these scars will bleed (but not when you're with me)
Some nights she lies in bed next to him, red hair spilled over the pillows, and he thinks he might be in love with her. /\ A StarX one shot.
If you can't stand the very idea of Jason Todd as Red X, you should probably stay away. Sorry.
There's a reason why he spends so many nights gallivanting across rooftops in that stolen suit of his. It helps him delay the inevitable, if only for a little while. But no matter what he does, he knows there's no escaping it – the nightmares are always there, waiting for him. One second, he's flying over rooftops in red and green and yellow, unafraid of the shadows behind him. The next, he's back to where it all ended – the manic laughter echoing around him, the metal clawing through his skin, the blood seeping from his wounds.
He dreams of that night a lot, replays those final moments over and over that by now every detail is permanently embedded in his mind. Yet no matter how many times he relives the betrayal and the pain of it all, the nightmares never stop feeling real.
He remembers the crowbar digging relentlessly into his flesh, the scent of his own blood invading his nostrils. He remembers struggling to breathe, writhing, trying to crawl away from the torrent of pain. He remembers the maniacal laughter and the cold pale hand that yanks him back to the psychopath's feet, pulling him by the tattered remains of his cape. He remembers the blood blending into the deep red of his clothes, melding so well that he can almost pretend it isn't there at all.
He remembers what it felt when he realized she betrayed him, what she looked like, all her blonde curls and sad eyes. It's just as painful as the metal tugging at his flesh.
He remembers his panic when he hears the ticking, counting down each second before darkness blinds him. He remembers his thoughts during those last seconds, his own disappointments and regrets. He doesn't see his entire life flash before his eyes – he sees the life he'll never get the chance to live. He sees a million moments he'll never have, everything he could have had playing in his mind all at once until there is nothing but darkness.
But it doesn't end there. The darkness continues, and so does the silence, and suddenly he's trying to breathe because there is no air, no room, no space. He pounds and scratches the walls, struggling against the confined space. He screams one name again and again, tries to even when he can no longer breathe. But no one answers, because no one is there, and he is alone.
Most nights, he wakes up screaming, eyes burning furiously, beads of sweat rolling down the side of his face. No one hears it but him, because there is no one else there but him. There is nothing to drown out his cries, no other sound as he tries to slow his racing heart.
These nights, when he is cold and alone, don't happen as often as they used to, and he thanks his lucky stars for that.
Because sometimes she's there when he snaps awake in a panic. She holds his shaking hands, tells him everything is all right, he isn't alone, she's right here – I am here you are safe I am here I am here. She whispers words in his ear he can only hope are true, but they soothe him, make him feel safe.
On these nights she wraps her arms around his waist, curls her head and tucks it under his chin as he tries to suppress his heaving sobs. His heart is pounding hard in his chest as he holds her tighter, to assure himself that she's real and solid and here. That she's not a dream, that she's not going anywhere, that she's real real real.
But some nights – some nights there is peace.
And on these nights there are no nightmares, no screams – just her, lying in bed next to him, red hair spilled on the pillows, her serene green eyes on him. Just her and those eyes that tell him more than words ever could.
Neither of them says anything, and they don't have to. On these nights, he doesn't mind the silence. He doesn't want to break it, too afraid that a single sound will shatter the moment and he'll find that all this – him and her and this serenity that wraps around them like a blanket, this rare, precious moment of peace – isn't real, nothing but a dream.
It's her hand on his cheek, soft and warm and comforting, that assures him it isn't. He leans into her touch and can't help but wish these nights were longer.
On these nights he can pretend they're the only two people in the world.
On these nights he can't help but wish he dreamed of the things he could have had if things were different, if he had still met her and they had whatever it is they have. Him and her and the simple white picket fence, two kids kind of dream.
He knows they'll never have that, not with the sort of lives they're living, and he doesn't bother to pretend. But sometimes he wonders – hopes, really, that maybe they could have had that kind of dream in another world, if you believed in that sort of thing.
One these nights he thinks he might be in love with her.
With everything that has happened to him, he's not sure if he's ready to admit it to himself, or if he'll even tell her when he eventually does.
So he buries his face in her neck instead, because he would have said too many things he isn't ready for otherwise. He would have offered her everything and made promises he isn't sure he'll ever be able to keep.
But she understands and he knows this, can hear the silent I know in her touch and embrace.
On these nights they are happy.