Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

          It’s cold beneath my cheek, wet and tacky. I can feel it now – the unforgiving bite of the ice as it sinks its teeth into the meat of my face. Part of me seems to understand that I was supposed to be doing something important. We’re in the arena, aren’t we? Maybe I was playing… was there even a game today? Maybe it was training… isn’t it Saturday though? Shit, I have no idea.

          I don’t quite have it in me yet to panic – I’m not sure what happened, but the muffled yelling that barely makes it past the barrier of cotton stuffed tight into my head means it probably isn’t good. Details and phrases and names float in through one ear and slip straight out the other like water in my hands.

          My hands are numb. My head hurts.

          My head hurts and my teeth ache and there’s blood in my mouth and I can’t feel my legs. Actually, scratch whatever I said earlier – this definitely is not good. Panic starts to burrow its way into the hollow feeling of my chest, slow and thick like fog over the harbour. My entire upper body seems to throb with every beat of my heart, a relentless twinge at every joint that makes them twitch and ache with something I can’t quite remember the words for.

          My vision floats aimlessly across to, what I can only assume, is the rest of the team crowded around me. They look more like smudges on a lens than people at this point, flickering in and out of focus like a- well like a camera I suppose.

          Holy hell does my head hurt.

          And my neck actually now that I think about it. I should probably tell them that I can feel the way my stomach is about to send acid and pre-game dinner straight onto the ice, but trying to get my body to cooperate feels like a behemoth task I don’t have the strength for.

          Oh fuck, please don’t choke on your vomit Jason, that would be a really embarrassing way to go.

          My body doesn’t tense even as I projectile vomit onto the ice beside my face, but it makes the smudges around me sharpen just a fraction – enough to make out Dick’s worried face hovering nearby, his Bristol Blue jersey stained with something dark.

          That’s never good.

          He’s yelling something at someone, arms flailing like he’s directing traffic in a storm. Tim is there too, kneeling awkwardly in his gear, looking paler than usual, like he’s calculating the odds of me walking off the ice on my own two feet. Zero, kid. Absolute zero, if the way the numbness from my legs is shifting like soft hands up my back.

          I wonder if the other guy’s alright. Maybe I should ask Alfred. Bruce is gonna be so mad at me. That taste is back in my mouth, metallic and sharp and mixed with whatever I just hurled onto the ice. Great, Jason, way to make a scene. That’s probably what Dick is yelling at, I made another mess that someone else has to clear up.

          A warm hand on my neck brings me gently out of my stupor, it’s only then that I realise I’d closed my eyes at some point. The weight on my neck is steady but firm, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he lets go. Bruce’s face is incredibly close to mine when I eventually get my eyes to focus enough on his own grey ones. He looks- angry, maybe, or scared but I can’t really pinpoint which one. He only looks at me like that during those post-training lectures only I seem to get. He’s disappointed in me.

          “-ay, Jay can you hear me? You’re going to be okay, just don’t move alright? We’ve got you. It’s okay.” Bruce’s voice morphs into something soft, different from his usual tone when I’m involved. “Jason,” He says my name again, slower this time, enunciating each syllable like I’m a child. “Stay with me, chum. Paramedics are here. Don’t close your eyes.”

          I don’t understand what the words that leave his mouth mean, the way they blend and mould together like some twisted game of Scrabble makes my head pound even harder against my skull.

          “Jason, you had a seizure.” It’s a different voice this time. Higher. Feminine. She sounds like Leslie. Maybe it is her actually. “We’re taking you to Gotham General.”

          My ears must register some line of questioning coming my way because I think I tried to respond, but the bizarre taste rising from the back of my throat and the way my tongue feels too big for my mouth has me mumbling something inherently unable to be understood at all.

          I just want to go to sleep but the world is tilting, spinning like a shitty carnival ride. Nausea surges again but there’s nothing left to puke. Just dry heaves that pull at my ribs and make the backs of my teeth spike with sensitivity. Bruce’s grip soothes the rippling pain of my spine with gentle brushes of his thumb against my jawline.

          “It’s okay. Just breathe, Jaylad.”

