Whumptober Day Nine: presumed dead | (blind) rage | tears

{Use of profanity, barely there. Will (eventually) become a 4-1 thing.}

[Jason Todd & Robins]

\-/

-!-

The headlines had nearly shocked Jason out of his green-tined revenge plans.

IS ROBIN DEAD? a teen gossip column said, mimicking much of the other tabloids and theory forums. Most would brush it off as some pathetic attempt to spark hushed whispers and boost the 'morale' of random low-tier thugs, but Jason knew better. He had dropped the glossy paper in exchange for an air-gapped computer, scrolling furiously through the Batcomputer database with a mantra of not another one, not this again, no more, no more, no more-

There couldn't be any more dead birds.

His heart froze when he read the file, the world spinning like a little toy top. Doctor Thompkins had been quoted, saying that Robin's – Stephanie Brown's – heart had given out on the table. She had been – she had been tortured by that asshole Black Mask, and the detailed list of her injuries were –

He slammed the computer shut so fast the whole table shuddered, green fluttering from the darkness. He sat in the chair, feeling the blood pump through his ears like a raging waterfall, and wondered if the universe was laughing their tushes off at the trade they made: a Robin for a Robin.

He didn't deny the pang of happiness and anguish he had when he saw the blonde Batgirl, the green buzzing at how Black Mask was still alive.

-@-

Did Tim have an angel?

Jason inhaled his beer, pushing away the burn behind his eyes, and pursed his lips, feeling the fog settle in his head as the question swung in the darkness. When Jason was buried, he had an angel above his gravestone, dark granite with open wings and a somber look, watching over him as he clawed out of hell and zombie-walked away. He had a gravestone, yes, but that angel watched over him for three years, rotting away until he wasn't.

Did Tim have an angel?

That's stupid, he mused, with those wings, Tim is an angel.

That made the journey of the amber bottle to his lips stutter a little.

Reviewing the evidence, Tim could very well be an angel. It would make sense seeing that a toddler figured out the Bat's identity through some traumatic memory. It would explain how relentless Tim was, how he was seemingly perfect and young and everything a good solider was-

The burn of alcohol – Vodka, the stronger stuff this time – trickled down his throat like the chill of tangy copper. He remembered his own death, every swing of metal and every lick of flame. They said that Tim had died heroically - a hail of bullets from a group of drones.

Both had been alone when they died.

But Tim was older, had a chance to live, had the chance to grow. Co-CEO, the best detective – screw Batman, he's outdated – in the world, Red Robin, and a member of their warped family; the Replacement had it all.

Replacement. It seemed disgusting, like nails raking down Jason's throat in a way liquid courage could never. Tim had died, just like him, but he was known as a hero, a saviour, a friend, and brother.

A Good Soldier was Jason's title.

Tim shouldn't have had to get one.

Jason didn't deserve to hang out with someone who didn't need an angel, but those blue eyes were very much young and alive, sitting on a balcony with heaps of food and shaggy black hair, inviting him to sit even though they were as close as Jupiter and Uranus. He didn't deserve to meet with the light of hope in the darkness of Gotham.

But...

But he was afraid to say no.

-#-

How could she? he thought in a haze of green fury, how dare she?

Fury and rage and green swarmed the shattered remains of Jason's lesser-used warehouse just south of the Narrows. Glass dug into his fist and crimson trickled down, dripping past his clenched fists and gliding over white knuckles. Ragged breaths clawed out of his throat, the world twisting together into one bug blur.

He saw Talia as a mother, and she didn't disappoint.

They all hurt worse than the glass and splinters embedded in his hands.

When he learned that – that Damian had been speared by a force-grown clone of the kid, his mind had derailed as he fumbled with a burner phone, a knot tightening his trachea and his lungs gripped by an imaginary force. The digits and the dialing rings and the greetings were a blur, but everything shattered when –

"Heratic," she had coldly said, sounding detached, "I cloned-"

I.

She.

Talia.

How could she?

A surge of green made him drive a possibly broken wrist into the smashed drywall, bending before it hit the skeleton frame.

"Fuck," he whispered, withdrawing it and blinking hard, wishing that the fire behind his eyes would stop. "Fuck."

His knees buckled, and his body twisted into a fetal position, cradling both hands to his chest and screaming at the world.

Damian is – was, his mind corrected and his heart broke – a child, not even Jason had been that young when he died. The Demon – even that seemed wrong, bitter – was probably still in high school, puberty lingering around the corner. Soon he would have comparing girls to katanas – the thought made a bout of ugly, choked chuckles escape his lips – and scolding Superboy No.2 for doing some random things like eating a tub of mint cholate-chip with caramel sauce and rainbow sprinkles, taking subtle bites of the frozen dish when he thought no one was looking. He would be demanding to spar even though the random spurts of growth threw his whole posture off. He would brood with his plethora of animals, putting Doctor Dolittle to shame. He would banter with Tim – not dead, never died – and act like a grumpy cat when Dick cuddles with him. Jason would call him brat and worry if Damian had any knives stashed on his person and pace the Manor when he left for his first day of high school, hiding under a feigned air of uncaring and confidence.

He would if he was not dead.

Something wet tricked down his cheek as Damian's young scowl seared behind his eyelid, the way he had to crane his head and keep his back ramrod straight to appear taller-

An ugly whimper escaped his throat as shivers raked his body, another pearl of salty water dripping down.

A part of him didn't blame Bruce when the faint outline of Magdala Valley disappeared behind him.

Damian was a child, deserving of life.

Jason never deserved to come back.

But here he was, choking on sobs like it was the smoke of a smoldering warehouse.

-$-

It was live and broadcasted.

Dick, Nightwing, bound and at the mercy of some criminals, unmasked and bare to the world.

Something snapped inside Jason as he watched, ice freezing his insides and his dread weighing like lead, everything fell out of the tunnel vision he had on the small box television he had. A hole formed in his chest, a sea of anxiety-needtosave-helplessness-nonono battering his heart with the force of Harley's hammer on venom.

Then he was dead.

Nightwing, who was so alive with his quips and his flips and his blinding smile, dead.

No green came, no bouts of rage.

Only numbness, not even fire behind his eyes.

Little Wing, Dick would call Jason, ruffling his hair and grinning at his immature scowl.

Dickhead, Jason would reply, crossing his arms and spitting it out. It was that, or the alternate of Dickface, what do you want?

Nothing, he would respond, draping himself over the younger's secondhand couch, can't a guy visit his adorable younger brother?

I'm not adorable, Jason would grumble, growing red at Dick's laughter.

Sure, he would smile, the remains of his loud, boisterous, and twinkling laugh fluttering around like flustered faeries, if you say so.

Something he would never hear again. A sight he would never see again. A presence of love he would never feel again. Warmth he would never touch again.

Wet dripped down, ice against the numb shell of Jason Todd, the man who just lost one more.

The green only reared his head when Dick popped like a meerkat from his little hole, but it felt as if the metal bands around his chest had given him just a little more space. When his fist connected with skin he nearly cried.

You're alive, Jason wanted to say, to wrap his arms around his brother and feel the heartbeat that was not a flatline, not connected to a bomb, and the skin that was as warm as the sun, You're a dick, and you're alive.

He'll settle to gaze at the blue insignia from a distance, numbingly wondering if he should be surprised if – when? - the new guy – Duck? Duke? – kicked the bucket.

No more, a part of him growled flaring red-tinted anger within him, doused by the flames of something breaking and coolness spreading in his chest, no joke.

A tear dripped down his face.

He should have been the last one.

But he was just the start.