Chapter Text
A shadow slips silently through the window before promptly collapsing to the floor. Ragged, mechanized breaths echoed eerily in the small, dark room as the figure dragged themself across the cold wood floor. A trail of blood sparkled in the moonlight behind him, attempting to hide the goriness of the scene.
When the person finally reached the kitchen, they dragged a concerningly well-used first aid kit out from beneath the sink and propped themself up against the cabinets. With shaking hands, the man reached up and pulled off their bright red helmet to reveal black and white bangs stuck to a sweaty forehead. The panting breaths became louder without the helmet to obscure them, and the sound alone would reveal just how much pain he was in.
Despite the obvious injury and torment, Jason Todd was achingly alone. Pulling out a pair of trauma shears, he made quick work of his pant leg and started treating the horrible gash in his thigh that was oozing blood all over his kitchen floor. Gritting his teeth, he starts stitching himself up. The entire time he was closing the wound, he was cursing himself out for not picking up more anesthetic. He’d used the last of his stock last week and hadn’t had the time to source more. He barely had time to sleep these days. Between coming at the Bats’ every beck and call, patrolling Crime Alley, and trying to keep himself alive and in check, he didn’t have much free time left over to grab something as insignificant as anesthetic. It was something that wasn’t necessary to his survival.
Groaning miserably, Jason finally ties off the last stitch on his leg and starts tending to his myriad of other injuries. He’d gotten a few cuts and bruises tonight and only a few needed any sort of treatment, but that didn’t mean it’d be a quick process. Several of the injuries he’d amassed over the past couple weeks were still in need of treatment. A half-healed gash on his shoulder was struggling to fight off an infection, he’d popped a stitch along his ribs, and he’d accidentally scraped off a rather large scab to name a few. All in all, Jason was not having a good time.
As he continued addressing his wounds, he couldn’t help feeling bitter. He’d gotten the potentially life-threatening gash on his leg saving Red Robin’s life. The younger teen had been crouching down to disarm a bomb when a hail of shrapnel came from another bomb exploding on the other side of the run-down factory. Instead of saying thank you, Tim had instantly started berating him for yanking him while he was wrist-deep in sensitive wires. The kid kept going on and on like Jason hadn’t just saved him from a massive hunk of shrapnel flying towards his face. Sure, next time Jason’ll just let the brat go blind (or worse) instead of getting himself hurt for nothing but a lecture!
The anger was bubbling away merrily in his chest, but instead of leaning into it like he used to, he took a deep breath and reigned himself back. Tim had every right to berate him. He’d nearly killed the kid last year, and that alone was enough to fully banish him from the Bats and Gotham and get him thrown into Blackgate at the least. Take into account all the other things he’d done while drowning in green and it’s a goddamn miracle he’s not rotting in Arkham next to Joker this very second.
Jason just needs to bite his tongue and continue dealing with it. He doesn’t get to care about how the Bats are treating him because he deserved far worse. He’s unbelievably lucky that they’re allowing him to work with them. Even if they don’t care that he’s injured or gets injured, it’s not their concern in the first place. He works with (for) them, but he’s not one of them. There’s a difference. He has to earn his place with them. It’s disheartening that it’s been months without any improvement, but it’s fine. They’re the victims. They get to set the pace.
But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Every cold shoulder, curt response, and meaningless lecture chipped away at whatever was left of Jason Todd inside him. Precious little of the boy survived death and the pit washed even more of him away. Jason was desperate to hang onto the last fractured pieces. His resolve didn’t extend to fighting with the Bats though. If they cursed and berated him, he silently took it. If he was blamed for a botched mission, he accepted the blame. If he was injured, he didn’t bother them with it. Anything he thought would bring him closer with his family the Bats, he did. Even if it was detrimental to his body and mind. What can he say, he was desperate for a shred of what he had before. Before the pit. Before death. Before he’d given up on them first.
The comm crackling to life in his ear yanked him out of his miserable musings as Batman growled, “Hood. Write up a report immediately. Red Robin needs the data.” He had to physically bite back the bitter retort that his name was Jason, not Hood. They weren’t on a civilian line, not that they ever were, and he couldn’t risk venturing further onto the man’s bad side.
