I've been obsessed with Jason Todd (Who isn't?!) Lately and after enough fluffy stories, I wanted to write something dark?! I hope this is alright, every character is probably incredibly OOC and I'm sorry for that!
I went mostly off the movie, with a few tie-in nods to the comics (Pre-52); also, in this fic interpretation, I imagined Bruce's parents' graves not at the same cemetery as Jason's-I imagine they're on the Wayne property, but that's just my interpretation for this story.
Warning: This fic could be seen as triggering. It does delve into some self-destructive and suicidal thoughts and actions. I'm not sure if some will see it as offensive or dark or if others will think my warning here is 'over-hyping' and when you read the fic, it's rather underwhelming. But, I wrote from a depressive and suicidal experience and I'm sorry if anyone finds offense or disgust by this because of that.
There's also cursing. And, again, I'm sorry if I completely mangled these characters! And the A/N at the end is really long! Sorry~!
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters~!
0:09
Tick.
You think you're in a hopeless situation, and then suddenly you know you are. Suddenly, it's no longer "I can't get myself out of this" with the hope that "but maybe someone else can". Now, it's purely, "I'm not getting out of this."
It's the fastest existential crisis in human history, and it occurs to the teenage boy who has the rare privilege of knowing exactly how he's going to die and when.
0:08
Tick.
His death will occur in eight seconds. In eight seconds, the world will right its wrong. Because, he really should have been dead years ago. He was a runt on the streets that stole for survival, and sure, it got him to the age of thirteen, but it wasn't going to get him this far. No, dumb luck and a coincidence-fate- screwed him over and he made the most incredible first impression to the man that would have this boy cheat death for a few more years when, really, he should've died a long time ago, either by pure malnutrition or the natural violence that fell on Crime Alley like snow each winter.
0:07
Tick.
How had he not heard or seen the explosives before? Did toggling the door set them off? The ticking is the loudest thing, suddenly, and even his mind is clearing, leaving nothing but the echoing residue of each tick that passes; of each second of his life counting down to his demise. He doesn't think about all the things he didn't get to do-some people like to spend their final moments crying over their regrets. "I wish I'd have visited this place" or "If only I'd told her how much I loved her".
Those people normally weren't the same ones to put themselves in the situation that was causing their death.
No, he had put the gun to his temple the moment he'd disobeyed orders and he'd pulled the trigger once he'd ran off on his own. He'd contributed as much to his own death-constructed it-as the Joker had.
0:06
Tick.
For being a kid 'full of hatred', as many liked to describe him, he didn't feel any hate right now. He knew Bat...Bruce. He knew Bruce wasn't going to save his hide this time. That had been established three seconds ago. He knew the clown had won this time-again. The Joker...he'd caused enough pain, enough demise and damage.
He should really be hating the Joker right now, but he's calm. Because he knows, he feels, that this isn't just his end. This...this, surely, will convince Bruce to do the right thing. Put down the Joker. He and the Joker signed a death warrant tonight, and while he may be meeting with the reaper a bit earlier, he was certain the Joker was soon to follow.
Bruce would make sure of it.
0:05
Tick.
Another tick, another second. He tries to imagine what the burn, the explosion, will feel like, for the brief moments where he is still alive enough to feel and sense, but stops himself. Why imagine? Why set standards? He'll find out in five seconds anyway…
He wishes he had some profound thought to end his miserably short life on. If he had a will, it'd be just as blank. What did he have to leave behind? The legacy of being the second, and lesser, Robin? (Children shouldn't be fighting this war, he realizes. Children shouldn't be made into soldiers. Sure, he and Dick maybe were exceptions, but he reasoned with himself after this, Bruce wouldn't make the mistake of thinking everyone- every lost and lonely kid who needed a purpose or justice- could be taken under his wing, suited up, and thrown out into the fray).
This was, again, normally where people thought of their regrets-things they wished they'd said. But, he was drawing a blank. He had nothing to say to Dick-they weren't on terrible terms, but he was just Dick's replacement-his shadow. Whatever he said, it didn't matter. He'd just let Dick think up what he'd imagine the younger boy would've said to him if he'd had a chance for final words; that would help him sleep at night, or not. If he was smart, he'd let the knowledge of knowing that his killer was dead (Bruce was going to avenge him. Bruce was going to finally kill the joker; if his death meant anything to Bruce, Bruce would finally do what had been needed to be done) be satisfaction enough and he'd move on just fine.
Maybe he regretted not having seen Alfred one last time. He could really go for a glass of Alfred's lemonade right now.
0:04
Tick.
He thinks of every adventure, every fight, he's been in; been a part of. For a kid who should've died on the same harsh streets as his father, in the same twisted way as his mother, he'd done well for himself. He'd lasted this long. So, this...this death...it seemed right.
Now, all he had to do was worry about Bruce actually making it here-he didn't want his avenger to be caught up in the blast with him.
Luckily, he only had four more seconds to worry about that.
0:03
Tick.
Make that three.
And Bruce...Bruce had done so much for him...Maybe he wishes he could have said some last words to Bruce. Something like "Thank you" or "You were right" or even "I forgive you", because the teen knew Bruce would think this was his fault. It wasn't.
