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Jason would be furious with himself if the pulsing ball of pain in his head allowed for any thoughts in his brain. As is, all he can do is blink blearily as he watches the red slowly leech onto the snow.
What… happened?
He wasn’t hurt just a few moments ago. Hours? It’s colder than he last remembered. There’s a fine layer of snow dusted on top of him. Like sugar on a cake.
He wasn’t hurt a few hours ago, he wasn’t… he was doing something. He was scared, he was trying to get away from someone.
His head pulses in pain again, and he squeezes his eyes against it, his thoughts drifting away like sand in a river.
...what was he thinking of again?
Right, how he got here. Lying on the hard, frozen ground, the snow slowly burying him.
He’s… really tired.
His head hurts so much and his eyes are so heavy. There’s a dull, distant part of him that’s begging him to keep his eyes open, to not fall asleep, but he’s so sleepy and if he’s asleep then he isn’t cold or hungry or in pain. He’d be free.
His eyes slip close, and everything slips away again. It’s only when a car rumbles by, he pulls them open, belatedly concerned that he’s gonna get run over.
It’s hard to see, everything's so blurry, and the only colourful thing in his line of sight is the pool of red that’s dyed the snow around him. His eyes focus on that for a good second, until he wonders why he’s staring at his own blood.
The sound of a car door shutting. Right. The car.
His eyes themselves feel like they’re five tonnes and have a mind of their own. They drift of their own accord, and pulling them to focus anywhere is the hardest thing he’s ever done.
Finally, he gets them to focus on the dark shadows of the alley from across the road. There’s the car, obviously, and the silhouette of a very large man.
It doesn’t seem like he’s noticed Jason, but he supposes it doesn’t matter anyway.
He doesn’t want to die, but his numb hands are tingling from where the warm blood in the snow is meeting his skin, and he’s starting to think that he doesn’t have a choice in the matter.
The man turns on the light in the car to get something, and there’s something that’s strange about the man, something about how he’s dressed, but Jason's eyes are instantly captured by the light shining through the windows, gently bathing the alleyway in its tentative warmth.
It’s the most beautiful thing Jason's ever seen. So warm, safe, comforting. It’s calling for him, practically begging for Jason to come over and let the warmth cradle him in a hug.
If Jason gets to the car, all of his problems will go away. He knows this with an absolute certainty, like he knew he was all alone the moment his mother’s eyes glazed over.
The man has disappeared, but that’s a non issue. The gorgeous light has disappeared and it’s up to Jason to make it come back.
His fingers twitch, and light on fire, but he ignores it, forcing his arm closer to his body. Just moving his arm takes up so much of his energy that he’s forced to rest, panting a little. Though, that’s more due to the waves of pain doing its very best to force him down, to keep him in the cold and wet when warmth was right there. Just across the road.
He pushes his arm underneath him, then belatedly realises that this would probably work a lot better if both of his arms were pushing him up. He has to go through the whole process of pulling his other arm closer to him. Urgh. Who decided to give him two arms?
He braces himself for one moment, two, and before he can chicken out, he painstakingly pushes himself up on three, going from his right elbow, to his left, then repeating it with his forearms, his eyes squeezed tight shut.
With each slight shift, a whole new wave of pain washes over him. Bile rises in his throat, but he forces it back down, trembling violently.
He opens his eyes, and the entire world tilts on its axis. The bile comes back hard and strong, and he has no choice but to retch, throwing up what little was in his stomach, sending him all the way back to square one. He’s gonna have to find food all over again, the hours he’d spent picking pockets gone to waste. Tears roll down his cheeks as his breath shudders, dangerously close to a sob. No, he couldn’t waste time and energy on this, he needed to get to the warmth, the safety. No use crying over spilt insides.
The world wobbles again, and he just barely manages to catch himself on his elbow as his body leans too far to the right. The wave of pain at the sudden jolt almost makes him throw up again, but he holds it back, panting. Okay. It's fine. Eyes on the prize.
The car is only a slightly darker shadow than the darkness that envelops the alleyway, but that’s fine, that’s enough for Jason to know where he’s going. The world tilts again, but this time it’s in his favour, and he ends up leaning against the brick wall. He uses it to prop himself up, moving more slowly than a snail. There’s a shaky part of him that insists on moving faster, on not becoming easy prey, but the buzzing in his head that’s getting louder and louder is helping with shutting him up. A lot.
