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If Jason were to look back on his life choices he knows there would be a few things he regrets.
The first, most obvious one that comes to mind, of course, would be trusting Sheila Haywood. Then he would remember leaving for school the day his actual mom died with no one home to notice. And then there’d be that street vendor’s chili dog that gave him such severe food poisoning Bruce had had to call in Leslie, and that time he misinterpreted the essay question in his english class and dropped his standing by an entire letter grade, and that full mug of hot chocolate he’d spilled all over his favorite copy of Frankenstein and— well, he feels like now is also turning out to be another one of those things Jason will look back on and regret. If he survives to look back on it, that is.
He’d been stabbed in the shoulder at some point during his latest fight. He’s not even sure when exactly it happened because he’d been so pumped up on adrenaline and pit juice that for the longest time it’d felt like he’d only been punched. He’d also taken a bullet to his stomach to somewhere… hopefully non-lethal. And then, just to make a bad day worse, he’d been thrown off his feet by one of those fancy, concussive grenades that Black Mask has started supplying some of his men with. Jason’s pretty sure he hit his head rather hard during that, but hey, that’s what the helmet’s supposed to be for, right?
He’s only been back in Gotham for a month now, but, if tonight is any indicator, he can tell he’s already gotten well and truly under Sionis’ skin. One more big stunt and he’s sure the guy will be slinking his way into Arkham just to beg the Joker to kill Jason.
Everything is going according to plan.
Besides the whole getting stabbed thing. And the getting shot thing. And the nearly getting blown up thing.
Jason collapses to his knees on the roof of a nearby building with a pained hiss of breath. He clutches at the gunshot wound. It’s bleeding more than he likes, but the pit is supposed to help out with things like this. Jason has survived more than his fair share of injuries that would’ve killed anyone else because of it. This is just another one of those. It has to be.
He pulls himself towards the wall of an adjacent building, propping himself up against it. He watches the Gotham skyline, clouds rolling dark and hungry over the tops of glittering skyscrapers. He can see the W.E. tower from here, its logo a bright, gleaming thing against the sharp edges of the city.
Jason scoffs, grimacing when it pulls at the wound on his stomach, and the one on his shoulder, and—
Somewhere close, a grappling line fires. Jason’s head jerks towards the noise just in time to see as a hook catches the edge of the roof across from him. He holds his breath, falling entirely still. Jason hopes the shadows will hide him— knows that if a Bat is this close then he’s already been found.
He expects Bruce, or maybe even the new Robin. He hopes it’s the new Robin. He thinks he could take the kid even in his current state. One glimpse of the Pretender and Jason knows the pit will be surging forward. Hell, it might even heal him faster.
But, it’s not Robin that appears across from him. But it’s not Bruce either.
Jason levels a gun at Nightwing with the hand that isn’t currently helping hold the blood in his body. He should’ve packed the wound when he had the chance.
“Red Hood,” Nightwing— Dick— greets, calm and casual as anything, though Jason can read the tense readiness in the tight line of his shoulders. “I’d been wondering when I’d finally get to meet Gotham’s infamous crime lord. Guess tonight’s my lucky night.”
Jason grits his teeth, forcing himself to release an even breath— listening as it crackles through his helmet’s voice modulator. “If having a gun pointed at you is what you consider a lucky night, then sure,” Jason drawls.
Dick smirks at him. “Haven’t shot me yet,” he quips and his smirk rises into a full blown smile.
“Yet,” Jason agrees with a sneer.
Jason might’ve shot him then and there just to wipe the satisfactory grin off Dick’s face if he wasn’t acutely aware of the fact that he ran out of bullets approximately three goons ago. He cocks the gun anyway just to keep the bluff up for a little longer— just to give him a little more time to figure out a way out of here.
“Someone did quite the number on you,” Dick notes, still smiling smugly.
Jason gets the sudden urge to just lob the gun straight at the man’s forehead. He’s sure he could land it. It might distract Dick long enough for Jason to make his escape, but— “You should see the other guys,” Jason grunts. He hisses at a renewed stab of pain in his gut, gun wavering.
Dick takes a small step forward.
