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Jason Todd hated three things: Explosions (except for when he was causing them), Clowns (except for when he was killing them), and fire (except for when he was far away from it)... but right now with the flames almost touching his face, he mostly hated fire.
The mission should never have ended like this this.
It was a routine operation: Get in the building, find the information, leave before anyone can spot you. Jason had done the same thing over and over again for the last year, learning how to infiltrate better than even Batman could have ever taught him.
Which didn’t mean that there wasn’t a quite familiar pang of hurt whenever he thought about Bruce.
He had constantly asked Talia about Bruce, when the two of them had still been together. Questions about what Bruce was doing, if he knew that Jason was here, that Jason was back, but she’d never really answered. Often, she only smiled and told him that time would tell, that Jason’s only job was getting better and stronger.
Jason had never liked the smell and look of blood. But that had been before Talia sent him on this international training’s montage, which was rather successful in ensuring that Jason’s stomach stopped being queasy. By now the nausea settled a bit every time he forced his finger to pull the trigger.
It wasn’t a good feeling, and a voice in the back of his head was still constantly claiming that Bruce would be so disappointed should he see what Jason had become. Jason had killed after all. He had killed many people by this point.
But whenever Bruce’s stern gaze and exhausted frown got too strong – were too much of a presence – in Jason’s head, Talia’s voice appeared in a whisper of green as well, telling him that everything would be alright. That Bruce would see the logic behind Jason’s actions. That Bruce would understand that Jason only did what he had to do.
It made things like this easier: Breaking and entering felt like a second nature at this point.
Only this time Jason made a mistake, he miscalculated.
The oil firm he was supposed to be stealing from had hired a mercenary to protect their data. Jason hadn’t counted on the other man suddenly standing right in front of him, when he opened the door to the office.
He hadn’t counted on the fist being thrown in his face, either.
The pain had been fierce and sharp, but nothing Jason wasn’t used to. The fight that followed had been quick and controlled and almost fun. It was like a dance, so much so, that Jason played with the thought that this was a test Talia had prepared for him.
Their exchange of blows and hits and kicks had forced them out of the camped office and into the bigger parts of the factory, rows after rows of steal canisters surrounding them, machines running with a low hum even though nobody was here anymore.
An opponent in a situation Jason hadn’t been prepared for one, to teach him to always be ready for every eventuality. It sounded like something Talia would do. It also sounded like something Bruce would do.
But that had been before the asshole holding Jason in a headlock decided to pull out his fucking gun. That was before Jason twisted free, only to watch as the bullet ricochet through the room, hitting something that looked like a gas canister connected to a pipe.
Ah, well, fuck.
Jason had had no more time to think anything else, because then the explosion hit.
Jason had been almost happy about the fact that everything happened so fast, as he had no chance to ponder the fact that explosions were on his list of things he hated with his entire being that way.
The blast caught up with him, picking him up like a toy, throwing him around like a toddler in the middle of a tantrum.
His leg connected with something sharp, the world a whirlwind of red and pain and heat… he got flung around once more, his back hitting something hard, and then everything was black.
And now here he was. His leg broken, his face only a couple of meters away from flames ready to tear him apart.
He hated the scared feeling in the pit of his stomach. Damn it! He had been trained by Batman! Talia had searched for the best teachers she could find… he wasn’t a kid anymore. He wasn’t supposed to be scared.
(It didn’t matter if Jason was unsure of how old he actually was – his body might be eighteen, he gathered, but his mind? No, Jason had better things to worry about)
But no matter what he was supposed to feel, and what not, he couldn’t help himself. Sweat collected on his brows, both from the heat and the proximity to the fire. The smell of burned flesh didn’t help either. Jason tried almost desperately not to glance into the direction of his opponent.
Or what was still left of his opponent.
Not much. The fire had eaten splendidly, and now it wanted Jason as a second course.
He… he wouldn’t let it! He would crawl towards the next door and escape the horrible, fiery death! He could do it!
But the moment he moved his leg even a small fraction of an inch… another kind of fire seared his nerves. The pain was so intense, that Jason knew it wasn’t just a normal broken bone. No, it might be an open fracture – not that Jason dared to look – or his fibula had gotten crushed. Both of these would make it impossible for him to walk.
