Work Text:
Jason becomes aware with nothing but the memory of something bright, and a hell of a lot of pain.
It's not unusual; explosions, as much as he hates them, are kind of par for the course for most of Gotham's goons. Blowing things up seems to be their go-to to solve any problem, which probably explains why Gotham's insurance companies charge such high premiums.
But something's nagging at the back of Jason's -admittedly probably concussed -brain. A nagging feeling that he's forgetting something, that there's something important that he shoud be doing right at this exact moment, other than laying here, trying to force his lungs to work.
And not checking himself over for injuries. He's doing that already. Batman trained that into all of them, after getting into any sort of fight or trouble in the field. It's not even a conscious thought process as he mentally scans over each part of his body, taking stock of anything that hurts too much, or doesn't hurt enough.
He's made it to his chest -and he doesn't like what he's finding - when he realizes that the buzzing in his ear isn't actually buzzing. Which is about the time his brain starts working enough to remember, oh shit.
He wasn't alone in the tunnel when it blew. He wasn't…
"-on?"
Dick. Dick was… Dick is in the tunnel. Dick is…
"Hey, c'mon, Little Wing, I … you to give … alright? 'Cause I … this thing is … explode, but I … real … to … if … don't … an answer."
Explode? It already exploded. Everything exploded, it's not…
Jason tries to open his eyes, but there's only more darkness. Which… his helmet probably got knocked around, took some damage. Him and Dick were far enough down into the sewers that they're still made of concrete, which is heavy as hell. All of that rubble, all of that debris, it's no wonder his helmet isn't working right.
Only problem with the helmet versus the domino: the domino doesn't ever take so much damage that it stops working.
He tries to coordinate his hands enough to reach up for his helmet. Dick won't be able to hear him, and Jason won't be able to see Dick, unless he takes it off. And his hands feel… mostly fine. Ish. Compared to most times he gets blown up, at least.
His hands definitely are sluggish, but that's probably just the concussion. Or bruising. Or maybe one or three broken fingers. But the airlock on the side needs his thumb print to be unlocked, so he doesn't really have a lot of options.
It takes more fumbling than it probably should to get his thumb pressed against the fingerprint scanner, but he finally hears the hiss of the airlock unsealing, and a few seconds later, he feels the helmet being pulled off.
"Jesus, Hood … you the hell … me," he hears, at the same time as as a sickly orange-red light fills his vision, sending a million tiny pinpricks of light straight into his brain.
What comes out of his mouth is something between a groan and a gasp, as he presses his eyes shut again.
"Easy, Little … You're … just gonna … here …"
Jason feels fingers pulling his eyelids up, even as he tries as hard as he can to keep them closed against the light. He moves his hands to swat Dick's hands away, but Dick doesn't seem fazed.
"Yup… helluva … got there."
Jason tries to grunt. It comes out as more of another groan, but it's the point of the matter. He's well aware he has a concussion; if the ringing in his ears, the ache straight down to his teeth, and blurred vision didn't tell him, the stabbing needles of light into his eyes had.
"Anything … other … hurt?"
"Leg," Jason manages to get out through his gritted teeth. Because he assumes Dick is asking if anything else hurts, other than his head. "Head. Arm. You… okay?"
There's a pause. And Jason knows Dick too well to trust that pause.
"S'hurt?" he tries to demand. It comes out more as a slurred mess of a maybe question.
"I'm fine."
And to be fair… he doesn't sound hurt. His voice sounds steady. Well, at least the bits of it Jason's actually hearing. His breathing sounds fine, doesn't sound wet like he's got a punctured lung, or labored like he's in pain. But Jason knows Dick. He knows that pause.
"Liar." He's proud of the fact that it comes out mostly clear.
"It's fine; just … little," Dick says dismissively. "You, … the … hand are … much not ... Your leg -"
"Can't hear you," Jason slurs. "Ringin'."
He can almost feel the concern rolling off Dick at that, and a few seconds later, Jason feels something -presumably Dick's fingers -pulling at his right ear. And he can't help it, he screams the moment Dick's fingers touch behind his ear.
"Jesus, Jason. That's… okay, it's … be .... I … my … so B'll be .... We … gotta keep … until he … here," Dick says, and even if Jason only hears half of what he says, it's enough to know that it's bad. Whatever Dick felt isn't good.