He relaxes his eyes, closing the left one completely because who is he kidding, it was already swollen and blind in the first place, and because he's tired. He's been beaten and he's fought this long, this far, but there's no winning. There's only waiting. And he stops thinking about the "What ifs" because there's no point. Those things he'd say to Bruce? He won't get to.
0:02
Tick.
These are his last moments of life. Pain in every muscle and bone in his body, bleeding profusely-hell, he's welcoming death at this point. Alone, in his torture chamber of a warehouse. The only noise or sound of comfort being the countdown clicking of the timer. His eyes are focused on the explosives, the wiring. He's literally staring death in the eye-and it has three, red eyes that blink every second.
Shouldn't he have started praying by now?
0:01
Tick.
He spits some blood that's gathered in his mouth. It leaves behind the taste of copper. Get him, Bruce. Silence that damn clown's laughter for good, are Jason Todd's last, comforting thoughts.
0:00
Tick.
When you're dead, time stands still. Rather, time stops existing. Time is a concept and to the dead, it's a meaningless one.
All that matters to the dead?
If anything mattered to the dead, it was that they stayed dead.
That they stayed in the casket they were supposedly buried in, at the foot of a gravestone that reads their own name.
The dead belong dead.
They don't belong standing in front of their grave, reading the engraved name that they share.
He doesn't belong here.
Here Lies Jason Todd
Four words; a lie. A lie that should have been a truth. Jason should be lying here, in peace. He should be exactly where this marbled tombstone proclaims he is. He shouldn't be standing above his own grave-he should be in it.
Here Lies Jason Todd
He should be dead, but so should that clown. He was given this second chance at life to right the wrong.
Right?
That's what he'd thought. He should be dead, and so should the Joker. One of them, at the very least, needs to be.
He clenches his fists, still staring at those four words.
Here Lies Jason Todd
The Joker should be dead. He wishes the Joker was dead...
But the truth is he's the one who should be dead.
The tombstone is proof of that. It's a lie, but it shouldn't be.
He should be dead.
He's wiped out of all databases; deceased aren't on record, don't have finger prints or priors. He has no family-blood or adopted or anything. He doesn't even have a purpose anymore.
His big plan? The vengeance? His elaborate game of chess where he, he, had moved the pieces and arranged them all into place.
And he lost it. The scar on his hand was proof of that.
He had nothing.
And only the dead have nothing.
And he should be dead.
The earth underneath him is fresh, dug up and piled again. He wonders if there's a casket underneath him still, or did Bruce remove it when he realized this was an empty grave?
But why keep the tombstone up? Why waste an empty spot?
Because it wasn't empty. Or, rather, it shouldn't be. It was waiting.
Waiting for someone to fill it.
And it just so happened that the tombstone had picked the person.
Jason did have one thing left, it turns out.
Jason pockets his hands, even though his left is throbbing still and he can feel the stitches coming out, and turns his back on the only thing he does have-his grave. He's beyond being 'on borrowed time'.
He already had an expiration date, was thrown out, and yet he's back.
It's always raining in Gotham-it's a light drizzle right now, but he doesn't bother putting up his hood.
It's not like anyone will recognize him-the only one who could isn't looking for him. And to everyone else?
He doesn't exist. He's dead.
Once he passes the cemetery's gates, the grass changes to concrete. Puddles form on the sidewalk and the rain taps onto them.
Tap. tap. tap.
Tip. tip. tip.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It's always there, ringing in the back of his mind. The ticking; the countdown. He thought it was a side effect, from the damage of dying and being resurrected. The last thing he'd heard when he was, properly, alive would be revived with him.
The ticking from his memory that served as a countdown to his death.
But, now he understood why the ticking stayed with him from the moment he was reanimated.
It's the countdown to his death.
And it's running out of time. He is running out of time-time that, again, is beyond borrowed by now.
Tick.
The rain drips on his face, his shoulders. It's light, but walking long enough in it, you'll still get drenched. He doesn't know where he's going. He has nowhere. Nothing.
Nothing but a grave to his name (literally).
Tick. Tick.
The rain is getting heavier. Or the ticking is getting louder? He grits his teeth. He can't stand this. Everything is ruined. Everything is gone.
Tick.
He shouldn't even be here! He should be dead!
Tick.
He needs to be dead. He wants to be dead.
Tick...
He stops, his feet coming together on the sidewalk. Everyone had ran for cover into buildings, cafes or under canopies; awnings.
He alone stands outside of this grey afternoon.
If Bruce won't set things right with the joker...if he won't set things right with Jason...
Then at least Jason will set a wrong right.
He'll turn a lie into the truth.
The dead should be dead.
Dick is staring at the case when Bruce enters the cave.
"Alfred told me you had stopped by."
Somewhere laced in that statement is a question.
"I was in the neighborhood."
Bruce 'tsk's because when is Dick just 'in the neighborhood'?
"Hope you don't mind, I let myself in," Dick motions to the cave, but his eyes are still fixated on the case.
Bruce doesn't say anything. He doesn't acknowledge the case, or Dick's interest in it. It's been a month.
The nightmarish dream is over. The miracle has faded. Jason had been returned to him, revived, only to be taken back.
He tried telling himself, in those first few nights when the weight of Jason's death was on his shoulders, Jason's blood on his hands, (again) by reasoning with himself that it wasn't Jason who returned to him. Jason had died. The Lazarus pit...it had done something to him. Corrupted him. Jason was reckless, but the pit made him mad. The pit changed him.