Both of these could very well be what would sign his death warrant. Again.
Jason didn’t want to die. The psychological trauma of the first time had been bad enough, and he was afraid of what would happen to his soul, should he die and come back again. He still felt weird enough from the first time, the green shadows haunting him a painful price to pay for a second chance he never wanted.
Looking at the dancing flames in front of him, Jason felt as if he was looking in a mirror. The red and orange and yellow bled together, until Jason could see his own face, sweat soaked and scared, and so horribly young, staring back at him.
Hadn’t he looked the same the first time he killed someone? Swallowed by rage and hurt and confusion? Hadn’t he cried back then as well?
Or was he seeing his own face three years ago… three years ago, another warehouse in flames, another Jason left to die.
Jason had once upon a time said that being Robin gave him magic. If that meant that he would die again and again in the most horrible of ways… Jason was more than ready to give up said magic. He wanted his dad instead. Or a head that could focus. Or a direction in life that was less inclined to killing.
He watched as the flames crept closer, their edge still a foot or two away from Jason. It was too close. He could feel the heat dry out his skin, could feel the oxygen levels drop. The air surrounding him glimmered, and for a moment Jason imagined being able to stand up and run.
For a moment he thought he might be able to find the giant strength inside of him, that had made him carry Sheila Haywood towards the door of that… of that other warehouse, even though his own body had been bloody and broken beyond repair.
But, no, Jason couldn’t gather the willpower, he didn’t manage to push himself into a standing position, or even a crawling one, really.
Maybe the universe had noticed that Jason had died once before, that he didn’t deserve a second chance to unlock that inhuman strength inside of him. Or maybe the world was just unfair. Maybe Jason was just damned to die in hellfire.
His leg hurt, but with the smoke starting to build up, and the heat becoming unbearable, Jason almost didn’t care. Scratch that – he cared a whole lot: the leg was what kept him pinned down after all.
Would he really die in fire a second time? Would he really end like this once more?
What a cruel master fate was – Jason was sure the heroes of ancient tales would agree.
In a sense it was funny, Jason was one of the few Greek heroes who had managed a rather long and successful life. He had died – crushed by his own greatest achievement, the Argo – at the end as well, of course, after he broke a promise he made to the gods.
What promise had Jason broken? What would crush him in the end?
His fear? The way he was still afraid of being caught by the clown again? The way he still longed for a family and a home even now? Even after all he had done? Or would it be his pride? Making him weak and easy to trick?
He hadn’t broken his promise to Hera – or Diana, who came the closest to an actual goddess– but he had broken Bruce’s rules.
And now Jason would die again, blood on his hands, where he had promised his dad to have none. There would be no one waiting for him on the other side, he wouldn’t go to the golden fields of the afterlife. Robin might have gone to heaven… Jason, nameless as he was, would only go to hell.
A sob tore from his throat, the tears almost instantly evaporating, the heat even taking that from him. And hot it was, excruciatingly so. Jason let his head fall against the stone floor, not even the ground offering any relief from the heat.
He would die like this.
He would burn like this.
There was nothing much he could do, besides wait for the fire to claim him. He had so many regrets, so many things he hadn’t done yet. He hadn’t even finished his training with Talia.
He hadn’t even returned to Gotham, showing Bruce just how great Jason was, how worthy of revenge his life was supposed to be.
Jason wanted to cry, he wanted to scream and yell and rage. And for once it wasn’t green fog pulling him down in the pits of his own anger, his own grief, no, it was his sorrow for a life he never got. He was mourning the second chance the universe had granted him, only for him to die here.
In yet another warehouse, in yet another fire.
But wasn’t that often the case?
Didn’t every favor the gods granted come with a drawback? Wasn’t it Achilles’s heel that ultimately killed him? Wasn’t it the impossible promise Jason gave Hera that ended in his death? Didn’t Odysseus fail so often because one god had granted him protection, and Athena was trying to take it away?
His second life… maybe he had only been given this chance because fate knew that Jason would die again before he could use it.
Bruce had no idea Jason was still alive. His dad didn’t know that his son was running around, learning how to kill and fight, because Jason… Jason had wanted to be ready. He had wanted Bruce to be in awe when they finally met again. He had wanted admiration and pride and fear and… and love.
