If your requests are open, would you write a fic where jay forgives bruce? Like maybe he has forgiven for a long time he just didn't say it out loud?? idk just forgiveness pls!!
Thank you for such a lovely prompt! This one was a lot of fun to write :)
His mouth tastes like ash and metal. His head feels like it’s full of water. Everything dips and swirls when he shifts to look to the side. A black and grey blob beside the bed (gurney?) is probably a person.
Someone in trouble.
Need to help-
Bruce is in trouble!
Jason tries to sit up but the movement becomes a groan as injuries - new and not-so-new - announce themselves with prejudice. His chest hurts. His left side is on fire. His head is fucking pounding. His hand is heavy, weighed down by a blur of white that is probably a cast, refusing to support him in his attempt to push himself upright.
“Woah, easy Jay.” The grey and black blob - Person. Concerned. Dick? - is suddenly leaning over him, hands pushing his shoulders back down into the mattress. “Stay still, you’re hurt.”
“No,” Jason mumbles, desperately struggling against the hands. “No, m'fine. Gotta go, hafta help. B-”
“B’s not here, Little Wing. You gotta stay calm-”
Stay fucking calm?! Bruce is gonna die. He has to save him.
Dick swears, call’s for someone, and a second later ice is spreading through Jason’s veins. He tries to blink away the encroaching fog but his eyelids are like lead. They close and refuse to open.
“Fuckin’ traitor…” he slurs. Then he’s unconscious again.
Jason was always an angry kid - an unfortunate trait he inherited from his father. Or maybe just learned behaviour. A hard outer shell; the best protection against the cruel injustice of the world.
(“Nothin’ wrong with bein’ a little soft, ya just can’t let ‘em see it.”)
Robin is an outlet for all the pent up aggression bubbling beneath his skin, but it’s also a source of anger. Little spats with B; burning rage every time a thug picks on a kid; irritation with the excess glamour of upper-class life.
But for all his anger, Jason had never been able to hold a grudge. When the Joker had killed him, he’d tried. He’d tried so fucking hard. Because god-fucking-dammit he’d died and did Bruce even care enough to avenge him?
(Spoiler alert: apparently fucking not.)
But the anger wears down, just like it always does. And Jason is left sitting on a gargoyle in the dead (hah) of night, hiding behind a helmet, wondering why it even matters. The more he thinks about it - and he hates thinking about it but he’s as masochistic as they come and if anyone’s going to make him suffer it’s going to be him - the more he realises B is beating himself up as much as the Joker beat up Robin. So what’s the point in making it worse? What’s the point in rubbing salt in a gaping wound?
(And it alarms him how easy the answer comes; no need for all that existential brooding crap Batman has so much fun with.)
Fucking pride. The downfall of all of them. (The Bats. The villains. The ordinary folk. The whole fucking lot.) It gets them into trouble and it stops them from saying they’re in trouble and it stops them from saying thanks when someone inevitably bails them out of trouble. It breeds regret.
Pride is an absolute bitch.
And Gotham is full of it.
Jason sighs and it seems like the wind sighs with him.
Coming to is like swimming through treacle. He’s aware of movement around him, muffled voices just out of reach, but he can’t make out any of it. His mind is slow and his body is even slower to respond. There’s a sense of urgency humming beneath his thoughts but it floats away every time he tries to bring it forward.
“Jason? You awake?”
He tries to say yes - he can hear the voice, he must be awake - but his tongue refuses to cooperate so he just groans instead. The voice is instantly worried.
“Are you in pain? Do you want me to get Alfred?”
Jason shakes his head. He peels his eyes open and manages to unstick his tongue enough to ask, “B?”
“No, it’s Tim.” He leans far enough over that Jason can see his face and a sudden rush of disappointment is followed almost immediately by a flood of panic.
“B?” he asks again, more urgently.
A crease appears between Tim’s eyebrows. But, for all his faults (and Jason has a list, because he’s an arsehole like that), the kid is a damn fine detective. “You want me to go get Bruce?” he asks - cautiously, because everyone knows thinks Jason hates Bruce.
Jason nods quickly. If Tim can go get him, Bruce must be okay. He must have got there in time. (But what if I hadn’t?) With one last wary glance over his shoulder, Tim leaves. Jason is left lying in peace - well, as peaceful as it can be when everything hurts and the oxygen cannula is irritating his nose and the beeping of the heart monitor never stops. (Thank god. But. Annoying.) He’s starting to doze off again by the time a nearly-silent shift of fabric announces a presence by the bed.
