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redpasserines · 1 month

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Skyglow

Summary: Jason wakes up in a coffin for the second time, the feeling of satin brushing against his fingers and the thick scent of dirt filling his nostrils. He should probably start digging. But he doesn't.

Characters: Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne

Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, possibly something that counts as a suicide attempt (not sure), a character claws at their skin.

It’s a dark, clear night in Gotham, and if you squint hard enough, you can almost see the stars.

Jason sits at the edge of the roof, staring into the sky and pretending like he’s finding meaning there. There’s the sound of soft footsteps behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, Jason sees Nightwing hang his legs off the roof’s edge a few feet away.

“When I was little,” Jason says, “I used to think they made the stars up.”

Dick hums.

“Bruce took me on a business trip in Metropolis, one day. We wanted to be there before sundown, but we ended up getting delayed. Don’t remember why. And so we were driving on the interstate and I looked up from my book and just—there were stars. Everywhere. And I was just like, oh, I guess stars aren’t just a metaphor. Can you believe that? I was twelve when I learned that stars were real.”

Dick shifts a little. “I never thought of that.”

“What, that a stupid little kid wouldn’t believe in stars?”

“That some people in Gotham haven’t ever seen a star. That’s just…” They sit in silence, for a bit. “Why are we here?” Dick asks, eventually.

Jason shrugs. “I dunno why you followed me.” That’s not entirely true. He’d be willing to bet that Tim snitched. But he doesn’t know why Tim decided his concerns were important enough to bother Nightwing about. Or why Dick decided to actually be concerned.

Dick sighs. “You know what I’m asking. Why are you here?”

Jason doesn’t know. He’s been hanging out on a lot of rooftops, lately. Maybe if he sits on enough ledges, he’ll decide if it’s actually worth it to jump, instead of just slowly sliding off.

Unlike the stars, that’s a metaphor; Jason wouldn’t jump. A fall isn’t clean enough. Too much of a chance that the universe will fuck him over again. No, if he dies, he wants to stay dead.

“I don’t know what brought me back,” Jason says, well aware that Dick meant here on the rooftop, not here as in alive. “But dead screw-ups don’t come back to life. That’s for…Superman. The forces of evil. Hell, I’d buy it if Batman came back. But me? No fucking way was I supposed to get a second shot.”

“You did, Jason,” Dick says. “You’re alive. I don’t care if we don’t know how, you’re alive.”

But Jason just plows right past. “I figured, if I didn’t deserve a second shot, then I must’ve been brought back for a reason. ‘cause there was something I needed to do.” He frowns. “Do you know the first words I heard once I came back to myself?” Dick shakes his head. “Yeah, why would you? I didn’t say. But. Talia said, ‘you remain unavenged.’ That’s what she told me.”

“Jason—”

“So I figured it had to be revenge, right? Only, I haven’t been able to kill the Joker. And then I figured, maybe I needed to prove Batman wrong. But he’s still doing the same thing he always did, letting the Joker live, not fixing anything. And then I figured, it was up to me, and my job was to fix things. But I’m not killing right now, I’m following the rules, and I’m a fucking joke, Dick. Everyone knows it. So there isn’t really a point to me after all.”

“Don’t say that.”

Jason shrugs. “It’s true. There isn’t. It would’ve been better if I hadn’t crawled my way out of that grave.”

---

Jason wakes up gasping for air and rolls over, fumbling for the switch of the lamp beside his bed. Instead, his fingers brush against cushioned satin.

Groggily, he opens his eyes, only to see complete darkness. No light filters through the curtains or leaks underneath the door. It’s unnatural. It’s wrong. He reaches up an arm, only to hit the ceiling a couple inches above his face. That’s when the panic sets in.