He would always want the love of his dad.
And that means the Joker dead by his hands! An ugly voice in his head careened, but for once in his life Jason didn’t listen. The angry red hues of the flames licking the concrete dispelled any need for hurtful thoughts.
It was too hot to bother with the calm furry that overcame Jason whenever he thought about his own death. About the fact that the Joker was still running around.
No, right now Jason wasn’t angry at Bruce, he wasn’t hurt by the news that there was another boy running around as Robin, running around only to be murdered by one of Batman’s crazies.
He only wanted his dad.
The fire had almost reached him. Breathing was growing harder and harder, and his throat ached with all the smoke Jason had been forced to inhale. He would die soon, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to cross the Styx again. He wouldn’t be granted access to Elysium… maybe he even deserved the pits of Tartarus. There was blood on his hands after all – and it wasn’t just the blood of monsters, no, the ichor of the innocent blemished him as well.
Jason didn’t want to die.
He didn’t want to die alone. He had done it once, and it’d sucked. Jason had felt so small, so alone, back when he had been fifteen, waiting for Batman to save him. Bruce never came – but then again Batman couldn’t save everyone. Jason only wished he had been one of the lucky few that day.
The first flame touched his boot, making Jason pull his leg away. The piercing agony tearing his flesh apart forced a scream to escape his abused throat. He had forgotten about the broken leg, his very own Achilles’s heel.
Jason would die like this, and if the pain already spreading through his entire body was any indication, it wouldn’t be any more fun than it had been the first time ‘round.
Another yell tore itself free, only this time it wasn’t pain that made him scream, it was desperation. It was anger. It was hurt.
Because Jason Peter Todd deserved to live.
He had deserved a long and happy life the first-time round. It only proved what Jason had known all along, when he wasn’t granted happiness in his second attempt at living either. The universe didn’t care for him – Jason had just hoped it did.
He let his head rest on the warm floor beneath him, all his energy spent, all his hope dispelled. He would wait with grace – maybe that would grant him some plus points should Hades ask how much his soul was worth.
Suddenly the world in front of him moved. A streak of lightning danced through the room, collecting the smoke and dust in a tornado, sucking away the fire that threatened to eat Jason alive.
He… For a moment Jason couldn’t believe his eyes. They were dry and blurry and unfocused, and yet Jason knew exactly what or rather who had just saved his life. Because there were exactly two people in the world that could move like that.
Flash. And Flash the Second.
But… but why?
A random burning warehouse in the middle of the night located in lower Austria wasn’t worth noticing, not for a high-profile hero like the Flash. Maybe the lack of oxygen had gotten to him, maybe he was finally losing it completely. He had wished for someone to be there for him when he died, hadn’t he? Maybe the misfiring neurons in his brain had complied and sent him a hallucination in the form of the Flash.
Only that Jason hadn’t wished for the Flash. He had wanted his dad. He had wished for Bruce to come and hold him. For Bruce to be here when Jason had to bid the world goodbye a second time.
“Hey, dude, are you okay?”
The red blur came to a shrieking stop in front of Jason, the face behind the cowl one of polite interest and worry. It had to be Wally, some distant part of his brain noticed, the hair almost as red as the fire the hero had just extinguished.
But where Jason recognized Wally immediately, the man watching him with a cautious gaze didn’t return the favor. And why should he? Jason Todd was dead. And Jason laying on the warehouse floor was just someone nameless, borrowing his own name from a time where he had been alive.
“Dumb question, sorry. Of course, you are not alright. Burning building and broken leg and all that. Sorry. Again. Anyway… can you talk?”
“I…”
Only one word and Jason was reduced to a coughing mess, the fire burning in his lungs proof that he was still alive.
“Oh, smoke, yes. Makes sense. You probably shouldn’t be talking. I don’t even know if you speak English. Dang. Should have thought of that earlier. Um… Hallo? Kannst du mich jetzt verstehen? No?”
Jason only blinked. The fact that he was still alive hadn’t yet managed to really sink in. Some part of him was still sure, that he would be killed by a sea of fire if he dared to blink. Wally’s absolute idiotic babbling didn’t help either.
It all felt so unreal. So weird. So fictional.
