Note:

I've wanted to write something with both Jason and Cassandra Cain for a while now. This is my first (finished) attempt. I'm not really sure how I did, but I thought it was worth a shot.

I'm going to dedicate this story to my amazing best friends: Purplehood and Meritt, who are both unbelievably supportive and encouraging.

Disclaimer:

Batman and all affiliated characters are property of DC comics and don't belong to me.

His leg is broken.

That is something Jason understands with a sort of grim certainty.

Another wave of pain shoots up his leg. He can't quite help the moan.

Jason can't bring himself to move. He can't bring himself to move, but he knows he's going to have to.

He doesn't know how he's going to manage that.

Not with his leg the way it is, but that doesn't matter.

The Joker is here.

That's why he's here to begin with.

He'd know the Joker was here, but he'd rushed in anyways, so intent on finally ending things that he hadn't taken the time to consider what it was exactly that he was rushing into.

And now he's going to pay for it.

The idea of being trapped at Joker's mercy again is enough to make his blood run cold.

He turns his head, trying to get an idea of his bearings.

His ears are still ringing and lights pulse before his eyes, but he can make out the remnants of the catwalk lying several yards away from him.

There was a bomb planted under them.

It's almost funny.

The Joker certainly loves his explosives.

Jason can see the man who had been on the catwalk with him when it happened sprawled on the ground to his left. The man isn't moving.

All in all, Jason is lucky that he's even conscious right now.

He can't see the Joker, but, then again, he doesn't exactly have the best vantage point here on the floor.

Jason squeezes his eyes, fighting back the wave of pain and panic.

He's on the floor. He's on the floor and it's cold and he can't move and it hurts.

It's all too familiar.

He even had a damn explosive.

Deep breaths. In and out.

Jason works to calm himself, but it's only partially effective in calming him.

He wants to believe that he can get out of this, but he knows he'd only be fooling himself.

And he left that kind of hopeful optimism behind him years ago. Right after his first death.

Screwed up again, huh, Jason? a treasonous voice in the back of his mind whispers. Batman will be so disappointed.

No.

Jason refuses to let his thoughts go there. Refuses to dwell on the man he once looked to for rescue, but who he learned long ago would never come.

"We-ee-ell, boys, look who decided to drop in on us!" The voice that speaks is the same one that has haunted Jason's nightmares since the day he reawakened in the pit.

The blood in his veins is no longer cold.

It's become like ice.

So tell me… which hurts more?

No! He won't allow himself to go there. He can't afford to let himself sink into that abyss.

Jason opens his eyes- an enemy you can't see is all the more dangerous.

The face, the grin that meets him. The same one he saw night after night. Lips peels back-the smile is more predatory than anything else.

Jason will never forget it-no matter how much he wishes he could.

"If it isn't my favorite little birdy." Joker steps over his prone form almost daintily before squatting next to him. "Heard a rumor that you and Batsy might be dropping by. But here you are. All alone. No Bat to save you. Just like last time." He taps a finger against Jason's forehead. The boy snarls at the close contact, shoving his hand away and working to scramble back.

His leg might be undeniably broken and he might be sore and aching in a multitude of places, but that doesn't mean he won't fight this.

He doesn't get far before hands are on his arms, twisting his flesh in their grip as they pin him down.

Jason jerks against the hold, but it doesn't do him any good.

Joker suddenly grips his chin, digging his fingers into the boy's flesh, forcing Jason to look directly into his eyes.

With his other hand, the Joker reaches back, unclasping a folding knife.

Jason's eyes widen in panic, sure of what's coming, and he bucks once more against the hold, but with his wounded leg, he can do nothing more than cause himself more pain.

The Joker doesn't seem to notice Jason's renewed struggles, instead tapping the knife against his chin.

He grins then, tilting his head to look down at the boy. His eyes hold no wildness, but rather a savage sort of glee. "I've always considered you to be my greatest work," he murmurs more to himself than to Jason. He brushes Jason's hair away from his forehead. "A pity I never got to sign it before."

He brings the knife forward, tapping it against Jason's cheek.

Jason's eyes widen and, realizing what Joker means to do, he strains once again at the men holding him down. "No!" he gasps out between clenched teeth.

Isn't it enough that he has to carry the Joker's mark on his soul? If he has to carry it on his body as well, displayed prominently where anyone can see it… If he had to be reminded of it every time he saw himself in the mirror…

The pain, the risk of injuring himself further, no longer means anything to him and he thrashes in the men's grip, determined not to allow the madman to mar him further.

The man on his left is not expecting the renewed struggles and so Jason gets his fist free. Violently, he lashes out, swinging at the Joker's face, but pain has dulled his reflexes and the Joker is far quicker.

