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iriswords · 2 years ago

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Febuwhump Day 18 - Can’t stay awake

You can also read this on ao3 and find the rest of my febuwhump fics here

tw: past trauma, blood and injury, fear of death

Fandom: Batman

Words: 1436

There is a bomb in the building, threatening to blow up kids a trafficking ring tried to sell. Jason took down the traffickers but now, injured and barely hanging onto consciousness, he needs to disarm the bomb in time, lest they all die. It reminds him a bit too much of another situation when he did not disarm the bomb in time.

“I need backup,” Jason pants in the comms. His side throbs where a bullet burned a hole through it. Jason tries to ignore how sticky with blood his hand is. No one answers him. “I need backup,” he repeats, his tone harsher. “Yesterday.”

“I heard you the first time,” replies Oracle, her voice clipped with annoyance.

“You could have told me so,” mutters Jason. The room around him, littered with fallen and unconscious goons, swims worryingly, his dizziness a result of blood loss and intense pain. His broken ankle has been shooting darts of pain all the way up to his hip for the better part of the fight, and the pain has increased since Jason let himself fall back against the wall, the gang leader finally down.

“No one is available right now,” says Oracle. “I don’t know how long it will take for someone to free themself, everyone’s quite busy at the moment. How urgent is your situation?”

Jason’s ankle and two fingers on his dominant hand are broken, the shoulder of that same side is dislocated, a bullet tore through his abdomen and a bat met his head with enough force to shatter his helmet earlier in the fight. And with all of that, Jason needs to disarm the bomb threatening to bring the building down and free the kids the gang thought they could get away with trafficking.

“I wouldn’t call for backup if it weren’t urgent, O,” says Jason, detaching himself from the wall. His bad leg nearly gives out underneath him as he steps on it, but he grits his teeth and forces himself forward.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Nevermind,” mutters Jason. “I’ll do it on my own.”

“Hood—” starts Oracle, but Jason cuts off the comms before he can hear the rest of her sentence.

He laboriously makes his way through the room, struggling to stay upright and not stumble over the unconscious men sprawled on the ground. If one of them wakes up, he is done for. Jason looks down at the timer held precariously between two of the unbroken fingers on his right hand. He has ten minutes left. He can do that. All he has to do is go upstairs, find the bomb, and disarm it. After that, he’ll try to ask for help again, because he has no illusion he will be able to get all the kids out all by himself.

Black spots dot his vision as Jason puts his foot on the first step of the stairs. Jason breathes in heavily through his nose and blinks hard to clear his vision, to no avail. On the third step, his knee buckles under him and he pitches forward, barely breaking his fall with his uninjured hand. Agonizing pain erupts in his side, and he gives a strangled cry. Through the tears in his eyes, he looks at the timer again. Three minutes have already passed, and he has barely made it through three steps.

With a shaky hand, he reactivates his comms.

“Oracle,” he calls breathlessly.

“Done with your tantrum?” she immediately replies.

He ignores the jab as he staggers to his feet again. “I need backup,” he says. “I don’t care what the others are doing, there are lives at stake.”

“Which ones?” asks Oracle sharply.

Mine, Jason wants to say. “Kids’,” he answers instead. “At least two dozen. Trafficking ring. Goons are unconscious, but there’s a bomb in the building.”

“Why can’t you do it yourself?”

“Injured,” pants Jason, his feet on the sixth step. He is getting light-headed, a side effect of blood loss. His grip on the timer—only six minutes left—is getting slacker by the second, his fingers loosening around it despite his best efforts.

“I’ll do my best,” says Oracle.

The dots across Jason’s vision grow and grow, until they obscure it almost entirely. No. Jason needs to stay awake. He can’t— It’s not just the kids. It’s also the memories of another time when he couldn’t disarm a bomb in time, when his lungs rattled with each inhale he took, and pain ran through his body. Laughter resounds at the edge of his mind, and a sob snakes its way up Jason’s throat.

He pushes it down and forces himself up another step. His leg gives out again, so suddenly he does not have time to catch himself. His head smacks against the corner of a step, and his vision whitens out.