Raising a shaking, blood-soaked hand to his ear, he activated the comm and replied, “Understood. Hood out.” Bruce didn’t say another word, and Jason dropped his hand back to his side exhaustedly. It’s okay. He didn’t expect anything else from the man. His welfare wasn’t Bruce’s concern. Not anymore.
Forcing his stiff and aching limbs to cooperate, he collapsed onto the couch and began typing up the night’s report. It was difficult to ignore the way his blood became tacky and sticky on his skin, but Tim needed this report. That was far more important than his discomfort. Maybe they’d appreciate how quickly he got it done. Maybe it’d help bridge the divide between them?
Or they simply won’t care, a part of him whispered darkly. The thought made his fingers stutter on the keyboard before ignoring the whisper as he resumed typing with fervor. He just needed to think positively. One of these days, his hard work will pay off. Eventually, they’ll realize how sorry he is and consider letting him come home.
Someday, he won’t be alone anymore.
At long last, he completed the report and sent it off to the Cave. Setting the laptop to the side, he couldn’t smother the cry of pain that tore from his throat as he shifted to stand. The blood had dried over his fresh stitches and all across his skin, making the congealed mass pull agonizingly as he moved. Breathing through the pain, he slowly managed to stand and hobble to his bathroom. Washing the blood off in the shower brought on a wave of sheer relief, but the hot water stung his cuts sharply in contrast. Sighing dejectedly, he couldn’t help but think his entire existence was pain at this point. He woke up and fell asleep to the feeling. Before a single injury could heal, it was either reopened, reaggravated, or replaced. This was his life now. Eternal agony, just like how he was eternally damned.
Using the last of his energy, he got ready for bed and collapsed beneath the already bloody sheets. He needed to do laundry. Once he thought of one item on his to-do list, the rest started flooding his mind. He needed to order groceries, mostly ready-to-eat meals. There wasn’t any time to cook these days. Hadn’t been in months. There was a lead in the Bowery he needed to follow up on. He’d promised Dick he’d scout out the building off of Washington Boulevard. His motorcycle needed an oil change. And, of course, he needed to pick up more anesthetics. That was just the beginning of the list, and Jason wanted to cry at the thought of all the things he needed to do. But that was a tomorrow problem. He was too tired to even torture himself over his never-ending list of responsibilities. Shoving all the unhelpful and stressful thoughts to the back of his mind, he drifted off into blissful sleep.
The one positive to always being so exhausted was that he hasn’t had a nightmare in weeks. Thankfully, tonight was the same. Unfortunately, his sleep was interrupted mere hours later by his phone ringing loudly in his ear. Jolting up in bed, he groans in pain as the movement yanks on all his injuries and some he hadn’t even known about to boot. Breathing through the discomfort, he gingerly grabbed his phone and answered without checking the caller ID. Only one person bothered to call him anymore.
“Yes?” he said as steadily as possible. They didn’t need to know how tired and beaten he was. He had to be useful, or they’ll abandon him in Arkham.
“Rendezvous at the textile factory near pier 23. The kryptonite smugglers have resurfaced,” Batman said curtly before hanging up abruptly. Jason took one, singular minute to pull himself together. He was so tired. Everything hurts. But that didn’t matter. He was the Bat's soldier, so he needed to pull himself together and do as he commanded. It was his only hope for salvation.
Dragging himself out of bed, he realized he wouldn’t be able to do this without any pain meds. Every inch of his body was on fire as if every muscle was begging him to climb back into bed and pretend the world outside didn’t exist. Grimacing, he fishes out ‘the good stuff’ as Dick calls it and downs several tablets. He hated almost anything stronger than Tylenol due to his childhood, but he wouldn’t be able to function with the agony burning through his veins. As he suits up, he idly realizes that his healing factor has been slowing down recently. Usually, the small knicks and lighter bruises would have been gone by now. Instead, they still remained dotted across his body. Maybe the pit was finally fading? The small flicker of hope made a slight smile slide onto his face before it was quickly whisked away by a hiss of pain. Fading or not, that healing factor would be pretty damn handy right about now.