With the wall as his prop, he takes a shaky step, and then another one. The crunch of the snow sounds nice when he steps on it, even if his feet are so cold he can’t feel them anymore. He’s messed up the snow, though. It was once so pretty and white, but now Jason's mushed it all up, leaving a smear of blood basically everywhere he’s walked.
...the wall’s gone now. He needs the wall, he can’t walk without it. Blinking blearily, he realizes with a jolt that he’s reached the road. It’s horribly open, anyone could see him stumble his way across. Try and catch him, or kill him, or– or–
He can’t think about it. Literally. The buzzing is so loud he can practically feel his ears vibrate.
He does feel a little better than he did when he first stood up. The bile has moved back into his stomach, now. It’s still threatening to leave, but at least it isn’t trying to get out anymore.
He squeezes his eyes shut, and pushes himself off the wall. He’s balancing okay, so he just takes a step, and another, and another. The crunch of the snow is the only thing he can hear over the buzzing, and he’s grateful for that. It’s starting to get on his nerves.
The world lurches again, and Jason falls hard. He can’t stop the cry of pain as his head presses the self-destruct button.
All he can do is lie in the snow and clutch his head, distantly registering the stinging numbness of his hands, grazed to hell from the rough concrete.
Fuck. He needs to get up, he needs to get out of the road, out of the open, and into the warmth. He just needs to think about that golden light, bathing the alley, making this horrible place a little better.
Sobbing, because how can he fucking not, literally everything hurts– he pushes himself up, not daring to risk walking again. He crawls, as fast as he can with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and doesn’t stop until his hands hit something.
Its– a tire.
Yes.
He’s really getting dizzy now, and another wave of nausea has him choking back bile, but he catches himself on the sides of the car. The car.
Scrambling, he pushes himself to where the doors should be, pressing his hands against the freezing metal, looking for something, anything that would open the car–
His fingers find the handle, and he pulls. Only for nothing to happen.
He pulls again, and again and again and again until his body’s shaking so hard he has no choice but to slide back down into the snow. It’s so cold, his whole body is burning with it. He can’t feel his hands and feet anymore.
The strength that’s been driving him through the vast distance between the two alleyways flickers out, as fragile as candlelight. His head weighs a million tonnes, pulling him down until his head thuds against the hard concrete. It hurts so bad it makes bile rise in his throat, but it doesn’t hurt as badly as the realisation that he’s going to die.
It’s not fair.
He’s fought so hard to live, he’s tried for so long and for what? What was even the point, if all his efforts led him here? Dying next to some rando’s car. His thoughts feel like they’re a million miles away from his body, like falling asleep. Maybe this is the best he can get. Maybe he’s lucky that he didn’t get murdered, or trafficked, or any other horrible way he’s seen kids his age die.
Really, a head injury and the cold isn’t so bad. Maybe if there’s anywhere to go after this, he’ll get to see mom.
That would be nice.
He doesn’t fight it as his eyes drift shut, and he feels almost peaceful as something pulls him away. Like falling asleep, but more final. He tries to be okay with that.
Really, what else could a kid like him hope for?
He drifts, for a long while, floating further and further away from his body. He’s slowing down, his thoughts bogged down by the cold and he feels nothing.
...except for the thing burning his neck.
His thoughts still, a little, like they’re not drifting away anymore, but he can’t move to wake himself up and see what’s happening.
There’s distant points of pressure, leaving burning trails after it, and fuck. Did someone find him?
Now, that was unfair. For once, he had accepted his lot. He was just gonna be another body that won’t get discovered ‘till spring, but now this happens?
He tries to force himself to drift away again, determined not to be alive awake for this, but his thoughts don’t budge, and a little sliver of panic twists in his chest. It’s too far away to do anything, though. He’s too far to do anything.
All he can do is breathe shallowly as the heat slides under his neck, the back of his legs, and pulls him away from the cold.
Suddenly, he’s surrounded by the golden light. The warmth, or, more like the boiling heat that makes him want to squirm out of his skin. He doesn’t care. He’s on something hot, and the burning hands has left him. He starts to drift away again, finally safe. This is a good place to die.
He dully notes the sound of an engine starting as he sinks away.
Bruce is freaking the hell out.
That’s not something he does often. He has a reputation with the Justice League for being level headed and calm for a reason, but this kid–
This kid.