"S'bad, huh?" he manages. Part of him wants to pick his head up and look around, or lift his hand up, and feel his head himself. But that… honestly sounds like a lot of effort, effort that Jason doesn't need to expend. He knows it's bad. He can feel it's bad, even without Dick's near-panic egging him on.
"No, it's… You're ... be ... It's … that bad, and B will … soon. We'll … you … and …get you … back up … new."
The missing parts that Jason can't hear don't make Dick's lie any less obvious. They were at least sixty feet below ground in the sewers, at the bottom levels. Honestly, it's amazing that they survived the explosion to begin with. Between the at-least-two levels of brick, concrete, and dirt above them, and the explosion, it's amazing that they're not mashed pancakes.
Which means Bruce isn't gonna be able to get to them with any kind of speed. Especially if anybody was on the street above the sewer when it exploded. Because Bruce is gonna put civilian casualties ahead of him and Dick, every day and any day.
Depending on how bad Jason's injuries are, there's a very real possibility Jason will bleed out, or get crush syndrome, hours before Bruce even considers starting rescue efforts for Dick and Jason. And there's gotta be twenty or thirty tons of rubble and debris and dirt to get through to get to them.
Odds are very good that Jason's gonna die down here. Hell, depending on how far they ended up, and how much of the debris is directly over top of them, Dick might end up dying down here too, even if he isn't injured.
Jason should probably open his eyes enough to take stock of how they're even alive. If they ended up in a more structurally sound part of the sewer, or if Dick managed to drag them into another section of the sewer. Hell, maybe they're not buried at all. Maybe…
He can't remember the time leading up to the explosion. He remembers being in the sewer, sure. Remembers running into Dick, investigating the same human trafficking ring Jason was.
Remembers running into a handful of the gang. One of which had a detonator.
Everything after that is hazy. Or maybe fuzzy. He doesn't remember anything other than a feeling of falling, and a lot of pain. But maybe Dick had time to drag them away from the explosion. Maybe they're not under twenty tons of concrete and dirt. Maybe they don't have to sit here and wait to bleed to death. Maybe Bruce will be to get to them before Jason bleeds out, or whatever Dick's trying to hide does him in.
Unfortunately… Jason has experience with 'dying' and 'hoping things aren't as bad as they seem' and 'Bruce will save me'. It didn't end well, and he can't quite work up the belief it'll end any better this time.
"… I need … open … me."
Presuming that Dick is trying to say he wants Jason to open his eyes, it's a good idea. Jason might -theoretically -be able to read his lips, and figure out whatever Dick's trying to hide at the same time.
He forces his eyes open, and while the light still hurts like hell, he forces them to stay open. It takes a second for everything to adjust, and he might let out another groan. Or whimper. Same thing, really.
The light is coming from an emergency glow stick. And honestly, Jason's a little relieved that Dick has that reddish orange construction-ish color rather than green. And Dick looks… a helluva lot paler than he should.
"S'hurt," he garbles out.
"Yeah, I … you are … it's -"
"No… you," Jason says, trying to put the accusation he feels into it.
"It's fine."
"Not. S'bad?" Jesus, Jason never realized how exhausting talking is.
There's another pause. And with Dick, Jason's learned over the years that 'pauses' mean that whatever you said is right, and Dick just doesn't wanna admit it.
"It'll be fine once we get outta here," Dick lies. And Jason may not be able to make out all the details of Dick's face, but he knows Dick's lying voice.
"What… bad?" Jason manages. He can't quite find the words he wants to ask where Dick is hurt, can't quite manage to string the words he can grab into a sentence that makes coherent sense.
He's hoping Dick doesn't do that thing where he's understood Jason perfectly fine up until now, but when it counts, all of the sudden he won't understand what Jason's asking.
Jason forces his eyes to focus as much as he can, trying to look at Dick's face. Which…
Huh. Is the only part of Dick he can really see. Christ, he must have the mother of all concussions. Because it's only now occuring to him that he's laying on his back, and all he can see of Dick is Dick's face leaning over his.