Jason loses himself to the shocks of fear pulsing through his system, pumped by his pounding heart. For a long time, he can’t think at all. He can only drown in the darkness and terror. When he regains awareness, his breaths are shallow and he can feel strips of satin beneath his fingers, torn from the roof of—

What is the last thing you remember? Jason blinks, but his memories swim. He doesn’t know. There are glimpses, lines thrown out into the water, but as soon as he reaches for them, they’re gone. He leans over Tim’s shoulder in the Batcave, examining a color-coded spreadsheet. He stands in front of Bruce, helmet on, as they brief on top of a rooftop. He sits at the kitchen table of Safehouse 4, the oldest of the safehouses he hasn’t burnt yet, with Around the World in 80 Days propped open as he picks at an omelet. All of the memories feel old. None of them explain where he is now.

His neck is itching, Jason realizes. He reaches up instinctively to loosen his tie. That’s when he realizes that he is, in fact, wearing a tie. These days, Jason only wears one of those for infiltration. Was he on an infiltration mission? He brushes a hand against his face. There doesn’t seem to be any make-up there, not even concealer for his scars.

The realization comes to him dully, this time.

He’s in a suit, surrounded by satin, in a small, enclosed space, and it’s dark. Jason’s been here before.

---

Jason stands across from Bruce, no, Batman. At the man’s side is Robin, arms slightly raised and fists tightly clenched. It’s milliseconds away from a defensive position. Jason should probably feel bad about that, but he doesn’t.

When he speaks, he aims to hurt. “You have no idea what it was like,” Jason says. “I crawled my way out of my own grave.”

This should not be news to anyone, but Bruce still flinches.

Jason grins, all teeth. “I remember it, sometimes. It took hours. I was screaming the whole time. I tore off all my fingernails, you know. Even when I was Robin, the most any torturer got to was four. But I lost ten, and I kept digging.” The Replacement looks like he’s going to be sick. Good. “Up and up and up. I knew I wasn’t gonna make it, you see. You can’t force your way out of your own grave. Mythbusters did an episode on it, yeah? So I had to scoop the dirt away, but I knew I wasn’t gonna have enough air for that. But I kept digging, because I thought—I thought maybe someone would find me, and if I made it just a little bit easier for them—”

“I’m sorry,” Batman says roughly. “Jason, I’m so sorr—"

Jason ignores him. It feels good to ignore an apology from Batman, instead of being grateful for whatever scraps of contrition the man can manage. “I don’t know how I did it. It should’ve been impossible. I think maybe I suffocated, and just came back to life and kept digging again, and suffocated again, and—”

“Stop,” Batman orders.

“Things are fuzzier, after I made it out. But I remember I was cold. So, so cold. It was raining. And I felt like I was as cold as a corpse, like life hadn’t properly warmed me up yet. And I didn’t know where I was going. I couldn’t walk, so I just crawled. I just crawled, Bruce, and then I stood up, and then I walked. A few hours before, I was being beaten to death with a crowbar. I thought someone would find me then. No one did. And I was still stupid enough to think someone would find me that second time.”

Robin’s right hand drifts toward Batman, like he’s going to try to cling to his mentor’s cape, before he clearly thinks better of it and withdraws his hand as if burnt. Batman growls. He doesn’t sound entirely human.

“You know nothing, Bruce,” Jason spits. “Nothing.”

---

Jason is in a coffin. He can smell the dirt around him, and he’s too lucid for that to be entirely an olfactory hallucination. He’s in a coffin, and he’s buried underground.

Although Jason wouldn’t put it past certain Rogues and crime families to bury someone alive, he’s in a suit and he isn’t wearing anything to disguise his identity. He has to face the facts.

Jason can feel phantom pains in his fingers, his lungs burning for oxygen before he’s even begun to truly run out of air.

Jason should probably start digging. But he doesn’t.

It’s quiet, in this coffin, just the sounds of his own ragged breaths. Jason knows that the first time around, he screamed. And when he couldn’t scream anymore, he cried, and when he couldn’t cry, he pleaded in hoarse whispers for someone, anyone, Bruce, Dick, Dad, please, please—

Jason realizes he isn’t breathing anymore and forces himself to inhale, wheezing like a dying man. Hah. He already died. At least twice. Probably—probably more. If he came back this time, how many times in the past have his “brushes with death” in fact taken him past its threshold?