          The nickname slips out – soft, vulnerable – and it hits me harder than any body check ever could because- because he hasn’t called me that since… well, since… I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember what my own fucking dad calls me? Surely that’s a big goddamn caution sign.

          I must have closed my eyes again at some point because the next thing I know is a fast moving smudge of neon flashing a bright light into my retinas- holy mother of god that burns- and I would squint if any part of my body would listen to me. There are cold, gloved hands on my neck and feeling around my head, one of the neon blobs must say something because now they’re trying to move me – I couldn’t tell them to stop even if I tried. Pain explodes – white-hot and everywhere – but I bite down messily into my bottom lip, tasting more blood. Don’t scream, Todd. Don’t you dare.

          I want to ask about the other guy – the one who laid me out. Is he ejected? Suspended? Or did I imagine the whole thing? Words form in my brain, but they come out as a garbled groan. Sleep tugs at me, insistent, promising relief from the pounding in my skull, the numbness in my legs. I want to go home.

          But Bruce is there, jogging alongside, his deep voice cutting through the fog. “Fight it son. Stay awake, alright. We’re almost in the ambulance.”

          My vision slips again, nothing able to withstand the heavy weight of my eyelids as they try to close. I’m too tired to stop it.

Chapter Text

It’s the beeping that brings me back.

Not the gentle kind you hear in movies, the ones that lull you into a sense of sterile peace. No, this one’s sharp. Persistent. Scratching its claws deep into the porcelain cracks of my skull, peeling away what’s already broken so it can chew on whatever brain matter isn’t currently leaking out of my nose. I want to tell it to leave me alone, I doubt it would listen. Not with the way I can feel the gravel tearing at my throat every time I swallow around the- what the fuck is that. It pushes my tongue down, and I try not to panic when it makes me gag and choke.

I can hear gentle shushing, calmer and deeper than that stupid whiny beep that mimics the rabbiting pace of my heart. There’s a hand in my hair, too, a soothing weight masking the pressure behind my eyes. Maybe it’s Bruce, but I doubt he’ll want to see me at all after how much I’ve disappointed him and the team – oh god, what will the team, my brothers, think of me now? I’ll never be able to go back, I’ll-

The backs of my eyelids are dark, confined, and speckled with the flashing lights of blind panic and a disproportionate amount of morphine-to-pain ratio.

Part of my mind registers that it’s a different voice the second time I wake up, still deep but not quite Bruce. Maybe Roy. Or Dick.

It’s probably not Dick.

Scratch that, it is definitely not Richard Grayson.

A slightly spiteful, evil part of me hopes that it could be Roy. But he’ll be looking after Lian, and I don’t want to take him away from her. Not when I’m fine on my own.

The ceiling above me is that horrible bleach-white, and speckled with tiny holes, as if hit by a flurry of needles from years of panicked patients and blood-tests. Fluorescent lights tick and hum overhead, flickering just enough to make me feel like I’m losing my mind. Maybe I am. When I try to shift, my limbs are nothing more than dead weight – neither part of my brain knows whether it’s from the stiffly starched sheets or the ‘injury’. Neither part of me wants to know.

There’s a dull ache in my spine that has decided to make its presence known. A sharper one in my neck clenches my jaw shut, and a pressure around my ribs stutters every breath out of me like a shitty negotiation tactic. I blink slowly, once, twice, and the world sharpens just enough to make out the IV in my arm and the wires snaking across my chest.

Hospital.

Gotham General, if Leslie was right. Which means Bruce probably rode here with me, probably paced the hallway like a caged animal, probably threatened half the staff to get updates. I wonder if he’s still here.

I turn my head a fraction—just enough to see a shape slumped in the chair beside me. Black coat. Broad shoulders. Tension radiating off him like heat from a furnace.

Bruce.

He’s asleep, or pretending to be. His jaw is clenched even in rest, and his hand is curled around the edge of the seat like he’s ready to spring into action. There’s a crease between his brows that wasn’t there before. I want to say something, crack a joke, tell him he looks like he lost a fight with a worry line—but my throat burns and the words die before they reach my tongue.