Jason comes to groggily, struggling past the fog in his mind. His body feels like one giant bruise, his blood throbbing through his veins. Memories come to him in a whiplash, and Jason straightens up abruptly. Or tries to, anyway, for pain shots through him and halts his movement. Jason pants through the discomfort and searches for the timer. It has fallen a couple of stairs.

He picks it up with shaky hands. Four minutes. He didn’t stay out for too long, then. But he still won’t make it in time. He presses a finger to his comms to ask Oracle if she’s been able to find someone to come help him or if should prepare himself to die blown up a second time, but all that comes to him is static. He must have hit the comms in his fall.

Jason resolves to crawl the rest of the stairs. Even this way he is shaky, his whole body trembling under the effort and blood trailing behind him from the still-bleeding wound in his leg. Even if he manages to stop the bomb, he isn’t sure he’ll make it out of this. But he has to try. He can’t give up, dying or not, because his life isn’t the only one at stake. Not only are there a dozen unconscious goons in the building, whose deaths Batman definitely wouldn’t be happy about though Jason couldn’t care less, but there are also kids. Jason can’t abandon them.

He makes it to the top of the stairs miraculously, with a minute and a half to spare, and gets to his feet with difficulty. The kids, put in cages like they are animals, watch him stumble into the room with wide, fearful eyes. None of them make a sound, even as they curl into themselves to try and hide their sobs. Jason would like to reassure them, tell them everything is going to be okay, that he won’t harm them, but he has close to no energy left.

He leans against the wall to catch his breath and scans the room. The bomb lies in the dead center of it, glaring at him. The seconds pass, a death sentence getting closer and closer. The laughter in Jason’s head gets louder and more hysterical, so much so it is nearly a scream.

Jason crosses the few feet between him and the bomb and drops to his knees in front of it. One minute left. Will he manage to save the kids, if he covers it with his body when it blows up? It would traumatize them, doubtlessly, but they’d be alive. That has to count for something, right?

Pushing away these thoughts and the images of his own calcined, blown-apart body, Jason gets to work. His fingers are wracked by tremors, his mind fuzzy with pain and blood loss. His vision is still dotted, like an old TV with bad resolution, and he is faintly aware that he sways on his knees. As the seconds tick away, his focus diminishes, until all he can do is stare at the bomb. His last thought before passing out is that he hopes the kids will die a painless death.

He dreams of an explosion. Of fire tearing him apart and of searing pain. Of crawling through the rubble of a warehouse, laughter still ringing in his eyes. Of giving his last breath in the arms of a black-cloaked vigilante.

Jason wakes up. He did not expect to, though perhaps he should have. Even last time, he did not stay dead. Except this time he is not in a coffin but in a cot, encased by blankets. The lights of the Medbay, however dim, burn a headache through his skull, and his whole body throbs with faint, medically-attenuated pain.

Bruce’s hand cards through his hair.

“The kids,” Jason rasps.

“They’re all alive and free. The trafficking ring members were still unconscious when I arrived, and the police took them in. I thought—“ Bruce chokes a little on his words. “I thought I would be too late.” The word ‘again’ floats painfully in the air.

“You weren’t,” says Jason. “Thank you.”

@febuwhump

#my writing #creative writing #fanfic #fanfiction #whump #febuwhump2023 #febuwhumpday18 #blood and injuries #dc #batman #batfamily #jason todd #hurt jason todd #jason todd whump

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iriswords · 2 years ago

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Febuwhump Day 9 - Voice loss

You can also read this on ao3 and find the rest of my fics for febuwhump here

tw: mention of torture, blood and injuries

Fandom: Batman

Words: 2610

Jason Todd drags his battered body back to his safehouse with much difficulty, and tries not to think about the rescue that never happened. The one he hoped for and didn't get. He means to hide his pain and act as though nothing happened, he means to hide from the Bats and let himself heal and recover his lost voice in peace, but a call for backup forces him to join the Bats, who know nothing about his injuries or his voice loss. Jason tells himself it will be fine. It is not.

