Chapter Text
If you were to ask him, Jason wouldn’t know how he got into this situation. Well, maybe that was just the blood loss getting to him.
He thinks it might have had something to do with a case gone wrong? Last he remembered, he was busting an illegal drug operation which was trading around Joker venom, or at least a cheap copy of it. He must have miscalculated the amount of people inside or something because he was now stumbling through an alleyway, with two gunshot wounds leaking steadily from his shoulder and abdomen and a knife sticking out of his thigh; scratched up and battered, but not unvictorious. He says that because nobody seems to be following him, and he can clearly remember emptying his clip with lethal bullets into multiple dropping bodies.
Staggering across the asphalt, he unceremoniously fell against a brick wall. The pain in his, well, everything overshadowed the dull thud of impact in his shoulder as his vision flickered out for a split second. When his line of sight cleared once more, his head was lolled forward and he was slowly slipping down the wall, the leather at his arm getting scuffed as a result.
In a second of deliriousness, he almost pouted; this was his favourite jacket and it was getting ruined.
As his knees crumpled underneath him and his thighs hit the filthy ground, he used some of his remaining strength to get his head upright. However, when he got it to where he wanted it, it just lolled to the side,thunking against brick. He groaned as he tried to ignore the stabbing pain in his thigh, his new position jostling the metal around and doing nothing to stop the blood.
He huffed a breath in and out as his hand twitched with the irritated urge to rip the dagger out and be done with it, but he knew that it would just cause him to bleed out quicker. Instead, to busy his hands he lifted them to the two spouts of red blood existing on his body. Ofcourse, ofcourse all his skills to avoid bullets just had to leave him the one day he used one of his weaker armour models.
“Fucking shit.” He hissed as the weight of his current position hit him; he was bleeding out in a random alley, with the sky being the only witness to his predicament. The mocking asphalt his eyes were fixated on swam with every beat of his stuttering heartbeat. Fuck- he might die.
He was surprised when that fact didn’t terrify him as much as it ought to.
He blinked, once, twice. He still felt nothing about it. He let out what would have been a low growl that was now just an angry sounding breath. He needed to get himself together, there were people that needed him; for example the… He tried to wrack his brain for specific examples but the cloud over his mind made it hard to think. Did anyone need him? He blinked once more for good measure, hoping that maybe, just maybe that split second of darkness clouding his sight would clear him of the fog in his brain, but it only made him long for the darkness more.
Don’t get him wrong: Jason was not suicidal. Do you know how bad that would look on his record if people knew the great Red Hood wanted to die? I mean- he already went through the whole death spiel once, why would he willingly do it to himself? But killing yourself and actively dying are two very different situations.
It took effort to kill yourself; you had to pick the way in which you would go, spend time writing letters and apologies to anyone who would care, and then have to deal with the consequences if you failed. In contrast, if you were already actively dying the reason for your death could be explained away; nobody would question why you didn’t choose to seek help, only what was the catalyst to the injuries which led to your untimely demise. And sure, dying to a stab wound and two gunshots isn’t the best way to go, but it isn’t the worst.
He silently pondered how the world would react to his death this time round.
And, fuck- what was wrong with him? He needed to get to the emergency beacon which he knew he had stored in his belt- He needed Dick or, Gods, even Buce and his stupid moral code to come and patch him up and chastise him for letting himself get hurt.
But even as he glanced down at the little bump in the leather of his belt which Dick had forced him to carry on him a few months ago, he hesitated. He blamed it on the fact that his hands were busy acting like faulty bandages trying to stop more life-carrying blood cells from escaping the constraints of his flesh.
Deep down knew it was stupid; he would die either way if he didn’t call for help, but if he admitted that to himself then he would have to admit that he didn’t want to survive, and those were the thoughts of someone suicidal. And Jason Todd was not suicidal; he would just not prolong the inevitable.
And maybe the world would be better off if he were gone, but that was a thought he blamed on the bloodloss.
