Chapter Text
Jason doesn’t trust the stupid Superman dude. Never did. Sure he’s always in the paper and on TV with that big smile, holding up a fuckin’ cruise liner or something, but Jason knows a thing or two about strong men. And Superman’s the strongest. Bruce is different—he—well, Jason can’t put it easily into words, but B acts like he knows that being strong is just something you gotta be, to get things done in the world, you know? He doesn’t act like he enjoys it or anything, when he’s punching guys out or even training Jason, knocking him down on the mats. He always helps him up afterward, and it never really hurts, besides. And sometimes he lets himself get knocked down by Jason, even though Jason knows he’s not really strong enough to do that.
Point is, when Bruce explained about the stupid emergency rule about Superman, Jason had just huffed and thought, privately, Yeah, right. First of all, even if he did trust Superman, he’s always super busy, even saving the actual world, sometimes. Why the fuck would he waste his time helping one of Batman’s stupid kids out of a stupid situation? He’s pretty sure B and Superman don’t even really like each other. Second, it’s just… stupid! Everyone knows when you’re in a tough spot, you don’t cry for help. You keep your mouth shut and wait ’til it’s over. Everyone knows that.
When Jason’s dad was in a bad mood, if he’d yelled out, crying for stupid Superman, he would’ve just been laughed at. And beat even worse, probably. He’d heard other kids do it, once in a blue fucking moon, when he was passing through the rougher parts of the Alley. They’d be getting robbed or raped or dragged away by a gang for something worse. And Superman never came to save them. It was just like praying to God, like he’d heard his mother do, sometimes, when the pain got really bad. She’d be shakin’ in her bed, sweating in the sheets, throwing up every other minute, and then, in a calmer period where she was just shakin’ without the other stuff, she’d ask Jason to get her rosary out of her jewelry box, and she’d wrap it around her pale, shakin’ hand, and press it to her mouth and say, real quiet so Dad wouldn’t hear, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…” and Jason would sit and listen and know it wouldn’t help anything, just like she knew. God can’t save you, and Superman can’t either. That’s what Jason learned, growing up in the Alley.
So when the crowbar’s coming down, time after time, and even when Jason spies the bomb blinking nearby, he doesn’t call for Superman. He calls for Batman, because Batman’s the one that saves him. First from the streets, and then every time after that. It took a while, but eventually Jason understood. Batman would come. And he will this time, too. He has to.
-
When Jason wakes up in the coffin, he almost doesn’t say anything. He… died. He’s dead. Gotta be. Batman didn’t make it. Batman didn’t save him. Maybe no one can actually save anyone, is what he starts thinking, lying there in his stupid suit in his stupid coffin. Maybe if someone decides they wanna hurt you, really hurt you, and they’re powerful enough to do it… maybe there’s just not a thing you can do about it. Maybe the smartest fucking thing anyone in the world can ever do is give up. Maybe if Jason had done that, he could’ve spent his last moments in relative peace, knowing it was all pointless anyway, instead of screaming his throat raw, praying to someone who wouldn’t answer, just like his mom.
But then, the air starts getting short. And the coffin starts feeling smaller. He’d thought dying again would just be like going back to sleep. Considering the impossibility of his resurrection, anyway, he figured it was just, like, a blip in the universe. Something stupid happened and restarted his heart for a second. After a few minutes, someone out there would realize their mistake and mark his attendance sheet Dead again.
But no such thing happened. In fact, his heart started beating harder, loud and certain, and his muscles started aching from staying so still, and the back of his neck started itching. It certainly didn’t feel like he’d woken up by mistake, accidentally disturbed from his eternal slumber. It felt like he was alive. And… what if he was? What if someone did make a mistake, but it was a regular one, like mistaking an injured kid for a dead kid, like not listening close enough for a pulse that was still there?
He coughs a little, panicking more when he realizes how thick and small the air feels in his lungs, cursing himself for not yelling sooner. “H-hey!” he shouts, voice breaking, weak and hoarse. “Hey! Someone’s in here! I’m, I’m still alive in here!”
When he’s met with silence, he sobs, just a little, because he can’t, he can’t die again, he can’t go through it again, it hurt so much the first time.
And he figures, maybe, just this once. If Batman couldn’t save him, can’t save him, maybe just this one time he can try praying to stupid Superman. Maybe it’ll just make him feel better, spiting Bruce for not saving him, maybe he’ll be able to honor those kids he’d heard in the Alley, those few times. Share this moment of understanding, connection, with them. Even if the connection is helplessness. Maybe if he spends his last moment praying, God will give him a pass and let him see his mom again, this time. Even if it’s to Superman and not Him. God probably likes Superman, he figures. Everyone else does.
“Clark,” he rasps, tongue heavy in his mouth. No, not Clark. He closes his eyes, trying to recall the exact wording Bruce had told him. He needs—he needs to get this right. Gods don’t listen to wrong prayers. Finally, he takes a deep breath that rattles in his lungs, and says, “Superman! I need help!” There. That’s it. But then he figures he should tell him who it is, just to be sort of polite. “Superman, it’s Jason, Jason Todd, you know, B’s kid? Robin?” He swallows, throat clicking. “Superman, I’m sorry I didn’t like you before. I really need help.” He lifts a hand to bang weakly on the coffin lid above him. “Superman, B can’t get me. And he said—he said you could help. Please.” He’s starting to feel dizzy, even laying down, and talking so much has made his whole chest hurt. His brain feels too big for his skull.
It’s kinda peaceful, even if he’s hurting. He loses time. But it can’t be that much, because he’s still alive when Superman, in all his bright colored glory, rips the lid off his coffin, eyes wide and disbelieving.
Jason sobs, and falls into Superman’s arms when he lifts him up and out of his grave. “Superman!” he cries, “Superman, I—”
“You’re alive, he says, clutching Jason tightly but gently to his chest. “My God, Jason. My God.”
Jason can only say, “You came,” weakly, wetly, awestruck. “You helped.”
Superman just clutches him tighter to his chest and says, “Always.”