Chapter Text
“We find the defendant: not guilty.”
“No!” Jason screams, but the sound doesn’t come out right, just a punched-out burst of air. No one seems to notice him. No one hears him. “No, he’s lying. He’s lying, please.”
The judge and jury stare back impassively, faces cool and smooth as stone. They seem inordinately tall - or maybe Jason is just very small - towering over him, miles above his head. Jason reaches for them. Needs to convince them. Needs them to believe him. But someone catches his wrist in strong fingers and jerks him back. The touch shocks him. It’s a sharp electric current across his skin.
He fights blindly, teeth bared, fingers claws, twisting in the iron grip, but whoever it is won’t let him go, just pulls him back against a solid chest.
“Why did you lie?” Bruce murmurs, right in his ear and Jason’s stomach drops down to his toes. No. This isn’t right. Bruce believes him. Bruce knows he isn’t lying. He knows.
“I didn’t,” Jason chokes. He twists, trying to get a look at his father, but every time he turns, Bruce seems to spin away from him, a faceless phantom holding him tight against his chest. “I swear dad, please, I didn’t lie. I wouldn’t.”
“It’s not rape if you wanted it, Jay.”
“I didn’t! Dad-“
Suddenly, Bruce is right in front of him, gripping both his wrists hard enough to bruise, pressed right up against his front. Jason tries to jerk away but heat blankets across his back and traps him there. Hands close around his hips, bright, burning points of pain and Jason cries out in terror. Strains desperately against the hold.
“You should have kept my name out of your mouth, you little snitch,” Roman snarls against his neck.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. There’s no chance Bruce would stand here and accept this. Would help Roman hurt him.
“No,” Jason gasps. “No, stop, please don’t do this.”
A hand fumbles at his fly. Hot breath puffs against his neck. Bruce holds his wrists in an iron grip.
Jason looks to the jury, desperate for some help, for someone to stop this, but they aren’t there anymore. Instead, the rest of his family stand side-by-side, looming huge over Jason, and their faces are just as blank as Bruce’s.
“Help me!” Jason screams, but they don’t even flinch. Don’t move to help him. Just stare down at him with cold blank eyes. Something hard and hot presses against Jason’s thigh. “Help me! Please, dad, help!”
But Bruce doesn’t help him either. Something sharp and painful hollows out Jason’s chest. When Roman finally forces his way in Jason screams and Bruce’s hand whips out and closes around his throat, cutting the sound off with brutal strength.
“Keep your fucking mouth shut, bitch,” Bruce snarls and Jason chokes, claws at his hand. Hot tears well in his eyes, streaking burning furrows across his cheeks. Roman is a bright line of pain inside him. It hurts. All of Jason hurts: his throat, his hips, his chest, his ass, and further inside, where the pain has no right to be.
And underneath the pain is an awful low coil of something too close to pleasure.
No. This isn’t right. Jason doesn’t want this. He fights against the heat blooming in his gut. Fights against the pain and the horror and the feel of unwanted hands against his skin.
If someone would just help him -
“Jason!”
Hands grip his wrists - too small, too slender to be Roman. Jason fights anyway, thrashing against the hold, snarling. Someone looms over him, holding him down. They’re going to hurt him. They’re going to fuck him and there’s nothing Jason can do to stop it.
“No,” he moans. “No, please, don’t.”
The figure pressing him into the bed shifts, their weight lessening, but the grip on his wrists doesn’t loosen.
“Jason!” And that’s Dick’s voice. Dick’s here and he’s going to let this happen. Horror constricts Jason’s throat. He keeps his eyes tight shut, doesn’t want to see the disgust on his brother’s face, the contempt. “Wake up, Jay. You’re OK. You’re safe. Wake up.”
No. That’s a lie. Roman’s free and he’s angry and Jason should have kept his fucking mouth shut like he was supposed to. He shakes his head. It rolls loosely against the pillow underneath him. There aren’t any hands on his neck. No one’s choking him.
The fingers around one of his wrists loosen, then there’s a palm against his cheek, cool and dry and Jason jerks away from the touch. Drags his eyes open. If this is going to happen, he’s going to fight.
Dick and Cass stare back at him, faces pale and concerned. It’s Cass’ hands around his wrists. Cass’ weight over his legs. There’s no Roman. No judge or jury. No agonising pain deep in his guts.
There is a low, hot ache in his pelvis. A shameful strain against Jason’s pyjama pants. Bile surges up his throat. He has to clench his jaw hard against the queasy turn of his stomach. How did he get hard to that? What’s wrong with him?
Jason lifts his now-free hand to his face and presses it hard against his eyes. It’s trembling. Cass sits back, letting go of his other wrist and Jason feels Dick shift closer.