He didn't come back as Jason Todd.
This, and the occasional tranquilizer when this mantra failed him three nights in a row and Alfred insisted eighty-odd hours of no sleep was dangerous, helped Bruce sleep (It did no such thing).
Bruce was at the computer, in his chair, when Dick finally spoke up again. Batman knew he was going to, and even what Dick was going to say-he'd just been waiting on Dick to finally-
"Do you think Jason is still out there?"
With every fiber in Bruce's being, he wanted to say no. Because, he told himself, that animated corpse was not Jason.
He wanted to say no because the odds of Jason escaping that explosion...Bruce had searched; he'd searched under every rock, every debris; he'd searched a four block perimeter. There was no trace of Jason (But there was no body, no evidence to suggest he had perished).
No sightings of the Red Hood. Crime had returned to the shadow of Black Mask. Bruce had facial recognition satellites running constantly to try to identify a match of Jason.
Everything pointed to Jason was gone.
Still, it felt like a lie when he spoke.
"No."
Dick cocked a brow.
He knew better. He wasn't as good as Bruce, but he had been trained by him. He could tell when the man was lying-most of the time at least- and Bruce wasn't even trying to cover the fact he didn't believe in his own words.
"What do you say we go out tonight for old time's sake?"
Bruce fired up the computer, running the data collected on current dispatches and statistically high targeted areas where crime would most likely be.
"I won't stop you if you intend to follow me-"
"-I don't mean as Batman and Nightwing," Dick cut him off.
To this, Bruce finally looked away from the screen and at Dick.
Dick was in civilian clothes. He wasn't dressed as Nightwing. The sun had just set (Though this was Gotham, so it'd been dark for hours by now).
Bruce could practically hear Alfred tensing at the top of the stairs, holding his breath in wishful anticipation.
Bruce sighed.
"Do you have somewhere in mind?"
"And that's a yes!" Dick celebrated, and Bruce heard Alfred sigh out loud, "It's about time."
Jason had walked from the outskirts of Gotham to Crime Alley. It'd taken him all afternoon, but he wasn't in any hurry.
The dead don't care about time, remember?
In five years, this place hadn't changed. Hell, in all of his life (before he'd died-that was his life. This? This was a dream, and the dead shouldn't be dreaming) it hadn't changed.
His old apartment complex still stood, in shambles, and still littered with the homeless. A prostitute winked and blew a kiss at him. Three thugs looked him up and down, sizing up whether he was worth mugging.
Apparently not. They turned their backs to him.
Months ago, he had practically owned these streets. He'd ran them with a gloved fist. He'd struck terror in probably those very thugs who saw him as a nobody now; nothing.
Which, by all accounts, he was.
He'd been stumbling on for over a month now. It wasn't living, he reminded himself. Days didn't feel like days to him. In all the time that had passed, it might as well have been years, or even just seconds.
How he'd gotten out of that explosion alive, he deeply regretted. God damn it, he was supposed to be dead! So why was the universe messing with that?!
He'd wandered, broken and hurt at first. He had safe houses: cash, guns and equipment. Hell, he still had all that, scattered throughout Gotham. He could've just dawned the mask again, popped up in an alley and the crime world would be his again. He'd razed it to the ground before, he could've done it again.
But that, all that, had been to lead up to his end game; to that confrontation. Between Bruce, him and the Joker.
All his planning lead up to that night and stopped there. Either Bruce did it-he finally took out the clown like he should have years ago, or he took out Jason.
Or, Jason took out Bruce.
Except Batman was Batman and so of course he found a way where none of them died. They all escaped, unscathed for the most part.
Jason hid after that. He fled Gotham and healed himself, recovered in solitude. He knew how to cover his tracks and he knew how to disappear. The only person in the world looking for him may be just one person, but he was good at finding people.
Jason apparently was better at hiding, though.
Hiding, running; escaping Bruce. That'd been the reason Jason had died. Because Batman had lost him-couldn't catch up to him, couldn't find him in time.
But, Gotham-beautiful, beautiful siren that she was-sang out to Jason and he couldn't abandon her. He'd returned, but to what ends? With what purpose? To sit at his own grave for a week?
Funny, that Batman would memorialize his memory in the Batcave with his Robin suit, but never visited Jason Todd's grave. Batman didn't mourn losing Jason.
He mourned losing a Robin.
He kept the uniform as some trinket to remind himself that he'd lost to the Joker, but it'd only been a soldier-a pawn-to him.
Jason slipped through the never-locked doors. He'd always bunked on the second floor, in the corner room. By some miracle, it was empty tonight.
It hadn't changed much, but Jason knew others had been here since he'd last lived in this dump, when he'd been thirteen.
It had a filthy mattress and a corner with littered trash kicked into a pile. The walls were more worn and damaged than when Jason had been here-nearly a decade had passed.
Jason sat on the mattress, letting his head fall into his hands.
He knew what he had to do, but even if this 'second chance' at life had been nothing but a curse, it gave him one single blessing-
He was in control of how he died, and when, this time. He set the timer, and he got the chance to right his regrets, to say his goodbyes.
Except, as with before, he had no one to say goodbye to. He was already dead again to the few who had known he'd been alive the second time.
