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Gotham was always gloomy—cloudy and gray—never able to see the stars. Today was no different. Rain was pouring over the Gothic rooftops, pattering loudly and strongly. There was almost a beauty to it—how consistently Gotham appeared dreadful and uninviting to those who didn’t know where to look. Jason knew better; he knew the beauty visible only from the city rooftops. He looked down from one now, trying to see the charm he knows hides somewhere in the shadows. He couldn’t find it tonight. He couldn’t seem to find anything lately.
He stood on the dirty, banged-up rooftop, no idea how or when he got there, and not enough wherewithal to really care. Fingernails dug into his palms, almost drawing blood, yet he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel much of anything. Just a bone-deep ache—the kind that leaves you rotting on your mattress, wondering if you ever deserved to live—the kind that a good meal and 8 hours of sleep can’t fix. The cold ache sat right in his chest, freezing his hurt numb. He was just…so tired. So hurt. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment all the rage that he carried in his veins turned to grief. Grief for the life he used to have. The life he could have had if he hadn’t ruined it.
For once, there was no sprain, no gunshot or stab wound plaguing his body, begging him to rest and heal. There was no bruising blooming across his chest or stitches tugging with every movement that he could ignore. There was just. Sorrow. Regret. Emotions that he didn’t even know he could feel.
The heavy rain puddled in his boots—seeped into his clothes—and he enjoyed the cold that intensified with every breeze. It was nice to feel anything at all other than hurt.
He wandered from rooftop to rooftop, trying to figure out how he got here. How it got so bad. When he finally accepted it. Maybe it was when he woke up in the grave and, despite all odds, dug himself out. Maybe when he was dipped in the lazerous pit, and the fury rose to the surface. He let his thoughts jump from moment to moment, trying to find the moment he slipped, the moment he became a fuck up. Maybe he was just born to fail. Doomed to die. Nothing could be done, because this is how it was meant to be.
His wet socks sloshed with every step he took, his limbs weighing down like concrete, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He kept walking.
Jump. Grapple. Swing. Repeat.
It was a grounding, steady motion. Something he was used to, he could hold on to. Without realizing he was running, speeding up on instinct—maybe trying to relive his days as Robin—when he was happy. Free. When Robin gave him magic, and he would bask in the wind blowing through his curls as he swung from rooftop to rooftop, chasing behind the man he thought to be the most powerful in the world, laughing the whole time. A bitter smile tugged at his lips at the memory, and he could feel tears forming in the corners of his eyes. That was before. Before he came back angry. Wrong.
He swung until he couldn’t anymore—till his body was too drained of energy to continue. He stopped at the tallest building in Gotham. Wayne Enterprise of all places. The view was almost charming, just short of beauty. He trailed along the edge, taking a long, slow look at the city below him. Gotham was still living, no matter how many people she killed, there’d always be people walking the streets, cars moving, lights flickering, and people living.
She’d always be crime-riddled and ugly, unsavable, just like him. At one point, he’d considered her home. Not always perfect, but enchanting with hidden gems you just needed to open your eyes to see. A city that could be fixed just like anything and anyone else. But now he knew. Not everyone could be fixed.
He let himself sit, body still soaked with rain, staring at the city below, contemplating. He could finally do it. End it all for good. He’d do more for this city dead than alive. He spent his whole second life trying to prove he could do good, that he could fix things, and he only made things worse. He could jump down right now, letting the cold wind nip at him as he fell all 100 stories to the ground. He wouldn’t have to deal with anything anymore. Not his body being found, Red Hood being dead, being revealed as the already dead Jason-Todd-Wayne—if they’d even consider him a Wayne anymore. He wouldn’t have to deal with the Bats pretending to care, pretending they want to help, want to fix him—as if he were some watch found on the ground that stopped telling time, as if he were broken. He wouldn’t have to deal with the crime ramping up, the gang wars fighting for his territory. He’d finally be at peace. Quiet.
It seemed so nice.
The rain continued to course onto him, making his already heavy body impossibly heavier with each passing minute. A deep inhale. An exhale. A rancid laugh escaped his lips—exhausted and pitiful. He was so tired. He couldn’t do this anymore.
He didn’t want to do it anymore.
He never let himself cry—never let himself be weak—but today he let the tears flow freely under his helmet. Maybe it was his last gift to himself before he was gone and could never cry again. He let the tears stream down his face, leaving hot tracks in their wake. It was ugly. Gross. Real. Sobs meant just for himself to hear. He finally let the years of built-up emotion out.
