Jason isn’t used to being careful. He doesn’t usually have to be; the wolf can recover from anything but silver, and only the old hats like Cobblepot (and Deathstroke) have ancestral weapons for fending off lycanthropes. So when the needle pierces his skin, he rips the dart out without a second thought. He expects the nausea brought on by whatever they tried to tranq him with to peter out within seconds.
It spreads, pervasive and slow, wreathing his limbs in lethargy and he stumbles. He hits the ground with a gasp, and Tim calls out to him as a familiar, aching pain flashes deep in his gut. In his bones. His teeth are growing too big for his mouth.
Jason breathes in through his nose, reedy and thin. Claws burst through the tips of his gloves as bullets whiz past his head. He wrenches his head up, dizzy, and stares at the crescent moon in disbelief.
This can’t be happening. The moon isn’t full. He’s looking at it now. It’s a pale sliver, barely reflecting the sun’s light, weak and impotent through Gotham’s smog. It’s not full.
Tim is at his side, urging him up with one of Jason’s arms over his shoulders. They stumble away from the fight, leaving Nightwing and Robin to cover their retreat. Jason cries out as his muscles seize and tendons snap, fur bursting in itchy waves over the skin beneath his body armor. They don’t get far before Jason collapses.
“Red,” he gasps, mangling the codename with his incisors, and he wants to cry. He might be; his vision is blurring, and bloody at the edges. “Get… get away. You have to—”
“No. I’m staying with you.”
“I’ve got you,” Tim insists fiercely, and Jason rakes his eyes over his face, memorizing him while he can. “It’s okay. You’re not going to hurt me. You’re not going to hurt anyone.” As the pain crescendos, Jason wants desperately to believe him.
