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Jason didn’t believe it. He was dead. Dead. His body was been in a coffin somewhere, and he was dead. He remembered dying, and he remembered waking up in the funeral home, looking down, and realizing that he hadn’t been connected to his body. He had remembered thinking about an article he had read about something called ‘phantom pains,’ feeling pain in a body part that wasn’t there anymore, and he had remembered thinking, quite hysterically, “Is it really a phantom pain if it’s your entire body?” Did he deserve to have that pain, that anguish, even though he had been separated from his body?
At that point, though, he had thought he had been dead for about four months. He hadn’t known how time worked as a ghost (if that was what he had been), but everything had always felt kind of hazy, like that one time he had gotten a concussion as Robin, but ten times worse and more non-linear. Jason hadn’t really felt real since he had woken up (?) from the dead.
He had gone to his own funeral. How messed up had that been? The only people there had been Bruce, Commissioner Gordon, Babs, and Alfred. Jason had known Dick was off-world in Tamaran for the foreseeable future, but it had still stung when Jason had realized that Dick hadn’t been there. Jason had felt bad for being relieved that he probably hadn’t known yet. God, that would be a shock: coming home from a space war and finding out your brother had gotten himself killed.
Jason sighed—well, he sighed the ghostly equivalent of a sigh. He needed to quit being so harsh on himself because he knew it hadn’t been his fault. It had been kind of hard to think otherwise, though, when you were literally dead and thinking was so difficult. He shuddered, though it had felt different than it had as a human, and he had refused to think about the mechanics behind it all.
Jason refused to continue with his somber thoughts and instead floated around his kitchen, following Bruce. Bruce had probably been about to make his way to the BatCave Gym™️ again. The daily visits had started three (?) months back, and Jason had been horrifyingly interested in watching his dad beat a punching bag for hours on end while crying more than Jason had ever seen him cry. This time had been different, though, because before Bruce had even made it out of the kitchen, the doorbell had rung. Jason was confused because Bruce had no friends, and Alfred had taken his first-ever vacation a few weeks back, which was an whole other mess. Bruce had sighed tiredly and run a hand through his greasy hair, eye bags the size of Mars, probably the textbook definition of grief, and had gone to open the door. When he had, Jason had gotten a great view of his brother, home early and smiling brightly. Jason’s metaphorical heart dropped out of his chest. Bruce had stared. And stared. Dick’s smile had briefly turned into a confused-puppy expression before alternating back to that award-winning smile, and he said, “What? No hug, B? And where’s my baby Jay? I got him a new book!”
Bruce had stared some more and then had put both of his hands over his face and had started sobbing. Dick’s expression quickly turned horrified, and he immediately dropped his duffel bags and pulled Bruce into a crushing hug, arms enveloping his father’s now-thinner and shaking frame. God, Jason could have done with one of Dick’s famous hugs.
“What’s wrong, Bruce?” Dick asked and had looked around the room, his eyes missing Jason’s form completely, like Jason hadn’t even been there, which had been such a wretched thought to have that he had to physically shake himself to dispel it away.
Dick’s face had turned dark like he had an inkling of what was wrong, and he had closed his eyes and had pursed his lips for a moment. “Where’s Jason, Bruce? Where’s my brother?” Bruce had shaken his head, still trembling from the force of his crying, his face buried in his son’s shoulder, wailing like his heart had just been ripped from his chest.
Hours later, Jason’s incorporeal form had seated itself on the edge of a bookshelf, knees to his chest. Jason had thought he had known grief. After all, his parents had both died at separate times when he had been younger, and he had known of a kid down the street from him who had died of cancer. But Jason had been wrong because true grief hadn’t been Jason, eight years old and confused, crying for days on end as he had asked his mother why Daddy wasn’t coming home from jail. It hadn’t been a nine-year-old, newly-orphaned Jason living on the streets and trying his best to survive even though all he had wanted to do was die and join his mommy and daddy. It had actually been Dick, hitting the wall over and over until Bruce had grabbed him, and they had fallen together; grief had been losing yourself in a way you hadn’t known was possible.
After that, Jason had realized that he had actually been dead. He had already known that, of course, but he hadn’t realized that he had been holding out hope for some god he hadn’t believed in (he had stopped believing the second the bomb had reached zero seconds) to push him back into the arms of his grieving brother and father, to rescue him from the blurry, not-quite-there reality he had been stuck existing in. He had been well and truly dead, and that hadn’t been something that had been reversed after half a year. This hadn’t been some sick and twisted fever dream or even an alternate universe situation like in his comic books. This had been him and his reality. He had been a dead fifteen-year-old with a father and brother mourning him in front of him, unable to do anything to help them or himself. And he hadn’t had to be okay with that realization. He hadn’t even had to know it. And he hadn’t been okay with it, but he had known it. And sometimes, knowledge could be your catalyst and salvation, damning you and keeping you from an eternity of false hope all at once.
