Filled the "Go Through Me" square on my Bad Things Happen Bingo. Originally posted on AO3. No slash.

This is what Jason would call a horrible, awful shitstorm, and he's absolutely going to blame it on Bruce.

He hadn't wanted to go on patrol tonight. Even Bats take nights off, and he'd planned ahead for this to be his. But as usual, his best laid plans get screwed up at the last second. Bruce had asked him to come out since Cass is out with the flu, and so here he is, stuck in the sewers under Gotham, with two dumbass brothers in need of medical care, and also a crazed, man-eating Killer Croc.

At this point in his life, he really shouldn't be surprised by things like this anymore. And if he's honest, it's not shocking—just annoying. And kind of, sort of worrying. Dick has a concussion so bad he'll be benched for sure, and Tim's wheezing and coughing up blood. Their communicators are lost or covered in the sludge from down here. Rescue, therefore, isn't guaranteed.

Jason heaves Tim up on his shoulder again, knowing it's not good to put pressure on his stomach like this but having no other options. He would hold the kid bridal style, but the possibility of Tim choking to death on his own blood is too much. Plus, Dick is stumbling along next to him, cursing as he presses on his ear piece, and if Jason has to grab him, he needs an arm free.

"Anything?" Jason whispers, harsh and breathy. Dick shakes his head slightly, not even trying to talk. As it is, the movement clearly makes him feel sick, his face paling markedly under his domino. If he throws up, it'll be even easier for Croc to find them. "Just hold on," he says, hardly any sound to it.

Though it's been ages since he last went over the blueprints for the sewers, he knows his way around. There's a drain hole about half a mile ahead of them, and if they can just get there, then Jason can get them all the hell out.

Hurrying, he tries to be gentle for Tim, tries to keep in Dick's sight. Bruce will be pissed if he leaves one of them down here, and more than that, Jason will feel terrible. Killer Croc doesn't play around, and hurt as they both are, neither would be able to put up a good fight.

So fucking go, Jason, he tells himself. Keep going.

They're almost there when Tim suddenly starts punching at his back. They're weak, and he knows instinctively they aren't because Tim's mad he's being carried like this—no, they're a warning.

Quickly, he shoves Tim at Dick and herds them to a corner, where they fall in an exhausted, pained heap. Pressing his finger against his mouth, he pays attention to the sounds around them. Running water, creaks, Tim's wheezing, thunderously loud steps coming closer.

Dick's escrima sticks are bumping against the wall. All Jason's got are his two guns and a few knives. Bruce said they should be his last resort, and while Jason isn't in the business of actually listening to him, in this instance they're going to have to be. Bullets can ricochet, the knives won't do shit. Reaching out, he grabs Tim's bo staff, all folded up, and stuffs it in between his belt and his pants. Once he's certain it's secured, he grabs Dick's escrima sticks, taking a second to get used to them. It's been a while since he trained with them, but they'll have to do for now.

With that done, he moves away from them, glad they're hidden in the shadow. Killer Croc will still be able to tell they're there, but it's another layer of protection that Jason's going to use to his advantage. He leans casually against the wall, hands fisted in his pockets.

The lizard man comes slinking up to them, pausing a few feet in front of Jason. He stands to his full height, intimidating on his best days.

"Hey, Waylon," Jason greets. "Come here often?"

He growls, lip curling up. "Get outta the way, birdie. You're blocking my dinner."

Oh, if only some of the rogues could be better at this part of villainy. The monologues are important, don't they realize that?

Slipping his hands out of his pockets, he puts them on his hips, ready to whip out the escrima sticks. "Sorry, but Robins aren't on the menu tonight. Can I interest you in some ass kicking?" When Croc doesn't reply, glaring at him, Jason adds, "Or you could go back to your place down here and leave us alone. No ass kicking necessary."

"They're mine," Waylon replies, clearly giving no shits about what Jason is saying.

Whatever. Jason stands tall, heaving a sigh like he's disappointed. Like he expected better. It won't do much when the dude's this far gone, but it's worth a shot. "Then you'll have to go through me."

Waylon doesn't hesitate to lunge forward, claws aiming right for Jason's chest. They meet the hard material of Dick's escrimas, and Jason pushes him away, holding his ground. Again, there's no hesitation in the next attack, coming hard and fast for Jason's legs this time.

Jason fights him off, ignoring the sounds of his brothers. He gets dragged into the sludge, and he ignores that, too, just gives Croc his all. Those claws slash and nick him a few times, but it doesn't slow him down. One of the escrimas goes flying, the other broken in half, so Jason whips out the bo staff, spinning it in a way that always freaks out the bad guys. Having total control over a weapon like this one—it shows the wielder isn't to be messed with.

Well, it's not like Waylon didn't already know that before he decided this was a good idea. He hardly reacts to the show, moving in again and reaching for the staff.

Jason slams the side of it against scaly skin, taking the opening when Croc pulls his wrist back to his big chest. The flat part isn't pointed, but when Jason stabs it against his ribs, it sure as shit hurts. With a roar, he curls into himself. Jason wastes no time hitting him upside the head, the force enough to send him toppling.

Quickly, while he's dazed, Jason pulls out a tablet of sleeping gas, breaking under his nose. It's a new formula, and there's no telling how long it'll last, so after waiting a few seconds for Waylon to pass out, he heads right back for his brothers.

"You look like shit," he says to them both. And they really do—Tim is flagging dangerously, and Dick isn't any better.

Still, he helps Jason get Tim situated. "Good job, Little Wing."

"Yeah, yeah." He plays it off like his big brother's praise means nothing to him, even though that's far from the truth. Reaching out a hand, he helps Dick to his feet. "Come on, we're getting the hell out of here."

Tim groans when they start moving, but Jason takes it as a good sign—he's not dead yet.

It'll have to be enough.

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