Jason lies to himself all the time. He doesn’t like to call it ‘lying’, because it is closer to convincing himself of something he knows is false, rather than lying. But the result is the same.

It is a necessary thing. It helps him preserve himself and his mind. Like tonight. He lies to himself as he drags his sorry ass through the town, bloody and limping, praying for whatever deity may be out there that he won’t stumble upon anyone because he isn’t exactly fond of the idea of dying a second time. He lies to himself as he trips his way up the stairs to his safehouse. He lies to himself as he collapses onto his battered couch.

He cannot think of this, of what happened, or rather what didn’t happen, because lying to himself isn’t working when he has so little energy to put into the lie. Instead, he focuses on his injuries. He got lucky. So lucky, because though the number of injuries he sustained is extensive, all of them are injuries he can treat on his own.

He gets to work laboriously. He pauses every thirty seconds to catch his breath as he wraps his ribs, the movements too hard on his abused body. He sets his broken fingers, thankfully on the left hand, and his sprained wrist, also the left. He puts balm on the cigarette burns those fuckers inflicted him—and tries not to remember the way they laughed, and how their laughter sounded so much like that of a certain clown—and disinfects all the open wounds littering his body.

He does not have to worry about not making noise this time, either when he disinfects the wounds or when he stitches his skin back together; he lost his voice at the end of day three, after having started screaming the morning of that same day. He regained some on day seven but lost it again when of them decided it would be fun to choke him until his trachea nearly collapsed on itself.

Finally, he ices as well as he can the collection of bruises the assholes who had him insisted he get. (There was no crowbar, at least, or Jason would have lost it.)

And when all is done, when all he is left to do is dwell on his pain, he cannot help but think about it.

He was with those guys—Penguin’s he thinks, but the crime lord himself never made an appearance and the thugs didn't mention him so he can’t be sure—for a whole week. Seven days of enduring the torture they threw at him, hoping someone would come for him. He was certain they would, at first. After the fourth day, he grew less certain. On the sixth, he understood he would have to get himself out.

He was so lucky, all things considered. Lucky to get off with so few threatening injuries, lucky they didn’t break any bone besides a couple of fingers, lucky they were content with reopening wounds over and over again, inflicting surface ones, and waterboarding him the rest of the time. Lucky Penguin wasn’t there. Lucky, most of all, they left him an opening to escape on the seventh day and didn’t manage to catch him after that.

He checks his phone, for good measure, tells himself maybe they just haven’t been able to locate him. He has one message, from Dick earlier today, asking if he wants to come patrol with them.

Jason has always been very good at lying to himself. He likes to think he could have easily gotten a degree in that subject if it were a thing. But even this is above his talents.

They did not notice he was gone. He was gone for seven days, disappeared suddenly, and missed Sunday’s brunch, and they did not notice. Didn’t worry. Didn’t look for him, it seems.

He doesn’t answer Dick and decides he deserves a night off.

He goes out again the next day. He would have stayed home, but Crime Alley has been left defenseless for a week already, and Jason refuses to abandon its inhabitants for longer than that if he can help it.

Patrol is hell on his body. Every move he makes burns and steals his breath away. The leg where he was stabbed gives out on him on a bad landing and he catches himself with his bad hand. He bites back a scream—one that wouldn’t have made a sound anyway—as pain pulses through his entire arm.

The comm in his ear crackles to life as Oracle’s voice filters through it.

“Backup needed. Nightwing and Robin fell in an ambush by Penguin. Nightwing is injured and Robin reports close to fifty opponents. He and Nightwing are currently hiding in the building.”

Hood takes off the roof he is on as soon as Oracle rattles the coordinates. Whatever business Penguin tried to hide from him by capturing him is still going on, it seems. And knowing the man, it cannot be anything good.

In his ear, Batman, Red Robin, and Black Bat all notify Oracle of their incoming help as they head for the building too. Batgirl grunts something about coming as soon as she can, and Jason wonders for an instant why no one called Signal before remembering he is on a mission with Batwoman and Superman.