But in the past, he seized his chance at life with both hands. This time…this time…

The universe brought him back for a reason. But it isn’t the Joker, and it isn’t Batman, and it isn’t Gotham. And Jason—Jason had been glad to fulfill it, whatever it was. He’d taken his second chance and used it, used himself as kindling to start whatever fire the universe desired. But he’s fucking tired of being burnt. Speaking of burning—

No one told Jason to write a will. He knows Dick has one and Bruce, of course, has one. Alfred has one, Barbara has one, even Cassandra Cain has one, although she has little to her name. Jason knows it’s standard vigilante/superhero procedure to have your affairs in order. But no one could work up the willpower—heh, willpower—to approach Jason and ask that he prepare for a second death.

Jason wrote a will anyway. Legally, he doesn’t exist. He has a small amount of money in various fake identities, but most of his funds aren’t exactly something he can distribute in a will. But he doesn’t much care what happens to them after his death. No, he wrote the will after one too many nightmares about his resurrection. That night, he picked up a pen and scribbled feverishly in his notebook that he wanted to be cremated. And Jason woke up in the morning and looked at it and thought, yeah, that’s fair. So he made it about as official as it could get.

Right now, it’s really fucking clear that he hasn’t been cremated.

Jason should start digging. But he doesn’t.

Death was supposed to mean that he was done. Cremation was supposed to ensure that. Jason just wants to be done. He thinks he deserves that much, at least.

Jason thinks, what if I just lay here? Last time, he took his chance to live. What good did that do him? He didn’t get revenge, he didn’t get proof that Bruce cared, hell, he didn’t even properly protect Crime Alley. His dad always told Jason that he had to grow up to be something, “not like your old man.” But one time when he was drunk, Willis looked straight at Jason and said, “you’re never gonna amount to anything” and Jason had never figured out if his father had been talking to Jason or himself. Jason had thought, with Robin, that he mattered. But he was replaced as easy as can be. He never mattered. He squandered his first life, and he failed at his second, and really, Jason thinks, what’s the point of a third?

Jason wonders what will happen if he just stays here. Good corpses stay still. Good corpses don’t dig their way out of graves. Jason’s been dead twice now. He should be a pro at being a corpse.

It’s always been hard to do nothing. The same impulse that urged Jason to take his tire iron to the Batmobile makes his hands twitch to start digging. He’s wasting valuable time. Jason’s always been a do-er, and now he needs to not do anything. He’s always been a survivor, and now he has to lay down and die.

Jason should really start digging. But he doesn’t.

He is done being a zombie, a revenant, a walking memorial. He shouldn’t have come back that first time. The universe put things right and now Jason has to prevent her from having second thoughts.

---

“What the hell was that?” The Replacement shouts, one hand tight around his bo staff and the other clenched into a fist.

“I don’t answer to you,” Jason sneers. He folds his arms across his chest. Fuck it. This is a waste of time. He leans down to snap a ziptie over wrists of one of the less injured traffickers. The sooner he cleans up, the sooner he can get out of this warehouse.

“This is my route, so according to protocol, you do,” Tim insists.

“Yeah, I don’t follow protocol.” Jason gestures at the criminals bleeding all over the warehouse floor. None of them are dead. Probably.

“Clearly, or else you wouldn’t have engaged!”

“I made an informed decision.”

“No, you didn’t. You entered the middle of a freaking firefight, Hood, without your helmet, and you didn’t know you had backup.”

“It was fine.”

“Because I was there! Which you didn’t know, because you refuse to be on our comms.”

“I don’t need you.”

“Hood, do you not see how insane what you just did was? Or do you just not care?”

Jason bristles. “What, concerned about the poor widdle traffickers?”

Tim throws his hands into the air, like Jason’s the one being difficult. “That’s not what I’m talking about! I don’t care about them!”

Jason feels his lips twitch into a smirk, and before he knows it, he’s drawn a gun from its holster and trained it on the goon at his feet. His smirk widens into a grin at Tim’s flinch. “Oh, really? Guess I’ll just take out some trash then.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Tim says, voice carefully measured. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Well, that’s one way to ensure that Tim never gets to his actual point. Jason flicks the safety off. The click echoes through the warehouse.

