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Since he came back to life he’s been cold. Sometimes he thinks he can remember what it was like to be a kid, a little, living kid, in his old, wrecked apartment with Catherine, scrambling around Crime Alley on his own, dozing in the Wayne library later on. What he remembers about it is the warmth. It was a warmth he hadn’t known about at the time. All those nights that he had smoked to make up for the cold winter air, how he had felt like his fingers were freezing off, how they were so cold they went numb. Even then, when he was shaking out of his duct-taped boots, there had been an inherent warmth to his body. Something that he couldn’t feel but that was just there.
He doesn’t have that anymore. He looked it up, once, and apparently the earth settles at around 55 degrees Fahrenheit at a depth of around six feet under ground. So even when he was lying prone and lifeless in his coffin he must have been warmer than he feels now, up and walking again, some sort of damned, expired shade that doesn’t really belong in this realm. The cold probably comes from the Lazarus pit. Not enough people have been in one to say what it feels like. When you’re first submerged, you think you’re boiling alive because it’s so excruciating. And then, when you start contorting and writhing and screaming, you realize that it isn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever felt, it’s the coldest. They probably feel the same. Like pain.
“Hood!” Dickface sounds alarmed. Jason realized that he’d been sitting quietly against the side of the building. He’s bleeding. He hadn’t even noticed the pain of the bullet--he’d been too busy thinking about how damn cold he was. He lifted his hand from his shoulder and it came away covered in blood. He can feel the bullet still, somewhere deep inside of his tissue. The metal is hot compared to his flesh. He reached for the wound with his other hand--he was going to dig the bullet out--when Nightwing grabbed it. “You’re just going to cause more damage,” he said. “Come back to the Cave and I’ll do it.”
Maybe a few months ago Jason still would have bristled at the idea of just ‘going back to the cave,’ and bristled even more at Nightwing’s blase attitude surrounding that concept, but he’s stopped spitting with so much anger. It started when he ran into Roy Harper, of all people, in civilian clothes at a coffee shop off the highway--Harper had been going South and Jason had been going North--and the other man had taken a hard look at him and said you know, you’re never going to get rewarded for your suffering, in a very matter-of-fact tone, like he knew because he knew, and even though Jason had rolled his eyes and taken his shitty Americano to-go, the words had stuck.
He resigned himself to stop suffering, only for his own sake, and when he did, he realized it was harder, much harder, to be accepting than it was to be angry. He did it anyway, or he tried, because his anger never changed much of anything. It had never been enough. So he just nodded and made his way back to his bike, shrugging off Dick’s offer of a ride. He’s had worse injuries than a bullet to the shoulder, God knows. If Bruce was surprised when they both pulled into the Cave, he hid it well. He must have just gotten back from patrol, himself; his hair was wet like he’d just showered and he was typing up a report on the computer. He stood up when Jason staggered off his bike, feeling a little woozy from the blood loss.
“Want help?” His voice was gravelly but hopeful. Jason was relieved when Dick glanced between them and said,
“I said I’d do it.” Because as irritating as Dick was, he had developed an understanding of how important to Jason keeping your word was: Dick had said that Jason should come back to the Cave so he could take the bullet out, and that was what Jason had agreed to. He would have let the old man do it, Jason thought privately, but it was good for Dickhead to practice the value. Still, he could tell that Bruce was listening and watching their every move even if he was pretending to type.
“It’s pretty deep,” Jason warned, setting his jaw and preparing for the sharp pain of the forceps digging into his wound. Dick braced a hand next to the wound and paused, forceps lowering, face twisting in surprise.
“Are you cold? Your skin is--”
“Forget it, Dickhead,” bit Jason, impatient. “The bullet, please.” Dick blinked but returned to the job. Fifty seconds later, the bullet was extracted and deposited into the trash.
“Do you think you might have hypothermia?” Dick’s face was still twisted. He was confused, and not about to let Jason brush him off. He reached for Jason’s skin again, but Jason swatted him away, reaching for his discarded shirt. “Wait, we still need to clean it and stitch it.”
“Yeah, well, my doctor’s getting handsy,” retorted Jason, pulling his shirt back on and standing up.
“I assure you, Master Jason,” said Alfred, rounding the corner of the medical section of the Cave. “This doctor refrains from improper bedside manner.” Dick shot Jason an entirely unapologetic apologetic look and retreated, heading towards where Bruce was parked in front of the computer to give a report on their smuggling case. They’d busted the bastards. It had been a simple gig. Jason was honestly a little embarrassed that he’d gotten shot at all. He glanced up at Alfred, who was prepping a cotton pad with alcohol, knowing his wound was about to sting like a bitch. And it did, and it wasn’t pleasant, but the burning was like some faint mirage of warmth. Jason almost felt himself relaxing into the sensation. Alfred stilled at his side and he quickly stiffened again, lest the man think he was some kind of masochist.