Oracle calls for him several times, doubtlessly expecting an answer as to whether or not he can offer help. Except Jason has no way of answering through the comms, not voiceless as he is. For a second, he considers sending her a text instead, but figures if she knows he lost his voice, everyone else will too, and no excuse he can give will satisfy them until they learn the truth. A truth he isn’t willing to give or ponder over for too long.

The sting of abandonment is still sharp in his chest. He ignores it as he makes his way to the location Oracle gave.

He spots Batman, Black Bat, and Red Robin crouched on a roof and lands silently next to them. Batman’s head turns abruptly toward him, his posture steely.

“You could have informed Oracle you were coming,” he says, his voice icy with reproach and disapproval. The boy Jason tried to bury cowers in shame inside him and longs for the love of his dad. The man Jason has built himself ignores the boy and tells himself it does not matter what Batman thinks of him. Jason shrugs, feigning disinterest. He hopes their opinion of him is low enough they won’t question it further. Surely, if they care so little they didn’t notice he was gone for a whole week, they won’t question his behavior and simply classify it as sulking.

Black Bat narrows her eyes at him, scanning him. She is far too observant for anyone’s good, but Jason’s injuries are well-hidden, and he forces himself to stand straighter, despite the pain it brings him. Red Robin and Batman just shake their head in unison and resume their muttering.

Jason doesn’t pay attention to their planning, too focused on breathing through the constant pain in his body. Eventually, Batman straightens up and turns to him. His mouth is twisted by exasperation.

“You will take the southern entrance,” says Batman. “Robin and Nightwing are hiding in an airway, but we don’t know where. Penguin is scheming something, and his men are currently searching for Robin and Nightwing. We need to find them, neutralize Penguin and his men, and find out what Penguin is planning.”

Jason nods firmly and takes off without waiting for them. He enters through a broken window on the warehouse’s southern facade and lands in an empty room. Voices drift in from the corridor, and Jason flattens himself against the wall. He takes the goons out with silent efficiency as soon as they pass in front of the open door. He leaves them tied and gagged in the room, and locks the door with the key he found in the keyhole. These henchmen never learn anything. It makes the vigilantes’ job easier, but one would think they’d have picked up on their mistakes by now.

Jason prowls through the warehouse’s corridor silently, his gun drawn out. For a warehouse with more than fifty men in it, it is suspiciously silent. From experience, such silence does not bode anything good to come.

He looks through each room he finds, searching for clues on Penguin’s evil masterplan. There is no use looking for Robin and Nightwing, not if they are still hiding in the airway; he has no intention of getting in there too, and he can’t call out to them.

Jason twists the doorknob to the last room on the upper floor and freezes at what he finds inside. Cages. Only a few of them, ten at most, but Jason knows Penguin has more on the first floor. Inside, tiny silhouettes curled up on themselves, eyes hazy with drugs and cheeks stained with tear tracks. Their thin, fragile wrists are tied to their front by heavy metal handcuffs.

Child trafficking. An evil Jason has been trying to combat since he took the Red Hood mantel and built his crime empire. He knows, now, why Penguin had him abducted.

Rage twirls inside him, green and ugly. It is all-encompassing, and because of it, he does not notice someone has joined him in the room until something clocks him in the head hard enough to shatter his helmet. He just barely catches himself on a cage, the pieces of his helmet clattering loudly as they fall to the floor. The child inside it looks up at him with clouded, unseeing eyes. Fuck.

Jason turns to face Penguin, whose face is distorted by a sinister grin. Behind him, stand no less than four goons, pointing guns at his chest and head. Double fuck. Jason needs backup. A backup he cannot call for. Triple fuck.

“There you are, Hood,” says Penguin, tapping his umbrella on the floor. “I was wondering where you had gone.” Jason glares at him, trying to convey to him all the words he cannot say. Penguin chuckles. “Right. My men did say you had lost your voice. All the better for me, then, uh? This way you won’t bother the children with your screams?”

Jason lunges before any of the six men can react. He is quick and precise and manages to clock Penguin on the temple and take out two of the goons before his injuries become a hindrance. A jolt of pain spikes through his leg as he steps too hard on it, and Jason wills it not to give out. He shoots a henchman in the leg before more of them arrive and Jason is outnumbered. Six to one would have been fine on a normal day. Fifteen to one is hard, even on a normal day. This is not a normal day.

