Author's Note: Fluff is not something that happens between Jason and Bruce, even when the former is in bed with a concussion. This is probably as close to fluff as it gets. Just to clarify, Jason is bad-ass and freakishly strong as Robin in my mind. This story demonstrates these capabilities quite aptly in the opening section. His resilience is depicted in the second section. Depenant on response, I may publish further chapters. Enjoy.

Endgame

My dad used to beat me. Clichéd right? It's like 'man up kid; that happens somewhere every day in the world', 'don't be such a pussy'. And I'm fine with that. He only beat me because I was being a little prick. He never laid a hand on my mom, not once; have to respect a thug for having that kind of restraint. Now, I'd do anything to have those kinds of punishments back. My dad only ever beat me with a belt; at present, five guys are trying to crack my skull open with lead pipes and tire-irons. They're pretty good at it too; I can feel the fuzz starting to creep into my vision. Where's Robin's back-up while this is going on? The big guy's tied up with half-a-dozen heavily-armed drug barons inside a warehouse. Yep, I'm in this impromptu batting session alone. I'm probably gonna die if I don't do something really clever in the next thirty seconds. Okay, Jay-Jay, think clever thoughts…

I think I had an idea just now, but another frankly terrific blow to my head knocks it clear out the park. Intelligence is off the menu; let's try violence. I begin by dodging the incoming hit and driving my foot head-on into the nearest kneecap, shattering it. I then miss another closer of a swing to drive an elbow into the guy's ribcage. The wet snaps I hear in the aftermath, tell me I've broken a few. Another swing and a miss and that's three strikes. I use whatever energy or focus I have left to launch an all-out assault. The world is starting to spin, but I'll probably manage these assholes before I have to get off the roller-coaster. The three guys left standing aren't so tough without back-up. I dislocate the furthest one on the left's jaw before ducking a strike from his friend's tire-iron. Instead, the iron finds dislocated jaw's face and cracks his cheekbone and orbital socket.

Before tire-iron can understand what's happening, I've fired an elbow into his stomach to bring him lurching forward and then driven an elbow down on his collar bone, breaking it emphatically. Dislocated jaw is out cold and tire-iron is going into shock, so they're not playing any more. It only leaves steel base-ball bat, a man who resembles a gorilla more than a human being, to save the game for his team. He's winding up…he chops at my head with a wild swing…and…MISS! He tries again and another huge miss! When he attempts a third spin of the dice, I parry the strike and counter with three powerful hits of my own, courtesy of borrowing tire-iron's equipment. I start with the knees, move to the lower back and then finish him off with a herculean blow to the back of the head, mindful to miss the base of his skull. When his body falls to the concrete with a sickening crunch, I drop the tire-iron and stand with my arms aloft…I am the champion, I am the champion, no time for losers, 'cause I am the champion…of the world.

"Suck it, bitches." I tell whoever's still conscious before staggering off, half-concussed towards the warehouse. I can still hear gunfire and defiant shouts; I guess the big guy needs back-up…typical. I don't know where he is or what condition, but let's be honest; Robin's a distraction in this scenario, not a participant. With that kind of in mind, I wander through the main door onto the warehouse floor. The gunfire stops abruptly, leaving only the echo of my footsteps to break the quiet.

"I took care of your all-star batting line-up outside. So who wants to try next?" I shout, wiping my mouth when I realize blood is seeping out. My knees want to buckle right now. I'm waiting to be diced with bullets, but none come. The only thing that drops down from above is Bruce. Before I can fall, he catches me.

"The bosses have been incapacitated." He informs me, like I care.

"Did I buy you enough time?"

"Yes, I was close enough so that it only took a three second window of opportunity to disable their number. Well-done."

"Whoopee…praise." I offer sarcastically before blacking-out.

"He should be dead, Master Bruce."

"But he's not, Alfred. That much is immediately apparent. How bad is the damage?"

"Not severe enough to induce a coma, I'm happy to say. Given four weeks, perhaps six, he should be recovered enough to allow further patrols."

"He's remarkable, isn't he?"

"How many men did he defeat in this condition?"

"Five, all in possession of a highly muscular physique and competent fighting background. I doubt even I, in that state, would have bested five opponents in such close proximity without assistance."

"Yes, well, in future, Sir, do not leave him to fend for himself in such a dangerous environment. An additional hit could have resulted in permanent brain damage."

"We were separated; there was little I could have done to prevent it."

"I'm sure, Master Bruce. He is stable enough to be transported now."