“Hey.” Dick’s voice is very soft. “You’re OK, Jay. It was a nightmare. It was just -“
A hand lightly touches Jason’s shoulder. Before he can stop himself, Jason lashes out. It’s an awkward angle, with his legs trapped under Cass, Dick leaning over her shoulder, but the punch manages to catch Dick square on the chin. Snaps his head back, a tight, hurt noise bursting out of his throat.
Cass rolls away and Jason struggles to get his legs under him, to get his hands up. Something hurt and wild spikes through his chest. Dick’s hand comes up to cup his chin with a groan, but he doesn’t retaliate, doesn’t grab for Jason’s wrists like Jason half-expects him to. Just blinks at him in stunned silence.
“Jay-“ His voice is soft and slow, like he’s talking to an easily spooked animal. He lifts his hands to his shoulders, palms out. Jason hits him again.
This time, the blow lands heavily on Dick’s chest. Knocks the breath out of him in one long rush. Dick rocks back with the force, but his hands stay by his shoulders. He doesn’t hit Jason back. Doesn’t pin him to the bed, even though Jason knows he could.
So Jason hits him again. And again. Hits him hard enough to bruise. Hits him the way he should have hit Roman. And Dick just sits there and takes it, breathing raggedly between punched out gasps, his hands up over his face, even though Jason hasn’t touched him there since that first punch. Beside him, Cass is still and silent, watching Jason beat the shit out of their older brother with huge dark eyes, not flinching, not moving to stop him.
Finally, Jason lets his hands drop. His knuckles ache and his chest burns and he’s breathing in awful ragged pants. Dick sounds just as bad, his breaths shallow, each exhale hitched with pain.
Someone makes a soft sound, a half-choked sob and Jason can’t tell whether it’s him or Dick who makes the noise. There are tears on Jason’s cheeks, trickling over his jaw, splashing in fat droplets against the covers. Jason doesn’t know how long he’s been crying - maybe since the dream, or maybe the tears only started seconds ago. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know how long he’s been hitting Dick. He doesn’t know how badly his brother is hurt.
“I’m sorry,” Jason whispers and it’s so fucking inadequate but he doesn’t know what else to say. “God, Dick. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s OK,” Dick says quickly. He sounds out of breath. There’s an edge to his voice that’s definitely pain. “Don’t apologise, Jay. I understand. We surprised you. We shouldn’t have touched you like that. It’s just-“
“Heard you,” Cass interrupts.
Which means he must have been screaming. And it must have been bad if they had bothered to come into his room - if they had felt the need to restrain him. Those first awful weeks after - well, after, Bruce had spent almost every night waking Jason up from screaming nightmares, but Jason hasn’t needed that for a while. It’s embarrassing that he’s still getting night terrors like a baby. That he’s still waking his family up at god knows when at night. That he’s still not fucking over it.
“I’m sorry Jay. It sounded bad. But we shouldn’t have reacted like that.”
Something cold and bitter curls through Jason’s heaving chest. In that moment, Jason hates Dick. Hates Roman. Hates himself. It shouldn’t be like this. They shouldn’t have to treat him with kid gloves, like he might break if they do the wrong thing. They shouldn’t have to wake up in the middle of the night to Jason freaking out and not even be able to touch him. Dick shouldn’t be apologising when Jason is the one who hit him in the first place.
“‘Don’t apologise, Dick. I shouldn’t have hit you.”
“That’s OK. Seriously, I’m fine.” Then, quietly, unsure: “Can I - can I touch you, Jay?”
Jason hesitates. The memory of that awful dream is still crawling across his skin - like thick, greasy oil. And he’s still hard - he can feel the low ache of it in his gut. The thought of being touched curls something cold and sick through his stomach.
But he wants. He wants the comfort. He wants to be normal so badly it hurts.
“Do you want me to get dad?” Dick asks, when Jason doesn’t reply.
“No,” he murmurs and his voice sounds horribly small and hoarse. “You can...if you want…you can...”
He can’t finish the sentence - it’s too pathetic, too sad. Instead, he leans forward and presses his head against Dick’s shoulder, keeping a careful distance between their bodies. After a moment of hesitation, Dick’s hand comes up to gently cup the back of his head, not pulling him closer, just resting against his hair. Thin fingers thread through his where his hand rests on the bed sheet. Jason grips Cass’ hand back harder than strictly necessary, but she doesn’t complain.
