothering his breaths will only trigger another coughing fit—he’s tried enough times to know. Tim clambers out of the gunner’s seat to get him another canteen of water.

Jason takes it from him with shaking hands.

Bruce didn’t just find another kid. He put Tim in the gunner’s seat. He made Tim his radio operator. He gave Tim the name that Jason died with. The name that Jason died for. Bruce left Jason for dead, and then he turned around and called Tim Robin.

How long?

Tim slides back into the gunner’s seat, with one last worried look at Jason. He won’t look at Jason’s eyes. He doesn’t like Jason’s bad eye.

How long did it take you to find him? To decide you didn’t need me anymore?

Tim goes back to his maps, rifling through them to unfold the one he wants over his side of the cockpit. Jason used to do that. It used to be his job to navigate. Bruce taught him to read the markings. Elevation and terrain and landmarks.

Did you even look for me?

Jason breathes through the pain in his ribs, wincing at every loud, tortured breath. Tim keeps glancing back at him, with that stupid look on his face. Bruce doesn’t look. Bruce doesn’t look at him even once.

“Are you okay?” Tim says.

Jason nods. He keeps his eyes on the floor in front of him, and he takes one breath after another. He can’t talk. If he opens his mouth, he will start screaming, and he won’t stop until someone knocks him out.

Author's Note

This was supposed to be a one-shot.