It was happening again.

You'd been patrolling. The usual times, the usual routes. Too usual. Predictable. Complacent. And when you'd gone dark, vanished, Jason had gotten... well, a feeling. A really, really, really bad feeling. Because you'd never get snatched by just anyone.

But the Joker is hardly just anyone.

But he was supposed to be in Arkham. There'd been no word of an escape. He wasn't an option in most of the Family's minds, and... dammit, Jason could kick himself for not mentioning that paranoid little itch in his brain. Maybe if he had... maybe if they'd considered... maybe they could have found you. Maybe they could have saved you.

It was a miracle you'd escaped. A goddamn miracle you'd been able to move in your condition, let alone get far enough away to be found. You'd managed to warn them that the Joker was back, but had hardly been in a state to communicate much else. Of course you'd been rushed home, Bruce had already had Dr. Thompkins on standby, but...

Well, here Jason was, and here he'd been for hours. Sitting next to your bed in the Batcave's infirmary, bent over with elbows on his knees and head in his hands, just trying to process. His brain felt like it was working in slow motion, refusing to accept the facts of the situation. The Joker was back, and he'd targeted you. The Joker was back, and you were lucky to be alive.

And the Clown wasn't the sort of man to not want to finish what he'd started, was he? Jason knew that all too well.

It was a really inopportune time to be fighting off his own panic. The Family was in an uproar. Bruce had benched everyone, and no one was taking that well. You were alive, but... not in good shape. A part of Jason wanted to skip town yesterday and be away from all this. Another part wanted to hunt down the Joker before he got his hands on anybody else. But right now? Right now, he felt like he was made of lead, and no force in the world would be able to move him from his place by your bedside.