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April 27. The day a kid had succumbed to darkness and never woke up, leaving a father with the corpse of his son. Leaving the protector of Gotham alone without his only hope for Gotham.
The death of Robin.
Died because he ran away from home after being accused of murdering someone, trying to find answers about his birth mother and have someone to care for him like the person he saw as his mom did.
Craved for a mother’s love and comfort, only for his dreams to bite him in the ass and get himself killed by the hands of the Joker— all because his own blood had betrayed him, sold him away to the monster.
It was a date that criminals choose to not do their crimes, afraid that the big Bat will be ruthless. They’ve experienced it once, and never want to again, even though they didn't exactly know what was the reason for his sudden aggressiveness.
It wasn't just the criminals— the whole city knew how easily angered their protector got when provoked. From civilians to Rogues who had been trailing after the Dark Knight for years. On this date of every year, out of respect for him, the man shall not be disturbed in his grief.
But two years later after the death of Robin, a man filled with vengeance, rose from the depths of the Lazarus Pit. He claimed the throne of Gotham’s underground crime world and took up the psychotic clown’s old moniker, residing in the one place where Batman avoided like a plague and where he called home.
Red Hood was killing those deemed unfit to live— rapists, abusers, basically those who hurt the people of Gotham, and setting up rules to not deal drugs to kids, hurting the working girls and most importantly, no Bats were allowed in his territory.
The people of Crime Alley looked up to him, especially kids. He was their protector, doing the best he could to keep everyone in the crime-filled street safe, something Batman couldn't do for them.
Though, whenever the date comes around, their beloved protector would disappear. No threats against criminals, no protection for the working girls and kids.
Words spread that maybe Red Hood was protecting himself from Batman, as he's a crime lord, knowing how bad the man could be when in grief, even though he had progressively became better when Robin came into the picture again.
Jason snorted when he first heard those rumours. Why would he be afraid of Batman? Of Bruce? Though he would not admit it out loud— he had been afraid of the man, once, when Jason had forced him to pick him or the Joker.
The answer was fucking obvious, of course.
His dear old dad had slashed Jason in the neck, almost killing him, despite the fact that Bruce knew who he was behind the mask. And that was the answer he needed.
Good ol’ Bruce, choosing his son’s murderer over his own fucking son.
But here he was, still grieving over the boy he lost exactly four years ago— one who had too much fire and too much hope, to make Gotham a better place for everyone.
What a fucking joke, Jason had thought bitterly. Though deep down, if he were in Bruce’s position, he'd probably do the same. Because the kid that Bruce was grieving was someone entirely different now. A stranger who shared the same name, same blood, and a list of favourite things.
That's the only similarities Jason has with the dead kid.
Because his once baby fat filled face had been replaced into something sharper and defined, his curls had gotten straighter and his previously blue eyes had turned into an unnatural teal colour.
Right now, every part of his body was a reminder of his death, of his own mistakes. Such as the white streak in his hair— it was a claim by death. His body was now taller and bulkier, making low ceilings, doorways and small spaces that were once his friends were now his enemies. The autopsy scar that was lined from his chest to stomach never healed from his swim in the green water of madness and rage.
There were times where he wished that he didn't die, wondering how different his life would've been if he didn't belong in the hands of death.
Like would Jason have gone to college like he always dreamed of? Would Jason forever remain as Batman’s sidekick or would he grow out of Robin, willing to pass the mantle down to someone like Tim and take on a new name like Dick?
And what about his body? Would he still remain short and scrawny due to years of malnourishment? Or would Jason grow as tall as Dick or even broad-shouldered like Bruce?
Would Bruce be proud of him? Telling him how happy he was to have Jason as his son?
Sometimes, he’d wished that he crawled out of his grave, out of the pit, as the same person he used to be, instead of feelingn the white blinding anger that was constant behind his eyes.
Other times, though, Jason wished he would've just stayed dead. So Bruce would stop looking at him like he was wishing that Jason was still the same kid that died years ago. So Dick would stop looking at him with guilt and sadness. So Tim would stop being afraid and wary of him.
But this was who he is now.
And he fucking hates it— although he needed to accept the fact that this new body, this new rage and madness in his mind, is a part of him now. Nothing was going to change that no matter how many times he doesn't want to admit it, doesn't want to accept it.
Jason was no longer that naive kid who thought that he could change the world because Robin was magic. No, that kid was buried six feet deep in the ground next to Sheila Haywood. Jason’s not him. Jason was someone else, someone new and unfamiliar.
And the way his so-called family were treating him was proof of it.
Jason shifted in bed, glancing away from the ceiling where he had been staring at it for the past few hours and turned on his phone to check the date. April 27.
He already dreaded the day, despite it barely starting.
The sound of ringing in his hand had him groaning in despair, already predicting who it was without looking at the caller’s ID. Jason answered it anyway, knowing how relentless the man could be if Jason didn't pick up.
“Whaddya want, Dickhead?” Jason grumbled, rubbing his face exasperatedly. It was too early for his brother to be bothering him.