I wake up and the room swims into soft focus. Wowee, I took a hell of beating there if the room's swimming. It's daytime as far as I can tell and nobody's in the room with me. When I try to move, my hands feel like they're caked in sponge and aren't being all that helpful. I look over to my bedside table and see the glass of water. I reach over for it, concentrating hard to secure my fingers round it. Picking it up proves to be a really bad move as I manage to drop it on the floor. The smash of glass or crystal or whatever rich glasses are made out of alerts someone; a rush of footsteps is approaching the room. Al bursts in.

"Master Jason! Are you alright, young man?" He asks in a voice that sounds hazy and distant to my ears. I gesture to the mess on the floor.

"Broke it." I manage to say. My mouth feels like it's filled with cotton. Definitely got the mother of all concussions here. Luckily I got the mother of all nursemaids here too in Al. The old man immediately lies me back down in bed and pulls the covers up to my chin.

"You need rest, young man, plenty of it. Do not move." He tells me, smoothing my hair against my forehead in that way usually only mothers do. I don't mind; it's only Al.

"Feel rubbery." I tell him only to be told not to talk. He informs me he's off to get pills and more water. "No rush." I say despite his repeated insistence I clam-up. He disappears for a while and I think I fall asleep until he comes back. He lifts my head up for me and places the medicinal cocktail on my tongue. I swallow it without the water, but Al forces some down my throat anyway. "Bruce?" I ask when he's about to leave the room.

"At work. He will return in a few hours. I shall inform him to come see you." Work huh? His kid's practically in a coma at home with some pretty bad injuries and he's gone to board meetings; that tells you everything you need to know about our personal relationship with one another in a freaking nut-shell. Whatever…I go back to sleep.

"Jason?" I wake up to find the room a little more high-definition than before. Bruce is also looming over me in his business suit, a black Armani number with a silver tie. I bought him the tie on Father's Day as a joke; this guy's the furthest thing from a father I know of. I want to offer him a wave, but still find my limbs lacking motivation.

"Al says no talking." I respond my mouth feeling less like a fudge factory and more like it's filled with watery porridge.

"I see. It's okay, we don't have to talk. Would you like to watch a movie?" This is weird. We don't have the same taste in films at all. This guy likes the Marx Brothers and I like The Three Stooges; we couldn't be more different. No thanks on movies, rich boy.

"Tom and Jerry." I offer to earn a frown.

"The cartoons?" He checks like he doesn't know what I'm talking about. He knows Tom and Jerry; he's not THAT old. I nod anyway.

So, for the next four hours, we watch Tom and Jerry cartoons. I used to watch them with my mom when I was a real little kid…before she had cancer. I used to love them…still do. I fall asleep a few times, but the cartoons are so short, it hardly even matters. Bruce stays the whole time. He doesn't say anything, but he's here at least.

"Damage?" I inquire after three-and-a-half hours of silence. Bruce doesn't spare any details.

"Aside from your concussion, you've sustained two broken knuckles, a split lip, three cracked ribs and aggravated your back. Alfred estimates a month or longer for full recovery."

"And the case?"

"Closed, largely in part to your efforts. As I said before well done."

"You can go. No need to stay." Seven words, both complete sentences…not bad. My head hurts like hell from the effort, but not bad.

"Do you want me to go?"

"No. But you do. I can tell." I need to calm down; I'm getting a little bit too lively for my own good. The big man sighs.

"Do you really believe I hold you in such low regard?"

"Yes." Okay…need to stop talking now before you just torch whatever crappy bridge is left between the two of you.

"Perhaps I should leave then." I feel him shifting his weight to get off the bed. My arm finally finds my brain's message and latches onto his wrist. It's a girly grip, but he knows if I could, I'd really squeeze down on it.

"Sorry. Pissed off you didn't help me." I offer to try and rescue the situation. All this conversing is making me dizzy. He stays on the bed. I feel his hand on top of mine, squeezing it. Score one for Jason.

"I regret ever placing you in such danger. If it could have been avoided or if I could have intervened sooner, I would have. Please believe me." He sounds sincere enough. I nod. He smiles at me. "All this talking taking it out of you?" I nod again. His hand runs through my hair in one of the most affectionate gestures I've had off him in months. "Then go to sleep. I'm sure you'll feel better tomorrow. We can have a proper conversation then if you like." I manage one more nod before closing my eyes. And then one more sentence before falling asleep.

"Bring booze."