“Stop it,” the kid tries to order. Jason’s finger twitches on the trigger. “Please, Hood. Don’t do this.”

Jason shrugs and clicks the safety on, as if it doesn’t physically pain him to leave this scum alive. He knew he wasn’t going to kill anyone the second he dropped down from the rafters, and unlike what Batman thinks, he has self-control.

The Replacement tries to hide his relief, but he does a piss-poor job of it. “That was reckless,” Tim says. “Really, really reckless, and you know it.”

Jason turns around without a word. He doesn’t have to deal with this shit.

“I’ll have to tell B.”

Jason really doesn’t need a lecture from Bruce, but he can just avoid the cave until Bruce gets distracted by something equally reckless Tim does. Or, well, probably not equally reckless—Jason’s well-aware that what he did is pretty close to the edge of the ‘reckless’ spectrum, straddling the line between ‘reckless’ and, well, ‘suicidal.’ But equally stupid, at least. The Replacement seems like a dumb kid.

“I’ll tell Nightwing,” Tim tries desperately, and that makes Jason spin around. Because shit, Nightwing would hunt him down and not be satisfied just giving a lecture. He’d want to talk about feelings.

“Fine,” Jason huffs. “What do you want? A safehouse? Files? Me off this case?”

“I want you to stay alive, because believe it or not, I’d like Batman to not have another mental breakdown.”

Yeah, right. Like that would happen. Batman would still have his precious display case, and he cares far more about the dead kid than the Red Hood.

“Bruce can’t lose his son again,” Tim says, and Jason just—he can’t do this. His vision whites out. He has to leave. So he leaves.

When Jason finally registers the thuds of his boots, he’s three long blocks away from the warehouse. Whatever. The Replacement’s not going to go crying to Nightwing about Hood being a little reckless. If anything, he’ll be pleased.

---

Jason swallows. If he’s going to die, he might as well use up his air faster. Less time to wait. “It is a truth universally acknowledged…”

He recites the first chapter of Pride and Prejudice. Darkness by Lord Byron. Sings You Are My Sunshine five times. Waiting to die is a slow, slow thing, and every second, his entire body is screaming dig, save yourself, survive!

There’s a sound above him, strange thumping. Maybe, Jason thinks, it’s raining. That would be…not ironic, but there’s a strange sort of circle to it, isn’t there? He was born on a rainy day, and Catherine arrived at the hospital soaked. He was reborn in the rain. If he had dug up, he would have been born yet again in the rain. The opposite of a phoenix.

Bruce should have cremated him. Jason doesn’t even know that he won’t just suffocate and then wake up again, but this time with no air. An endless loop of suffocation. The thought sends a thrill of terror through Jason. He regrets not digging.

But if he wakes up again, Jason supposes, then he’ll make his way out. It’ll hurt, but he can take his time. And then after, after, he’ll find a fire. And then he won’t have to remember how much it hurt.

The thought should be comforting, but Jason just feels terrified, and afraid, and alone. He wonders where they buried him this time. Last time, he’d been next to Sheila. But he’d screamed at Bruce for it, so maybe, maybe this time it’s somewhere else. Next to his mom, his real mom, even. Not that Bruce seemed to particularly care about Jason’s wishes, when he was actually real and not just a memorial caged within rose-tinted glass. After all, he’d asked to be cremated.

Jason closes his eyes. Everything feels detached, out of phase. He isn’t sure if it’s oxygen deprivation setting in or a side-effect of his resurrection, or just the strangeness of the scenario. He’s tired. That could be any one of the three as well.

How did I die? Jason wonders. He strains for his memories. The taste of rocky road ice cream from his favorite ice cream shop. Tim laughing. Flashes of blinding light. None of it is an answer. None of it explains what happened.

The thuds are getting louder. Jason wonders if it’s hail. Last he remembers, it was June. If it’s winter now, he supposes six months have passed. Maybe more. Maybe he’s been dead for years.

“I’m tired,” Jason whispers. “I’m so tired.” He blinks. His vision tilts. Definitely oxygen deprivation.

It’s almost over.

