drabble; still here (lots of casual mentions of triggering stuff)
Jason cannot remember the first time Death drawled low in his ear as he slept, the first time Death startled him awake with his presence in his dreams, but he knows that it continued to surprise him less and less, even now, to the point that the real surprise is not the sweat on the pillow but the sudden lifting of his eyes on Death's time and not his own.
Jason cannot remember the first time Death left his uniquely anonymous love notes on Jason's doorstep or hidden on his way to school or "work", cannot remember the the first homeless drunk, druggie, woman, or child he saw dead, and can no longer separate then notes or corpses in his mind--one total entity and one total letter, disgusting and depraved, but never disturbing except for the stench.
Jason cannot remember the first time he saw Death's most prominent and famous "display of affection"--though Jason recognizes all Death's displays as what they really are, bids for attention, meaning nothing more than what you let them--rose-colored petals stemming from skin and bone, pooling on cold heart cement, drying on walls, but he can remember, distinctly and vividly the first time he saw it drip down his Mother's cheek, and from her eyes, and from her nose. And he can remember that on her death bed--which was in no hospital, but on their living room couch--she smelled so similar to every corpse he had ever seen, that it was impossible not to bunch her in with the rest.
It was the same repulsive, cloying perfume that clung to his own coffin. The human body fights to live. The smell of death is the end of that fight, the failure and decay of flesh, the rescinding surrender of the body's mission to thrive and grow and exist that wafts through the air in potent reminders of its loss... and yours.
Jason Todd has always known Death. Perhaps in his revival, or in his attempts to finally take advantage of his own constant pursuer, Jason had believed his and Death's relationship had changed. The Red Hood in question would never say so in so many words, but Death had only ever succeeded in slowing him down, and with a gun in his hand, and none of his former mentor's--former because of these morals, but maybe too, because of Jason's staunch belief that The Bat constantly underestimated Jason's understanding and Jason's skill--"antiquated" moral rules to slow him down, he could go forth in his endeavors of punishing the wicked, knowing that he could protect the people he cared about, or at the very least avenge them. To say so much aloud would be to admit there was anyone he cared about at all--and there was no one in his life who he felt comfortable admitting this about or to, until Sasha--or Scarlet, to the scum they fought, and to Jason, always.
If Jason had believed Death's grasp on him might have changed before he had met Scarlet, then when they ran away together, he was positive it had. Scarlet had a funny way of being both dark and gloomy, seemingly completely unaffected by the shallower portions of his charm, and radiating affection and warmth. Jason was as much inspired, protected and nurtured by Scarlet as she was by him. Fear and Doubt in Pain and Death was only for the criminals they tortured and killed, and never them. Scarlet never stopped seeing Jason's pain, and Jason never erased her past. There were squabbles, and there were long, sad pauses that Jason never filled, but Jason, through ugly, broken sobs would find himself resting on a cliche. That he was happy as it was possible for him to be, and he thought she was as well.
Jason Todd wonders vaguely, face tired, frowning and invisible behind his mask, if he is too old to be hanging around Gotham in any sort of costume, now, and ironically, where he was considered too young to be hanging around in any sort of costume before. He has returned to see Bruce, long-since dead, and he does not know exactly why seeing /his/ final message will bring him closure, but he knows every time he thinks of Scarlet he begins to think of Bruce and Blame. He told himself he would never be so cruel and selfish to make anyone else his Greatest Failure. He forgave Bruce for not saving him, he /accepted/ that Bruce would never avenge him in the end, but he would never be like him, he would never reduce someone else's tragedy to his guilt.
Bruce left a final message. Scarlet did not. Jason could... would have to... piece together all the red flags*, the words he tried to forget but didn't--the "I love you"s that seemed to mean too much, the "It'd be nice to die like that," the lingering gaze on the funeral profession of TV, but most of all stories on the news like hers (too very painfully much like hers) that made her declare that "It wasn't anybody's fault." But if Jason could not blame himself, if Jason could not feel guilty, and could not feel wrong, and he refused, righteously and indignantly to believe that her death was her /own/ fault... then who /could/ he blame? Who could he turn to with his valid anger and every weapon in his arsenal? How does The Red Hood avenge a suicide? And if The Red Hood can't... how could Jason move on without the vengeance he felt so entitled to?
But Jason doesn't /feel/ too old on that roof. It's been thirty-six days, and he has been /counting,/ though sometimes he wonders if really it's thirty-five or thirty-seven, or (in his weaker moments) if maybe it didn't happen at all. He could and feels like he should be mourning right now. He feels like every meal should be a challenge, and Death or Scarlet should wake him from every dream. Sweat still rests on his pillow as often as he does, but on that rooftop he is full and rested. The body fights to survive, he knows. After Scarlet, all alone in a place he has not stepped foot in for more than six years, he feels like he should be gagging on how surreal everything feels. Instead he just feels oddly at home here, in the place he was born. Death has only ever succeeded in slowing Jason down. He doesn't know why he thought Scarlet's death would be any different.
*The Red Hood piecing together Scarlet's red flags. The irony is not lost on him, but it tastes distinctly black in his mouth. The way he assumes and knows Death does.