A nurse slips in quietly, checks the monitors, scribbles something on a chart. She doesn’t notice I’m awake until I twitch my fingers—barely a movement, but enough.

“Oh,” she says softly, stepping closer. “Jason? Can you hear me?”

I nod. It’s slow, painful, but it’s a nod.

She smiles, reassuring and practiced. “You’re in Gotham General. You had a seizure on the ice. Do you remember what happened?”

I close my eyes, try to rewind. The game. The hit. The cold. The vomit. Bruce’s voice. The nickname.

“Sort of,” I rasp, voice like gravel. “Did we win?”

She laughs gently. “That’s not the important part right now.”

“Depends who you ask,” I mutter, and it hurts to smile.

Bruce stirs beside me, eyes snapping open like he never really slept. He’s on his feet in seconds, looming over me with that look—equal parts fury and fear. “You scared the hell out of me,” he says, voice low.

I shrug—or try to. It’s more of a twitch.

“Sorry,” I croak. “Didn’t mean to.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just looks at me like he’s trying to memorize every inch of my face. Then, quietly: “You’re going to be okay. Leslie’s running tests. We’ll figure out what caused it.”

I nod again, slower this time. “The guy who hit me?”

“Suspended,” Bruce says. “Pending review.”

“Good,” I whisper. “Hope he’s benched for a while.”

There’s silence after that. Heavy. But not uncomfortable. Bruce sits again, closer this time, and I feel the weight of his presence like armour.

I’m not okay, not yet. But I’m here. And for now, that’s enough.

Except… it’s not.

Because I can’t feel my legs.

I’ve been trying not to think about it, not to acknowledge the creeping dread that’s been gnawing at the edges of my mind since I woke up. But it’s there. A cold, coiled thing in my gut. I wiggle my toes—at least, I think I do—but there’s no feedback. No twitch, no shift in the sheets. Just… static.

I glance down, but the blanket is tucked too tightly around me to see. My heart stutters.

“Bruce,” I say, voice cracking. “I can’t—my legs—”

He’s already moving, pressing the call button, his hand finding mine and squeezing it tight.

“It’s okay,” he says, but his voice is too calm. Too measured. “We’ll get answers.”

I want to believe him. I really do. But I’ve been broken before. And not everything heals the way it’s supposed to.

Bruce doesn’t let go of my hand. Not even when the nurse returns, flanked by a doctor with a clipboard and a face carved from granite. They speak in hushed tones, like I’m fragile glass and the wrong decibel might shatter me. I hate it. I want someone to yell, to tell me I’m being dramatic, to say it’s just swelling and I’ll be fine in a week. I want someone to lie to me.

The doctor steps closer, eyes scanning me like I’m a puzzle missing half its pieces. “Jason,” he says, voice clipped but not unkind. “We’re still waiting on the full imaging results, but there’s some preliminary data from the spinal MRI.”

I brace myself. I don’t know what for. But I brace anyway. “There’s trauma to the lower thoracic region,” he continues. “Swelling. Possible contusion. It’s too early to determine the extent of the damage, but… you may be experiencing temporary paralysis.”

Temporary.

That singular word hangs in the air like a noose. It’s supposed to be comforting, I think. But it feels like a cruel joke. Like someone dangling hope just out of reach.

“Temporary,” I echo, voice hollow.

Bruce’s grip tightens. “We’ll do everything we can,” he says. “Leslie’s already coordinating with specialists. You’re not alone in this.”

I want to scream that I am. That no matter how many people crowd around me, no one else is trapped in this body. No one else feels the phantom itch of toes that won’t move. No one else has to wonder if they’ll ever run again, fight again, be whole again.

But I don’t scream. I just nod. Because that’s all I can do.

The doctor leaves, promising updates. The nurse adjusts something on the monitor. For some reason, Bruce stays.

Chapter Text

Minutes pass.

Maybe hours.

Time is a blur, smeared like blood across ice.

Eventually, the door creaks open again. This time, it’s Dick. He looks like he ran here, hair tousled, jacket half-zipped, eyes wide and wet around the edges.