And then Jason hears—Jason hears voices and there’s a light, but it’s dim, and there are shadows falling on him. Jason lies there. He wonders if this is what he saw right before he died the second time. The first time, he just saw flames, seared across his eyelids.

“Jason,” someone says. They sound horrified.

That’s his name. Jason doesn’t respond. What’s the point?

“Hold on.”

This dream doesn’t make much sense. Jason hopes it’ll be over soon.

Something grasps his arms and pulls. No. No, Jason has to stay. Corpses have to stay in their graves. If he doesn’t stay, then he’ll have to come back, and he’ll just ruin it again. He has to stay. “No,” Jason can hear himself babbling. “No, let me go, let me—no. I have to. I have to go back.”

“Jason, calm down.”

“No!” Jason shouts, desperately. He throws out a kick and dives forwards, eyes closed. Strong arms catch him around the waist and hold him close, pulling him against someone’s chest. “No, I have to go back! Please!”

“Jason, open your eyes!”

Jason’s eyes snap open and he sees—

Batman. Nightwing. Robin. It’s all wrong.

Jason doubles over. “Please,” he sobs. “I have to go back. You need to let me go back.”

“You’re okay, Jason,” Batman says in his ear, but his voice is all Bruce. “You’re alive.”

“Yeah, that’s the fucking problem.” Dick startles. Jason must’ve said that out loud. “Please,” he whispers.

The first time he dug himself out of his own grave, Jason’s voice was gone by the time he made it to the surface. This time, someone else dug him out, but no one will listen when he speaks.

Jason slumps in Bruce’s hold, and they just…stand there. Eventually, Bruce slowly sets Jason on the ground and kneels down in front of him.

Jason’s heartbeat pounds in his ear. It’s wrong. His heart shouldn’t be beating. It’s wrongwrongwrongwrong. Desperately, Jason claws at his wrists, trying to dig the heartbeat out. It has to go away. Someone tugs at his hand and Jason snatches it away and cradles his hand against his chest. His pulse continues to tear him apart.

“Jason,” Bruce says. “Do you know where you are right now?”

“A fucking graveyard, right?” Jason says. His eyes burn. He refuses to wipe at them. He can feel the hard, rocky dirt beneath him. He wants to be numb again. He shouldn’t be here. He should be underground.

There’s a sharp silence. “We’re not in a graveyard, Little Wing,” Dick says, eventually.

Jason looks around slowly. His vision feels disconnected, and it takes several moments for each image to register. But there are no gravestones around, just trees, trees and sky. It’s dark out. He thinks, when he looks up, he can almost see the stars. He doesn’t understand. “Then why am I in a suit?”

“Do you remember the gala?” Tim asks, so quietly that Jason almost doesn’t hear him. In fact, it sounds more like “…oo…ber…gala?” with the rest being lost underneath the Replacement’s breath, but Jason figures that’s what he’s saying. Jason shakes his head.

Dick takes a step closer. “The paparazzi saw us out in Gotham four days ago. With you. You…there was a gala tonight. Bruce convinced you to go with us. And then you went missing. We thought you walked out early. But then…well, Tim was working on a case, and…well…”

“A weird cult thought you were a zombie,” Tim says, when it becomes clear that Dick’s not going to explain anything properly. “So they knocked you out, did a ritual, and re-buried you.”

This is real, Jason thinks suddenly, and then he’s doubled over, retching. Nothing comes out except spit. He can feel grass beneath his hands. When he curls his fingers, he scrapes up dirt. “This is real,” Jason says aloud. “This is real. This is real.”

“This is real,” Dick confirms. Jason retches again.

This is real. Jason doesn’t know what to say.

Tim sighs. “We need to take you to the police.”

Bruce shakes his head. “We need to talk.” His voice is dark. Jason shudders.

“Not like this, Bruce,” Dick says. “Not with the cowl on. Jason, are you good to deal with questions right now?”

“I don’t remember much.” Jason tugs at his tie in the stifling heat. Across the room, Tim is talking to a group of teenage boys and making large, animated gestures. Jason stumbles, catching himself on a nearby table.