“Thanks,” he said when Alfred stepped back.
“It is my pleasure. And it would also be my pleasure, my boy, if you stayed the night and joined us for breakfast in the morning, but of course, don’t let me stop you if you have other, perhaps more amorous plans…” Jason flushed and rolled his eyes. Dick and Damian had started joking nonstop about some offhanded comment Harper had made about a Star City tabloid that claimed that Red Hood had ‘BDE.’ It was ridiculous, considering that Jason and Roy had spent maybe all of fourty-five minutes in the same room, but his brothers took it and ran with it. Huh, Jason realized belatedly. His brothers.
“Sure, Alf,” he said finally, offering a wry smile for the man who helped raise him. “Only if you make french toast.”
*****
His room in the manor, these days, is different from the one he used to have back when he was Bruce’s son and the manor was his home. He had been horrified to find that Bruce had preserved it entirely, not a single thing out of place. It just made it all the more clear that he was the thing out of place. He felt awkward and large in that room. It belonged to a dead boy. The first time they ever convinced him to spend the night, when he’d gotten so injured fighting Killer Croc that it was either telling them where his safehouse was or crashing at the manor, he’d looked Bruce in the eye and said “I will never sleep in that room again, so you’d better find somewhere else for me.” Alfred had prepped a guest room on the other side of the hall, and it had unofficially become Jason’s new room.
Jason huffed in surprise when he walked in: Alfred had been at work, and now, in addition to the bed, desk, and dresser, there were two large bookshelves stocked with classics. Austen, Burney, Dickens, Hardy, James. The titles went on and on. He wondered if Alfred had brought them up from the library, or if he’d gone out and bought new copies just for Jason’s room. Knowing Alfred, it was probably the latter. Jason took a moment to admire the craftsmanship of the bookshelves. They were handcrafted out of wood and stained dark, simple but solid. Alfred had also put a vintage record-player on his desk, a black satin comforter on his bed, and a large cactus by his window. Alfred was good at what he did. And he clearly knew Jason, Jason thought appraisingly--the Jason that Jason was now, not the little-boy Jason that died. It was still minimalist, but it didn’t feel like a guest room anymore.
The adjoining bathroom was also fully stocked with toiletries and shower supplies, including a eucalyptus bodywash, which was heavenly. Jason turned the shower knob as far as it would go and stood under the boiling torrent for almost an hour. He knew from experience that it was a dumb move. As soon as he got out of the shower he would feel even colder than before. But it was worth it. It was so worth it. It was scalding. It was heavenly.
He turned off the shower reluctantly, wondering fleetingly if he could just sleep there, just lie down on the tile floor and leave the water running over him. It was a tempting thought. But his muscles also ached, and the mattresses in the manor were much better than anything Jason would ever procure for his own apartment. But oh, it was cold without the steaming water. Even peeling his towel away from his body to pull on sweats was almost unbearable. Jason clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from clattering against each other uncontrollably, and then flicked off his light and dove into bed.
The new comforter Alfred got him was soft and feathery, but it wasn’t warm enough. Jason brought his knees to his chest to warm his feet and pulled his blanket around his head like a hood. He hated this posture as much in the manor as he did in his own apartment. It made him feel young and vulnerable. If anyone walked in he would die from shame. He’d had that thought on more than one occasion, the rueful one that if a drug kingpin ever busted him in his apartment and caught him like this, he would just let them end him. This would usually warm him up enough to fall asleep, but that blasted shower had been too good. There was no respite from the pervasive chill. Jason threw off his covers with frustration and marched over to his dresser, pulling out another pair of socks to put on over the ones he was already wearing.
Ten minutes later, he realized that it still wasn’t enough, and that he would either have to find something more drastic or resign himself to staying up all night. He made his way into the hall, thinking that another blanket (or two, or three) might help. The manor was still--everyone sleeping--so Jason didn’t turn on any lights, not wanting to wake anybody. He fumbled over to the linens closet and searched with his hands for something soft and thick. Then Damian’s stupid dog ambled over and licked his ankle, which Jason wasn’t expecting, and he dropped his phone, which he’d been using as a flashlight. He cursed softly under his breath and bent down for it, but someone else’s big hand was already there, brushing against his own. Jason resisted the urge to jump with all of his might and pulled back to see Bruce, who was in plaid pajama pants and an undershirt, blinking down at him.
