Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“i hope i die warmed by the life i tried to live” - Nikki Giovanni

noun: death
the action or fact of dying or being killed; the end of the life of a person or organism.

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Jason traced the curved blades of the batarang, his finger sliding between the grooves of the design and pausing as it slips into a flat imperfection. The dent does not belong. It’s unruly and lacks any semblance to the uniform edge of the weapon. It sticks out like a sore thumb. Jason couldn’t help but run his finger over it several more times, sending his mind spiralling. His mind retreated into its deep recesses, fighting the oncoming tidal wave of pain.

The red and angry scar throbbed across his neck, sending burning, hot blood rushing through his veins. Jason’s right hand was at his neck at once, itching, scratching, picking at the scab. The pinpricks of pain as he tugged at the pieces of skin cooled the fiery haze of the scar. Every nail scraping at the wound allowed Jason to slip into an uncanny alertness. Through the fog, he could recognise that his fingers didn’t stop picking at the scar, that his free hand was gripping the batarang so tightly it dug into his sore flesh and that the only thing he wanted to do right now was push the dented edge of the batarang straight into to his neck, where it belonged.

The searing irritation, quelled momentarily, returned in full force. Jason flung the batarang across the soace, making it land straight through the frail player of his living room. The agony did not stop at Jason’s pitiful attempts to extinguish the burning pain. He felt it all gurgling deeply within his bones. It was coming to the surface. The festering amalgamation of terror, anger and fury pushed through to the very top layer of his skin, it slipped through his scar, exiting his body in cleansing agony. The droplets of blood from the now inflamed open gash turned to a steady trickle, coating his fingers and disgusting clothes in more filth. Jason allowed the pain to flow freely from his body, snatching a deep sigh from the true bottom of his diaphragm.

Slumping back into his couch, Jason sank into the welcoming, scratchy fabric. It was done; he let every ounce of evil escape him for now. The cathartic feeling mellowed in what little time seemed to pass and all that remained was a tiny sense of urgency and ultimately pain. He belonged to Pain. Pain hollowed out his brain and clasped him within a tight, inescapable embrace. The lingering tightness in his chest, the absolute terrorising agony in his neck and the sudden onset of irritation in his hands was all he was accompanied by. Another sleepless, lonely yet welcoming night tugged at Jason’s mind. He was exhausted, but he was on fire and could not let his thoughts rest for even a moment.

God, he was disgusting. Everything he was, was disgusting. The never ending pile of dishes in his sink he’d given up on, the same stinking top he’d been wearing for three days or maybe the bloody stained fingernails were the most disgusting. Yet, Jason’s body was not keen on moving anytime soon from the confining couch.

His fingers that pressed against his reopened wound were slowly soaking in his warm blood; it was the only comfort to his freezing body. Winter was brutal as always, snow blanketing in heaps outside and frost masking his windows. Though, maybe it was his fault he didn’t pay for the gas bill. Jason didn’t feel like it, as usual.

Finally, after Jason felt like it, his legs slowly contracted, pulling him up from the couch. Jason crumpled almost instantly, barely missing the coffee table and landing face first into the grimy carpet. He attempted once more to get up as his legs tensed and shook from lack of use. Steadily, he leaned against the wall in his freezing apartment, finding the bathroom and glancing in the chilled mirror. Blood was everywhere, coating his fingers, his skin and his top. Through his lethargy, Jason managed to locate his bandage draw, cutting a piece off and wrapping his bleeding gash. He was not in the mood to clean the wound, nonetheless do anything right now.

As he placed the flimsy bandage over his neck, Jason noticed more pain originating from his palm. Crap. He’d gripped the Batarang too tightly, sliced his whole palm in half. Nothing was worse than a hand injury, his fingers would work just about as well as fish out of water. He knew if he had to grip anything with his left hand. Another poorly organised bandage was slapped onto the deep red, agonising injury and Jason called it a day.