Laughing, he pulls back and the henchman grabs his arm once again, twisting it painfully in his grip and slamming it back against the floor.

Jason stifles a cry, but, when the Joker leans over, pressing weight down on his injured leg, he cannot help the half-strangled noise that escapes his lips. He can't fight the tears that spring to the corners of his eyes and squeezes his eyelids shut.

He can't let Joker see his weakness.

"Always such a fighter," the Joker sighs, as he gradually lessens the pressure, but does not let up completely.

Jason gasps as Joker presses down again. This time, he manages to hold in the cry that threatens to come forth.

The Joker grips his chin again. The cool tip of the steel blade rests once again just under his left eye.

Jason jerks back, or tries to, but there's nowhere for him to go. The Joker's weight is still on his uninjured leg and, with his other leg crippled the way it is, there's nothing for him to do.

A line of fire starts just beneath his eye, spreading down his cheek. It's followed by a trickle of warm blood.

He chokes, trying to turn away with the realization that the Joker is literally cutting into his face.

The knife is suddenly pulled away from his face and Joker lifts his head up till he's a mere few inches away from the Joker's own visage.

"You shouldn't move," the Joker hisses. "You keep messing me up!"

He drops Jason's head back down and the back of his skull bounces off the concrete with a sharp crack.

A galaxy of stars bursts across his vision and when he finally blinks it clear, the Joker is once again pressing the knife against his flesh.

The point travels downwards, moving the line of fire.

Then it stops.

There's a sound of shattering glass and the hands are suddenly removed from his arms, and Jason immediately reaches up, wrenching the Joker's hand away from his face, eyes flying open, and is surprised when retribution doesn't immediately follow the action.

He's aware that the henchmen have left his side, flinging themselves at some new arrival.

Batman.

Jason is almost sure it's him, but he can't bring himself to look. Suddenly, he's tired. So, so tired.

Joker has yet to leave his side, and Jason can't tear his eyes away from him.

But then the madman laughs, loud and wild, the sound grating against Jason's ears.

Illogically, Jason wants to shut his eyes tight, anything to shut out the soundtrack that played the day he died. But blocking out the light won't block out the sound and he needs to know where the Joker is.

Ignoring the shrieking pain in his leg, he pushes himself up with his hands, scooching back away from the Joker.

Pain shoots up his leg again and, for a moment, he whites out, dropping himself back down on the cement.

Then he's aware of the Joker's voice. "... decided to leave the bird boy high and dry after all!"

Jason's eyes flicker away from the Joker and then he sees him.

The Batman.

Bruce.

The man is closer than he originally imagined, shoving away the last henchman with a punch to the jaw. The lackey groans, makes one attempt to get up and falls still.

The other lies in an unmoving heap on the ground a little ways away.

Strange. Jason could have sworn there were more. The explosion wouldn't have taken out anymore than the one on the catwalk with him went it blew.

Which means Batman has to have taken them out already.

The Joker suddenly lunges forward, surprising Jason by making the first move. He flicks the knife out at him.

Batman lunges to the side and the knife knicks his armor.

Joker attempts to compensate, but Batman grabs his wrist, twisting it to the side. There's a sharp crack and the knife clatters to the ground, even as the Joker howls in pain, the sound punctuated by fractured chuckles.

Dark spots are dancing before Jason's eyes. He's not sure how long he's going to last before his hold on consciousness fails, but then Batman flings the Joker away from him.

A shadow falls over his face, blotting out the light, and the Batman is beside him.

His hands hover for a moment, as if their owner is unsure where exactly he should start.

"How badly are you hurt?" he asks. His voice is rough with an emotion Jason doesn't care to name. Not right now.

"My leg," Jason croaks.

He hates how weak his voice sounds.

More than anything, he still wants to keep face in front of this man, this man who had once been something of a father to him.

A gloved finger brushes past the bloody wound on his cheek and he flinches against the stinging pain the contact brings him.

The hand instantly draws back, before coming to rest on his shoulder and giving what is meant to be a comforting squeeze.

"I need to lift you, Jason." The voice speaks again, but this time, it seems so much further away.

Jason doesn't care anymore. He just wants out of this damn warehouse.

And so he doesn't protest.

Then the arm slips under his back… and under his leg.

As soon as he's lifted up, the pain transitions to unbearable.

Jason can't hold back the cry as his back arches beneath him.

And then, mercifully, the light fades and he finds himself being swallowed by the abyss.

He doesn't protest.

When Jason wakes up, the first thing he notices is the pain. Or rather the absence of it.

The second thing that registers is the warmth.

Slowly, he cracks his eyes open.

He's in the Cave.

Of that, he is certain.