Racing off into the night on his motorcycle that still needed maintenance, he carefully focused on the road to keep his exhaustion from engulfing him. The last thing he needed right now was to become a skid mark on the pavement. He could already imagine the disapproving frown Bruce would wear before turning away from his corpse and never sparing the horrible monster another thought.
When he pulled up next to the meeting point, he heard the Bats’ casual conversation trickling off as they realized he was present. Another fracture appeared in his soul, but he shoved the pain aside. Honestly, what else did he expect? Grappling up to the top, he listened silently as Batman laid out the plan of attack. They were to stealth through the building for as long as possible and slowly decrease their numbers until they couldn’t hide their presence any longer. A scathing comment from Damian was aimed his way, something about being a rabid dog who wouldn't know subtlety if it slapped him in the face, that Jason dutifully ignored before approaching his designated entrance into the factory.
Overall, the bust went pretty smoothly. And by that, he meant that everything immediately went wrong. Apparently, there was a thug and a scientist that had been colluding in the storage room Nightwing had entered and promptly sent an alert out to the entire organization. Which was honestly just the best because Jason hadn’t had a bullet wound in a while and he'd been missing them. One of the shots whizzing around him managed to embed itself in his arm, and he nearly dropped his gun as white-hot flames of agony engulfed the limb.
Rather than retreat, he non-lethally subdued his attackers and continued making his way through the building, carefully and taking down any other hostiles he came across. He was about to sweep the next hallway when he noticed a soft, pulsing green glow escaping from the last room's minuscule window. Clicking on his comm, he says, “I found a room with something green and glowing inside. Appears to be kryptonite. Working on opening it now.” Batman roughly acknowledged it, so Jason got to work. After a bit of searching, he found a panel hidden behind a faux fire alarm (which was definitely not up to code) and hacked into it in record time. It was easy. Almost too easy.
The heavy metal door smoothly slid open, and Jason quickly stepped inside, sweeping the area for enemies. The room was a large lab of some sort, complete with beakers and strange compounds lining the walls. Only the eerie glow coming from the back of the room set it apart from a normal laboratory. Creeping slowly through the maze of tables, counters, and equipment, he approached the source of the glow, expecting an enemy to pop up and shoot him again at any moment.
But instead of finding your typical, run-of-the-mill bad guys, he found a bright green, silently ticking bomb counting down the last few minutes on its clock. Heart hammering away in his throat, he turned to race out of the room. As he bolted through the room, he watched in horror as the door, the only exit, rapidly slid shut at the last moment, causing Jason to collide with it harshly. Gasping in pain as it jarred his wounds, he tries to get the control panel to open the door, but it blinks red and locks him out. He tries again but to no avail. Terrified, he realizes that it really was to easy to gain access to this room. It was a trap. Panic flaring in his chest, he quickly clicks his comm on once more and frantically reports, “I’m trapped in the room with a bomb that seems to be utilizing kryptonite! I need backup!”
His blood turned to ice when he heard Bruce direct his sons out of the building before addressing him. “Hood, get yourself out of there. We won’t reach you in time.” Translation: We aren’t even going to try. You’re as good as dead.
Horrified, Jason collapsed to his knees and thunked his head against the immovable sheet of metal before him. He hadn’t even told them how long was left on the clock. As soon as they found a way to get rid of him, they’d taken it. This was it. He’s going to die again. And he couldn’t even try to save himself by blowing up the door because the bomb in his helmet had a rather wide detonation zone. If it went off, it’d either kill or heavily injure him or set off the much bigger bomb behind him.
Tears streaked down his face beneath his helmet as his impending doom drew closer. The bright side was he only had a few seconds before the end came for him. The less time he had to think and agonize over his abandonment, the better. In his last moments, he told himself that this was fine. They were only giving him what he deserved. This was for the best. They'd already given him a stay of execution, and he'd blown it by getting himself into this mess.
As the bomb went off and the world was once more consumed in vivid, burning green, Jason couldn’t bring himself to care. Without the Bats, he was nothing. What was one more death? The heat danced across his skin, and it felt like every molecule in his body was being ripped apart until he mercifully slipped into the blackness.