“Jay,” he breathes, stepping into the room like he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

I blink at him. “Hey, Golden Boy.”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s shaky. “You scared the crap out of us.”

“Seems to be a theme,” I mutter.

Dick crosses the room and sits in the chair Bruce had occupied not half an hour before, slumping briefly before stiffening ramrod straight.

My stomach drops.

He doesn’t reach for my hand. Just rests his elbows on his knees and looks at me like he’s trying to figure out how to fix the increasing number of cracks in my façade.

“I brought your hoodie,” he says after a moment. “The ratty one. Thought you might want it.”

I swallow hard.

“Thanks.”

Silence settles again, still taut, but less than it had been with Bruce.

"They figured out what's causing the numbness yet?" asks Dick. He still won't meet my eyes.

"Yeah," my voice crackles, I clear my throat. "They pumped me full of medication I'm allergic to. That combined with the heavy sedatives they had me on..."

The look he gives me makes me shrivel into the horrid bed beneath me, I wish I could sink into the floor. He looks so angry at- "What the hell were they playing at?! What sort of shitty staff have they got here that shit like that flies?!”

I flinch at the volume, at the fury in his voice. It’s not aimed at me, but it still feels like a slap. My fingers twitch against the blanket, useless and numb.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I wasn’t exactly in a position to double-check their charts.”

Dick scrubs a hand down his face, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. “You could’ve—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching. “You could’ve died, Jay.”

I nod, because yeah. I know. I felt it. That slow slide into nothing. The way the world narrowed and dimmed and I didn’t care. “I didn’t,” I say, and it sounds like a joke, but it’s not funny.

He finally looks at me then. Really looks. And it’s like he’s drowning in everything he’s not saying. “You didn’t,” he echoes. “But you almost did. Again.”

I want to tell him it wasn’t on purpose. That I didn’t ask for this. That I didn’t mean to scare them. But the words stick, bitter and heavy, behind my teeth.

“I’m sorry,” I manage instead. It’s not enough. It never is.

Dick leans back in the sickly yellow hospital chair, sighing and rubbing at his eyes harshly with the palms of his hands.

Maybe it’s the stress of my brother finally coming to see me. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m not actually paralysed. Maybe it’s from being cooped up too long in a hospital bed- but my head is spinning like I’ve been crammed into a blender, and my heart is apparently trying to pound its way out of my chest.

Dick notices. Of course he does. His eyes snap to mine, sharp and assessing, and I hate how fast he picks up on the shift. “Jay?” he says, voice low now, careful. “You okay?”

I shake my head, just barely. “No,” I croak. “I think—I think something’s wrong.”

He’s up in an instant, pressing the call button like it’s a trigger. “Stay with me,” he says, and his voice is steady now, the panic tucked behind the mask he wears when things go sideways. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

I want to believe him. I really do.

But the edges of the room are curling inward, like burnt paper. My skin feels too tight, too hot, and the numbness is spreading again, crawling up my arms like frostbite. I gasp, and Dick’s hand is suddenly on my shoulder, grounding me.

“Jay, look at me,” he says. “You’re here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

The door bursts open and a nurse rushes in, followed by a doctor I don’t recognize. There’s a flurry of movement—questions, wires, cold hands and colder voices. I can’t track any of it. I just focus on Dick’s hand, still gripping my shoulder, firm and unwavering.

“Don’t let go,” I whisper, or maybe I just think it. Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t.

Eventually, the chaos ebbs. The doctor mutters something about a reaction, about stabilizing vitals, about monitoring. I don’t catch all of it. I don’t need to.

Dick doesn’t move until the last nurse leaves. Even then, it’s only to shift his chair closer, knees brushing the side of the bed. His hand never leaves my shoulder.

I’m exhausted. Not the kind that sleep fixes. The kind that seeps into your bones and makes you feel like gravity’s got a personal vendetta. “You scared me,” he says again, quieter this time. Like it’s a confession.

I close my eyes. “Didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” A pause. “But you did.”

I nod, because there’s nothing else to say. Because I did. Because I always do.