He had one regret-that he'd ever believed in Bruce. Believed that the man he'd once thought of as a father would avenge him. And when the opportunity was thrown in his face? He'd let him down.
Jason regretted ever jacking those damn tires.
He could've gone out that night and stolen from any other car, or even a corner store. He could've broken into the local high school through the basement and snuck into the library like he used to on some nights. He was probably the only kid in the world who would break in to school, just so he could read a few books.
The books he never took. Books wouldn't make any money, and if the school caught on that someone was stealing books, they'd raise the security in the library (Or not. Schools in this part of Gotham didn't care much for educating the youths. If so, Jason wouldn't have dropped out so easily from school back then). But, he'd loved to read, and so by moonlight he'd read the shorter, easier books.
Those were the best nights, even if Jason never made a profit or was fed on those nights.
Why hadn't he just done anything else but tire jack the Batmobile?
Because then Bruce never would have entered his life.
Because then Jason would never have been Robin, never been beaten by the Joker and blown up in a warehouse. He'd never be revived.
Sure, he may have become a criminal (Whoops-he'd already done that anyway) and died on the streets, possibly (most likely) earlier than he had being Robin, but no one would revive a miserable street punk kid that meant nothing to no one.
If Jason could go back in time, he'd change what he did that night. Anything else but encounter Bruce.
Jason didn't realize his eyes were watering. Was he sad? Angry? He'd felt so empty these past weeks. Hell, he'd slept in dirt through rain and cold. Was his vengeful anger rising once again?
No...no, he didn't want to confront Bruce.
To Bruce, he was dead.
To Jason, Jason was dead.
No use stirring the pot.
Things needed to stay as they were-or were supposed to be-with Jason in his grave.
Jason opens his mouth and inhales. His throat feels dry and he hasn't eaten…well, who's counting the days really? He came here for a reason—to set things right. This is how it starts.
This was how it started.
In this very room, he decided to head out that night and he came across the perfect target.
A car in an alley and a tire jack in hand.
Tonight, he was going to head out from the same room.
A different tool in hand.
Jason looked up at the sky-clouded, as usual. No moon. No stars. Just smog and smoke and grime.
Jason couldn't wait to be buried (finally) under this hell of a city's sky.
The time was approaching. Jason's time was approaching.
Bruce fidgeted with his tie, smiling as the hostess recognized him immediately and seated him at his 'regular' table. She commented that it'd been awhile since he'd had dinner at this restaurant. Bruce didn't recall her face or name, but knew the staff was well informed of him. She'd probably been briefed upon being hired about how Bruce Wayne had dined here a few times, and when the last time had been.
Bruce knew the manager-he was the sort to brag about those kinds of things.
Sure enough, the manager was at their table, greeting Bruce warmly and shooing the hostess away, snapping his fingers for a waiter and demanding the chef's "make Mr. Wayne's special". He made a show of it, proclaiming it louder than necessary so every customer dining knew that Bruce Wayne dined here often enough to have a special.
The manager blinked at Dick a few times before, as politely and discreetly as he could, turning to Bruce to ask, "Who is this handsome young gentleman you have with you tonight, Mr. Wayne?"
"You don't recognize Dick? I know it's...been awhile, since my ward and I dined here together-" not since back when Dick had still been Robin. Before Dick had gone solo, and before Bruce had found Jason.
Dick smiled charmingly, but somehow it came across to the waiter as sarcastic.
"Ah...it has been awhile...Um, what would Mr...er, Wayne?" The manager struggled to remember Dick's surname. Technically, on paper, it was Grayson-Wayne, but Dick spared the man, "Dick is fine."
"Ah, what would you like, then...Dick?"
Dick scanned the menu.
"Actually, I'm going to need some time to decide. I'll let the waiter know when he makes his round again."
Jason didn't stay long in the apartment.
He threw up the hood of his jacket (something he'd snagged a month ago from a thrift store during 'off' hours) and headed out the door. Walking had been fine and sentimental, but now blood was rushing in him. The clock started now. It had to be tonight. No more waiting.
Tick.
Maybe he should've been grateful the Joker had left him with such little time in the warehouse.
Tick.
Jason was impatient.
Tick.
He shoved past the prostitute who yelled after him an obscenity. The thugs were gone-probably breaking in somewhere or collecting a debt. Jason didn't care.
Those were problems for the living.
He was a dead man running. And this place, amongst the living? Wasn't his scene.
He was gonna fix that though.
Tick.
He'd tried to fix things here before, but that hadn't worked out. It'd taken him awhile to realize it wasn't his place to right all the wrongs of this city, of Batman, of the scum of the earth. Not anymore.
Tick.
His place was already marked with his name.
Tick.
Dinner had been long and chatty-both on account of the manager clinging to the duo the entire night. Bruce and Dick didn't talk much, but at least the food had been good. Good as it always was.
Bruce checked out his coat and met Dick outside.
"We ate out. Happy?"
Dick sighed.
"Ever walk these streets at night as Bruce Wayne?"
Bruce glared. Had Dick come all this way, dragged him out here, keeping him from being on patrol, to...have a therapy session?
"You clearly have something on your mind you want to say, so instead of beating around the bush-"
Dick sighed dramatically.
"Something on my mind? My younger brother was revived from the dead, became a crime boss and a killer, then d-died again," Dick stumbled on the word 'died', "and you return to things like normal."
