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Jason didn’t expect to die like this.
If he had choked on the dirt that covered his coffin, too weak to keep digging with shaking fingers cut open and bleeding hard enough to stain the sleeves of the suit he was buried in, it would have made sense. If he had died while aimlessly wandering the streets of Gotham, empty and mindless, for days on end until an unsatisfied mugger, or a murder, or some monster even worse decided his life was forfeit, he would have understood. If the League of Assasin’s too ruthless training, or his own too careless attitude as he returned to the city he grew up in- to his city, had been what took him in the end, Jason would not have been surprised.
But this?
Watching, with his neck cut open like a pig’s, as the man he once called a father saved his murderer . A creature so vile, so monstrous , so goddamn irredeemable had his total forgiveness, and yet Jason-his own child was left to bleed out in the dust.
No…He didn’t just leave Jason to bleed out. The Bataram sticking out of his neck was evidence enough of it. Bruce…Bruce hurt him, despite promising, above all else, that he never would.
Maybe Jason was the foolish one for trusting that promise after the man broke so many already. Or maybe that promise died with that little stupid boy inside a warehouse, maybe that little boy was never meant to come back at all- something he knows now, with not a shadow of doubt in his mind, that Bruce would have much preferred it that way.
The thing was that Jason was aware that he was giving Bruce a hard choice when they met. He knew, as he pressed his gun against that fucking clown’s temple and held himself back with all his might from pulling the trigger himself, that he was giving the old man two, apparently much harder than he would have thought at twelve opinions.
Betray your morality or your child. Your stupid “code” or your family.
He prepared himself for the outcome of either. Jason knew, perhaps better than anyone, that his father for all his positives was also stubborn and perhaps, at times when a little boy’s hands shake and Robin suddenly starts suddenly getting sick whenever he steps on a fire escape, cruel.
He never realized his father could pick both options. He didn’t imagine a world where he would.
Somehow, that world still felt as far away as the feeling in his fingertips was starting to. He didn’t understand it, he couldn’t understand it, because if Bruca could do this to him and still save the Joker-if Bruce is willing to turn his back on Jason and even sacrifice his own morals doing so then what the hell does that say about him?!
It means the world didn’t change with his death, but it did with his return. It means Batman not being able to save his apprentice from fleeing and falling far far away from the nest in a mess of feathers and broken bones was perhaps not as accidental as he first thought. It means-
It means that Jason was always meant to stay in that box in the ground, because when he was the world was better. The world made sense.
It means that according to Bruce, Jason Todd was meant to rot no matter what.
It takes great effort for Jason to lift his own arms, his limbs feeling as heavy and as stiff as a corpse’s, but he still does it-he forces one of his hands to wrap around his own throat, fingers slowly warming up against the hot blood starting to coat them. He’s already groaning in pain as he tries to force his other hand to wrap around the cold Batarang that bites into his skin with teeth made of sharp steel and broken trust, his fingers are far too sloppy and they take far too long to listen, but Jason wills them with all his might to work.
He doesn’t even register as they start to bleed, any pain outside the fire burning in his neck and the thick lump stuck inside his throat seeming absolutely meaningless in comparison. Perhaps they are. Perhaps this is the only pain that will ever matter since the Joker. Perhaps this is the only pain that will ever matter altogether. It certainly feels that way.
He tries to count himself down, but as he opens his mouth he suddenly becomes too afraid to try and speak, too frightened at the prospect of finding any damage to his vocal cords done by the weapon. Wouldn’t Bruce get a kick out of that? That he did manage to silence Jason-one way or another?
Well, Bruce doesn’t get to have that. Bruce doesn't get to have anything from him ever again- specially not another death.
He yanks the Batarang free with a loud, all encompassing scream and throws it as far as he can. The sound it makes as the steel bounces on old rotten wooden floorings echo around him but he has little time to focus on it as he desperately tries to dig through his jacket for a needle he had sewn into the fabric. There must be some thread somewhere in this shithole, something, anything he can use to stitch himself back up.
His legs don’t want to obey him, and now with a needle between his teeth the hand that isn’t gripping his throat is too slippery with blood for him to properly support himself against the wall, but he tries it anyway. Then he tries again, and again, and he keeps on trying until finally, finally legs that can barely support him bend beneath him and he struggles up, as upright as he can possibly be at that moment.
Because Jason Todd didn’t die when he was choking on the dirt covering his coffing, he didn’t die while aimlessly wandering the streets of Gotham, he didn’t die under the League’s too ruthless training nor did he die because of his too careless attitude not so long again.
Those deaths he might have understood, he really might have. But just like last time, he wouldn’t have accepted them.
And no matter how hard Bruce tries, he’s not accepting this one either.