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The rain drizzled around him, drenching the wet rooftop as he wheezed out another watery cough. It jostled something in his chest and he winced.
He struggled to press down fruitlessly onto the hole- holes in his side, red pulsing out between his weak fingers, while his free hand was laying uselessly half-twisted underneath him. It hurt, both the knife plus bullet wounds and the broken and dislocated arm. His chest was also a mess of potentially broken bones, with how they were pressing into his lungs and pulsing at every breath. And his head. There was a sharp, insistent stabbing at the back of his skull and behind his eyes. Even his legs were on fire, one broken and the other... he wasn't too sure what happened to it but it felt awful. To top it all, he was absolutely, positively shivering, the rain not helping his drenched-to-the-bone body.
Jason had thought about dying. Again. Had come up with all kinds of possibilities and scenarios; falling from grappling, getting out of a bomb's range too late, drowning in the Gotham river, a bullet hitting too close to something important. And... he guessed this checks out part of the list. He couldn't remember much of what happened, how did he get this injured, but he vaguely remembered being tossed into Gotham's infamous polluted water by an explosion and he had somehow miraculously managed to drag himself out with only one working arm and leg, a massive headache, and fiery agony charging up his side. And then... he had tried to grapple away? It got a bit blurry but that had somehow led him here; drenched, bleeding, broken and in immense pain.
Another wet cough tore out of his throat, bringing out blood, closely folowed by a pained moan as it lit up fires inside of him. He tried to curl up to hopefully lessen the pulsing-throbbing-stabbing in his entire torso but his whole being screamed at the small movement. His breaths were ragged as he tried to steady his slipping hand onto the bullet and knife wounds. He knew it would all be for naught. He would die here. It was pointless. He couldn't remember where was he, thus he didn't know how far was his closest safehouse. Not that he could move to get there even if he was lying right on top of it. Too much blood. Too much injuries.
And he couldn't even count on help. Red Hood was still at war with the entire Batclan, so calling for them wasn't an option, and they would probably send him to Arkham if they ever manage to catch him like this, helpless and unable to fight back. And honestly, Jason would take death over the the supposed asylum.
He winced and groaned as the sounds of sirens wailed loudly, far too close to the building he's bleeding out on. Police sirens. Probably rushing to check... whatever it was that got him into his situation. A massive shoot out maybe? A blown up building? He tried to remember but gave up with a tired moan when it only worsened his headache. He made another attempt at moving, but wheezed a stifled cry as his chest exploded and his side burned. He fumbled to press onto the bleeding wound again but gave up on that too when his hand couldn't stay in place anymore.
Jason blinked back the wetness around his eyes as he stared up at the starless sky. Gotham had always been like this, light and air pollution successfully blocking them out. He remembered seeing the stars several times. The first had been with Bruce when they had gone on some camping trip at some mountain. He couldn't really remember much of it; coming back to life and/or the Pit had apparently wiped some of his memories of his previous life, especially the nicer ones; but he did remember the stars, bright, distant, tiny speckles of sparkling light along with a shining cresent moon.
(This is a waxing moon, Bruce had said, meaning that it is going to turn into a full moon. If it is the other way around, that it is called waning.)
After that was with Dick. He couldn't pinpoint how, when, why or where, but he remembered snow, the white blanket contrasting with the black sky. The darkness was deep, with small twinkling lights winking down from above.
(I used to play a game with my parents, Dick had told him, where we would make up constellations. It is a bit like cloud watching.)
He also remembered seeing the stars when he was alone, before he died. When he was looking for a family. One that would care for him.
(Never would he admit that he still was.)
After had come back to life, he never really bothered paying attention to the sky despite having travelled outside of Gotham a plenty of times; training, Pit-rage and some scheme or plan constantly taking up his mind.
But it fits that Gotham was without stars. Gotham was a city of darkness after all.
(Which is why Robin is important. Robin is light and hope.)
(And magic.)
A sudden spasm in his chest wrenched him out of his thoughts, a soft whine shallowly echoing into the night. His legs were numb and throbbing at the same time and his arm was laced with pulsing needles. His head was reeling and twisting and turning and he could almost throw up. Blood was gathering in his mouth, dripping past his lips as he turned his head to let it flow out.
Jason had thought that he would feel a lot of things when he died; pain definitely, maybe anger and resentment, disappointment; but he had never thought regret would be one of them. Regret of... never having a chance to make things right with Bruce again.
(Not that it would ever be. Bruce had made it clear that it would never ever be.)
Of never having a chance to be part of a family again. The family. His-
(Not his family. Never his family. They wouldn't accept him anyway. Probably never had.)
Of never having a chance to at least see them one last time. To say all the things he never got to.
(I love you. I need you. I miss you. I don't hate you. Please.)
Of making sure that he would always end up alone. With no one to care for him.
(Living alone. Dying alone. Again.)
Jason stopped trying to battle the fog that had started to perpetually shroud his mind. His breaths rattled and gasped and hitched and stuttered and he distantly noted that the tears falling from his eyes weren't because of the pain. At least not from his physical wounds. He wrapped his good arm around himself as the cold breeze made him tremble. But it wasn't just the wind that was sending tremors through him wasn't it?
Before he could stop it, a sob pulled from his throat, quickly followed by more. His mind was hazy with pain and swirling emotions, too much for him to properly identify.
(Hurt. Regret. Fear. Longing. Depise.)
He was cold. He was wet. He was in agony. He was exhausted. He was scared. He wanted the warmth and safety of his safehouse, to sleep on his bed, to wrap up all his injuries, to hunt down whoever who placed him into his situation and make them pay. And above all, he wanted... Bruce... his family... to not be alone when he inevitably died... to have someone who loves him.
But he couldn't have that.
(And no one was to blame but him.)
He kept on crying even when he couldn't breathe. He went on sobbing even when he could feel nothing but the pain all over his body and the agony in his heart. Even when his eyes grew heavier. Even when he started to feel colder on the inside. Even when his mind started to grow sluggish. He still cried for the family he wished he had.
(Could have had. But he had burned his chances. Deliberately.)
A small part of him had thought that he would be happy to finally die and the pain to stop. But he wasn't. The darkness did nothing for the ache inside him.
(But that didn't matter didn't it? At least he's gone when no one wanted him.)
-
...
-
A rooftop.
Two figures.
One heartbeat.
-
"JASON!"