At first he thinks that he is alone, but then he catches sight of Bruce. The man is slumped in a chair he's evidently brought down to keep watch, but somewhere along the line, he's succumbed to exhaustion and still he sleeps.

No doubt Bruce had no intention of falling asleep.

Jason's lips quirk up at the thought.

But then he reaches up, fingers brushing his cheek.

There's a bandage there.

He remembers what the Joker did, how he left his mark.

His fingers tremble and he reaches down, clutching at the bedsheets in an effort to control them.

He doesn't want to be left with that reminder forever.

Jason tries to sit up-he doesn't want to stay here anymore, but then he remembers his leg.

He's not going to be going anywhere for awhile.

Still… maybe there's a crutch lying around somewhere. He doesn't think he'll make it far before he's caught and brought back, but Jason has never been one to not try anyways.

A look around the room where he lies reveals no crutch, nor anything he could use to aid his departure.

Jason frowns. He wouldn't have put it past Alfred-or even Bruce-to have known what his first waking thought would be and to remove all helpful items from the room in response.

"You're awake." Bruce's voice to his right startles him, though he's loathe to admit it, and his attention snaps back to the man in the armchair.

Bruce is sitting up, looking very much alert.

In fact, the only thing that suggests that only moments ago he had been asleep is the tiniest bit of hair sticking out at an odd angle towards the back.

"I could say the same for you," Jason retorts. He crosses his arms. And then he jerks his chin towards the top of Bruce's head. "Your hair," he says simply.

Bruce looks puzzled for a mere moment, but then his hand flies to his head. He runs his hand over his hair before finding the stray tuft.

He makes several attempts to pat it down, but the stubborn hair stays in place.

Finally, giving up with a frown, he turns back to Jason.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Fine," Jason says shortly. He's sure Bruce doesn't believe him. He doesn't believe it himself.

Jason feels the urge to bring his fingers once more to his cheek, but he clenches the bed sheets within his fists harder as a result.

Bruce's eyes move to his face and Jason grits his teeth.

He can read the judgement there. He knows what Bruce is thinking.

Jason screwed up.

Again.

He doesn't need to be reminded of his failure.

Again.

"It's likely it won't scar." His next words take Jason completely by surprise. He'd expected judgement. Condemnation.

He stares at Bruce, working through what he just said.

"The mark," Bruce answers, looking Jason steadily in the eye. To Jason, it feels uncannily as if Bruce has read his mind. "The Joker didn't finish what he started."

Jason falls back against the pillow, his mind reeling.

He didn't finish. The Joker didn't finish.

"There may still be a scare," Bruce finishes, "but it won't be what he intended."

That thought is one that fills Jason with an immeasurable amount of relief.

He allows his fingers to explore the edge of the bandage and his eyes find Bruce's again.

Bruce is watching him, something unreadable in his face.

Jason drops his hand to his side, balling it into a fist.

He doesn't want to stay here anymore, leg or no leg.

Jason pushes himself back up.

"I need to go," he says. "You need to take me back to my apartment."

Bruce frowns at him. "Jason, you're hurt."
"So?" Jason challenges. "I can take care of myself."

He's taken care of himself before. He's no stranger to broken bones and he's no stranger to mending them on his own, alone in his apartment.

In fact, he prefers it that way.

"Jason…" Bruce begins. "You shouldn't have to…"

Jason ignores his words, searching for a way to best swing both his legs over the side of the bed.

With the cast, moving is going to be difficult, but he'll hop on one leg if he has to.

Jason isn't prepared for the small, thin hand that landed on his shoulder. Nor is he prepared for the quiet voice that commands him all the same.

"Stay."

Startled, he turns his head and finds himself looking into a pair of dark eyes that seem to be burn through him in their intensity.

"Cassandra…" Bruce starts, but Cassandra speaks again.

"Please."

The word somehow has all of Jason's stubbornness draining away like someone has pulled a plug.

"I thought you were in Hong Kong," is all Jason can think of to say.

"I came back," she says simply.

Jason can't help being just a little sarcastic. "You came back just for me? That quick?"

"Don't be silly." Cass narrows her eyes, but she's smiling and there's mirth in her voice. "I was already here."

She hasn't removed her hand from his shoulder and so Jason, slowly, allows him to sink back down till he's resting against the pillow once more.

Only then does Cass take her hand back, but she stays standing at the bedside, almost as if she's keeping vigil.

"You shouldn't have to take care of yourself," Bruce finishes his previous statement. He doesn't drop his gaze from Jason's face, maintaining eye contact steadily.

Cass steps around the bed, almost bird-like in her movement, until she's perching on the arm of Bruce's chair.

She stares at him silently.

Finally, Jason ducks his head down, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

He grasps the bedcovers again, running them between his fingers.