For a moment, they just stood there staring at each other, phone on the ground between them.
“I didn’t hear you,” said Jason finally, voice still low. “Why do you have to walk around like Batman inside of your own damn house?” Bruce chose to ignore the question.
“Are you cold?”
Jason stood there stupidly again. He didn’t want to say yes. But there he was, rummaging through the closet full of blankets. What did Bruce freaking think he was doing? Bruce noted his hesitation and amended his question. “You’re cold. Your hand is freezing.” Aw, shit, Jason realized. When they’d reached for his phone their hands had touched. He reached for his own forearm, just to check. Yeah. His fingers were ice, even against his own cold skin. Bruce tracked the movement with observant eyes.
“My room is cold.”
Bruce’s eyebrows twitched, but he didn’t comment, which Jason was grateful for. He picked up his phone, swallowed, and turned back to the closet, grabbing the closest blanket he could find, which was a thin fleece and not at all what he had set out for. He sent Bruce a thin-lipped smile that felt and probably looked more like a grimace and turned back to his room.
“Wait,” Bruce grunted, reaching into the closet. Jason hesitated, turning around again. “Take this one.” The blanket he gave Jason was heavy. “It’s down,” Bruce said finally, by way of explanation. “Warmer.” Why was it, Jason wondered, that Bruce turned into a caveman around him? Not that he could really criticize the older man. He did the same thing.
“Thanks,” he said. “Night.”
“Good night,” said Bruce, following him down the hall. For a moment, Jason bristled, wondering why Bruce was tailing him, but then he remembered that his new room was on the same side of the hall as Bruce’s. He must have woken the man up and drawn him out with his fumbling.
The blanket Bruce gave him, in addition to the comforter Alfred got him and the thin fleece he’d hastily pulled from the closet, his sweats, and multiple pairs of socks, was almost enough to feel warm. Jason still curled onto his side, but was able to forgo the blanket hood. He tucked his hands under his armpits and closed his eyes, trying to forget about the temperature of his body and just sleep. But then the door to his room opened, and he frantically straightened out and pushed himself up on his elbows, ignoring the sharp ache that the movement sent to his shoulder. He sagged in relief when he saw Bruce’s awkward form hovering near the door, but then hardened in anger again.
“Why are you fucking come in here?”
“Sorry,” said Bruce, sounding appropriately subdued. “I just--”
“Trying to give me a fucking heart attack.” Bruce hesitated, and then Jason realized he was holding something big. “Okay, you can come in. Thanks for knocking.” Bruce stepped further into his room.
“I like your cactus.” Jason almost flopped back onto his pillows in frustration. He was glad he didn’t, though, because he was able to watch Bruce’s face as he took in the stack of blankets on his bed. A few emotions flickered over Bruce’s face--confusion, sadness, resignation--before he stepped closer to Jason’s bed and put whatever bulky thing he had in his hands on the floor. “I brought you a space heater. And--” Bruce tossed something soft at Jason. It hit him in the face before he could grab it. He sent Bruce a warning look--a don’t you dare fucking laugh at that glance, he could see the smile playing around the other man’s lips--and picked up the item, which was a huge Wayne Enterprises hoodie. He just stared at it in silence until Bruce said, “I wasn’t sure how many clothes you had here.”
“Okay. Thanks. I don’t really need it, but it’s… nice.” Bruce nodded.
“Good. Can I plug this in?”
“I can plug it in,” retorted Jason with no bite. Bruce nodded again, but still moved towards the outlet and then knelt by the machine, fiddling with the buttons until it beeped on.
“What temperature do you want it on?”
Jason hesitated and then said, defensively,
“The highest,” daring Bruce to say something about it. He didn’t. He just hummed in acknowledgement, pressed a few more buttons, and stepped back.
“Okay. Let me know if it’s not enough.” Jason almost snorted at that but bit his tongue. It would never be enough. This bone-cold dread would never leave his body. It was his curse for coming back.
“Great,” he said instead, and Bruce nodded one more time and left. Jason spent a second debating how humiliating it would be for him to actually wear Bruce’s hoodie, but he eventually relented and pulled it on over his sweatshirt, swearing to himself that he’d take it off before going downstairs in the morning and no one would ever know. It was soft and worn and it smelled like Bruce, all smoke and amber. Jason’s eyes suddenly felt heavy. Not because of the stupid hoodie or any Freudian psychoshit. Because it was late and the little space heater actually seemed to be making a difference. Jason suddenly felt the urge to pull the drawstrings of the hood tight and enclose himself within its soft quietness, but he didn’t get the chance. He was--finally, blessedly, and for once!--out cold.