Dick exhales, long and shaky. “You remember when we were kids, and you broke your arm falling off that stupid fire escape?”

I crack one eye open. “Which time?”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s brittle. “The first time. You were what, ten? Eleven? You tried to convince me it didn’t hurt.”

“It didn’t,” I lie automatically.

“You were crying, Jay.”

I shrug. “Didn’t want you to think I was weak.”

His expression twists, like I’ve punched him. “You’re not weak. You never were.”

I look away. “Doesn’t feel like that.”

There’s a beat of silence, then the rustle of fabric. He’s standing, and for a second I think he’s leaving. But then he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hoodie in hand. He drapes it over me like a blanket, careful, like I’ll break.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says. “Not now. Not ever.”

The words settle over me like the hoodie—warm, familiar, frayed at the edges but still holding together.

I want to believe him. I really do.

But belief is a muscle I haven’t used in a long time. It aches just thinking about it.

Still, I shrug, just a little. I want to tell him how scared I am when I think of being on the ice again, I hope he’ll understand if I mention it. Except there’s that nervous little-brother-fear that makes my throat close up around the lump of words.

Not yet. I can’t tell him yet.

Chapter Text

Minutes stretch, heavy and uneven, like the ticking of a clock that’s lost its rhythm. Each second is dragged out like pulling teeth, painful and reluctant, as though time itself is just as wary of the future as I seem to be.

Dick, surprisingly, doesn’t push. Not like Tim, or Damian, or Bruce would. He just sort of sits there, hair unusually limp against his forehead, hands cold against my wrist although still anchoring me to the present. His grip isn’t tight, nor is it particularly steady, but it’s a weight I'm glad for when it feels like my head is trying to float off of my neck.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs, softer now, almost like he’s talking to himself. “I’ll stay either way.”

I want to laugh, but my throat is too tight, so all that comes out is a distressed huff. Enough. Nothing ever feels like enough. Not the apologies, not the explanations, not the promises I can’t keep. Enough is a word people throw around when they don’t know what else to say. But when have I ever been enough for anyone?

The silence between us shifts, not sharp anymore, but weighted. Strangely it’s familiar. The kind that used to hang between us on late night training sessions at the rink, when words weren’t needed because the sound of skates on fresh ice and pucks on boards and the clatter of thrown sticks was enough. But this isn’t the rink. It’s a hospital bed. And I’m not the kid who bounced back from broken bones like they were scratches. I’m older now, heavier with mistakes, with scars that don’t fade.

“I keep thinking about it,” I whisper, surprising myself. My voice is hoarse, cracked. “The ice. The way it felt under me. Cold. Slippery. Like it wanted me gone.”

Dick’s head snaps up, eyes locking onto mine. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t interrupt. Just waits, patient in a way that makes me ache.

“I couldn’t move,” I continue, the words tumbling out now, jagged and raw. “I thought—I thought that was it. That I was gonna die there. And part of me… part of me didn’t care.”

The admission hangs in the air, ugly and heavy. I brace for the recoil, for the anger, for the disappointment.

And yet Dick doesn’t flinch. His jaw tightens, sure, but his eyes—God, his eyes are steady. “You’re here,” he says, deliberate, like he’s hammering the words into stone. “You’re here, Jay. And I care. Enough for both of us, if I have to.”

My chest aches. Not from the reaction, not from the meds, but from the way he says it – like it’s a pact, something he’ll bleed for.

I shake my head, weakly. “You shouldn’t have to, though. I’m old enough now to not need-”

“Maybe not,” he admits. “But I will. Because you’re my brother. And I don’t get to stop caring. Not ever.”

The hoodie smells faintly of smoke and detergent, of weekends spent chasing pucks and the adrenaline of a goal. I clutch the fabric of the hoodie tighter, even though my hands barely obey me.

The minutes keep dragging, but they don’t feel quite as jagged anymore. The edges soften, dulled by the weight of his presence.

I shift under the hoodie, the fabric scratching against the IV taped to my arm. “You always stay,” I murmur, half accusation, half gratitude.

