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“Master Jason?” Alfred’s voice called through the door.
Jason’s head shot up and he groaned, wincing at the shock of pain that shot through him. His body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder— which, considering his profession, wasn't too bad of a metaphor. His eyes squinted against the harsh sunlight streaming directly onto his face from the window.
Wait.
Didn’t he close the blinds last night? Jason’s head spun, trying and failing to recall what else he’d done besides slamming face-first into his bed the night before. All he knew was the searing pain coursing through his head.
“Master Jason,” the butler’s voice came again. “Need I remind you that we must all take breakfast together as a family? Master Bruce and Master Richard are already downstairs.”
Ugh. Curse Alfred and his delicious smelling food. Curse Bruce and his insufferable desire to have them eat breakfast together. And FUCK Dick Grayson, the ever-present pain in his ass.
What was he even doing here anyways? He hadn’t set foot in Gotham since he got into it with Bruce last week. It’s Sunday! Would it kill them to let him sleep in? Just this once?
“I’m coming, Alfred.” Jason’s voice was hoarse, courtesy of both his exhaustion and the beating he received from Killer Croc the night before. Waylon had been in top form, ranting and raving about the sewage system in Gotham and eating people.
Yet, when he caught Jason, he threw him away with a, “Too-skinny. Little birds aren’t much of a meal.” Which, can he just say, rude? Jason knew he was a bit on the shorter and skinnier side— no amount of nutritious meals from Alfred could fully reverse the years he spent on the street, and compared to Bruce and Dick he did look rather runt-ish— but he’d put on some muscle as Robin!
He slowly eased himself up out of bed, his aching back protesting against the movement.
Jason looked at the mirror on his vanity and sighed. His face was littered with a rainbow of bruises, with tiny cuts dotting his face like freckles. Maybe he had been thrown through a window at one point last night— it was a blur.
He poked at one suspiciously shaped bruise along his side. Huh. He didn’t think anyone hit him with any sort of weapon last night. And… wait, was that dried blood? Did Alfred somehow not sniff out every injury he’d gotten during patrol?
Jason shrugged. Bruises and cuts weren’t something foreign to him; no-one survived Gotham unscathed, especially as a bat.
Shuffling towards his bathroom, Jason quickly brushed his teeth and jammed his favorite red hoodie over his head, not even bothering to try and tame his bedhead. If he had his way, he’d be headed right back to sleep after breakfast.
Alfred hadn’t been lying when he’d said Bruce and Dick were already sitting at the table, but what he’d failed to mention was the rather bright “Happy Birthday!” banner hung precariously over the table.
Jason frowned. Whose birthday was it? It wasn’t Bruce’s, his was back in February, and Dick’s birthday was in March.
Wait.
Was it Alfred’s birthday? He couldn’t think of anyone else's birthdays off the top of his head, so it must be! Oh, crap. Jason didn’t get Alfred anything for his birthday! Of all the people he cared about’s birthdays, he just had to forget Alfred’s?
Before he could bolt back upstairs, or excuse himself with a “Oh, I don’t feel too good,” Alfred walked through the kitchen doors with a stack of pancakes.
“Ah, Master Jason. Thank you for joining us this morning.” Bruce and Dick’s heads snapped towards him, abandoning whatever conversation they’d been having.
Shit. Now he can’t run.
“Little Wing!” Dick crowed while Bruce simultaneously let out a, “Jaylad!”
Jason’s eyebrows rose. Okay, yeah, this was weird. “Whose birthday is it?”
Bruce frowned. “Jay-bird, it’s your birthday.”
What? His birthday? His birthday wasn’t until August. He looked over at Dick, who was uncharacteristically quiet.
“Haha. Is it pick on Jason day today? My birthday isn’t until August, and it’s April. I might be a street urchin at heart but I do know how to tell time…” His strained voice tapered off, looking for any sign or hint that his family was messing with him.
There was none.