“That’s fine, Jay,” Dick says. “We recovered security footage and we have confessions. We’ll be there in civies as soon as we can, okay?”

Jason shrugs. Someone helps him to his feet.

---

On the rooftop, Dick places a hand over Jason’s. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” Jason says quietly. “I shouldn’t have come back.”

“You’re wrong,” Dick says. He sounds so sure. But that’s the first Robin. He’s sure about everything. Jason could never measure up.

“Jason Todd was better off without me insulting his memory.”

“Who cares about a memory?” Dick scoffs. “You’re alive.”

“Tell that to Bruce.”

“Tell that to yourself,” Dick says. “You’re alive, Jason. You’re alive. Don’t you see how amazing that is? All of us—me, Bruce, Tim, Alfred—we’re so happy that you’re alive.”

“I don’t believe you,” Jason says. He believes that Dick believes it. He believes that Dick has to believe it, that Dick won’t admit to himself that he wishes Jason was still dead. Dick will always ignore his darker thoughts. But Jason knows. Jason knows Dick would be happier if Jason never came back. And Bruce? The man doesn’t even think that Jason counts as Jason anymore. Alfred no doubt can see that something in Jason is deeply, deeply wrong—sociopathic tendencies, Talia had theorized, although Jason suspects he’s far beyond tendencies. And Tim has no reason to wish his murderous predecessor well, not after the Tower. So, no, Jason doesn’t believe Dick.

“You will,” Dick says. “I promise.”

Jason stares into the sky. He thinks maybe, just maybe, he can see a star.

#oh #the line about thinking stars were made up.. the reverse Phoenix.. I NEED TO GIVE HIM A HUG :((

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redpasserines · 1 month

Text

Call Waiting

That was the affect he had. Superman. He made you think that everything would be fine. Right up until the moment he was gone.

Jason struggles with expectation and reality; what Superman had been for Dick, what he could have been for Jason, and the nothing that he ultimately was.

Jason had seen him once, flying over Gotham. The red cape and boots and a suit bluer than sky; the golden skin and broad shoulders, smile warmer than any sun.

Jason had been seven, chin jutting forward and jaw set. Small hands clenched in angry fists. He was arguing with the old Park Row chemist, Mr. Bevan, who dealt in out-of-date meds for those who couldn’t afford the real thing. The old man had promised Jason 100 grams of lofexidine; had delivered less than fifty but still taken the full payment. Refused Jason’s every plea and curse and cry of unfairness.

All Jason had wanted was to get his mom off of the oxy; to get her all the way through the withdrawal this time and get her better. Get her back; to who she had been… Hunger clawed at his insides, he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in weeks, had saved up every penny he could find to try and help her and—

Superman had appeared in the sky. Impossibly huge and brilliantly bright, warmth radiating off him. He landed not two feet from where Jason was stood.

For one wild moment Jason felt like he’d won the lottery. Superman was here, Superman was here and surely it was for Jason. That’s what he did, wasn’t it? He saved people, people who really needed it. Surely he must have heard, surely he would have known; how desperate Jason and his mom were. How badly they needed help, needed the money and the medicine and somewhere warm and safe and—

The Kryptonian didn’t even see him. Didn’t just look over Jason’s head, but beyond it. Searching the layers of existence for whatever it was he saw in the walls, the very cells of Gotham’s crumbling Park Row district.

“Excuse me.” He’d said politely to old man Bevan, his voice warm with Metropolis sunshine. He’d dipped his head, as though doffing a hat, and then smashed right through the wall of the east end’s Gotham Bank and down into the old vaults.

It took Jason a moment to remember to breathe. He’d seen plenty of crazy things living on Gotham’s poverty line, but he’d never seen a man walk through a wall like it was rain. Superman appeared moments later, with Dick Grayson - that billionaire’s kid - clinging onto his shoulders, and distantly Jason had remembered something about the twelve year old having been kidnapped.

Dick’s arms were wrapped around Superman’s neck, fingers linking under the alien’s chin. There was a grin on his face a mile wide.

“Let’s get you somewhere safe.” Superman had said, rising into the sky as he spoke.