He tries to push himself upright, only to feel Dick's hands pushing down on his shoulders. "Nuh huh. You've … serious … injury, possible … and Christ … what … Jay. … not moving … with a medical … it."
That's… fair. Stupid, and dumb, but fair. But Jason also needs know what Dick's hiding, and Dick is very much keeping most of his body out of Jason's line of sight.
He tries to push himself upright again. He needs to make sure Dick is okay, or figure out how not okay he is. But Dick's hands on his shoulders push him down again, and sort of hold him there.
"Jay, … not kidding … a … right … , and you can't … okay?"
"S'not. You're… lying," Jason finally manages, after struggling to come up with anything else.
"I'll be … Jay. I ... But you're … any … be moving. You … much not fine … a serious TBI, and … trauma … least. You … moving, man."
Dick has pulled out his serious, no-nonsense 'I'm the big brother' voice. Which might work better if he pulled it out any time other than him being a self-sacrificing twat.
Because Jason honestly… well, he's honest enough with himself to admit that he doesn't really care if he lives or dies anymore. Not that he's suicidal, not that he wants to die, just that he's… mostly apathetic about the idea. The only thing he wants is to not die alone this time.
So Jason will be absolutely fine no matter which way this shakes out. Dick is here, which means Jason won't die alone. But while he may be apathetic about his own death, he very much isn't about Dick dying. The idea of Dick sitting there for hours, or even days, stuck with Jason's corpse, as Dick slowly dies of whatever stupid injury he's hiding?
Not acceptable. There's nothing Dick can do for a head injury or concussion anyway; there's no reason for Dick not to focus on his own injuries rather than Jason right now.
He forces his hand up from his side, even though it feels like there's a cinderblock tied to it. "You… fix… you," he rasps out, trying to wave his hand in the general direction of where Dick's body should be. "M'fine."
"You're not … moron," Dick snaps. "You … very … fine."
Jason wants to growl in frustration. Because leave it to Dick to ignore the important part of the conversation, the part where Jason wants Dick to fix Dick, instead of fussing over Jason's injuries that neither of them can do anything about anyway.
But he can't quite make those words come out. There's a disconnect between his brain and his mouth at the moment, courtesy of the concussion and whatever is screwing with his hearing.
What he does manage is a very garbled, "Not… gonna be… fine. Not changin'. You… still be… fine."
"You … what? You … just shut … time … Jason … not … conversation ... Not … ever, and not ... So … just … hell .... B's… here soon, and … both outta … and we're both … fine, alright? So just … up."
Jason tries to glare in Dick's general direction. "You… shuddup," he mumbles. "Shuddup and… fix you."
"I already … you … fine, Jason," Dick snaps. "… will … soon, and he'll … us … alright? Just … Everything's … fine."
Bruce isn't panicking.
That's the important thing. He's not panicking.
His oldest boys are together. Their trackers are still working, even if their comms aren't. And Jason can complain all he wants, but Bruce has never been happier about the trackers he's hidden in Jason's boots, his helmet, and his gloves. He'll never apologize for it, and he'll never promise to not do it.
Because while Dick managed to get his panic alert off… Jason doesn't have one. Refuses to carry one. The only way Bruce knows his sons are together -the only way he's not panicking -is because of the trackers he's hidden on Jason's uniform.
"It'll be fine, B," Barbara says, for the seventh time, her voice calm and collected over the channel despite the fact that she's clearly not calm at the moment. "Red Robin is working with emergency crews to figure out the fastest way down there."
Bruce bites out an affirmative grunt. He knows that. Of course he does, he helped get them coordinated. Helped get Tim set up with them, before heading into the tunnels himself.
Which is foolish. He knows it is. Odds are good, after that kind of explosion, that he won't be able to reach the boys, even if he finds them.
But he can't… those are his sons. His sons, in an explosion. Trapped, probably injured, after an explosion.
He won't get in the way of the emergency crews, but… those are his sons. He can't sit there and wait.
The trackers are accurate up to five meters, give or take. The hard part isn't going to be finding them, it's going to be getting to them. The fact that the trackers haven't moved is both good, and worrisome.
Good, because it means the boys aren't going deeper down, or risking a cave in. Worrisome, because if they could get out… they would've. If they were capable of trying to find an escape route… they'd be doing that. Which would involve moving.