A stray glance of his eyes to the mirror forced a pang of guilt to rise from his stomach. It travelled begrudgingly, slowly, tauntingly. Jason’s eyes peered into the mirror, locked on his face. His stupid face. His face that looked a little too much like the picture of the playboy star who headline every show and newspaper in gotham. Jason gazed into his eyes, only discovering the same look Bruce gave him on that night. The pitiful, guilt ridden yet disappointed glare only forced the bile to rise up his throat faster.

Ears ringing, mouth burning and eyes crinkled shut, Jason’s head met the toilet bowl. What little Jason had managed to shove down his throat was unceremoniously exiting his heaving mouth. His throat ached. Everything ached. His head scrambled itself back together as best as he could and Jason stood back up on steady legs, wiping his chin with his arm.

His knees ached as he returned to the living room, this time lying down on the couch. Jason stared off into the void of his ceiling. It’d been weeks now since Jason bothered to leave his apartment. He didn’t really care about counting though; he didn’t feel like leaving, not at all.

Jason was dead. He was a boy as dead as a door nail, blissful in his non-existence. He was ripped from that sanctuary. Cruelly, terribly, Jason clawed out of the wooden cage. He couldn’t breathe, lungs convulsing as he pulled through to the surface. Rain poured down on his weathered body. No one was there. No, Jason had no idea where he was. A completely unknown part of Gotham. They’d abandoned him. Bruce had left him to rot in the ground after Joker ripped him a new one. No, Bruce abandoned him the very moment the bomb exploded and he was collapsed under crushing weights, his breathing stopped as his lungs failed. Asphyxiation.

Jason died, alone, young and forsaken by the person who saved him. He couldn’t breathe, compressed between tonnes of rubble. Lungs giving out and lacking oxygen, Jason suffered.

A harsh gasp, sending him off the side of the couch, awoke Jason from his spiral. He glanced around the room in the dark haze of his thoughts, letting out a breath he had no idea he was holding. Spectacularly red crescents lined his arms where Jason had pushed his nails unforgivingly into the skin.

Everything was coming up now, not like earlier, not like the vomit or the inner turmoil of his scar, no, every single mistake pranced around his increasingly freezing body sculpted on the floor. The maniacal laughter paired with the cool singe of metal impaled in his neck drained the logic from his reasoning. All the tangible evidence of his suffering was crawling back, pouncing upon the helpless man. His body ached and succumbed to a sickening overwhelming pain encompassing everything: small circular burns on his arms from longtime nicotine addicted parents, shaky lines travelling from wrist to elbow with mountainous scars, long-since healed stitches in a Y formation over his frail chest and the burning need in his veins for nothingness.

Jason spent the rest of that night on the floor, dreading having to get up and exist later.

The next afternoon, awakening after dreadfully plagued dreams, Jason stumbled to the kitchen — he barely avoided falling over the rotting pile of rubbish that overflowed from the bin. He groggily placed his uninjured hand on the door handle to the pantry, opening it to discover nothing edible. Of course, there was the moldy fruit and the few days expired snacks but he wasn’t that desperate, at least not yet. Jason begrudgingly ignored the newfound desperation from his stomach, crying out in hunger, lacking any true sustenance. He ignored it.

Jason collapsed back onto the couch, picking at the ailing wound on his hand and letting out soft breaths as the skin refused to peel away. He stopped after the cut managed to start bleeding again, flowing delicately and gliding over the rough creases of his worn hands — too many signs of wear despite his too young age.  He grumbled under his breath, glancing around for any distraction before yet another spiral. The batarang stuck in the cracked plaster next to the window caught his attention. With an all too familiar bliss of rage, Jason pulled himself up and took to the batarang at once. He plucked it from its place with a monstrous force, dredging up the horror of its pain.

Jason had had enough. Every single time he dared to look at that stupid piece of metal — that weapon — he fell apart at once. It was meant to be perfect. The perfect confrontation. Bruce would finally right his wrongs and Jason would be allowed to heal. No, fuck no, what was he even expecting? Bruce would never let Jason have peace in his life. The gun Jason held had shook in fury from the tension in his arm, he was singularly struck that Bruce would kill his murderer. He gave the choice to Bruce. Joker’s laughter ringing in his ears stung more than the warm, boiling blood escaping his neck. The twisted, gravelly, maniacal glee in his voice at victory never stopped even as the boy slumped against the wall, struggling to breathe.