"Things are normal," Bruce glared.
Dick snickered.
"Careful-any criminal nearby will recognize that bat glare you're pulling right now."
Bruce continued to scowl.
Dick's smile faded.
"Bruce...things aren't the same-"
"Jason is dead. Again. Still. Nothing has changed. New villains and threats pop up on these streets and I handle them. Then, when that threat is gone, I move onto the next one. I'm cleaning the streets of Gotham. That hasn't changed. The procedure, the formula-it's always the same. This is...was, no different."
Bruce really was regretting coming out tonight. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose before pulling out his cell to call Alfred to come get them.
Before he'd even made it to the contacts list, Dick had snatched the phone away.
"We'll walk."
Bruce frowned.
"The manor is twenty miles from here."
"Half of the way. Or, a portion. Just a bit of a walk. The night is young; we've got all the time in the world to make our way back to the manor."
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Jason's heart beat fast, loud; he actually felt alive. He felt alive at the thought of dying-oh, the irony.
Someone had parked a motorcycle outside a bar just a block from the complex Jason had come from.
Jason considered this his 'last meal' request; riding a bike one final time.
He hot-wired it easily and was zipping out of Crime Alley while the unsuspecting victim of the robbery drunkenly cheered on a pool game, subconsciously thinking how that engine outside sounded similar-very similar-to his own bike.
Jason didn't give a damn about speed signs or street lights.
The thing about being suicidal (Does it count as such, if you're actually dead? Just...happen to be alive, but you're trying to return to being dead?) is you tend to not give a damn about safety.
Tick
He'd walked all that way...
Tick
Just to return.
Tick
Someone honked at him, but he didn't care. Downtown Gotham wasn't as crowded as usual for this hour of the night. The weather must have kept most people inside, even if the rain had stopped.
Jason didn't care, though, who was or wasn't out. Those were living people.
He wasn't.
Dick started to cross the street before Bruce yanked him back by the collar. Some madman on a motorbike zipped by, no hesitation or let up on the gas whatsoever.
"Hey!" Dick yelled. Bruce almost broke into a run, but recalled that tonight, begrudgingly, he was just Bruce Wayne. Besides...a drunk speeding down Gotham's streets?
Someone on the police force would pick him up in another block or two.
"Where are we going Dick. Am I allowed to call Alfred now?"
"I'm still feeling a bit antsy. Y'know, the leg healing and everything? Gotta stretch it out. Why? Is the old man tired already?"
"Of this night? Yes."
Dick smiled, but there was something behind it. Dick wasn't a good liar. Bruce knew Dick was leading them somewhere specific.
He also knew he wasn't going to like it one bit.
Jason threw the bike down without propping its break just at the gates of the cemetery. Reliable Gotham police-Jason had sped through nearly the entirety of Gotham without encountering one. Did they just take tonight off? Were they that dependent on Batman?
Jason wondered where Batman was tonight. Probably patrolling the docks. Or stopping a heist. He certainly hadn't been in Crime Alley (he rarely ever was). Or maybe Jason was thinking too highly of himself-Batman wouldn't bother with a speedster. Not one that showed no signs of being a getaway driver. Jason had nothing to his person-except the clothes on his back and his two guns, concealed in the back of his belt and under his hoodie.
Jason didn't waste time strolling through his 'neighborhood'. He felt like he was coming home.
It was the same rush when his mother would wake up the next morning after he'd sit up with her all night, wondering if this was the last night (until it was). The rush he'd felt when he'd first become Robin (even if those days never should have happened). The rush he'd felt when for a second, he'd thought he'd cornered Batman-caught him in a 'check mate' of either killing the Joker or Jason.
He hadn't felt this way the first time he'd die. Maybe this was why he'd been resurrected.
So he could fix his final moments.
Put them on his terms.
The ticking stopped and Jason stood in the same spot he'd stood at this morning.
The earth was loose, still, and muddier even yet. It was a matter of scooping the dirt aside. A shovel would've been nice, but Jason had enough adrenaline (too much for a dead person) and he was burning through it as he clawed at the grave.
Never had there been someone so desperate to dig their own grave, literally, than Jason Todd at this moment.
"You really...didn't." Bruce asked, disbelieving. Was Dick this desperate to rile Bruce up? To get some heartfelt confession out of him?
To drag him to the cemetery?!
Bruce, slowly and calmly, asked once again, "Richard Grayson...you did not just have us come out tonight, pick a restaurant within walking distance of this…particular place, and then walk us to aforementioned place?"
Dick didn't look back at Bruce. He tried to sound upbeat in his voice, but he honestly was scared of Bruce's wrath at this moment.
"This place is a cemetery. You'd know that if you ever visited it."
Bruce glowered.
"Dick. You've crossed a very thin line tonight-"
"-what the?!"
Bruce stopped mid-sentence to see what had caught Dick's attention (Because all hell would break loose if the boy thought he was getting out of this escapade without a lecture) to find a bike practically crashed at the gates of the cemetery.
"That..."
"Looks like the bike from before? I've no doubt it is."
"Someone really needed to be comforted by a lost loved one?"
"Or a grave robber."
"You always assume they're a criminal."
"He was speeding, whoever he was. Technically, he is a criminal."