Jason was dead. Jason would grieve himself for a time, maybe forever, and he would stay dead. He would stay Jason didn’t believe it. He had been dead. Dead. His body had been in a coffin somewhere, and he had been dead. He had remembered dying, and he had remembered waking up in the funeral home, looking down, and realizing that he hadn’t been connected to his body. He had remembered thinking about an article he had read about something called ‘phantom pains,’ feeling pain in a body part that wasn’t there anymore, and he had remembered thinking, quite hysterically, “Is it really a phantom pain if it’s your entire body?” Did he deserve to have that pain, that anguish, even though he had been separated from his body?
At that point, though, he had thought he had been dead for about four months. He hadn’t known how time worked as a ghost (if that was what he had been), but everything had always felt kind of hazy, like that one time he had gotten a concussion, but ten times worse and more non-linear. Jason hadn’t really felt real since he had woken up (?) from the dead.
He had gone to his own funeral. How messed up had that been? The only people there had been Bruce, Commissioner Gordon, Babs, and Alfred. Jason had known Dick was off-world in Tamaran for the foreseeable future, but it had still stung when Jason had realized that Dick hadn’t been there. Jason had felt bad for being relieved that he probably hadn’t known yet. God, that would have been a shock: coming home from a space war and finding out your brother had gotten himself killed.
Jason had sighed—well, he had sighed the ghostly equivalent of a sigh. He had needed to quit being so harsh on himself because he had known it hadn’t been his fault. It had been kind of hard to think otherwise, though, when you were literally dead and thinking was so difficult. He had shuddered, though it had felt different than it had as a human, and he had refused to think about the mechanics behind it all.
Jason had refused to continue with his somber thoughts and instead had floated around his kitchen, following Bruce. Bruce had probably been about to make his way to the BatCave Gym™️ again. The daily visits had started three (?) months back, and Jason had been horrifyingly interested in watching his dad beat a punching bag for hours on end while crying more than Jason had ever seen him cry. This time had been different, though, because before Bruce had even made it out of the kitchen, the doorbell had rung. Jason had been confused because Bruce had no friends, and Alfred had taken his first-ever vacation a few weeks back. Bruce had sighed tiredly and had run a hand through his greasy hair, eye bags the size of Mars, probably the textbook definition of grief, and had gone to open the door. When he had, Jason had gotten a great view of his brother, home early and smiling brightly. Jason’s metaphorical heart had dropped out of his chest. Bruce had stared. And stared. Dick’s smile had briefly turned into a confused-puppy expression before alternating back to that award-winning smile, and he had said, “What? No hug, B? And where’s my baby Jay? I got him a new book!”
Bruce had stared some more and then had put both of his hands over his face and had started sobbing. Dick’s face had turned horrified, and he had immediately dropped his duffel bags and had pulled Bruce into a crushing hug, arms enveloping his father’s now-thinner and shaking frame. God, Jason could have done with one of Dick’s famous hugs.
“What’s wrong, Bruce?” Dick had asked and had looked around the room, his eyes missing Jason’s form completely, like Jason hadn’t even been there, which had been such a wretched thought to have that he had to physically shake himself to dispel it away.
Dick’s face had turned dark like he had an inkling of what was wrong, and he had closed his eyes and had pursed his lips for a moment. “Where’s Jason, Bruce? Where’s my brother?” Bruce had shaken his head, still trembling from the force of his crying, his face buried in his son’s shoulder, wailing like his heart had just been ripped from his chest.
Hours later, Jason’s incorporeal form had seated itself on the edge of a bookshelf, knees to his chest. Jason had thought he had known grief. After all, his parents had both died at separate times when he had been younger, and he had known of a kid down the street from him who had died of cancer. But Jason had been wrong because grief hadn’t been Jason, eight years old and confused, crying for days on end as he had asked his mother why Daddy wasn’t coming home from jail. It hadn’t been a nine-year-old, newly-orphaned Jason living on the streets and trying his best to survive even though all he had wanted to do was die and join his mommy and daddy. It had actually been Dick, hitting the wall over and over until Bruce had grabbed him, and they had fallen together; grief had been losing yourself in a way you hadn’t known was possible.
After that, Jason had realized that he had actually been dead. He had already known that, of course, but he hadn’t realized that he had been holding out hope for some god he hadn’t believed in (he had stopped believing the second the bomb had reached zero seconds) to push him back into the arms of his grieving brother and father, to rescue him from the blurry, not-quite-there reality he had been stuck existing in. He had been well and truly dead, and that hadn’t been something that had been reversed after half a year. This hadn’t been some sick and twisted fever dream or even an alternate universe situation like in his comic books. This had been him and his reality. He had been a dead fifteen-year-old with a father and brother mourning him in front of him, unable to do anything to help them or himself. And he hadn’t had to be okay with that realization. He hadn’t even had to know it. And he hadn’t been okay with it, but he had known it. And sometimes, knowledge could be your catalyst and salvation, damning you and keeping you from an eternity of false hope all at once.
Jason was dead. Jason would grieve himself for a time, maybe forever, and he would stay dead. Jason Peter Todd would stay dead.