Jason raises his gun arm again, steadying his aim despite how weak and floaty he’s starting to feel. “Back off, Dickwing.”
Dick stills across from him, hands rising in that placating manner of his. “Real original,” Dick replies stiffly, voice strained, hands already falling in slow increments.
Jason shakes his head to try and clear it of the fuzzy feeling settling in, brows furrowed. “Who the hell else is calling you Dickwing?” he mutters offhandedly, feeling tired. Everything feels heavy. He lets his helmet settle against the wall behind him, gun arm sinking. “Copyright infringement.”
His breaths come out in little puffs of air, sticky warmth fanning across his face. The Gotham night is cold, but the helmet makes him feel so stuffy.
Dick is crouched in front of him. Jason doesn’t know how he got there between one blink and the next… he thinks he only blinked at least. Maybe it’d been longer? He’s not sure.
“What’re you sayin’?” Jason grumbles, catching on the way Dick’s mouth is moving. He thinks the sound system on his helmet must’ve gone out. Jason’s sure it’ll be a pain to fix.
He fumbles with the latch hidden at the back of his helmet, struggling to pull it off even after it’s undone. Jason thinks Dick must help him with it because the next time he blinks Dick is holding it, knuckles white. The cool air makes things feel a little clearer.
“Jason?” Dick whispers, horrified.
“What?” Jason tries to say, though he feels like it comes out as more of a grunt than anything. His head lulls forward, it feels equal parts light and heavy.
“Jason? Jason?” Dick repeats, sounding confused and terrified and Jason isn’t really sure why.
Again, Jason tries to say: “What?” Tries to ask why he sounds so freaked. Again, it comes out as a wordless grunt and—
Pain, bright and blinding, pulls him back with a start. He wheezes, folding forward onto Dick’s shoulder. He doesn’t know when Dick got so close. The man is putting pressure on his bullet wound, pain painting the night with fuzzy edges. Jason must’ve forgotten to. That’s… probably not good, he thinks.
But Dick is holding him close, shakily packing gauze into the wound like Jason should’ve done before he’d shown up. He’s muttering an endless stream of: “I’ve got you, Jay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Stay awake, please. Please, Jay.”
“‘M awake,” he slurs, face pressed into Dick’s shoulder. And for the first time Jason begins to wonder if… if he’s dying again. This is different than the last time he died. Everything had gone bright and hot back then. Alive one second, dead the next.
He hadn’t… he hadn’t felt like he was fading before.
He feels like he’s fading now. He doesn’t like the fading. There isn’t a timer ticking down, but Jason can feel it, can feel himself slipping. Everything feels much colder than his last death.
“S’rry,” he wheezes, still slumped against Dick. This isn’t how things were supposed to go.
There’s a roaring in his ears that gets louder by the second.
Dick presses further down on his wound and Jason can only groan, panting short, harsh breaths against his brother’s collarbone.
“B’s on his way, Jay. Just, just stick with me, okay?”
Jason thinks he’s supposed to be mad at Bruce. He’d been too late to help Jason the last time. If he’s late this time too though maybe that’s just the universe’s way of fixing things. Jason had cheated death once. Maybe this is just it righting those wrongs.
Dick’s grip on him tightens and he feels a hand settle gently at the back of his head. “I’ve got you,” Dick murmurs, “We’ve got you.”
Jason wishes he believed him.
Between one breath and the next Jason drifts into the waiting maw of a darkness deeper than Gotham’s long nights.
Waking up is… strange.
Jason doesn’t think he’s supposed to be waking up. You’re not usually supposed to wake up after you die. But Jason can’t say that kind of logic has ever really applied to him anyway.
His first death had found him waking up in a pine box to limited air and surging adrenaline. He remembers screaming for Bruce, remembers clawing his way up through wood and damp earth with a belt buckle and bloodied fingers. Waking up after his first death had been a desperate fight for survival.
But there is no gasping inhale, no racing heart. Waking up this time is as easy as opening heavy eyelids to a dimly lit hospital room. A monitor beeps in rhythm to his heart. Hushed voices carry through a closed door. Somewhere close by, someone snores in soft puffs of air, gentle and slow.
Jason blinks. And blinks again.