“Sorry. Entschuldigung. Ich kann dich leider nicht aus diesem Gebäude heraustragen. Das würde dir nur noch mehr wehtun. Aber mein Freund kommt gleich. Er kann dir bestimmt helfen.“
Jason, against popular belief, couldn‘t speak German. He knew Spanish, and Mandarin, and English, and French, but German had never really been his forte. He had no idea what Wally was talking about, but he didn’t have to speak the language to understand what the man was saying next. Or yelling, really:
“Nightwing! I found a survivor! Come quick!”
No.
Dick couldn’t see him. Jason wasn’t done yet. He hadn’t perfected every method of training yet, hadn’t learned under every master Talia could find. He hadn’t reached his goal – he couldn’t go home, no matter how much he wanted to. No, Dick wasn’t… shouldn’t…
Jason Peter Todd was dead, and Jason wasn’t ready for him to return. Not yet.
But the universe didn’t listen, it never did. Jason watched with fearful eyes as Dick, as Nightwing, rounded the corner of the warehouse, followed by Donna and Roy. Garth was probably waiting outside, the fire and heat dangerous for the Atlantean.
“Flash? Oh, yeah… let me help.”
Dick cowered down next to Jason, probably to check his vitals. But Jason flinched back. He clenched his jaw in fear and anger and yet he couldn’t quite stifle the painful moan that escaped him, when he accidentally moved his leg.
Dick smiled one of his rueful smiles, and Jason was reminded of every game they ever played – and how they all ended with Dick smiling like that, leaving before Bruce could catch them. Leaving before Dick was forced to meet the man he had left because of Jason.
“Oh, I can imagine that it hurts. Please, let me check you over. Bitte? Ich muss mir deine Verletungen ansehen können?”
It… what was he supposed to do? The Titans were standing here, surrounding him, making it impossible for him to flee – even if neither of them had any idea how strong the urge to run Jason felt, really was. He nodded.
Dick’s hands were cautious when they checked his leg – Jason still refused to look – and they only stilled for a short moment when they found the gun in the back pocket of his jeans. Jason liked to be prepared, but he could see why a bunch of heroes might be alarmed by his choice of weapon.
Dick was getting closer and closer to Jason’s face, most of it hidden by the hair falling in his eyes and the soot covering his cheeks. Jason’s heart beat as if it was trying to escape, and no matter the training, Jason couldn’t hide his panic, as he flinched back again, a strangled “Stay back!” escaping him.
It had been enough.
Jason watched as a transformation happened on Dick’s face. First there was confusion, then disbelieve, then anger and then… was Dick crying?
“Who are you?”
Nightwing’s voice was stone cold, none of the softness left. There was only a warrior in front of Jason now, only the first son of the Bat.
Jason looked at Dick, looked at the confused faces of his friends behind him, and he wanted home. He wanted Gotham. He hurt, he was in pain, he was lonely… he hadn’t achieved anything yet. The Joker was still alive, and Jason wasn’t good enough to force Bruce to kill him.
But right now? Right in this instance, in this warehouse…? Jason wanted his dad back. He wanted his city back. He wanted his room in the Manor back.
His voice was small, grating and soft, the smoke making it rough:
“It’s me… surprise: Jason Todd is back.”
Dick moved as if he had been hit, Wally instantly by his side, supporting him, just as the Titans always supported each other:
“What?”
“It’s me… your little brother. Don’t say you don’t recognize me anymore, Dickface?”
Jason wanted to cry, and the words leaving his mouth tasted like ash and suppressed tears. And yet he was smiling. Maybe Jason didn’t have to be the Greek hero he was named after, maybe his broken promise wouldn’t lead to his death – maybe he could be Odysseus instead, finding home even as the universe tried its best to keep him away.
Dick had grown even paler behind his mask, the disbelief so strong Jason feared that it had been for naught. That he had given up his mission, his goal, for nothing. And then Dick ripped the mask off his face, kneeling next to Jason’s head, cradling it:
“Jay? Jay… it that really you. Are… you… Jay. Jason. Little Wing… Jay…”
Dick was crying. Crying and calling Jason by his name over and over again. And Jason let his tears fall as well.
The Titans watched, guarding over them, giving them room and safety alike.
Jason had found his brother.
Jason was going home.
And he couldn’t find it in himself to be mad about it.