Okay- So this was really happening; he was going to die. What do dying people do? He should know, after all he was one of those people a few years back. He guessed he had to have some meaningful final thoughts; last time if he remembered correctly he was still convincing himself that Bruce would come as asphyxiation pulled him under, but this time he already accepted that nobody was coming so what should he do?
He could reminisize on his childhood memories and mourn all the things he did wrong when he came back, but what would be the point? He did that enough as is and doing that right before death would be akin to another stab wound matching with the one in his thigh.
His feelings were a jumbled up mess of nothing, so maybe he should try to make sense of them before he goes? Okay, he wanted to cry. That was a lie, he actually felt nothing at all; God, he had to stop lying to himself, it was beginning to be a problem honestly.
His whole life was built on lies that promised but never showed results: his mother lied that she would get better for him, Willis lied that he would stay, and Bruce lied about always being there for him. And in return he also lied; lied to his old teacher that everything was fine at home, lied to Alfred about the secret stash of food under his bed, and lied to Bruce that he wouldn’t go anywhere without his knowing. Just like he was lying to himself about not wanting to die.
For fucks sake why was even trying to make sense of his feelings so hard? At this point he just wanted to close his eyes and be done with it. The pull of darkness dancing around the edges of his vision was enticing; so close yet too far to reach just yet and he just wanted to fall so badly into its sweet embrace. And- How hadn’t he realised before just how much he craved it?
Oh, that’s right. It was because he wasn’t suicidal, so he didn’t crave it, because non-suicidal people didn’t crave death. The only reason why he wanted it over and done with right now was because of the pain, at least that was what he told himself.
Speaking of pain, the ragged wounds were still pulsing in tandem on his flesh, almost like they were little hearts themselves. He let himself get lost in the hypnotising rhythm. Pulse... Pulse… Pulse… Pulse…
Something suddenly prodded at the knife in his thigh and he gasped as the rhythm was ripped off track and a sharper pain shot through him. His eyes flew open (when had he closed them? He could have sworn he was just describing the darkness dancing around his vision) to the sight of a stray cat nosing at his leg.
“Fucking hell- Shoo!” He attempted to sound authoritative but his voice failed him, instead coming out as a ragged half-whisper.
Great, he couldn’t even die peacefully alone with his own thoughts. Could he ever have a normal death?
The cat jumped slightly, or- Was it an oversized rat? He couldn’t tell with the way his vision blurred and swam all over the place. How hadn’t he already passed out? It felt like it had been hours since he stumbled into the alley. Though, he thankfully felt like he was teetering on the edge of consciousness so hopefully he would finally be allowed to slip in soon.
A short meow blared like alarms in the silence. Oh right, the cat. He took a long second to try to discern its colour, and settled on a mixture of black and white if the way the two colours shifted and danced in front of his vision were any hint. ”Well I g’ess y’re stayin’ ‘ere th’n” he slurred out, head still resting against the wall. His thigh was poked at again, this time not at his wound, and he complacently watched as the fuzzy blob sniffed him. At least, he thought he was getting sniffed with the way its nose was prodding at him.
The next second he yelped as tiny teeth sunk through his pants. He reflexively moved his hand away from his wounds and weakly swatted at the cat. It released, but the action shifted his shoulder that was leaning against the wall and, without warning, he toppled sideways and hit the filthy ground with a groan. The new angle he was viewing the world from only made him more dizzy and he silently cursed at the cat. “Wait ‘ntil ‘m dead b’fore ‘ou eat me.”
His eyes felt like the bricks in the wall behind his back and his breathing grew more shallow by the second. Finally, finally he could surrender himself to the darkness that plagued him. His heartbeat slowed and he shut his eyes with a finality only a dying man could muster. He could feel the thigh-biter doing something at his belt, probably finding another area to bite down on. Welp, he won’t keep the animal waiting; he might as well provide the poor thing with something that won’t care if it was eaten or not.
As the darkness overtook him, he couldn’t help but hope; maybe this time would be different.
Something cracked in his belt.