Five meters. Sixteen feet, give or take. There's other trackers that are more accurate -some down to a foot or two -but they're also more sensitive. Being underground, being in a metal building, or somewhere with a lot of interference could disrupt it completely.
Reliability is more important than pinpoint accuracy. In a theoretical example… The difference between fifteen feet and a single foot isn't much of a difference, but it's the difference between knowing a location within five meters, sixty-five feet below ground, and not knowing anything at all.
Bruce knows he's on the same level as his sons are. The tracker tells him that much. And he knows he's approximately thirty-five meters from them.
The problem is the very large amount of rubble and debris in front of him. The very large amount of dirt, broken bits of concrete, brick, and slimey mud from the two levels of sewers above him.
And it's between him and his sons.
Bruce gets as close as he dares. He knows better than to start digging; the whole area is structurally unsound, and even getting as close as he does, he's probably taking unnecessary risks. But he… he has to.
"Nightwing?" he calls out, laying his hand on the the rubble. "Hood?"
There's silence for a few seconds. Then he hears it.
"B? B, that you?" It's faint, definitely muffled, but… it's definitely Dick's voice. He's close, closer than thirty-five meters, which means there's a chance. There's a chance Bruce can figure out how to get to them.
Bruce feels his stomach collapse in on itself in relief, at the same time that his heart decides to uncrumple and start working again. "Nightwing. It's… Is Hood with you?"
"Yeah. Yeah, but he's… It's not good, B. He needs a hospital. Yesterday."
It's a conscious effort on Bruce's part to keep his lungs going. To not let himself drift back to a warehouse in Ethiopia, to another explosion, to another -
No. "How bad? Are you hurt?"
"It's… bad. In and out of consciousness. Head injury. Possible neck injury. His leg is… He needs a hospital."
Bruce… can't. He can't… He has to… Maybe he can…
"The… the emergency crews are… Red Robin's with the emergency crews," he manages to get out. "They're working out how to -"
"Bruce," Dick says. And that single word is enough to make Bruce pause. To make his entire state of being pause. Because Dick has never once slipped up. Has never once said Bruce's name while they were in the costumes. "We don't… he's not going to make it that long."
Bruce isn't aware of consciously making a choice. He hears Dick's words, and then suddenly, a name is coming from his lips. A whispered name, a name he's sworn over and over again not to use for personal reasons. No special treatment, Bruce has always said. They don't -
He doesn't have time to finish the thought, before there's a red and blue blur standing next to him.
"Batman?" Kal-el says quietly, staring back and forth between the debris, and Bruce. "What's -"
He stops, his gaze locking on the rubble. Benefits of x-ray vision.
"There's… Debris," Bruce manages. "Above us. We can't just…"
Clark doesn't look at him. He's staring at the rubble, and then staring at the ground above them. Then back at the rubble hiding Bruce's sons from him. And Bruce can see the calculations.
Superman is fast. Faster even than the Flash, when it comes to raw speed. A lot of people don't know that. Bruce is one of the few people in the world who does, probably. But even Bruce doesn't know if Clark is fast enough to pull both of his sons out, without aggravating Jason's injuries, before the debris crumbles around them and collapses.
The fact that Clark is trying to figure that out too is… not inspiring confidence. But Bruce stays quiet because there is nothing he can do here. As much as he wants to, starting to dig isn't going to help anything, and runs the risk of killing his sons. He's not a meta, he's not super strong or super fast. There is nothing he can do to help. Nothing he can do but wait and see what Clark can do.
Bruce doesn't let himself ask how hurt Jason is. He doesn't… Dick's told him enough, and Bruce can't handle anymore right now. And Clark doesn't need the distraction. He needs to focus on how he can save Jason and Dick, how he can get them both out. Because…
Becacuse of course Clark can. He's Superman. He's saved people from far worse situations than this before. Far more dangerous situations, with worse outcomes.
"I need you to be ready to hold Dick up when I bring him out."
Bruce blinks at Clark. "Dick?" he asks stupidly.
Clark nods, almost absently as his eyes trace over the debris. "Yes. I don't have to be as gentle with Dick; I can get him out here, you can help him get topside however you came down, and I'll take Jason straight to the Watchtower."
