Jason laid back against the windowsill in his bedroom. The cool glass against his back, the fire in his veins, his mind was anywhere but here. He tried to not think of Catharine, but she always popped into his mind when he was doing this. He couldn't help himself. Literally, there was nothing he could do. He had a few broken ribs he guessed, nothing major, hopefully no internal bleeding. He wasn't a surgeon, and he'd rather die here, foaming at the mouth, than ask Bruce for help.
He could feel his body relaxing as the fire subsided, pumping the blood slower now. The pain was gone, the fire had burned it all away. He blinked a few times and clenched and unclenched his fist. Pulling the needle out of his arm, he avoided looking at the new hole he had made. He could remember being a boy, seeing the same marks on his mother day in and out. He didn't understand then, maybe he still didn't, maybe he was just in denial.
It was the third day of this, and he could feel himself starting to not feel the medicine as much as he should. It probably wasn't the best idea to go on patrol with an already broken collarbone, but he wasn't going to let his city go to shit as easily as the Batman did. He pushed those memories away, preferring to live in the fantasy he created with his mother, when he was a boy. He liked to imagine he had a normal childhood, like Tim had. He envied Tim, in that way. Jason sacrificed everything to clean up the city, to do good. He sacrificed his family, and his own life, to be better, to do what the others couldn't. Tim had never experienced that loss, that pain. Jason envied his happiness, his ignorance.
When his arm stopped bleeding, he got up off the window sill and sat back down on the bed, stretching and flexing every muscle, making sure everything was still working. He had promised himself a long time ago that he wouldn't turn into his mother, but it seems there is no running from prophecy. It was in his DNA. He would never be one of them.The adopted family, where everyone was loved and cared for, and had a roof over their heads. He gave everything he had for that family, and now where did that leave him? Sitting in a safehouse, with morphine running through his veins, alone.
He stumbled into the kitchen, and grabbed a bottle of Jack from the cupboard. He wasn't suicidal, but he wasn't stupid either. He knew mixing alcohol with opiates was a bad idea, but he didn't care. He felt more alone than he had in a while.
Jason took a swig directly from the bottle, letting the liquid warm his insides. He missed his mom. He wanted to talk to her again, just for a minute. He wanted her to hold him against her chest, the way she did when he was little. She could make him feel safe, nothing would get to him. When he got older, he realized the danger wasn't outside, it was inside her. Itching for a drink or a hit, she dulled herself to the point of never wanting to come back. The world was a dark disgusting place, and she knew it. If she could see him now, she would be disappointed.
He put the bottle down and sat at the kitchen counter, looking outside past the patio, into the dark Gotham night. Out there, where the world was in black and white, he had a purpose. He didn't mind getting his hands dirty, and in honesty, he enjoyed the finite-ness off it all. He enjoyed the endings. The closing of a life, the finite end to someone's story.
When he was trained by the League, he was taught how to kill. But they taught him to be compassionate. They taught him everything about the human body. What parts will make a person talk, what parts will put someone out for good. They taught him in a way Bruce never had.
Tonight had been different, he supposed it was always difficult when the target won't defend themselves. Sure, Marone had sent his goons after Jason, but down at the very end, it was just the two of them. Just Jason and his target. Marone had laughed, in a sort of gleeful defeated way. More like, he had been expecting this to happen, and he was ready. Ready to die.
Jason talked with him for a while, delaying the inevitable. They shared a drink, and then Jason put a bullet in his brain. He knew how to do it so they felt no pain, so it was quick. Marone didn't need to be tortured, and for his willingness to die, Jason felt the only courtesy he could give was to make it quick and painless. Taking a life was more intimate than sex, taking a life needed willpower and empathy. With Marone's last words in his head, he took another swig of alcohol.
He knew he owed Marone nothing. But he wanted to find his family, tell them he had loved them. That it was painless, he didn't suffer. Jason felt he was cursed with a conscience. He gazed out into the night sky, the ache coming back to his ribs and collarbone. He took a sigh and walked back into the bedroom, kit still on the windowsill where he had left it.
Jason sat back down against the cool windowpane, taking a deep breath and feeling the ache in his lungs come back more. He was still fuzzy from the last round, but he thought if there was any pain at all, he deserved to do the only thing that helped. He didn't care if he OD'd here. It would be fitting really. At least he could do it by himself this time, peacefully, and not in a warehouse filled with explosives.
He focused on his hands, cleaning the syringe off with antiseptic before plunging it into the glass bottle. He lifted the bottle upside down and pulled a good amount into the syringe. He added a little more than usual, hoping it would let him sleep. He hadn't had decent sleep since he left his coffin. He pulled the syringe out and set it down, ritually cleaning his arm and putting the tourniquet around his bicep. He took another deep breath, looking out over the Gotham skyline, the sun was almost starting to rise.
As the ache in Jason's lungs intensified, he watched the needle enter his arm, back in the same vein he used before. He absentmindedly thought he would have to switch arms once it collapsed. He pushed the stopper down slowly and felt the fire creep up his arm to his shoulder. Once the medicine was in, he unwrapped he tourniquet and the fire shot into his heart like an bulelt. He could feel the fire, pumping with the blood before it spread to every part of his body. He could feel the fire in his fingertips, in his head, deep in his bones. He dropped the needle to the ground and stumbled to his bed.
He collapsed down, not bothering to clean the trail of blood dripping down his arm. He could feel his eyelids growing heavy, and a small panic inside him screamed, not yet! I'm not ready to go just yet!He took in a deep breath and felt his body melt down into the sheets, as his heartbeat started slowing. He didn't really care, anymore.