Fuck! Jason couldn’t breathe, he can’t breathe now, why was it so fucking hard to breathe?! Shivering and shaking, Jason took a choked gasp of air as the cold dented metal edge of the batarang pressed up against his forearms. He paused. It all stopped for just a single moment before any semblance of composure snapped into two. Heavy, burning tears poured from his sunken eyes, rolling down his red puffy cheeks and down into the freezing floor. The overwhelming need to inhale a solid breath was pressing against his chest and his lungs could do no little more than obey. Through his wet and bleary gaze, Jason bore holes into the weapon, gripping it as his only lifeline.

His fingers were numb with panic, clenching tightly before swiftly dragging the dull blade right across his already scarred flesh. It was done. The first slash soothed the aching flame burning within his core, the ailing wound that unrelenting in its torment. Jason gasped for air, drowning in his despair as the short-lived relief evaporated instantaneously. Again. He propelled the dented edge of the batarang in a line just above the first one, small droplets of blood pooled in groups before gushing out. He took a deep inhale. Again. Jason let the blade pull itself, pacifying his pain and subduing his torment. Again. Grinding his teeth, Jason took the blade’s torture to end his own. Again! It wasn’t working anymore. Fuck, again! Again. Again. Again!

Chapter Text

“My soul bleeds… and the blood steadily, silently, disturbingly slowly, swallows me whole.” - Fyodor Dostoevsky

verb: pain
cause mental or physical pain to.

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Jason awoke with a shooting pain travelling from the tips of his fingers to the grotesque mush of his brain. His body rested against the wall, posed like the inspiration behind Van Gogh’s ‘Sorrowing Old Man At Eternity’s Gate’; the masterpiece of whirling spirals and proficient control of colour. Though, Jason was not the poised model, nor the celebrated and put-together piece of art that brought recognition to Van Gogh’s name. No, Jason was lost, forgotten and shattered. He was no muse. He was little more than a sack of flesh and bones, bleeding profusely from his arms and revelling in the nerves firing off in the warnings of pain. Jason relished in the agony, allowing himself to succumb to pain. As his head lolled to the side, Jason permitted the warmth to permeate into his skin, coating his arms with thick crimson. He soaked it in.

His eyes once shut within the gentle grasp of unconsciousness now tensed open, furrowing his eyebrows. Jason scanned the apartment as the kind rays of sunshine now shone through his curtains, scoffing at the batarang laying on the rotten floorboards besides his mutilated arms. Upon glancing over into the kitchen, his stomach clawed angrily for any desperate relief. It screamed and cried, begging for help — for mercy. Jason’s broken body refused. It resisted with an unrelenting terror; Jason’s strength trickled out of him through the wounds on his arms, bearing his failure. Everything was too much.

He laid there, paralysed by the pain which now bled through the boundaries of hurt into an intoxicating satisfaction: satisfaction of denying existence, satisfaction of emanating despair, satisfaction of resistance — resisting every confine that dared to chain him down to life. The high didn’t last; it never lasted. The utopia of pleasurable agony was dangled in front of his mangled, twisted yet undying corpse, taunting his tormented soul. He wanted, he craved, he needed. No one understood, no one could understand. Existence was pain and pain was existence.

No one wanted to live like this. Jason’s foggy mind managed to push through one single cohesive thought. Except, they were innocent. They didn’t kill nor hurt everyone around them most. Those bystanders didn’t argue or fight or lose against their best enemies and worst allies. They never had to wilt under the gaze of a disappointed father upon his estranged, violent and brutal son. A failure that refused to bury itself in the ground and surrender to fate. Jason was meant to die again. To succumb to once his very own saviour was whispered in the very essence of his being. He shouldn’t have made it out.