“Sorry. Did I wake you?” Dick’s voice was soft and gentle. Though it was not unfamiliar, Jason wondered what went through his brother’s mind. Definitely his death day.
Jason grunted, sitting up from his bed. “Would you be waking me up if I had already been awake?”
On the other side of the line, Dick made an incoherent sound from the back of his throat. “You didn't get any sleep?”
“No,” Jason replied curtly, staring out his window where the city was basking under the sun, though it was clouded. Typical Gotham, always fucking gloomy.
There was a sense of hesitation from Dick’s end, and it stretched long enough that Jason considered hanging up. In the end, Dick spoke up again, his voice quieter this time, as if testing the waters.
“You know what today is,” Dick said softly, not a question but more of pointing it out, as if Jason didn't know.
“Kinda hard to forget the very date that I died on,” Jason retorted with a huff, slouching against his headboard.
“Right— sorry,” Dick sighed and Jason could hear the rustling of sheets. “I just… wanted to check up on you. I don’t want you to be alone.”
Jason snorted. “Who says I’m alone? I’m not. I have coffee and Netflix. And a gun. Real comforting company.”
“Jay.”
“I’m kidding.”
Jason could practically hear the eye roll coming from his brother, faintly smirking as he could imagine the look on Dick’s face. “Has… uh, Bruce called? Or said anything to you last night?”
“As if he’d call me, especially at the crack of dawn,” Jason scoffed, rolling his eyes to himself as he raked a hand through his messy and tousled hair. “Even if he did, I wouldn't be picking up.”
A lie. He knew damn well that he would. Just to hear what Bruce had to say to him— to say to the dead kid he couldn’t save.
“Does that mean you’re not going over to the Manor today?”
“Are you?” Jason shot back, knowing that Dick had partake in an argument with Bruce recently. Again. It's the third one this week— Jason didn't bother asking, he’s not that sane enough to know.
It brought him memories though, of when Dick was a raging homicidal teenager while Jason was still that naive kid who looked up to his big brother, starry eyed. Dick’s definitely the reason why Bruce had sprouted grey hair in his early thirties.
Dick huffed on his end of the phone. “I am, actually. Just to visit Tim.”
“Well, I’m not,” Jason said, scratching his cheek absentmindedly. “Got shit to do today,” he lied half-heartedly.
Technically he does have things to do. Other than managing an entire gang and the crime world— which have been quiet lately.
But ever since Jason started coming around the family, he had a knack for avoiding the Manor— well, he’s always avoiding the Manor, actually; during this specific date. It was when all the gazes, all the words that were spoken to him— meant for the ghost haunting him, became too much to bear.
Only Dick had stopped looking for his ghost. His brother had accepted the fact that he wasn't coming back anytime soon and accepted Jason for who he is now, for who he had become. But Alfred and especially Bruce? Not so much.
Dick exhaled a soft, frustrated sigh. “You don't have anything, do you? You and I both know how quiet the streets are during this time of the year.”
Of course Dick could see through him like Jason was transparent.
“I’m fine, Dick,” Jason hissed out with clenched teeth. “I don't need a fucking babysitter. It’s not like I’m going to fly over to another state and get blown up,” he snapped.
The silence he was met with wasn't an awkward one, rather it was a disbelieving silence, one where Dick was processing his words with disbelief.
It was no news that Dick felt responsible for his death. Jason had died in the name Dick had created for himself— in his parents name for him and his family colours, which Jason found out about when he had returned to Gotham, mind filled with rage.
The other reason was that Dick hadn't been there for him when Jason was begging him to come save him. How can he? Dick was in space with zero way of answering his calls. And it wasn't like Dick had super hearing.
So of course his brother felt guilty for something he didn't do, something he couldn't control. Guilt for not being there for Jason, for getting him killed, for not answering his calls, for not being a better brother.
Sure, Jason had actually blamed his death on Dick— but it was when the green hazing over his mind was uncontrollable, manipulating him into believing things he, deep down, knew that were untrue.
But it wasn't Dick’s fault. It was never Dick’s fault.
The Joker, Bruce, Sheila and Jason himself, were at fault.
The Joker, for killing him. Bruce, for accusing him of murder and caused him to run. Sheila, for selling him out to the Joker to save her own ass. And Jason, the kid, for believing that someone out there could love him like Catherine once did.
“Please don't joke about that,” Dick muttered quietly— so quietly that Jason almost missed it amidst his own thoughts. “You know it’s okay to not be fine about your death.”
“It’s my death. I get to joke about it however the fuck I want,” Jason scoffed, rubbing his face. He’s starting to feel the exhaustion seep through his bones due to the late night patrol and lack of sleep. “And I’m not lying. I’m fine and have things to do.” Like wallowing in self-pity.
His brother sighed, clearly unconvinced. If he knew Jason well, which he probably does, Jason thinks, he'd drop the subject and wouldn't push further. And Jason's right when Dick muttered, “Fine. Just— if you need someone, you know where to find me.”
Without a response other than a grunt, Jason hung up, tossing his phone to the side and sliding down his bed while glancing outside his door where his guns were cluttered in the living room. He should probably clean up, make some breakfast— after a nap.