Jason watched them go, the world around him growing cooler by the moment, now that Superman wasn’t there to shine on them. It wasn’t until he got back to the apartment, dank and crumbling, that he realised the cold feeling in his gut wasn’t hunger, but devastation.

Robin met him in the Cave first. He was just as big as Jason remembered, just as overwhelming; his cape a deep, rich red.

“And as for you, Jason—” Superman’s hand had found Jason’s head, had ruffled his hair; his voice warm and booming. “Congratulations on getting that costume, I hear you’re wearing the suit well.”

Jason had only grinned, dizzy with wonder in Superman’s presence. At hearing his name come from the man himself.

“Wow—” He’d breathed, watching the Kryptonian fly from the Cave. Adrenaline had flooded his veins as the red cape slipped out of sight, “I can’t believe that was Superman!” He’d spun round to face Bruce, hopping from foot to foot with excitement. “He spoke to me! Double wow!”

Bruce had pulled down his cowl by now, slung an arm around Jason’s shoulders. “I’m wounded, Robin.” He feigned hurt, held a hand to his heart. “Batman speaks to you everyday.”

Jason had rolled his eyes, dug a playful elbow into Bruce’s ribs. “Batman can’t even fly, B. Come back to me when you’re faster than a speeding bullet.” Then he’d slipped from under Bruce’s arm, sprinting to the showers with a laugh as Bruce gave chase.

Jason had heard stories about Dick’s time with the world’s finest. The adventures the three of them had been on, how close Dick and Clark had become. Hell, Dick had even named himself after a Kryptonian legend, had been given Big Blue’s blessing to do so.

For the first time in Jason’s short life, things were going right. So for the first time he dared to imagine, to think that maybe that would be him too. He’d finally have the big family he always dreamed of, a dad and a brother and Superman. Who knows, maybe he’d even grow up and be Flamebird with Dick.

That was the affect he had. Superman. He made you think that everything would be fine. Right up until the moment he was gone.

He’d been polite, obviously, kind… but ultimately disinterested. There were no adventures together, no team, no family… And when Jason had called for him, cried his name under the relentless swing of metal against bone, it was a burning cold that filled his heart. Sorrowful and dark.

“I called for you, you know.” Red Hood stands above him. It’s hard to tell the cape from the blood now, where it lies in the snow. “When I was fifteen, and the Joker was— I called. I called right up until he cracked through my skull and I suddenly couldn’t remember how to speak anymore.”

Superman lifts his head weakly, eyes drifting from the shard of kryptonite lodged in his gut to where Jason is stood, the eponymous hood under his arm. “Jason— please…” The words tumble from of his mouth, limp and cold.

“Yeah, it was along those lines.” Jason says, dispassionately, breath rising in front of him. “I called for you before that too. When I was a kid and my mom was sick and…” He trails off. “You never came.”

Blood is pooling in Superman’s mouth now. It dribbles down his cheek, onto the dirt floor. Clark’s eyes roll in his head. “Was— off— world—” He chokes the words out. Blood flecks his skin, silver instead of gold now, as the life seeps out of him.

“Bruce said.” Jason replies, “Not when Joker needed saving though.” He adds. A pause. “Saving.” There’s no malice in it, he’s just stating facts.

“m’sorry.” Clark mumbles. His lips are turning blue now, beneath the blood.

Jason shrugs. “Is what it is.”

“Help me. Please.” Superman’s words slur together. “Hav’a, hav’a— son.”

Jason scowls at that, a jolt of hot rage in his cold bones. He had been someone’s son once, twice. It hadn’t made a difference then. Why should it now?

“J’son, hel—”

“You’ve never helped me.” Jason replies, he’s feeling petulant now. About all he can feel in these temperatures.

“S’rry.” Superman grimaces again. “Would h’ve. Would’ve come. If y’ called.”

In the distance a green glow is growing larger on the horizon. Lanterns, Jason expects. He puts his helmet back on, stares down at Superman, expressionless.

“I did,” he says. “Once.”

#I think about Jason and his relationship with supers a lot

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