Chapter Text
The first thing Jason Todd became aware of was pain.
Not the sharp, all-consuming agony of shattered bones and exploding concrete.
No.
This was different.
Everything ached.
His muscles felt stiff and heavy, his chest burned with every breath, and his head pounded as though someone had lodged an axe directly between his eyes.
Jason groaned.
At least, he tried to.
The sound came out as little more than a rasp.
His throat was raw.
His entire body felt wrong.
For several long moments, he simply floated in the darkness, caught somewhere between consciousness and oblivion. Thoughts came sluggishly, as though moving through molasses.
Dark.
Why was it so dark?
Then memory crashed into him.
The warehouse.
Joker.
The crowbar.
Bruce.
The bomb.
Jason's eyes flew open.
Nothing changed.
He couldn't see.
Panic flooded his veins instantly.
Jason jerked upright—
—or rather, he tried to.
His forehead slammed violently into something solid mere inches above him.
"Fuck!"
The curse tore itself from his throat as stars burst behind his eyes.
What the hell?
Breathing suddenly became difficult.
The space around him was tiny.
Far too tiny.
His hands shot outward instinctively, only to meet hard surfaces on either side.
Wood.
Wood beneath him.
Wood beside him.
Wood above him.
His breathing quickened.
No.
No no no.
This wasn't happening.
Jason pushed against the surface above him.
It didn't budge.
The confined space pressed in from all sides.
Too close.
Too small.
He could barely move his arms.
His lungs seized.
No.
No, no, no.
Jason had never liked enclosed spaces.
Growing up on Crime Alley had taught him that being trapped usually meant getting hurt.
The Joker had taught him that being trapped meant dying.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
"Think."
The order was harsh, desperate.
Think.
Last thing he remembered—
The Joker had beaten him.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Jason could still remember the wet crunch of the crowbar against bone.
The laughter.
God, the laughter.
He remembered Sheila crying.
Remembered trying to shield her despite everything.
Remembered hearing Bruce over the communicator.
"I'm coming, Jay."
Then—
The timer.
The explosion.
Heat.
Pain.
Nothing.
Jason froze.
No.
No.
No.
This wasn't—
This couldn't—
He swallowed hard.
His hands began patting the confined walls frantically.
Wood.
Polished.
Lined.
A box.
A very expensive box.
His stomach dropped.
A coffin.
He was in a coffin.
Jason stopped breathing.
For one long, terrible moment, the world simply ceased to exist.
He was dead.
He had died.
Bruce had buried him.
Bruce—
Bruce thought he was dead.
Because he had been dead.
A hysterical sound escaped him.
"No."
His voice cracked.
"No, no, no—"
Jason shoved upward with all his strength.
Nothing happened.
The wood groaned but held.
Panic exploded.
He slammed his fists upward.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The confined space amplified every impact, every ragged breath, every desperate curse.
His nails scraped against polished wood.
Splinters embedded themselves beneath broken skin.
He ignored it.
He hit harder.
"Dammit!"
His breathing turned ragged.
Air.
There wasn't enough air.
How long had he been here?
Hours?
Days?
Weeks?
Months?
Didn't matter.
If he didn't get out now, he'd die all over again.
Jason roared and threw his entire weight upward.
CRACK.
The sound was beautiful.
A splinter.
A fracture.
Hope.
Jason attacked the weakened section with renewed fury.
Wood splintered beneath bloodied fists.
A second crack.
Then a third.
Something gave way.
Cold dirt poured through the opening, covering his face.
Jason sputtered.
Dirt.
There was dirt.
A lot of dirt.
Because of course there was.
He was underground.
Buried.
Actually buried.
For one horrified moment, Jason almost gave up.
The amount of earth above him had to be enormous.
How was he supposed to—
No.
No.
He had not survived the Joker only to suffocate underground.
Absolutely not.
Jason began digging.
There was no technique.
No strategy.
Only desperation.
He clawed upward with bleeding fingers.
Dirt filled his mouth.
His nails tore.
His muscles screamed.
He kept going.
He dug like an animal.
Like something feral and furious.
Up.
There had to be an up.
There had to be.
His lungs burned.
His vision blurred.
Every movement became harder.
He couldn't tell how much time had passed.
Minutes.
Hours.
Forever.
Then—
Cool air brushed against his fingertips.
Jason sobbed.
He dug faster.
Suddenly the earth above him collapsed.
Moonlight flooded in.
Fresh air hit him like salvation.
Jason burst from the ground with a strangled scream.
He sprawled across wet grass, coughing violently.
Mud coated his skin.
Dirt filled his hair.
His hands were shredded beyond recognition.
But he was alive.
Alive.
Alive.
He lay there for several minutes, simply breathing.
Eventually, trembling violently, Jason forced himself upright.
The world swayed.
Rows of gravestones stretched endlessly around him.
A cemetery.
Rain had begun to fall.
Cold droplets struck his face.
Slowly, almost unwillingly, Jason turned around.
A polished granite headstone stood behind the open grave.
His grave.
Jason stared.
The inscription was simple.
Jason Peter Todd
1985 – 1988
Beloved Son
Beloved Brother
Beneath it, in smaller lettering, were three words.
Our Little Robin
Jason forgot how to breathe.
Bruce.
Alfred.
Dick.
They had written that.
They had mourned him.
They had buried him.
A strange, painful ache spread through his chest.
He should have felt happy.
He should have felt loved.
Instead, all he could feel was the echo of a warehouse.
"You didn't come."
Jason sank to his knees.
Rain mixed with tears he refused to acknowledge.
For a long moment, he simply stared at his own name carved in stone.
Then, very softly, brokenly, he whispered,
"...I'm home."
And for the first time since his resurrection, Jason Todd cried.