Work Text:
Bruce panics. The batarang flies out of his hand, its trajectory now set in stone. He wants to close his eyes but he doesn’t. He can’t.
It will be okay.
It’s a desperate thought, but one he has to cling on for the sake of the mission. He took a calculated risk, based on data collected from a lifetime ago. Jason’s lifetime. The data says it will be okay. Jason always, always wears his collar.
A proper omega collar was the first thing the omega pup had dared ask Alfred buy him, during his first month at the Wayne Manor. When Bruce had found him that night and brought him home, Jason was a scrawny, malnourished thing swimming in his oversized, ratty street clothes - and of course, there was that neck brace. Old, yellow, dirty and frayed, meant for medical use but repurposed by a frightened pup as a tool to conceal his scent and to put one more layer, flimsy or useless as it may be, between a potential perverted perpetrator and his delicate nape. Jason had worn that collar in the Manor too until Alfred got him the new one.
Collars are considered formal accessories in today’s society, and a tad old fashioned. Usually made of fancy fabrics, decorated with pretty patterns or even jewels, they are meant to be worn on special occasions to accentuate one’s appearance if one seeks to be more ostentatious with a collar than a mere necklace. Most collars are made with breathable material that allows for one’s scent to permeate freely. After all, omegas at social events nowadays want to flaunt their scent, not hide it. It’s a free world, self-expression is not a crime.
But Jason’s collars were none of that. They were neutral in colour, paper-thin but sturdy pheromone-absorbent fabric that wrapped around his neck tightly from the base of his collarbones to just below the jaw. When he wore them, his scent was barely a blip.
When Alfred had gifted him his first such collar, Jason had burst into tears and hugged the butler for the first time. Such was the importance of a security collar to the pup.
He didn’t care if kids made fun of him for it at school. It was part of his permanent attire. He’d come down to the kitchen for breakfast already wearing one. Sometimes, he even wore his collars to sleep. It had taken so long for him to feel comfortable being around Bruce and Dick without one that Dick just had to make a comment the first time Jason showed up to their Christmas movie night bare-necked, and that had made the pup rush back upstairs to get it on, much to Bruce’s dismay. The only extensive time period Jason ever spent without a collar was when he’d broken his arm during patrol. He’d skipped a couple days of wearing it because it was a hassle to put on alone with one hand and he felt too ashamed to ask anyone else to help him.
As Batman and Robin, they both wore higher grade protective equipment around their necks. Rigid kevlar that could not only stop bullets, but incisors and fangs. Special pads over their scent glands that blocked their scent entirely. A spray of artificial, dominant pheromones on their capes and gloves to make the criminals start quaking in their boots before they’d even seen them.
“Why does Batman need a collar anyway?” Jason had asked one quiet night while they were perched on some distant rooftop where no one could hear. “You’re an alpha. Aren’t you… you know. A little embarrassed to be wearing one?”
“People might still try to bite me at an opportune moment,” Bruce had patiently explained. “Being an alpha does not exempt anyone from danger, Robin. And wearing a collar is nothing to be ashamed of, regardless of designation.”
Jason had frowned. “But alphas don’t go all limp like noodles if someone bites ‘em. You just get really angry. And scarier,” he’d added with a sniff.
“On the contrary. If someone bit me, I would be the one who’s scared.”
“Why?”
“Because if my hormones go haywire, I might be unable to make rational decisions on the field. I need to keep a clear head, always,” he’d said and laid a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder, “So I can protect you when you need me to.”
Jason had watched him with evident wonder behind his domino mask. “Can I ask you a weird question?”
Bruce had smiled. “Sure, go for it chum.”
“Can you promise… Will you promise that you will never, ever bite me?”
It had broken Bruce’s heart to hear how fragile the hope was in Jason’s voice.
“Robin, I would never bite you, not for any reason.”
“What if I mess up really bad and you need to punish me for-”
“No.”
“Okay, but what if I go crazy on fear toxin and attack people, or if I get mind controlled, or-?"
“No.”
“But what if-”
“No. Jason,” Bruce referred to him by name, disregarding the rules just for one night, “No matter what happens, no matter what you do, I will never bite you. I will never hurt you that way.”
“But-”
“I promise you, Jaylad.”
And Robin had fallen into Batman’s arms and cried.
"One day I want to stop wearing this stupid collar all the time!" he'd confessed while he wept onto the Bat symbol, "I'm tired of being scared! I'm tired of all the stupid alphas, and the stupid way the stupid world worlds!"
And Bruce had rubbed circles on the boy's back and told him: "It's your choice, Jay. One day you'll choose not to be afraid anymore."
"When?!"
"When it's safe for you to do so. When you're ready."
"Promise?"
"...Promise what, chum?"
"That it will get better!"
"Hn."
"Please! I don't want it to be a lie."