"Well, we'll have to go inside and check things out."
"Or not."
Dick flinched.
"Wh-what?! But, Bruce-"
"We're not Batman and Nightwing tonight, remember?" Bruce threw Dick's words back at him. "I'm Bruce Wayne. You're my former ward visiting from out of town. We've no business chasing down a criminal, or entering this particular cemetery."
"The hell we don't!"
Bruce was actually surprised by Dick snapping at him.
"Criminal in the grave yard or not aside, why won't you just visit his grave? Make your peace with him, for pity's s-"
"-Because he isn't there!" Bruce yelled. "That is an empty grave, with an empty casket. I don't visit it because it's not like...he isn't..."
Bruce hesitated. Was Dick finally happy? Was this what he wanted? For Bruce to throw the facts, the truth, at him?
Dick looked genuinely hurt.
Guess not.
"His body might not be there, but...Bruce, it's still...it still means something. It's where he should be."
Finally. Where he should be.
Jason looked down at his craftsmanship. The dirt had been dug up, and before him, surprisingly, was his casket.
Bruce had actually had a decently crafted casket made for him, even if he never got to be in it.
Until now.
Jason felt with his dirt-covered hands, nails filled with grime and mud, at the soft white lining of the casket.
He didn't think about what would happen in the morning, when someone came across a fresh corpse in an old grave, dug up and laying in a half open casket.
That was a problem for the living.
And Jason wasn't one of them.
At least, not in ten seconds.
0:09
Tick.
And so it began. The ticking in his head returns. He is at peace, knowing the end is coming. No backing out-nothing to stop him. He lifts up his hoodie, gripping his hands on his faithful pistols. Two is overkill, but it feels right to die with them in hand. He knows how he's going to die (again), and it's by his own hand. On his own time.
0:08
Tick.
His own time is now eight seconds. In eight seconds, he will right the world's wrong. Because he should have stayed dead. He should be dead right now. Soon, he reminds himself.
0:07
Tick.
The gun in his right hand is raised to his temple. He's standing on top of his casket, ready to fall into it like a bed, and his left hand grips his other pistol. This feels right, he thinks. Not offing himself-but, again he reasons, he's technically not supposed to be alive anyway. The second time around doesn't count, does it?
Either way, the pistol was to his temple and he'd pull the trigger. He'd constructed his death, this time without the Joker's help.
0:06
Tick.
This is his end. Again. He knows the Joker will escape, will destroy and murder and continue to do so for as long as Batman lets him-which he will. His death won't mean a thing-a second time-and others will follow him. Others who don't deserve death. All because Bruce will never cross that line.
But, he's calm. So what? His death meant nothing the first time, it'll mean nothing this time. Bruce will never know anyway-he's been dead to Bruce since five years ago. He's not angry. He's accepted it. He means nothing, he knows now. He never meant anything more to Bruce than a soldier, a replacement to the Great Dick Grayson, first Robin Boy Wonder.
0:05
Tick.
Another tick in his mind, another second closer. He could pull the trigger at any moment, but the countdown just...feels right.
He knows what a gunshot wound feels like. And a concussion. And an explosion. Hell, he knows every pain there is to feel. He has a pretty good idea of what he'll feel.
Nothing.
It'll be quick.
Jason returns his thoughts to Dick. How had he managed all these years when Jason had been 'dead'? He probably did the same thing their mentor did-forgotten about it.
Jason doesn't remember what Alfred's lemonade tastes like. He can't remember food at all.
0:04
Tick.
His mind is blank now. This was right. Dying. Again. He was supposed to be dead anyway. Jason clicked off the safety.
0:03
Tick.
He had no final words. No profound thought-as usual. He'd been let down by those he thought he'd been closest to. Life had continuously screwed him over. He was ready this time for it to end.
0:02
Tick.
These are his last moments of life. His body is covered in dirt, mud and his fingers are bleeding slightly. He's standing in his own grave, with his name looking down at him. He only hears the ticking in his head. He welcomes death. He closes his eyes.
0:01
Tick.
He smiles.
"JASON!?"
"It is where he should be, but he's not. He's...he's nowhere," Bruce confesses. He knows. He's searched. Constantly, always-he searched for Jason, and never could he find him.
Dick's fists close and Bruce wonders if his former protégé will try to fight him.
But, Dick relaxes his fingers and turns his head away.
"I can't get through to you...And if it meant anything to you, I'd say...I'd tell you I'm disappointed. This...isn't the man who raised me. Who honored the dead and respected all lives. You taught me to think logically and be calculating, but you didn't build a robot. With no feelings. And I never thought you were one...until now. Until I see you, first hand, refusing to acknowledge Jason...we were both your sons."
Bruce flinches. "Were?"
"You're not my dad. Of any variety." Dick spits. "Call Alfred if you want. Hell, walk all the way back to the manor. Or go off and be Batman and run away from being Bruce Wayne for as long as you can because Batman doesn't mourn his sons-Batman has no sons. Maybe Jason was right...we are just soldiers to you."
Dick makes his way to the gate, but Bruce stops him by the wrist.
"Dick..."
"I'll find my own way back. I might be here awhile. I...I have a lot I want to talk to Jason about. Things I never got to say...never said. You're right...he isn't there. His body isn't in that grave, but...but it means something more to at least be speaking to his grave, where I've thought for the past five years he was, than to confront a costume in a glass case like his memory is an artifact in a museum."