The sting of hot water cleansing his sins sent shivers racing up his spine. The open wounds screamed. It hurt so much. Jason’s blood-crusted fingers comb through the matted hair on his head roughly. The soft curls had tangled together roughly, neglected for far too long. He tugged at the knotted tufts, letting out soft huffs as he detangled them. Jason closed his eyes, allowing the scalding water to reconcile with his transgressions. The scabs on his arms and the deep hole in his neck ached through the burning cleanse. He didn’t dare open his eyes, not until the blistering water had turned frigid and unwelcoming.

Stepping out of the shower, Jason gazed at his arms, transfixed on the marvellous mutilation of old scar tissue, faded burns and forgotten memories. It was disgustingly captivating. A sign that Jason was alive on his own terms. Soon, this wouldn’t matter. The muted void would reclaim him, at Jason’s own discretion.

As Jason finally exited the bathroom, night had long since fallen on the city — hand in hand with the police sirens and screams of tormented souls. It wasn’t fair. The evilest people thrived while the victims only ever suffered. The memory of bone-thin children living off mouldy scraps and ragged clothes which barely shielded their freezing bodies from the biting chill of the city’s winter tugged at his conscience. Fights broke out in every alley over small change or the very crumbs which sealed the distinctions between life or death. How selfish was it to wallow in self-indulgent misery while ignoring the people who truly suffered most? Peeking at his maimed arms, he scoffed and waved off the notion of bandages. It wasn’t fair to heal while every second person outside was dying.

Glaring at the crimson-stained batarang that lay on the floor, Jason tucked it into one of his many pockets, securing his utility belt over the top. He stretched the body suit over his torso — it was once flush with his skin, but now, the extra fabric sagged over his chest and shoulders. The snug fabric did however irritate his wounded flesh, proliferating his need to scratch his annoyance out. He resisted, calmly, as calm as a deranged man could. The jacket was heavy over his body. It weighed down from the thorough armoury hidden within. Before setting the helmet over his head, Jason reached for several out-of-date granola bars and chomped them down, satiating the longing hunger in his stomach for just a moment.

Pulling at the bodysuit so it covered his neck, Jason donned the helmet. The once very essence of his character had come to be an uneasy reminder of his disappointments. Fuck, Bruce’s face — his eyes — haunted Jason’s vision, trailing just behind his vision no matter where he turned. His eyes used to be the loving gazes of parental affection, lighting up and beaming every second Jason was around. The soft grin that tugged cheekily at his serious expression in the drab moments allowed Jason to forget the painful past. When Jason had been with Willis and Catherine, he knew no other life than torture and the looming threat of the outside world. His skin had once only bore the bruises of beatings, burns from cigarettes or shards of alcohol bottles. Bruce promised a better life. A chance at redemption was in his hands, snatched too early. Jason had adored the gentle affection of his father; the small gestures that meant ‘I love you’ in the kindest of ways never ceased. Then, all too soon, he only knew the hateful temper of his father. A disobedient and petulant monster who had destroyed the innocence of the pure Jason Todd. Jason Todd didn’t commit crime, didn’t kill, didn’t go against his father. He deserved the reminder that he didn’t belong. That jagged dented metal, tucked neatly away into his pants, was all Jason needed to know that he was the vengeful ghost of a sinless boy who only ever looked to the joy in life.

Grasping at his chest, Jason needed to crack his ribs open and pull his lungs right out. They wouldn’t let him breathe. He couldn’t breathe. A colourful darkness danced in front of his eyes. Jason reached out, desperately clutching onto the window sill to stay upright. Fingernails digging into the crusted paint over ancient plaster, Jason huffed. That was enough. People were actually dealing with real issues. Jason harshly tugged on his gloves, opening the window and climbing onto the rusted fire escape. The dizziness neglected to fade despite his most intense focus.

Red Hood was out on the streets, terrorising the arrogant street rats who preyed on the weak. The looks he received from onlookers was unavoidable. Uncertain eyes tracked his every movement. Weeks had passed since the vigilante had roamed the streets, trust and safety had grown scarce. Fear ran rampant among the people of Crime Alley.

