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Jason was dying again, and he knew it.
There was nobody to blame but himself, really. He'd been stupid to even let himself get shot in the first place. Red Hood had dropped down on a group of four human traffickers. It should have been fairly simple, and it was. He took out two of them with well-aimed head shots before they could start to react, and was twisting towards the third when the last one pulled his own gun from an ankle holster. Jason had missed that in his visual scan of the group.
Sloppy.
And now he was paying the price for it. Bleeding from a hole in his stomach as he watched the two remaining traffickers flee into the night. Jason managed to crawl across the dirty asphalt and prop himself up against the brick wall of a building lining the alley, feeling the life slipping out of him with every heartbeat. It was painful, too—a searing ache penetrating deep inside him, making him nauseous and cold and shaky and hurt. So, so much hurt. Jason had been shot before, but they only ever grazed him, or just struck a limb or shoulder. Not his torso. Not like this. Like this, he could barely even move his clumsy limbs, let alone stand or fight.
Instead, he just blinked at the corpses of the two traffickers he had managed to take down. Who would find them, he wondered. It wasn't like Jason could call them in like he normally did. Some unlucky passerby would discover three bodies in the morning, and wouldn't that be a lovely surprise.
His gaze shifted upwards, towards the sky. The stars were beautiful. They twinkled behind the clouds, tiny pinpricks of light that didn't care about Gotham or the sorry fates of those doomed to its borders. Calming, in a way, to realize how insignificant he was in the end. Even if Superman failed to save the Earth one day, the universe would keep on turning, unless it was one of the villains who could destroy reality but that wasn't Jason's problem anymore. All he cared about was the moon and the pitch black darkness beyond. So much nicer than the ceiling of a warehouse. Jason supposed that if he had to die, this wasn't the worst way to go. Much better than the last time, at least.
And then a figure cloaked in shadow appeared on top of a building at the edge of Jason's vision, and his heart sank. No more hope of fading away peacefully—well, as peacefully as an agonizing bullet wound could be—in the night. He'd recognize that silhouette anywhere.
So Bruce had come to watch him die.
He wasn't overly surprised, to be honest. Bruce probably relished the karmic injustice of Jason being shot by the very people he'd tried to kill. "This is why we don't use guns," he'd say, ripping the pistol away from him. As if Jason could have done more with his fists than a bullet. …Not like it mattered now, though.
There was a whoosh of fabric, and Batman swooped down in front of him. Jason grimaced as he tried to shift more upright. Fuck him and his self-righteous rhetoric. Damned if Jason was going to look as weak as he felt in his final moments.
"Red Hood," Bruce said, his tone indecipherable. Jason decided it was probably hiding contempt.
But he was too weak to lift his arm to flip him off, so instead he just pressed his lips together. Anything to try and distract himself from the pain still radiating up within his core. Every breath sent more of it coursing through his body, draining his willpower and life in the same blow. He could feel the bullet still lodged inside him. He wished he couldn't.
Bruce knelt down beside him and placed a hand over the wound, putting pressure on it. Whether to try to staunch the bleeding or to make it hurt worse, Jason wasn't sure. Then Bruce reached up to unlatch Jason's helmet. "You're bleeding," he said simply, taking it off and setting it on the ground beside them.
No fucking shit, Sherlock. Jason vacantly looked back at him, wishing he had the strength to roll his eyes.
Bruce had turned to scan the alley, no doubt mentally putting together what had happened. There were two fresh bodies lying there, the traffickers Jason had sent to Hell. And Bruce was too smart. He'd know Jason had been the one to kill them. Another bullet point to add to the long list of reasons he hated Jason.
Jason himself was beyond caring by now. Silently, he pleaded for Bruce to just leave him alone and let him die in peace. He really didn't want the last thing he ever heard to be a lecture.
But instead of starting to tell him off for the deaths, Bruce simply sighed and nodded solemnly. "Jason," he said with a tight voice—not Red Hood but Jason—"Brace yourself; I'm going to pick you up now. We're going to Leslie's."
What? Jason was stunned, genuinely confused by this turn of events. The shock was almost enough to make him forget the agony in his stomach as he was scooped up into strong arms that held him close. This was all so… Bruce was supposed to hate him. He was supposed to let Jason bleed out as the consequence of his actions, Batman's greatest failure dealt with for once and for all. No more annoying Red Hood, no more Crime Alley drug lord bumping into Batman's turf. Bruce had hurt him in the past, with Batarangs and fists and cruel words. He wouldn't help him now. He couldn't.
Channeling all the energy he had left, Jason forced himself to form a single word: "Why?" It was raw, choked with pain both physical and not, and so quiet that for a moment he wasn't even sure if Bruce heard it.
But he had. "Why?" Bruce echoed after a moment, carrying him with a barely-controlled urgency towards the Batmobile. Jason almost thought he saw a tear slide out from the bottom of the cowl, but maybe it was just the reflection from the streetlights. "Because you're my son. And I’m not giving up on you."