A bullet catches him in the shoulder and he falls backward. He cannot do anything but heave from the pain as he is pinned down and handcuffed by Penguin’s men.

He fucked up. Now, he can only hope Batman, Red Robin, or Black Bat will come for him. That it won’t be a repeat of the past week.

Penguin’s men drag him to an empty room on the lower floor. On the way, they pass more cages, some empty, some occupied by children so thin the criminal probably snatched them off Crime Alley. Jason needs backup. Not so much for himself as for these poor kids.

The goons throw him into the room and strip him of anything that could be useful, before exiting the room and locking the door. Jason, his hands handcuffed behind his back, curls up on himself. His body feels like one giant bruise.

In his ear, Batman’s voice comes in. “Hood?” it says. A beat of silence passes without answer before Batman tries again. “Hood, where are you? We found Robin and Nightwing and helped them out. The three of us won’t be enough to take out Penguin’s men and free the kids.”

“Got caught,” Jason tries to say. His voice comes out in a rasp, barely making any sound.

“Hood?” Batman tries again over the comm. A few minutes pass. Batman does not come for him. Jason tries to straighten up from his curled-up position. His shoulder throbs harshly in the process, and the world tilts under Jason’s body once he finally manages. A puddle of blood stains the floor where Jason’s shoulder was.

Getting to his feet is an arduous task. Usually, the muscles in Jason’s thighs and abdomen are enough to let him get up without using his hands as balance. Today, injured as he is, he falls back on his ass a total of six times before finally getting up. He is panting by the time he is done, leaning against the wall for support. His dizziness is going crescendo and tiny black spots crowd his vision. He is losing too much blood. On his thigh, a dark stain has appeared where Jason was stabbed and stitched himself shut.

He staggers to the door and throws himself against it, uninjured shoulder first. The impact does not throw the door open, but it does reverberate through his entire skeleton, and Jason falls against the door, tears streaming down his face. Once the pain has cleared enough to let him think, Jason gathers what little energy he has left and tries again. And again. And again.

Finally, just as he is about to try for a fifth time, well aware he won’t be able to try for a sixth, the door opens to reveal Batman. His mouth twists with either worry or anger as he takes Jason in. Jason never knows which it is. It could be both at the same time, for all he knows.

“Why didn’t you call for help?” asks Batman, hard and reproachful.

Jason shrugs and immediately regrets it when renewed pain washes over him. His knees buckle underneath him, and he passes out on his way to meet the ground.

He wakes up in the Cave, sore all over. His mind is clear from the haze of painkillers. Good. He turns his head with difficulty. Only Bruce is at his bedside.

“Hey,” whispers Bruce when he notices Jason is awake. “Your siblings wanted to stay, but I sent them to bed. It hasn’t been long, they should try and sneak back in in a while.” His eyes flick over to Jason’s numerous injuries, his brows furrowing and his jaw clenching. “Leslie said your voice would take another couple of days before starting to come back. Something happened to you.”

It is not a question. Jason nods anyway. He does not especially want to have this conversation right now but, deprived of his words, he cannot insult Bruce until he leaves. What a shame.

“In the streets?” Jason shakes his head. Bruce’s eyes darken. “You were caught?” Jason nods. Bruce’s eyes widen a fraction. The boy buried in Jason peeks out, desperate to read in those eyes worry, guilt, and regret.

When Bruce’s hand settles in his hair, he leans into it and lets himself fall back asleep.

“I’m sorry,” chokes out Bruce. “We didn’t—” Bruce lowers his head. “I thought I’d done something wrong and you were avoiding us. I wanted to give you space.”

The Pit in him screams about lies and guilt-tripping. The boy who died at age fifteen accepts the apology. Jason nods and lets a small smile bloom on his lips.

@febuwhump

#my writing #creative writing #fanfic #fanfiction #whump #febuwhump2023 #febuwhumpday9 #torture #blood and injuries #dc #batman #batfamily #jason todd #hurt jason todd #red hood

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