Batman had held Robin even tighter. "Like I said... one day it will be your choice, Jason. And I'll do everything I can to make sure you get to feel that safety when you're ready."
That was so many years ago.
But tonight.
Tonight… Batman needs to take down Red Hood once and for all. But Bruce promised .
I will never bite you.
And so, despite the many opportunities that presented themselves during their scuffle on the rooftops of Gotham, Batman never tried to peel away Red Hood’s turtleneck and collar to bite at the soft flesh underneath. Not that it would have done any good, anyway. Jason always wore the most secure collars on earth. It won’t come as a surprise if he’s glued it on this time. He doesn’t trust Bruce. He hates him.
Which brings them to now.
The Joker on his knees. The Red Hood without his helmet, face revealed and tears streaming down his cheeks as he grips the gun with a shaking hand, demanding that Batman, no, Bruce break his rule and kill the evil, death-worshiping garbage that took Jason away from this world.
Choose. Me, or the Joker? Choose!
Bruce hurls that batarang at his son but he miscalculates - his own hand was trembling, and the batarang is flying an inch over Red Hood’s arm higher than supposed to, towards his neck.
It will be okay. Jason always wears a collar. The batarang will just surprise him enough to drop his grip on Joker, then Batman can use the split second distraction to move into closer quarters and end this nonsensical fight once and for all. And then… He can figure out the rest after he’s apprehended the Red Hood and the Joker.
It will be okay.
Red Hood always wears a collar.
It’s going to be okay. The collar will protect him. It will, it will be okay.
It will. It has to.
The batarang lands its hit. The Red Hood taggers backwards, letting the Joker go. Batman sweeps in, wasting not a moment.
It’s okay, isn’t it?
Jason drops his gun before Batman can take it from him. He takes another step back, avoiding the hit Batman was planning, but - the detonator clatters to the floor, and Batman’s eyes follow it down only for a split second before flying up to the Red Hood’s face again and- Why is Jason making that expression?
The Joker laughs. Red Hood falls on his knees, gloved hands grasping at his throat with desperation etched across his freckled face. There’s liquid red coming out in spurts from between Jason’s fingers and it’s all wrong.
It’s not okay. It’s not okay, it’s not okay, it’s not okay, it’s not okay, oh God, that’s Jason, that’s his son, Bruce’s boy is bleeding out, he wasn’t wearing a collar, the batarang cut his throat, it’s not okay, he isn’t wearing a collar, it’s not okay.
The scent in the air is horrible. It smells like hurt pup. Jason’s an adult by now, all grown up, exuding the milky fear pheromones of a terrified child.
“N-no,” Bruce stutters. Batman never stutters.
The Joker laughs. The Joker always laughs.
Jason always wears a collar. Jason didn’t wear a collar tonight. Bruce promised.
“Hang on,” Batman says, reaching for emergency medical supplies from his belt, “Hang on, son. Please, hang on.”
Please don’t die because of me. Again.
Blood trickles out of the corners of Jason’s mouth. He’s grinning wildly at Bruce, his white teeth stained red. It’s a broken smile, a reaction to a tragic betrayal, so tragic it has become an irony.
And the Joker laughs on, and on, and on, because he too thinks it’s worth a laugh. But doesn’t he always.
“Hahaha! Well, collar me surprised! I believe this is the first time I’ve seen-”
Batman decks him across the face. It knocks the clown unconscious. He returns his full attention to his son, who is shivering from the bloodloss, wheezing as he struggles to draw air through the red clogging his windpipe.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce tells his son. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Jason tries to fist the fabric at Bruce’s chest, but his grip is weak. All it does is smear fresh blood across the Batman symbol. And that’s when Bruce knows, he can never don this costume ever again.
He wants to close his eyes but he doesn’t. He can’t.
When Jason wakes up cuffed to a hospital bed in the Batcave’s medbay, he doesn’t make a single noise because he can’t . His vocal chords are damaged beyond repair. It’s a miracle he’s still alive at all.
There’s a collar around Jason’s throat now, but it’s for medical purposes, (oh the irony of repetition) helping to support and stabilize his neck while a dozen tubes come out of the gauze around his injured larynx. As he is now, no one should even think of biting him. Yet you can’t count on people’s mercy, can you?
Batman is sitting in the chair next to Jason’s bed. In his superman pajamas and without the terrifying cowl of the Knight, the man looks simply old and pitifully tired.
“Jason? Oh, god. Jason, you’re awake…”
Jason frowns. He feels sluggish from the medication but he forces himself to turn away, as much as the collar will allow him too.
“I’m sorry,” Batman says.
Jason ignores him until he falls asleep.
When he awakens a second time, Batman is still there, gripping his hand tight. Jason pulls away with a disgusted sneer.
“I’m so sorry.”