He cried about his family hating him, never accepting that the boy he was died and never came back, never accepting that he came back different. Angry. Wrong. He cried about his dad, the only father figure to make him feel loved, choosing his killer over him, slitting his throat, and leaving him to die alone. About how he didn’t get the luxury of dying, how he didn’t deserve death. He deserved to suffer again and again in every action he carried out.
He cried about dying alone, protecting someone he loved, but never loved him. Young and scared, fighting a never-ending war, too big for himself. Digging himself out of the grave, scared and alone—always alone—not knowing what happened or where he was, only knowing that he hurt.
He thought about the closest thing he ever had to a best friend, Roy Harper, dead and in the ground, and how he wasn’t there to save him. He was supposed to be safe there, get better. He was gone now. No one would ever hear his annoying laugh at his own stupid jokes, while Jason stifled his own chuckles. He wished he had let Roy hear him laugh. Let him know he loved him. All of him. His lack of privacy, cringey jokes, and the stupid banter. He wished he hadn't been so selfish—hadn’t put his ego over letting his friends know he cared.
For a stupid, naïve second, he hoped he’d see him again. He knew better. He accepted it a long time ago. He didn’t go to heaven the first time; he definitely wasn’t going now. He was bad. Evil. He came back wrong and searching for vengeance. Broken.
He killed. He hurt. He wasn’t destined for something so nice. If he was lucky, it would be quiet. Empty. Nothingness. A deep sleep that lasts forever.
He hoped he didn’t come back this time. He couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t keep losing people, hurting people he loved. He was a magnet; wherever he went, death followed. Roy, Artemis, Bizarro. All were dead because they met him. He couldn't keep going in a world like that. Couldn’t keep fighting for what he believed in when the world didn’t believe in him—when what little he could call family didn’t believe in him—thought he was a monster.
Tears flooded down his face, the hot trail burned against Jason’s cold skin, and he cried until he had no more tears left to cry. His breath came out ragged and shaky as he tried to calm himself, small wails leaving him as he curled in on himself, trying to get one last hug before he left. He wanted to feel better. Hoped the crying would help, maybe change his mind, but he felt the same. Cold. Numb. Empty.
He could do it right now. Jump and put himself out of his misery. No one would care—Gotham would be a better place.
But he didn’t get to stay dead. Didn’t get to indulge in the peaceful lull of death. He needed to stay dead this time. No way to come back. Not a body left to mourn and out in a coffin, only to crawl its way out months later, scared and alone, begging for a father that never loved him.
Maybe he’d put a bullet through his head. Take the highest caliber he owned and shoot it right between the eyes like he’d done so many times to countless criminals. That’s what he was himself, after all—a criminal. It’d be a fitting death—to take himself out like he would any other scum.
Maybe he’d jump in a vat of acid. It wouldn’t be too hard to find, knowing how Gotham is. He’d let it slowly eat away at his flesh, dissolving his muscles and bones until he fades away from existence—not even a trace of DNA left. He’d embrace the sting, the pain; it’d be a blessing to feel anything that wasn’t this mind-numbing void in his chest. How he wished he could do it. The peaceful thought was tainted by a never-ending grin and disgusting laughter. It chilled him straight to the bones; he’d rather come back again and again than end up like the Joker. It was ironic, in a way, that the only way he could think of was spoiled by the same man who haunted his nightmares.
Maybe another bomb. Stronger this time. One that kills him before the smoke does, before the hope he always tried to hide deep down escapes and leaves him pleading on the floor. It’ll tear him apart. Burn him to pieces. Nothing left to recover.
He thought about it, wanted it even, but he couldn’t do it—couldn’t be so selfish. An explosion like that—it’d tear his city apart and hurt too many people in its path. He couldn’t keep hurting people, even if that’s all Gotham ever did; he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Hurting people was all he ever did. He didn’t want it to be his last act.
He sat for what felt like hours, mulling over the best way to go out, ensuring no one got hurt, and he couldn’t come back. The perfect solution eluded him. Maybe it was right in front of him the whole time, but he was too tired, too drained, too broken.
The rain died down, his body still soaked and heavy, and he leaned back, back on the rooftop, staring at the starless sky.
He made one last call, knowing there’d be no answer, knowing no one could pick up, and he left a voicemail. One he knew would never be heard.
“Hey, Roy. It’s me, Jaybird.
“I—uh… I just wanted to let you know I miss you.
“—and I hope I get to see you soon.
“Love you, I guess.”
And he hung up, letting the words sit in the air.