Dick shoved off Bruce's hand and turned the corner, disappearing into the grave yard.
Bruce sighed, his own fists shaking.
He did love Dick as a son. He loved-loves-Jason as a son as well. He never could bring himself to the grave because...because the grave is proof that Jason Todd is-or was, for a time, and is again now-dead. The Robin costume is a reminder-he never forgets Jason, but he...
Against all logic, he can't accept Jason is gone. He died too young; it was unfair. Unjust. Bruce should've been able to save him. To do something about it.
He should've been there more for Jason.
He could've prevented his death.
"Jason..." Bruce mutters, a whimper out loud.
The name echoes back to him in a shriek that is undeniably Dick's.
"JASON?!"
The timer is frozen. Jason. That's his name. A voice spoke his name. But, it wasn't in his head.
It sounded...
Jason whips around, both guns trained on Dick.
"Dickiebird! I'll admit, this isn't how I pictured this in my head."
Jason is smiling, quipping, but he's shaking. This isn't how it's supposed to happen. Dick, get out of here! Why the hell are you here anyway?!
"Jason...y-you're alive?"
"That line's been used before," Jason grits his teeth. He's stalling, but for what? Maybe Dick will faint from shock and he can get on with this.
Just go away, Dick. This doesn't concern you.
"Dick!"
Jason feels his spine grow cold and he trains his second gun on the approaching figure. He knows that voice.
But why is he here?
Bruce stops when he notices Jason, and the gun targeted at his chest.
Jason notes they're not costumed up tonight. Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson stand before him. Not Nightwing.
Not Batman.
It doesn't matter, he reminds himself. This just means there's no gadgets-no battarangs-to get in his way. Still, he can't stall any longer. This is Batman after all, with or without his suit.
"Let me do this!"
"What are you...Jason, you survived? Wh-why...why are you standing..."
"In my own grave? Gee, pops, take a guess. This is my property-name's on it and everything. And you two are trespassing. Please, kindly get the hell off my lawn."
"Jason, put the guns down! We can help-"
"The only help you can offer me is to pull to trigger yourself or leave. It ends tonight. No? Fine, I'll do it myself, as I intended." Jason whips his head from Dick to Bruce. "Aren't you happy? One less criminal on the streets. And I'm not even giving you an ultimatum. No one else dies tonight. No one, in fact, is dying tonight..." He trails off, his voice dropping. It's shaky.
"What are you talking about Jason? Jason, you need help. Come with us-"
"I told you!" Jason raises the guns higher, his grip tightening. "The only way you can help me...well, we both know you won't do it. Remember?"
"You said no one's dying tonight. So why-?"
"I'm already dead, Dickiebird. Remember? It was five years ago, halfway across the globe. I died alone and beaten and in case you need to be refreshed, my killer calls himself the 'Joker' and is currently sitting comfortably in Arkham Asylum. This? This is just a corpse transfer, is all. I didn't quite like where they buried me before, so I've moved here. It was already set up, waiting for me and everything!"
"Jason, the pit...it...it messed with your head. You've been dead and now you're alive again. You are alive. Come with us..."
Jason shook his head. "Not happening, Dick." His eyes flash angrily at Batman. Batman could never recall the shade of green Jason's eyes had been after he died. He'd always worn his mask since his revival and...and now...
They were so empty. He looked tired. Exhausted.
He looked dead.
"What? Nothing to say Brucey? You waiting for the curtain to fall? Call off your guard dog and we can all three leave in peace. My departure will be more of an ethereal one, but..."
Bruce couldn't speak. Jason was alive, again, and about to die, again, and...and Batman could save him, right?
No. Batman had failed twice now, and he didn't believe in 'third time's the charm'.
Batman couldn't...
But Bruce could.
Without hesitation Bruce jumped down into the pit with Jason. Jason froze, and despite having both guns aimed at Bruce's chest, he didn't pull either trigger.
He couldn't.
"You won't kill me. And you're not...you're not going to die tonight. You're coming home with me."
Jason spat, feeling rage fill him again, "And why the hell would I do that?!"
"Because you're my son. And you need my help. And...and I need you."
Jason knows his eyes are watering but his vision is still clear. At least, clear enough to see the conviction in Bruce's eyes.
"I...I don't deserve to be alive...I'm supposed to be-"
"-With us. At the manor. Home. Jason, you never should have died. I...I never should have let that happen. Fate gave you a second chance. You have a second go at life-this time, you choose what to do with it. But, don't throw it away."
Jason lowers his pistols, if only slightly. They're still off safety and locked on Bruce. Dick just stands, frozen, at the top of the grave.
Jason's mind is racing with thoughts. Weighing the pros, the cons.
Through all the noise in his head, he doesn't hear the ticking. He can't make out the timer in his mind at all.
And suddenly, his arms are pushed down, guns dropping, and he's being enveloped.
A hug?
Bruce is hugging him?
Jason snarls, but tears betray him and he stutters out, "I'm a grown ass man! You c-can't just...hug me and make everything okay!"
"No, but I'm a grown man myself, and I can hug whoever I want to. And right now, I want to hug my son."
Jason's knees give and Bruce supports him. Dick helps Bruce pull Jason out of the grave and the boy collapses soon after; from exhaustion, from distress, from hunger.