But, Jason’s instincts were screaming at him. Dick never went this long without making some overt gesture at him, fluttering around like the big bird he is (he tried hugging Jason without asking once, and he’d gotten a knee to the groin), and Bruce… Bruce’s presence just felt… off.
Something’s wrong.
He couldn’t really remember what happened yesterday besides patrol, all he knew was that it was not his birthday. His headache returned full-force, pounding against the back of his eyes. Why couldn’t he remember?
Surely, surely this was all…
Jason’s vision went blurry. He staggered, falling to his knees, his nails scraping against his scalp.
Something’s wrong.
Dick’s fork clattered onto the table, his face warped into a too-wide grin.
“Nighty-night, boy wonder.”
No.
Nonononononono….
Dick’s face melted into another; his brown hair turned a sickening green and his skin paled considerably. The impressive dining room of Wayne Manor faded as a dirty warehouse took its place.
… it was all in his head.
Reality slowly started coming back to him. There was no breakfast, no cheerful greetings from his family, just pain. Instead of sitting down with those he loved most, he was strapped to a chair, slowly bleeding out. Instead of Bruce, Alfred, and Dick, there was the Joker and his goons. Instead of a “Happy Birthday” banner, there was a bomb, slowly counting down.
It wasn’t August 16th, like his dream tried to convince him, it was April 27th. Jason wasn’t in Gotham, heck he wasn’t even in the United States. He was in Ethiopia, dying at the hands of a madman, all because he wanted to save the woman who birthed him.
He’s hundreds of miles away from civilization— hundreds of miles away from Bruce, from his Dad, and that alone terrified him. In his past run-ins with the rogues of Gotham, he’d never been very scared of what may happen to him. Jason knew that Batman would never let him get hurt.
But Batman wasn’t here. No-one was.
No matter if Bruce could somehow get to him in time to disarm the bomb (he wouldn’t, Bruce was a lot of things but he was still human), Jason could tell his body would give out before he would get treatment. Just as well, if he was going to die, he’d rather save his family the struggle of watching it happen.
Today wasn’t Jason’s birthday, it was his death day; and in some twisted form of self preservation, his brain conjured up the one thought that would invoke more peace than pain— his birthday.
Before his adoption, Jason didn’t really celebrate his birthday. Willis spent his time—and money— elsewhere, while Catherine (before the drugs took too much of her away) tried her best to make the day less awful. His birthday had never really been anything other than a slightly better-than-normal day.
His first birthday with the Waynes, though? Alfred made him pancakes, Bruce read him his favorite stories, Dick actually seemed like he tolerated him. It made him feel special. For once, Jason wasn’t just a financial burden or another mouth to feed— he was family.
And that’s really all he ever wanted out of life, a family.
Memories of laughter, of his family singing the Happy Birthday tune off-key, and of the taste of the icing Dick smashed in his face last year, flashed through his brain as the bomb gave one last warning warble.
Jason closed his eyes and smiled, accepting the inevitable.
Thank you, for loving me.
——
It was August 16th.
Normally, August 16th was a day full of laughter and too many sweet treats. Normally, the master of Wayne Manor sat aside his costumes and his dealings in the city, and focused on the one thing that mattered more than his caped crusade— his son, his Jason.
But not today.
Today, a heavy blanket hung over the already dreary Gotham City. The never-ending rain poured, as if the city itself were crying for the loss of one of its own.
Wayne Manor stood silent, something it hadn’t been since the adoption of its two young masters. But that was the issue, wasn’t it? There was only one young master now, and he barely came home, off licking his wounds in Blüdhaven.
All that remained were the Bat and the Butler, as it had been before the laughter, before the light— back when the only thing driving Batman’s mission was vengeance. Now only darkness remained, threatening to swallow them whole.
If one looked close enough, they’d notice a figure, standing alone above a patch of grass.
Bruce Wayne stood, his head hung low, as he laid a lone flower at a small gravestone.
“Happy birthday, Jaylad. I miss you.”