The night only grew more uncontrollable as the aching exhaustion set into Jason’s bones. Shoot-outs followed by dangerously close fights, he was losing his grip on himself.

His sore legs remained unmoving as a pistol was brandished and shot right at his leg. Jason stumbled back, losing his footing as the dizziness wore down his sight. The goon approached close, looming over Jason’s hunched figure, tauntingly remarking and revelling in the glory of victory. Jason gritted his teeth, pressing down harder over the weeping bullet hole right over his thigh. The bullet was lodged in, intertwining with his flesh. Jason snuck his free hand to the blade by his side and rushed at the unaware man. Raising his knife over the man’s chest and stabbing down over and over and over. He didn’t stop. The warm blood coated his gloves, forcing Jason’s eyes to linger on the gaping hole where the knife was stuck. Jason pulled the knife out once more, brushing off the victim’s mutilated torso and applying pressure to his own injury. Another villain off the streets.

The night ended as Jason precariously climbed up into his safe house, barely holding himself up. Opening the window once more and falling straight in, Jason at last allowed his consciousness to slip away despite the pang of hurt radiating all over.

Chapter Text

"Never regret thy fall, O Icarus of the fearless flight, For the greatest tragedy of them all, Is never to feel the burning light." -Attributed to Oscar Wilde

noun: freedom
the power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants.

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Laughter. The constant psychotic ringing of maniacal indulgence was inescapable. Legs unmoving and breathing uneasily, Jason tensed in the darkness. Despite the complete loss of control, he willed his body to move. The metal screeched as it was dragged lazily across the concrete. He opened his mouth to scream, for help, for Batman, for a father who wouldn’t ever love him again. His voice dissipated in his throat, soft shaky murmurs barely escaped his lips. The force of the massive metal crowbar pushed Jason down. The hits didn’t stop. Over and over again, violent laughter flooded his senses and Jason’s bottom lip quivered and trembled as a wave of agonising tears streaked down his battered skin.

Laying on his back, Jason caught a glimpse of the giant towering over him. He was so small and the overwhelming guilt of weakness tugged at his already soaked eyes. Powerlessness. The maniac didn’t stop.

The background ticking only made the tears stream down his face faster. The laughter didn’t stop. He was gone and the ticking only sped up.

Heat.

Pressure.

Agony.

He writhed under the collapsed columns of concrete and rubble, his chest flattened under the weight. Breathe! He couldn’t breathe. Gasping for air and the relief that never came, Jason suffered. Faintly, through the ringing and the laughter, he heard his name called in a desperate shriek.

At his final breath, Jason waited for the savior who never came.

Gasping desperately, his eyes shot open and he clenched his chest desperately. He dug his nails into his chest, gnawing at his ribs to free his lungs. Drawing a deep breath, Jason pushed a scream out of his lungs. At once, he got off the bed on shaky legs, his thigh throbbing from the unhealed bullet still lodged inside. As he followed the intricate twists and turns of the molded plaster walls, Jason’s ears did not cease ringing.

In the bathroom, his hands shivered and pulsed as they tensed harshly around the ceramic sink. The overbearing cold radiating from the very essence of the space permeated his sickly skin and seeped into his shivering bones. Within the violent cold, Jason sought refuge. He found a shelter in the decay. His muscles slowly grew weak and relaxed as his once erratic breaking grew stable.

Jason peeled his eyes off the floor, steadying his shaken gaze on the exhausted face that peered right back at him. He lingered on the sunken cheeks accompanied by the harsh purples hues of eyebags in the mirror. Jason saw no humanity glaring back at him. The lifeless glare tinged with the disappointment of great failure was inescapable. Batman’s eyes twitched; Bruce’s eyes glowered in sick unnerving silence. He shrivelled under the pressure. Bruce had stolen everything: the justice of his death, the unconditional love of family, the naive unawareness of an enveloping glare of judgment, safety.