"Okay," Bruce says, forcing himself to nod. He… he trusts Clark. Clark will make sure Jason's safe, and Bruce and Dick can backtrack up to the street. Easy. Simple. Bruce can make his way to the Watchtower after he gets Dick settled at the cave. It's a good plan, and -
Before Bruce can think on it any further, Clark vanishes. He vanishes, there's noise, and then Bruce finds his oldest son leaning against his chest, all of Dick's weight leaning against Bruce.
Then before Bruce can truly process that, Clark's there, holding Jason. Holding him gently, and giving Bruce a quick nod, before he disappears again. Holding Bruce's second oldest.
Bruce hears the shifting rubble, the groan of the metal and concrete from above him. So he throws Dick over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and jogs down the sewer towards the ladder he came down as fast as he can.
It isn't until Bruce is a good hundred feet away from the pile of debris that he finally stops, and hefts Dick off his shoulder, setting him down gently on the ground. And that's when he realizes…
Dick is pale. Far, far too pale.
"Dick?" Bruce says, staring at his son. After a second that feels like crossing an empty field towards a burning building… Dick opens his eyes. Blinks, blurry-eyed and unfocused, up at Bruce.
"Hey, B," Dick says, giving Bruce a grimace. "Clark… got Jason?"
"Yes," Bruce says, already starting to run his hands down Dick's suit, trying to find the injury. Because there's no way Dick is that pale without something bleeding.
"That's good," Dick says with a small hum. "I'm kinda tired, B."
"Dick, where are you hurt?" Bruce demands, before his hands stop on Dick's stomach. Dick's far too large stomach. The large hard knot that should be Dick's stomach. Bruce stops, and stares up at Dick.
"I'll be fine," Dick says, trying -and mostly failing -to give Bruce a smile. It's a pained, half-grimaced thing. "We gotta… Jason wasn't good. We gotta -"
"Richard."
Internal bleeding -especially in the abdomen -wouldn't show up to Clark's x-ray vision. It sees bones. He isn't a portable CT scanner. He wouldn't have known. And Dick…
How long will it take Clark to get Jason to the Watchtower? To get Jason to a zetatube? How fast can he move at that distance, safely, without risking hurting Jason?
"Clark, I need you back once… once Jason's safe," Bruce says into the stillness of the sewer. "Dick's hurt."
Because Dick shouldn't have been moved at all. Not with his stomach like that. EMT's will only make it worse, trying to pull Dick up to street level through manholes and up ladders. Clark is Dick's only hope now.
He doesn't get an answer, of course. Bruce doesn't have super hearing. He doesn't have super anything. He just… has his injured son laying on the ground in front of him.
"What happened, Dick?" he asks, trying to keep his voice even as he sets about checking the rest of Dick's body for injuries. He reminds himself that Clark -Uncle Clark, Dick's favorite uncle -will be there as quick as he can.
Dick hums again. "Jason was too close to the bomb," he says quietly. "He was too close, and he was fighting. So I… I grabbed him. Tried to cover him as best I could." He chuckles softly. "Big guy. Couldn't cover all of him. Tried though. I… I'm real tired, B."
Bruce isn't panicking. He's not panicking, and he's not crying. "I know, Dick. But you need to stay awake for me. Clark's coming, and he's going to get you to the hospital. But until then…" Bruce scrambles, desperately, before an answer hits him. "I need you to tell me about Jason. What were his injuries?"
Dick cracks open an eye, just long enough to roll it at Bruce. "You're just trying to… to keep me awake."
"No," Bruce lies. "If Jason's hurt… we need to plan. Depending on how serious his injuries are, we might have to get additional supplies for the manor. Might need to get physical therapists, or mobility aids, or -"
"His head," Dick interrupts quietly. "His… I was trying to cover him. But something… I only had a chem light. Red. 'Cause Jason doesn't like green."
Bruce knows. He knows because he'd asked all his children, during a family meeting, why every single chem light in the cave had been replaced by red which isn't nearly as effective. While Bruce had been looking around, trying to find the guilty party trying to pull a prank -and theoretically put innocent lives at risk -Dick had just raised an eyebrow at him.
Dick liked red better, his oldest said. Wasn't as brutal on concussions as bright, acid green.
