Two massive hands punched through concrete and brick and rebar and drywall, the material of his nearly unscratchable gauntlets riddled with scrapes and tears. But through the chaos of detritus and rubble, there was a crack of light that shown through, snapping the darkness in half and replacing it with the grateful face of a father who would have done anything for this particular son.

Once Bruce saw him, heard him, touched him, he knew he could get through this. They would both make it out alive.

"Easy," Bruce hummed, his voice a low balm to soothe Jason's obvious panic. "Easy, son, I'm right here." In any other situation, Bruce may have used the fear advantage to add in something like Daddy's here, but he was altogether too horrified by what he was seeing to focus on anything but saving Jason. That came first, his desires always last. "Give me your hands. That's it." Bruce calmly walked Jason through it, shouldering the weight of the rubble and easing it aside so he could grip Jason's arms firmly and haul him up into the light. "Watch your head," he added, cradling it on Jason's way up and out and then not giving a shit about what it looked like or if Jason might fight, he pulled Jason into him and held him tight. The black shadow of his cape, filthy from the rubble, whipped around them and covered them like a blanket. "I've got you," he promised. "I've got you."