A tear streaks down Jason’s cheek. He doesn’t want to cry in front of Batman and so he screws his eyes shut and pretends Batman isn’t there. He pretends he can’t hear Bruce crying alongside him.
Jason falls asleep again.
He sees Alfred, sometimes. Doctor Thompkins, too. They come to check on him, their words hushed and gentle, holding no animosity in their hearts for him. Alfred looks so terribly sad.
“I wish our reunion were under different circumstances, sir,” Alfred says with a sigh, and Jason isn’t sure if he means the injury or Red Hood’s actions.
Batman is always there when Jason wakes up. Sitting in that goddamn chair, the pile of books on the nightstand growing taller and taller as days come and go. Batman’s stubble is terrible. Does he ever sleep? Jason resolves not to care. Jason will sleep for as long as he wishes to. He will sleep in Batman’s face.
Jason sleeps a lot.
He wishes he’d stop waking up.
But wake up he does, time after time, after time. And the injury has long since become an excuse to stay in bed - they’ve taken out the tubes, it’s only the stitches and the gauze now, he can go. But there’s nowhere to go. And the handcuffs are still there.
Until one day, they’re not anymore. Jason wakes up and they’re simply gone. Batman still has the audacity to be sitting in the same chair.
Jason is under no illusion that he is free. He knows he will never be again.
He had inkling, ever since he was a sicky street pup who was brought into Wayne Manor. Back then, Jason had thought that Bruce Wayne, the eccentric billionaire, had nefarious reasons for kidnapping and wanting to adopt an orphan. Jason had thought that he’d never be able to fully escape him, even if he ran to another continent. Such was the power of money.
Then, as time went by and Brucie Wayne became Dad, Jason realised that there was no running away from this even if he tried his damned best. And maybe he wanted it. Maybe it was good, that there was someone to chase him to the ends of the world because they wanted him. Such is the power of family.
And after that, Jason had died.
And still, he hasn’t been able to escape Bruce or Batman. The man lives in his thoughts all the time. He’s part of Jason’s sorrow, as he is part of Jason’s joy. He is everything Jason hates and everything Jason wants. Such is the power of memory that shapes him.
Now, Red Hood is prisoner in Batman’s medbay, and his throat is cut up, and he can’t talk, and Bruce looks like shit and he looks so sorry. And once again, he can’t leave, no matter how much he wants to walk away from this and be done for good.
It hurts.
He wants to be free. Hasn’t it been long enough? Hasn’t he been through enough? He doesn’t want to care anymore. He wants to forget. Let him forget.
“Jason.”
The damn Batman won’t let him forget.
“Jason, I… I’m sorry.”
This again. Jason has heard this spiel a dozen times already. He hears it every time he wakes up. Alfred has taken to chasing Batman out of the medbay, but Batman somehow always sneaks back in. Duh, he’s Batman. There’s no stopping the Batman.
“...I thought you’d be wearing a collar.”
That, however, is the first time Jason hears of it.
He turns his head slowly to regard the man who raised him, who betrayed him, and who loved him enough to bring him here and patch him up, after he cut his throat open and took away his voice forever. A juxtaposition that will never be resolved.
“You always wore a collar, back then,” Batman is saying, his face in his hands, his voice wrecked. Perhaps he can’t bear to look at Jason anymore, can’t bear to look at his mistakes. Whether that’s the injury or Jason himself, Jason isn’t sure. “I assumed you’d be wearing one as Red Hood. I don’t understand… why…”
Holy shit.
Is Batman seriously trying to blame Jason for the injury? For not wearing a collar?
Jason grabs the glass on his nightstand and throws the water at Batman, startling him out of his stupor. Batman takes his hands off his face, blue eyes blinking wide and red-rimmed.
“Jason.”
Why so shocked, old man.
Oh right. Jason can’t speak.
He grabs the notepad Alfred left for him in the drawer. The pen is rounded at the end, the ink black.
I didn’t wear a collar , he writes, furious, ignoring the way his eyes sting already, because I was no longer afraid.
Batman makes a choked noise. Jason continues to write.
I trained so no one can ever hurt me again. I didn’t think I needed one anymore. I wanted to show you I am strong now. I wanted you to smell me, the real me, so you’d know how it feels.
“Jason. Jaylad…”
I didn’t wear a collar , Jason writes again, and he underlines it this time, because you promised it would be okay. And I, ever so foolishly, trusted that.
He takes a deep breath. Turns to a new page.
Well, collar me surprised , as your friend said.
“I’m sorry,” Batman whispers, his spirit cut down like Jason’s voice is.
But Jason doesn’t care for Bruce’s words, just as Batman doesn’t care for his. Dead men tell no tales, and Jason’s supposed to be dead anyway. Perhaps this is just the natural order of things. A delivery of poetic justice. Too bad Jason had to know the executioner. Familial relations always make that part awkward.