Bruce had started to say that they weren't acid green, they were lime green. But Jason had slunk down in his chair, almost folding into himself, and Dick's blue eyes had promised murder if Bruce pushed further.
"I know, Dick," is all Bruce can find it in himself to say right now.
"So I couldn't… couldn't see it. But there was… Bruce, there was a lot of blood. Behind his right ear. And I… I felt something there but I didn't wanna touch it too much," Dick says quietly. "But it was… It was bad. Is he… he's gonna be okay though," Dick says, opening his eyes again, and staring right at Bruce. "He's gonna be okay."
"Of course he is," Bruce says. "You both are. You're going to be -"
"I've got him, Batman."
Clark's voice comes out of nowhere. And before Bruce really has a chance to process it…
He's alone in the tunnel.
Dick wakes to the annoying, obnoxious sounds of a heart rate monitor. He blinks a few times, but instead of the dark, stalactite-filled ceiling of the cave, there's a pitted, paneled ceiling instead. He vaguely knows what the ceiling belongs to, that it's something he recognizes, but his head is too fuzzy to figure out where.
He tries to shift a round a bit, and he hears the sound of the heart rate monitor picking up a bit as he tries to move.
"Don't be any more of a goddamn moron than you already are."
Despite the words, Dick can't help but tilt his head towards the voice, a smile growing as he spots…
"Jason."
"Yeah. Moron. I'm here," Jason says, from a hospital bed. From his own hospital bed, because apparently… Dick is also in the hospital. In a hospital bed in… Jason's room? And Jason isn't wearing a mask. "'Fore you strain that big brain of yours… We're on the Watchtower."
Dick blinks a few more times. "Oh."
"Yeah. You nearly bled to death. Moron. 'Fine' my ass," Jason growls. "Don't you ever try to human shield me again."
Dick ignores Jason's words, and instead just settles for looking Jason over. His left leg is wrapped up to mid-thigh in something… vaguely cast-like, and propped up in one of those sling things to keep it elevated. His right arm is in the same cast-like thing. There's also a pretty serious line of stitches on Jason's forehead, chin, and running from his neck up behind his right ear.
"You okay? Can you hear me okay?" Dick asks, cutting off whatever Jason's muttering under his breath. "How's your leg? Did you -"
"Listen… jackass. I'm still not done yellin' at you for bein' an idiot. I have body armor, Dickweed. Body armor. Not light spandex. I would've been fine. You, on the other hand, lost four foot of your small intestine, and half a foot of your large intestine," Jason all but snarls. "You almost lost your pancreas. You nearly joined Tim in the 'Spleenless Ex Robins' club, doubling it's membership to two. The only reason you didn't is because Atlantean-Amazonian-Kryptonian-who-can-even-keep-track-of-the-species-anymore magic. If not for that, you'd be dead."
Honestly, Dick does his best to listen. He even nods in a few places. But as soon as Jason stops to take a breath, he interjects, "What about your ear? Is your hearing okay? How bad is your leg?"
It's Jason's turn to blink at him. "I… Dick, did you not… My ear? You nearly died, you goddamn idiot."
Dick just keeps staring at Jason. Waiting. Dreading. Because if Jason's lost hearing in one of his ears -even if it's at fifty or sixty percent functionality -or if he's lost the use of his leg… that'll be the end of his vigilante days.
Finally, after Dick makes it clear that he's not letting it go without an answer, Jason throws his hands up in the air. And immediately winces. Dick can feel his eyes go wide, but before he can do anything, Jason points over at him with his uncasted left arm.
"You're a goddamn idiot. A moron. A jackass. Do you understand me?"
Dick just keeps staring expectantly.
"Yes, I'm gonna be fine! I'm down for the count for at least three months, which, coincidentally, is how long you're gonna be recovering from losing parts of vital organs!"
A wave of relief settles in Dick's chest, and he can't help but smile. "You're gonna be okay?"
"Yeah, you're gonna be okay too, in case you care," Jason mutters. "Idiot."
Dick doesn't even care. Jason can call Dick anything he wants. Jason can grumble and bitch and whine and yell and snap and whatever he wants to do for the next three months.
Because he's still gonna be around to do it. And that's all that matters.