The smell of Alfred’s favourite fabric softener is strong in Jason’s nose where it’s pressed against Dick. It’s grounding in a way that Jason hadn’t expected. There’s no stink of blood and sweat and sex. No sharp sting of Roman’s expensive cologne. He isn’t here. He can’t hurt him now. Jason’s free hand fists in the material of Dick’s shirt. It’s embarrassing, but Jason’s whole life recently is just one shameful thing after another, so he allows himself this.
“I’m sorry for waking you up,” he murmurs, against soft cotton. Dick tenses and Cass squeezes his hand hard enough to hurt.
“No,” she growls. Jason can feel the heat of her against his side, as if her anger is a physical thing. Then she lifts his hand and presses a kiss to each of his knuckles in turn.
For some reason, that makes Jason’s chest hurt.
“You don’t have to apologise for having a nightmare, Jay,” Dick adds. “You don’t need to apologise for anything.”
There are plenty of things that Jason should apologise for, he thinks. But, right now, he doesn’t have the words.
***
“Don’t you want to see the sentencing?”
Jason keeps his eyes on his breakfast. He isn’t hungry, particularly - not after last night. But he had to show his face in the kitchen anyway. If he didn’t, it would only make the others worried about him, and their concern is suffocating enough as it is.
“No. I don’t.”
“Why not?” There’s an edge of irritation to Dick’s voice, an almost-petulant whine. “It’ll be good for you to see him go down.”
“Dick,” Bruce murmurs, a quiet warning.
Both Dick and Jason ignore him.
“Because, Dickface, I don’t want to be there if he gets off!”
It’s louder than Jason had intended - matching Dick’s irritation with a rising anger of his own. Dick recoils, as if Jason had slapped him. There’s a strained silence that Jason feels close against his skin. He’s too hot. Stretched strangely thin, as if his skin is shrinking around him, not quite able to contain the thundering rush of his blood. He wishes Dick had left it the fuck alone. Wishes he hadn’t brought this up at the breakfast table where the whole family can awkwardly listen in.
“He’s not going to get off, Jason!” Dick snaps, as if Jason is somehow defending Roman just by suggesting it.
“You don’t know that. Just because you believe me, doesn’t mean anyone else does.”
“Of course they will! They’d have to be stupid -“
“Guilty people get off Scot-free all the fucking -“
“Boys!”
It’s the first time Bruce has raised his voice around Jason for a long time, and Jason can’t help his reflexive flinch - not when he already feels so raw and vulnerable. He regrets it as soon as he’s done it. Especially when Bruce’s face contracts, guilt flashing almost too quick for Jason to catch it.
“Let’s not argue, please. If Jason doesn’t want to go to the sentencing, then we’re not going to the sentencing.”
Dick subsides, pouting. Jason tries to tamp his own frustration down - Dick has good intentions. It’s the same reasoning he had given himself when he and Cass had watched the rest of the trial, Jason’s sure. But just because Dick wants to know what’s happening, doesn’t mean Jason does. If Jason could hole himself up in his room and clamp his hands over his ears and not have to know anything, he would. Sometimes Jason wishes he hadn’t said anything - that none of his family would know what had happened and he wouldn’t have to deal with the guilt and the shame and the anxiety of the trail. Wishes that it hadn’t fucking happened in the first place.
But it’s too late for that now.
“I don’t want to have to think about it,” Jason admits in a disgustingly small voice. God, he’s pathetic. “I don’t want to -“
The words die in his mouth. Jason picks up his spoon and twirls it between nervous fingers. He can’t look at Dick or Bruce or anyone. Has to swallow hard against his dry throat.
“We could stay in and watch movies?” Tim offers. It’s hesitant, but when Jason flashes him a grateful smile, Tim beams back. “Dick’s never seen Pride and Prejudice, you wanna watch it?”
Of course Jason does. Which is how they all end up in the games room, Pride and Prejudice playing on the projector that Jason had been stupidly in awe of when he had first arrived at the manor. Somehow Jason has ended up squished between Tim and Bruce on the comfy sofa. It isn’t bad, exactly, but Jason can’t help feeling a little claustrophobic with the press of them on either side of him. And even though there are enough chairs for an entire cinema, Dick is sprawled on the ground, his back against Tim’s legs, his own legs splayed out in front of him. At least Cass understands the concept of personal space, disappearing into a squishy bean bag a good few feet from Jason.
It’s both insanely annoying and strangely comforting to have them all there with him. Jason concentrates on the screen and tries not to think too much about it.
They’ve finished Pride and Prejudice and are most of the way through Shrek, when the phone rings. It startles Jason. Sends a little shiver of unease trembling through him. It’s the landline, which means that this is probably it. On either side of him, both Tim and Bruce tense and Jason has to fight hard not to tense himself. For a long moment, the phone rings into the silence, then there’s the faint sound of Alfred’s voice: “Wayne residence.”