"Now may I call Alfred?"
Jason wakes up in a familiar room-his old room. There's a tray of breakfast set beside him on the end table.
He reaches straight for the glass of lemonade.
Just before his hands grip around the glass, he notices the digital alarm clock beside the tray. Without knowing the exact time, he still knows this clock is off. He stares at the time, the neon numbers.
The last digit flashes, changing minutes, and in the same split second, Jason throws the clock across the room, into the wall.
He hears the thumps of footsteps. They're thuds. Not ticks.
The sound of someone racing to him.
He buries his head in his hands.
Why is he awake? Why is he alive?!
He's supposed to be dead!
He doesn't see who enters the room—it's more than one person.
But it doesn't matter.
They're living people.
And he's dead.
And the living don't matter to the dead.
An image is frozen in his mind, and even without its complementary sound, he knows what it means, and why it looms there, behind his eyelids and waiting. Frozen, unconcerned with time (the dead don't care about time). Jason just has to start it—rather, finish it.
0:01
A/N: (This may be long-I have a lot of thoughts on this fic) I absolutely love 'Under the Red Hood' and 'The Lost Days', and Jason's history (Pre-52; I read RHatO and while it's a fun story, I refuse to accept the backstory they remodeled Jason to have) but beyond 'UtRH', I'm not familiar with much of Jason's involvement in the comics until the new-52 relaunch. I honestly think Jason is a much stronger character-rage and justice drive him and I know his character is highly unlikely to ever consider suicide, but there are moments from the comic, and movie adaptation, that hint, to me at least, that maybe he does realize he isn't supposed to be alive-he died, and this is unnatural, and yeah he's running with this second chance and stirring up hell, but especially when he's pushing Bruce at the ultimatum of either him or the Joker dying, he's 100% for it. He wants so badly for one of them to be dead. He can't live (again) knowing the Joker lives too, and I just expanded on this thought that he realizes he's lost-the Joker wins. Bruce will never kill the Joker, and nothing his revival was supposed to bring about, whatever change he'd meant to stir up-it failed. He lost and in this fic at least, I just interpreted it as he's tired.
The theme of this story revolved heavily around time-Jason has this obsession with the countdown, and to be honest that and this whole fic stemmed simply from that short animation of teenage Jason noticing the timer and accepting his fate-just those few frames get to me and this whole fic snowballed from there (It honestly was going to end after the first segment but I couldn't stop myself and maybe I should have?!) There's irony in Dick and Bruce's dialogue (It's painfully obvious) to counter Jason's darker thoughts.
Being suicidal myself and currently recovering from depression (I say 'recovering' but that makes it sound like the process ends and it doesn't-Depression never goes away) so this fic was important to me to write. The brashness-the self-destructive manner; the overwhelming desire to be in control of how and when and convincing yourself to hell and back all your reasoning's for why you have to die; I wanted to convey what coming to that decision to die feels like, b/c I've crossed that line several times.
What always pulls me back? Friends and Family, honestly. The small reminders of things that do make me happy in a world where I know I'm not. Having goals, no matter how small or insignificant (Like finishing a fan fic that only one reader, or perhaps no one, is reading). So, that's why I chose to take Jason down this course and I know it's not in character so, again, I apologize.
(God, I am not encouraging suicidal behavior-if you feel sad, my ask is always open, and everyone says that, but ESPECIALLY if my crappy fic somehow reached you on any emotional level and you just need to yell at me for putting up something offensive or triggering, by all means do!)
Bruce is incredibly hard to right, at least in keeping him with his interpretation from UtRH-he just seems colder in the movie compared to the comic version. I'm juggling about the idea of continuing this one shot, maybe delving into Jason's recovery or treatment or maybe he just runs away-he's the Red Hood after all-but the ending implies that the suicidal ideation is still there. The fact he still envisions the clock is a sign that he's not just 'slept off' the urge to die. It's not that simple. It takes time.
The middle was the weakest part of this story to me both to write and in the end I found-I wrote Jason's actions from my own experiences and I'm a walker-I'll just walk off to any location, whether it gives me comfort or a starting point or whatever-and I tried to imply that to Jason, it was important he started from the room he was living in when Bruce found him (Referencing more to the comics than to the movie at that point) because the night he met Bruce, he left that room, so in his eyes that night was where everything went wrong and he needs to start there, at that room, and then go the 'correct path'. My favorite parts of the story where the beginning, with the countdown, and then how his thoughts mirror that when he mentally starts his own countdown-I also guiltily enjoyed his banter with Dick and Bruce when they confront him because it's so easy to throw out jokes and quips when you're in that much pain and don't care anymore about anything.
I've always liked the headcannon Jason was a big reader, so the bit about the library might have been out of place but that's my reasoning... Also, I really~ skimmed over how Jason got out and away from that blast and mention that about a month has passed but really don't have much explanation for what Jason went through in that month, and it's obvious cause I BS'd my way through it in the story...
Again, I'm sorry if this was too dark, or the characters were all wrong, or if you just disliked the plot and story altogether. I probably put too much personal background into the development of this, despite it being such a quick fic I wrote in the past two nights, but I love Jason Todd and wanted to contribute to the fandom-if there's a next time, I'll try to do him more justice!