And that's what he does, with his demons haunting him in his dreams.
It wasn't a long ride from his apartment to Gotham’s Cemetery— admittedly, Jason didn't know what possessed him to visit the graveyard.
He’d been avoiding it ever since he had crawled out of his grave, because honestly, who in their right mind would visit their own graves? Apparently Jason isn't that sane enough.
Hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, Jason dragged himself to where he was buried and where he was found. He still doesn't know how Talia managed to find him or know that he had miraculously resurrected— even Jason himself didn't know how.
The Lazarus Pit wasn't meant for resurrection for deaths longer than a few days. Jason had been dead for six months. That itself was impossible for the Pit to be able to resurrect.
Which meant that the Lazarus Pit didn't resurrect him, it only healed his wounds and scars, leaving behind the biggest one of them all. It was something else that brought him back to life.
Pulling out his pack of cigarettes and lighter, Jason lit a stick up as he stood in front of his grave with an angel looking over it, right beside Sheila’s. He ignored hers.
Here lies Jason Peter Todd. A good brother, son and friend, it read. Jason snorted, surprised that a good soldier wasn't added to his gravestone.
His grave looked untouched, but both Jason and whatever God up there knew that it had been disturbed— by, of course, Jason himself. This was probably the League’s doing.
Jason shifted awkwardly, exhaling the smoke as it blended into the air. What was he supposed to do? Talk to the empty grave? Should he be bringing flowers? Suddenly Jason regretted getting out of his apartment.
Clearing his throat, Jason glanced around to check if he’s alone with a cigarette hanging between his lips. Taking one last drag, he stubbed it beneath his shoes and sighed.
“Hey,” Jason muttered, staring at his own grave, as if it wasn't empty. “Been a while, huh, kid?”
The grave offered no response— as it should be. Because it would be fucking weird if it were to respond to him.
Jason glanced away, contemplating on what he should even say. It’s not everyday someone talks to their own fucking grave.
He shoved his hands back into his pockets, his fingers twitching. Jason exhaled sharply, closing his eyes. “I don’t even know why I’m here. I guess… I just needed to see it.”
Jason sighed, rubbing his face. “I’m sorry I couldn't save you, kid. I tried, you know? I really fucking tried.”
Out of habit, he took out his lighter, flicking it on and off, a repetitive pattern that he couldn't get rid of, especially when he’s nervous or anxious. “You had all this hope in you, thinking you could save Gotham and make a difference because you believed Robin was magic.”
He glanced at the sky that was slowly darkening as he continued on. “I… I wanted to keep that, you know? That hope. It was the one thing that kept you going but— I lost it somewhere along the way, probably in the fucking Pit,” he chuckled bitterly as his eyes turned glossy.
Jason angrily wiped his eyes. He’s not gonna fucking cry while talking to the dead kid that he once was. “Sometimes I wished I was still you. So everyone would stop looking at me and wished it was you that returned instead. But they're not the only ones— every fucking time I look at myself in the mirror, all I look for was your face.”
Jason sighed heavily, wiping the tears on his face. “I don't think you’d recognise me if you saw me, honestly. Hell, I don't. I don't know who the fuck I am now— am I Red Hood or Jason Todd, the ghost of the past?”
“I miss you, you know,” Jason admitted quietly, his tears freely streaming down his cheeks as he stared at the flickering flame in his hand. “Not just the kid you were, but the dreams you had. The hope you carried.”
As his voice cracked, Jason slapped a free hand against his mouth, containing the sob that threatened to escape.
Taking deep even breaths, he shakily shoved his lighter back into pockets as he swallowed a lump in his throat. “I really wish it was you that returned. I really do. Everyone would be happy— especially Bruce. He’d be happy to have his son back.”
A sob broke out of him as his knees buckled, dropping him onto the soft dirt. “I’m so sorry— I’m sorry for not saving you. Because of me you didn't get to grow— because of me, Bruce lost his son,” he sobbed out. “You deserve better— you really do.”
Jason’s hands dug into the dirt beneath him, trembling as he let the tears fall freely. His breath hitched with every sob, the weight of his grief and guilt pressing down on him like it had so many times before. "You deserved so much more than this— than me. You had dreams, a future. You believed in something bigger than yourself, and I…" He trailed off, shaking his head.
“I should’ve been the one to go,” Jason muttered, his voice hoarse. “Not you. Never you. You were supposed to make it, to prove that Gotham wasn’t just this endless cycle of pain and death.” His fingers curled into fists, the dirt slipping between them. “You were supposed to show them all that Robin was magic.”
The silence of the cemetery was deafening, save for the sound of Jason’s ragged breaths. He tilted his head back, staring at the gray sky above. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, kid. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be without you.”
His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible against the quiet. “I don’t even know if I deserve to be here. Maybe I should’ve stayed dead. Maybe that would’ve been better for everyone.”
Jason sat there for a long moment, his head bowed, the tears still streaming down his face. Then, slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, brushing the dirt from his knees.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured one last time, his voice breaking. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps heavy as he left behind the grave and the boy he once was.