He didn’t intend for the mirror’s fragile glass to shatter from the impact of his fist. Now buried deeply into shards of his shattered reflection, his fist twinged with sharp agony. Bruce’s eyes were everywhere. The scattered scene of eyes multiplied within the fragments. The eyes that wept love and bled kindness; the uncaring eyes that sharply cut through his failed retribution. He screamed. Bruce wanted him dead. He was no longer a good soldier nor a soft boy that believed in the beauty of the world. He died. Jason returned as a broken husk who only knew Pain and its victims. He clambered and pulled his arm from the extensive hole in the wall. He roared as the splinters of glass embraced his skin. Blood poured from the cuts. An all encompassing rage thrummed through his brain. He relished in the moment of complete and utter agony — penance for his fuck-up of an existence.

Blood dripped onto the creaking floorboards as he made his way to the living room, eyeing the weapons decorating the table. He doesn’t realise he’s holding the gun before the frigid metal caresses the roof of his mouth.

Shaking, sweating and shivering, Jason hovers his finger over the safety. It’s already off. It’s always off.
The sound of a shot and the smell of death would linger in the apartment complex. Someone would find him. He knows the scene all too well. Underpaid, forgotten veterans who spray their blood all over the ceiling. They were always alone. Always. No family, no friends, no one. They lost everything. At those scenes as Robin, Jason used to feel sick. The stench was too thick and unforgivable. He never dealt well with it. Now, he can’t help but embrace the emptiness of death.

His fingers trace the trigger.

He squeezes gently.

No, he can’t.

Jason lets the gun fall from his mouth, his body wracking with sobs.

Fucking failure. He can’t even kill himself right.

Nothing tethers him to this world — no loved ones, no dreams, no hopes, no future — so, why is it so difficult to let go?

Never would he have another chance to be loved by anyone ever again. It’s not worth the trouble of living. He only ever tormented everyone.

The fat tears rolled down his sunken cheeks and pooled at his feet.

His mind raced with the life-times of suffering he carries on his back: the slice on his palm burned, the lines travelling up and down his bony arms only ever throbbed, the hole in his neck stung of betrayal and the glass trapped in his fist throbbed with inane terror.

He doesn’t ever want to hurt again, but it’s the only thing that keeps him here. No, Jason is not backing down now. After trials and tribulations far too complex and agonising for any normal person, he deserves rest.

Peace.

The wind in his hair, blowing soft kisses to his cheeks, or the kind nothingness is all he yearns for. He went to heaven once. He needs the beautiful silence of emptiness to welcome him once more. On his terms this time.

He reaches for a pen and paper, but no words come to his thoughts. Nothing to say to anyone. There’s nobody who would even want his words. Closure will come in the form of angry suicidal retribution.

He glances through his shithole of an apartment one last time, pulling his jacket over his throbbing arms and pushing his boots over his feet. Jason leaves his keys inside, he neglects his phone and his fake ID.
Jason unlatches the door and slams it shut, allowing the sound to echo through the dark and silent hallway. He walks down the stairs quickly. He tries to dismiss the heaving breaths that fill his lungs from exhaustion already.

Stepping out onto the deserted midnight streets, Jason starts walking. He walks through the undisturbed night, allowing himself to be carried away by the soft breeze. The soft breeze only grows more achingly freezing with every step towards his destination.

His hair flies around in the violent gusts. The chilly air really is much colder on the other side of the ledge. Waves crash into each other dramatically below. No cars pass him at this time of night on the bridge. It all seems so simple. No bystanders, no bats, no one. He feels at ease, leaning back slightly and closing his eyes. His grip lethargically loosens, frozen fingers frosted against the solid railing.

He dreams.

Jason Todd dreams of the freedom of death.

He falls.

Jason Todd falls into the welcome abyss of the harbour.

He embraces.

Jason Todd embraces the suffocating, smothering depths of water.

He breathes.

For once, Jason Todd breathes with languid calmness.

He drowns.

Jason Todd drowns in the gotham harbour.

He flies.