The ceiling looks familiar. He’d spent too many nights in his youth staring up at the same ceiling not to recognize the little flying Superman Dr. Thompkins had someone paint above the bed— faded now, but still unmistakable.
He runs his fingers absently over the bedsheets, still just staring at the ceiling, still just listening to the sound of the heart monitor confirming he’s alive. He doesn’t know how he’s alive. He’s sure—
There’s a small hitch in the even snores of the person sleeping— a shifting of someone in a chair— a soft grunt of discomfort— a noise of surprise. “Jason?” It’s Dick again, voice thick with sleep and rising urgency and something else Jason feels too floaty to decipher.
Jason’s head lulls towards Dick. He’s in civilian clothes, shirt rumpled with sleep, hair pushed back in a way that lets Jason know he’s been running his hands through it. His eyes are the kind of bright, cerulean blue Jason’s used to be.
“Dick,” Jason mumbles. His throat is dry, tongue thick in his mouth.
Dick carefully pulls Jason’s hand into his own, holding tight. “Hey, Jay,” his smile is a weak, wavering thing, “How’re you feeling? Any pain?”
There isn’t any pain. There isn’t much of anything, really. “Dude,” Jason says carefully, trying not to bite his tongue, “How much drugs did Leslie give me?”
Dick’s smile gets a little less wobbly at the edges. “Enough to sedate an elephant,” Dick jokes, but his grip on Jason’s hand tightens in the slightest, “They upped the dose after your blood panels came back.”
Jason blinks once, twice.
“Do you want some water?”
Jason nods. Or, he thinks he must nod, because the next time he blinks Dick is holding up a straw to his lips. He drinks until his stomach sloshes uncomfortably and watches as Dick sets the glass carefully back down on the bedside table.
“Did I die again?” Jason thinks he died again. He’s sure he died again. He figures that whatever brought him back last time must’ve—
“No,” Dick croaks. He clears his throat, repeats it, softer, “No. Bruce and I got you to Leslie’s in time. It— it was a bit…” He swallows thickly, restarting, “It was a bit touch and go, but you made it, Little Wing. We got you.”
Jason blinks. His head lulls back to where it’d been before. He stares up at the ceiling— at the small, faded painting of Superman. “You guys got there in time?”
A trembling hand smooths his hair back. “We did.”
Jason feels tired. “That’s good,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering. “Dying sucks.”
Getting stabbed sucks. So did getting shot, and so did getting thrown across a room by a concussive grenade. Almost dying sucks. And sure, that little series of events will probably become another one of those things Jason might inevitably look back on and regret once he’s on a little less drugs. But hey, at least he’s alive. At least they made it in time.
The door to his room clicks open. Expensive leather shoes tapping softly against linoleum. “Anything?” A voice murmurs, low and familiar.
Bruce.
Jason is tired. So, so incredibly tired. He guesses almost dying usually does that to you.
“He woke up for a bit,” Dick offers quietly, sounding on the verge of tears. He sniffles, and the hand carding through his hair retreats.
Jason makes a grumbling noise at that, eyes cracking open just enough to make out Bruce’s silhouette now hovering at his bedside. Bruce’s hand replaces Dick’s and the tension that’d been building up in his shoulders settles again. “Jaylad?” The man asks softly, smoothing back Jason’s hair with a hand that doesn’t feel quite so large as he remembers it.
“T’red,” Jason just manages, eyes slipping shut once more.
“Go back to sleep, chum,” Bruce hums, still carding his hand through Jason’s hair.
He can hear Dick sniffle again, hand gently squeezing Jason’s own. The monitor continues to beep in time with his heart. Outside, a new day begins to dawn.
Maybe Jason will wake up and regret almost dying, maybe he’ll wake up and realize just how thoroughly the night has ruined all his plans, maybe he’ll wake up and the green will be back in full force, maybe he’ll wake up and throw a fist at Bruce’s jaw just to demand answers. Maybe Jason will wake up to soft daylight and softer voices and a hand still carding through his hair. Maybe he’ll regret almost dying. Maybe he won’t.
Either way, at least he can sleep knowing he has the chance to figure it out.