“Yeah,” Dick says simply. “That’s kind of my thing.”

I want to tell him it’s exhausting, that he shouldn’t have to keep picking up the trail of knotted ends from behind me. But the words dissolve before they reach my tongue.

Instead, I ask, “Doesn’t it get old?”

His brows knit together. “What?”

“Me,” I rasp. “The screw-ups. The hospital visits. Me almost dying.”

Dick exhales, long and slow, like he’s buying himself time. “Jay… you’re not a screw-up. You’re my brother. And yeah, you scare the hell out of me sometimes. But that doesn’t mean I’d ever walk away.”

I close my eyes, because it’s too much—his voice, his certainty, the way he says it like it’s carved into him.

He breathes in again, deeper, to steady himself before saying, “I don’t think I ever could walk away, Jason. It would kill me. It would kill Bruce.”

“I don’t know how to stop,” I admit, barely audible. “The running. The fighting. The… falling.”

There’s a pause, then the faint creak of the bed as he leans closer. His hand shifts from my shoulder to my wrist, careful, grounding.

“Then don’t stop,” he says. “Just… let me be there when you fall. You don’t have to do it alone.”

The words hit harder than I expect. My throat burns, and I bite down on the sound clawing its way up.

I don’t cry. Not anymore. Not where anyone can see. Not when there might be cameras hovering in every doorway waiting for the moment I slip up and they can expose me to hockey fans everywhere.

They’ll never let me on the ice again. I’ll have ruined the face of the Gotham Knights. My entire future down the drain from one shitty fall and one equally shitty article. My name plastered on every spiteful news outlet this side of the Atlantic.

I’m screwed. Royally. Unequivocally, even.

The words taste bitter, like rust in my mouth. I want to spit them out, but they cling, heavy and unshakable.

Dick doesn’t recoil. He doesn’t even blink. His thumb brushes against my wrist, steady, deliberate, like he’s reminding me that the world hasn’t ended yet.

“You think headlines matter more than you?” His voice is low, but sharp enough to cut through the fog. “You think a game, a team, a crowd—any of that—means more than you being alive?”

I flinch, because I do think that. Because it’s easier to measure worth in goals scored and jerseys sold than in the messy, fragile thing that is survival.

“They’ll hate me,” I whisper. “They’ll say I’m reckless. Broken. Not worth saving.”

“They don’t get to decide that,” Dick says, firm now, the softness edged with steel. “You’re not a headline, Jay. You’re not a cautionary tale. You’re my brother. And if the world wants to write you off, then screw the world. I’ll rewrite it myself– Hell, Tim would do it just because he can. Because we all care.”

The conviction in his voice makes something inside me splinter. I want to believe him, but belief feels dangerous—like stepping onto ice that’s already cracking.

“I don’t know if I can come back from this,” I admit, the words trembling out of me. “Not just the fall. The way it felt. The way I wanted it to end.”

Dick’s grip tightens, not painfully, but enough to anchor me. His eyes burn with something fierce, something unyielding. “Then let me carry you until you can. That’s what brothers do.”

The silence that follows isn’t jagged anymore. It’s thick, almost suffocating, but not in a way that makes me want to run. It’s the kind of silence that holds, that steadies.

For the first time since my own body gave way beneath me, I don’t feel like my brain is running out of my ears.

I let out a shaky breath, the hoodie pressed to my chest like a lifeline. “You’re gonna regret this,” I mutter, half-hearted, because it’s easier than admitting how much I need it.

Dick smiles, small and tired, but real. “Not a chance.”

And for a fleeting moment, I almost believe him.

Although the thought is fragile. It trembles in my chest, uncertain, like a flame threatened by the slightest draft. I want to cup it, protect it, but I’m afraid I’ll snuff it out without realising.

So I just lie there, hoodie clutched tight, his hand steady on my wrist, and let the silence hold us both.

Eventually a nurse comes back, says something about me getting some final testing before I become an outpatient in the morning. Some mundane waffle about physiotherapy and booking weekly appointments with my sports therapist and making sure- blah blah blah. Dick listens for me. He usually does.