A hand brushes against Jason’s. Jason keeps his eyes carefully on the screen. Doesn’t grab Tim back, but he doesn’t pull away either. When Alfred steps into the room, he can’t bring himself to look at him.
“Ah, there is a Detective Marsh on the phone for you, Master Jason.”
Jason doesn’t move. All of the air seems to have been sucked out of the room. Something hard and heavy has crystallised in his chest, pressing his lungs flat, pinning him against the couch. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. Panic balloons in his gut, surges up his throat, sealing it shut as effectively as if Roman’s fingers were still clamped around him.
Someone touches his shoulder. Tilts him forward, holding him steady with a firm grip. Another hand rubs slow circles across his back. Jason’s breath rushes in his ears.
“I’ll take it, Alfred,” Bruce says, sounding inordinately far away, as if Jason is underwater. The hand on Jason’s shoulder lifts away and Jason sags over his thighs, pressing his face hard against his knees. The hand on his back keeps rubbing. Someone brushes fingers through his hair.
No one tells him it will be OK. No one promises good news. Now, faced with the reality of it, Jason is suddenly acutely aware that it could just as easily be bad news. That, despite everything, Roman might walk free. The knowledge feels huge, as if it’s pressing them all flat and airless.
When Bruce steps back into the room, soft footsteps against wood, Jason gives in to the childish urge to cover his ears. Maybe if he doesn’t hear it, he can pretend they got the right verdict - that Roman was punished for what he did. Maybe he can pretend that everything’s OK again.
A hand touches his cheek. Then Bruce is cupping his face gently in broad hands, tipping Jason’s head back to meet his steady gaze. Jason lets his own hands drop, trying desperately to read the answer to his unasked question on Bruce’s face.
“They found him guilty, Jay,” Bruce murmurs. “He’s going to prison.”
The relief is so strong that Jason feels dizzy with it - a sudden snapping of tension that he hadn’t even realised was pulled taut behind his ribs. Stupidly, Jason feels the warm prickle of tears behind his eyes. Feels the vice in his chest loosen enough for him to suck in a gasping breath. An awful sob bubbles up after it. Bruce’s grip tightens. Against Jason’s back, Tim’s hand flexes.
“Of course they did,” Dick says, but Jason can hear the relief in his voice.
“Of course,” Bruce echoes, even though they all know there was never any of course about it.
“What was the sentence?” Tim asks, right by Jason’s ear. There’s a tightness to his voice that Jason wants to flinch away from.
The twist to Bruce’s mouth makes him want to flinch too. Only the warm press of his hands against his face keeps him still. Bruce’s eyes are dark with anger, but his voice is soft when he says: “Eight years with the possibility of patrol.”
Eight years. That’s...Jason isn’t actually sure how he feels about that. He’s well aware of how easily Roman could have got away with nothing - how many rapists go unpunished everyday. But, eight years… And probably less with parole. Jason tries to imagine it. How old will he be then? 27? Younger? The relief is tinged with a cold prickle of anxiety. The prospect of Roman walking free at any point curls nausea through his gut.
“Eight years?” Dick parrots. His voice is surprisingly cold. “For a violent rape?”
Jason does flinch at that. Bruce sighs, a warm puff of air across Jason’s face. Gently tugs him closer to press his lips against Jason’s forehead. Jason lets his eyes slide shut. Let’s the warm relief he had felt earlier rush back into his chest and smother the cold spark of fear there. Grips one of Bruce’s wrists loosely with one hand to keep him close. There’s very little room for fear with Bruce taking up so much of his senses.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce says when he pulls back. “I’m sorry he got off so lightly. He deserves to suffer for far longer than that.”
The way you’ve suffered, is left unsaid, but Jason hears it in the tremble in his father’s voice.
“Eight years isn’t enough,” Dick agrees, hard and angry.
Suddenly Jason is inordinately tired. It feels a little as though everything - the nightmares, the fear, the whole fucking trial - has drained the life right out of him. As if he’s just a used-up husk with everything vital ripped away. He slumps heavily against Tim, who grunts at the sudden weight, but wraps his arm around Jason’s shoulders without complaint.
“It’s something, though,” Jason reasons. “He didn’t get away with it.” Then, through a painfully tight throat. “They believed me.”
Tim’s arm tightens. Bruce reaches out and brushes a careful hand across Jason’s face. Jason tilts his head into his palm. His cheeks are damp, Bruce can probably feel it, but Jason can’t bring himself to care. He’s done enough crying to wring him dry - what are a few more tears?
“Of course they believe you Jason. And so do we.”
And that's all Jason can really ask for.