Then he swallows, working his throat in an effort to get the words out. "Thank you," he says. His voice has an odd choked feeling to it. He doesn't want to admit to just how terrified he had been in those moments before Bruce had showed up.

Jason swallows again. His throat feels unaccountably dry. "For coming," he finishes.

Bruce sits still.

Cassandra stirs, almost as if she feels uncomfortable intruding, as if she should leave.

In the end, she stays where she is.

She's looking at him, looking at him as if she knows his heart, and he drops his gaze again.

A warm hand clasps Jason's own.

Surprised, he looks up and sees that Bruce has reached over, covering Jason's hand with his own, much larger one.

Jason is too startled to jerk his hand away and, as if he's aware that that thought has crossed his mind, Bruce grasps his hand all the more earnestly.

"Jason, I…" He pauses, his thumb running over Jason's knuckles. The motion is oddly soothing. "I would never be able to forgive myself if I didn't make it on time."

His throat thick, Jason stays silent.

Bruce gives his hand a squeeze.

Then his hand drops away and he stands.

Jason looks up, puzzled.

"I think someone else has been waiting for the chance to talk to you," he says, by way of explanation.

Giving Jason's shoulder one last squeeze, he departs.

Jason's protest dies on his tongue.

Cassandra slides down into the seat, scooting it closer and leans forward.

For a moment, she seems simply content to study him.

Jason frowns. He's never been comfortable with people staring at him like some sort of lab rat.

"Something interesting?" he finally asks, raising an eyebrow.

She sits up straighter.

"Shouldn't doubt," she tells him. She reaches out slowly. Her fingertips brush gently against his hand.

A chill runs down his spine and he furrows his brow. "What are you…?"

"He cares," Cassandra says carefully.

Jason frowns.

Her speech patterns, childlike in their simplicity, might lead some to assume that the third Batgirl and adopted daughter of Bruce Wayne-his sister- is slow. Jason, however, knows that's not the case.

The girl has the uncanny ability to read people in a manner far deeper than anyone he knows.

Which isn't saying a lot.

Jason isn't exactly a social butterfly.

But he's been around.

And he's never seen anyone to equal her.

Not even during his time with the League of Assassins.

Her gaze leaves him feeling open and exposed.

"You don't," her brow furrows deeply as she tries to think of words to best convey what she's trying to tell him, "you don't see him."

Jason blinks at her, because there has to be more to it than that.

"Really see him," Cassandra clarifies. "When no one… no one looks. He doesn't want…" she hesitates, "...people to see how much. But… I see. He cares."

Jason suddenly feels uncomfortable, but before he has a chance to dwell on that further, she places her small hand over his and offers a tiny smile.

"Don't get hurt," she tells him and there's a hint of mirth in her eyes. "He'll go crazy."

Jason can't help it.

He laughs.

"He'd probably tear his hair out," he adds, grinning.

Cass smiles, wide and bright, and she giggles.

"Yes," she agrees and her fingers curl around his hand.

When she looks back at him, she looks particularly mischievous. "He'll lock you up," she tells him. "To keep you safe."

Jason snorts. "He can try," he says. "But you'd help me, right?"
Cass doesn't answer right away, but he thinks that the strange glint in her eyes is answer enough.

"You'd help him?" he asks in disbelief. "I thought you were on my side!"

Cass still doesn't answer verbally, but her grin splits wider.

Jason continues to gape at her and she pats his shoulder consolingly. "It would only be," she says impishly, "for a little while."

She holds out a thumb and forefinger together, signifying the small amount of time.

"It won't be at all!" Jason says fiercely.

For a moment, he struggles to get upright, but Cass holds her hand against his shoulder and Jason gives up without much of a fight.

He lays back against the pillow and glares at her,though… admittedly without much ire. Bed rest is something he despises.

Even-no, especially- at his own apartment, treating his own wounds, he can never bear to spend much time in bed, resting only when it's physically impossible for him to do anything else.

However, with his leg and with Cassandra's presence, he has to admit that there's little chance of him managing to make it elsewhere.

He could, he supposes, have a chance if Cass would help him.

But one look at her tells him that that's completely out of the question.

Cass looks at him, serene and completely unrepentant.

"If you get hurt," she tells him seriously, "I will hurt you."
Jason decides that maybe he really shouldn't be so surprised to hear such threats coming from her.

She reaches over and brushes a strand of hair away from his forehead.

If it had been Bruce, Jason would have slapped his hand away, likely with some very choice words.

But, because it's her, he lets her without more than a growl in protest.

Her eyes rest on his cheek for the briefest of an instant and he sees them darken, but then the look is gone.

"Rest now," she says, taking his hand again. "I'll stay."