He’s a street kid, that much is obvious, and he’s hurt. Bad. Bruce hadn’t even noticed him as he parked his car and grappled to the roof, too focused on the task at hand. It was uneventful, as much as a patrol through Gotham city can be, and he’d been itching to punch something when he’d finally returned to his car.
Only to find a child lying on the ground next to his car, a steady puddle of blood growing from underneath his head. The kicked up snow, painted with rusty smears leading up to the much bigger puddle of blood in the alleyway across from them tells a clear story.
In the light of the car, he can see the extent of the damage, and it’s bad. Not as bad as he feared, but enough to make him seriously worry if the kid will make it.
Stopping the bleeding is the first step, so he pulls out his kit, washing the blood away from the site.
Poor kid, his clothes are absolutely drenched. Hypothermia is the next big killer that Bruce will have to battle. He doesn’t have any dry clothes, and he can’t warm up the kid too fast. He must have a blanket somewhere in the batmobile, anything that would warm up his core before his extremities to avoid a heart attack–
No. He needs to focus on one thing at a time. He’s no use to the kid if he’s paralysed in the face of the next ten steps after the one at hand.
With the blood gone, but more welling up, he moves fast, stitching up the large gash that goes from the boy’s eyelash to ear, continuously wiping away the blood as he goes. The poor kid groans in pain, thanks to Bruce not wanting to risk the extra precious minutes it would take for a numbing cream to work. It pulls at his heartstrings, as well as sending a thrill of relief through him. He knows the kid isn’t dead, he can hear his breathing, as shallow as it is, but any signs of life are well welcomed.
With the bleeding out of the way, he checks for signs of a concussion, which are definitely there. His eyes are vacant as he pulls them open to check how his pupils react to light, and he has to push away the images of his parents' similar stare, in the awful moments after mugging.
Next priority, the hypothermia. He pulls off the kid’s wet clothes, applying heat packs to his neck, armpits, and groin. He wraps him up in a blanket, and then in a wind and waterproof layer. That should be enough to keep him going until they get to the manor, and Alfred can take over.
Looking at the kid’s face, still smeared with blood and bruises, he can’t help but lay a hand on his forehead. The boy immediately leans into it and sighs, like he trusts that Bruce will save his life. Will keep him safe. Bruce’s heart melts.
Usually all kids inspire a desire to wrap them up and keep them safe, but there’s something about this kid that brings on that feeling tenfold. He’s already got the first step done, the kid’s face is the only part of him that can be seen under his blankets, and he’s pleased to note that his lips are already looking a little more pink. Now it’s time for step two: keep him safe.
Easier said than done. He doesn’t even know his name yet.
He hovers over the boy for a minute more, and then closes the door, climbing into the driver’s seat. He turns on the heaters to full blast and pulls out of the alleyway, driving out of Gotham as fast as he can safely manage. The kid isn’t going to die at any moment, but he doesn’t want to push it. He needs a blood transfusion and to be more carefully warmed up. Maybe even some food. Bruce glances at the kid. Yes, he definitely needs some food.
Bruce stares grimly at the road and presses on the gas just a little more.
…
He’s drifting again, but in the other way. His body is getting closer and closer, as more of him slowly wakes up, and after a while, he realises that he’s warm.
It feels so good. He’s forgotten what it’s like, to be this warm, all over. There’s not even any pockets of cold leaking through gaps in the blanket.
His body still feels like it’s beyond his grasp, but his eyes twitch when he tries to open them, and he barely manages to resist squinting against the warm golden light that fills his vision.
A figure blocks the source, dimming the light enough for him to squint blearily, and a hand langs on his forehead. He blinks slowly, unsure if he should be scared or not.
“Young Sir,” a voice says, and he belatedly pulls his eyes over to the source. His vision is too blurry to make out too many details, but he can tell it’s a man. He doesn’t seem like the men that Jason's met before, though, because he’s smiling, and it makes Jason feel safer than he’s ever felt before.
“Please go back to sleep. Your body needs more time to heal.”
He doesn’t know who the hell the man is, but his hand is warm, and his voice is kind, and he smells like peppermints and tea, and he’s telling Jason to sleep, which sounded like a great idea.
He lets himself drift away again, comforted by the gentle humming in the background, and the darkness that beckons him isn’t as sinister as it was last time. It’s just promising rest, that’s all. It wants nothing else.
He leans into the hand gently pulling through his hair, and falls back to sleep.