“B?” He feels like a broken record. Or maybe one of those singing exercises; every warbling question the same, just shifting between pitches. This time it’s high with hope.
A hand brushes his hair back, then Bruce’s rumbling tones assure him, “I’m here, Jay.”
“An’ you’re okay?”
There’s a soft sound that could have been a huff of laughter or choked off surprise. “Yes, Jason, I’m fine.”
“Mmm. Good.” Just hearing it, knowing for sure that Bruce isn’t dead, calms him, relaxes him enough to rest easily. But he couldn’t have been. “Meant t’ tell you,” he mumbles, forcing drooping eyes open to look at Bruce so he knows he’s serious.
Bruce’s thumb rubs a half-circle across the back of Jason’s hand. “Tell me what?”
“’S'not your fault.”
B frowns. “It’s nobody’s fault, Jay. Nobody except the people who set up the ambush.”
“No.” Exhaustion and pain medication are dragging him toward the darkness, but Jason fights against it with every last scrap of strength he has. His body refuses to cooperate as he fumbles for Bruce’s arm and he has to bite his lip to stop a frustrated whine from escaping. “B. Listen. ’S'not your fault. Don’ blame you. Can’t… can’ blame y'rself.”
“Okay,” Bruce agrees, leaning down to kiss Jason’s head. “It’s not my fault.”
But he still doesn’t get it. Doesn’t know what isn’t his fault. Because if he did it would never be this fricken easy. Jason is too mentally and physically tired to push it though. He closes his eyes, content with the knowledge that they can argue over it some more once he’s healed.
Jason comes home to a drugged up Dick (drugged up on medication cause of injuries) and he's pretty loopy and basically wandering around their place in Jason's t-shirt and briefs and Jason is trying really hard to hold himself back but also help out the poor man whose being really cute and needing support and help.
This was a really cute one, I enjoyed writing it!
To Help You When You’re Injured
Out of the whole Batclan, Dick was the one that got injured the least. Not that Jason kept track, but he usually got injured at least three times for every one of Dick’s injuries. Jason’s reaction when he heard Dick was at the apartment nursing a stab wound was slight surprise. He made his way back to the apartment, already planning how he was going to patch it up based on where the wound could possibly be.
Jason swung in through the window and took his helmet off. A few seconds later, he stumbled under the sudden weight of Dick Grayson. It took him a second to right himself and balance Dick’s weight so neither of them would fall. Jason managed to pull Dick over to the couch and he set the other male down. His limbs were loose and he was wearing one of Jason’s t-shirts and a pair of boxer briefs.
“You’re such a gentleman Little Wing,” Dick said as he slumped to the side. His hair was ruffled and his eyes were slightly glassy. If Dick hadn’t been stabbed and then drugged to the gills, Jason knew he would have ravaged Dick right then and there.
“Either you’ve lost a lot of blood or you’re high out of your mind,” Jason said as he grabbed the already open first aid kit. The contents were strewn around the table and the floor surrounding it. Jason made note of the antiseptic and the slightly bloody suture and thread. He sat on the couch and pushed Dick up a bit to find out where the wound was which would be way easier if Dick wasn’t trying to climb him.
Hey everybody! We hope you’re good. Just dropping you a line to let you know that even though Gill and Jason are in Hawaii working, that ain’t gonna stop the Toonami monthly Q&A train! They’ll be answering questions this Sunday, starting around 5pm e/t. So feel free to start submitting now! You may even get your question answered on TV next month. As always, please read our FAQ above before sending us any questions, so you don’t send us the sort of question we won’t or can’t answer (example: ‘when are you showing DBZ???’ etc).
As always, we look forward to your questions. See you soon!
Normally I wouldn’t upload covers for my books, because it’s so promo-y, but I love LOVE the artwork for these so much. It’s funny, because there’s pretty much nothing here that literally represents the book (a lot of stock photos, because the budget for creating eight covers doesn’t allow for photoshoots) but the palette and overall tone just make me SO happy.
Credit: Berkley Publishing’s art department, but specifically (I think, because he also did the cover for HERE THERE BE MONSTERS, and these have the same feel to them) Jason Gill.