#gravedigger.

[gothamincarnate]

[ @nighttknight ]

He can hear his dad, walking around six feet above his head. And he digs faster, heart racing in his chest even as he knows he needs to stay calm, conserve his oxygen in this tiny little tomb. “Bruce! Dad! Dad! I’m in here.” The sound echoes in the too-small, child sized pine box and he prays it carries, even through six feet of clay and dirt.

He cracks his way through the coffin lid, clawing at the mud and pushing it to the foot of the coffin. Takes a few last gulps of oxygen before he begins the journey upwards, out towards freedom. On the surface, the earth shifts oddly beneath Bruce, lurching and sagging as two bloody fingertips slowly wiggle out of the grass like grotesque maggots. “Dad! I’m here. Help! Help!”

He prays he’s seen, heard, that Bruce won’t walk away from the grave without seeing that something’s off, something wrong far beneath his feet. He’s Batman, he’s got to notice, right? Has to save his son after failing him all those months ago.

[gothamincarnate]

[ @babydxhl // jason’s death day ]

-- Jason is screaming, clawing at the dirt above his head. He can hear cars and rain pelting the ground above. He can feel the breeze of his fingers poking their way out of his grave like some grotesque worms. He can’t move. He dug himself a tunnel, five feet tall for now, the dirt now packed in the coffin and giving him a surface to stand on. The crevice he’s in is barely wide enough for his shoulders. He’s packed in, only able to dig by sheer force of will as he struggles against physics and gravity and air.

Finally, he can feel the breeze on his fingers, raindrops. He wants to cry but he chokes it down. He wiggles again, trying to make the opening bigger. There’s cold on his face, a breeze. It’s air, blessed blessed oxygen. He’s not out yet, but he can breathe. He gulps it down, the small whistle of air he clawed out with his fingers.

There will be no bell to ring. But he can hear voices and he prays they’re friendly. He pushes, trying to thrust his hand farther into the open air, waving his wrist. He claws at the dirt faster, filling his mouth with roots and clay. It’s muddy, rain keeps filling his mouth and making the hole close back up. He screams, praying he can be heard over the rain. Screeching from the top of his lungs, his throat feels torn open when he’s already gasping for air through the rainwater. “Hey! Hey! Over here!” He spits out a mouthful of rain water, digging at the hole again. He’s got his whole left elbow out and he tries to wiggle the other hand up. “I’m down here! I’m alive! I’m alive.”

[gothamincarnate]

[ @nighttknight ]

-- It was a year to the day. He’d been breathing for barely six months. Now all he could think about was how he’d ended up in the ground int he first place. He’d tried to not give it a passing glance. He hadn’t died and Bruce hadn’t mourned him. He wanted to just-- stitch the wound closed as quickly as possible. Jump the gap, there’d been no dirt in his lungs or timer counting down.

There were two sides to the same wound, two pieces of his life painfully severed. Neither part of the... hiatus... was good.

There were two unspoken truths about Jason Todd’s Death. The first one was unspoken in the sense that there literally was nothing to speak on it about. Six months of poking as much as Jason would let the old man, nothing had come of it.

The how that they still hadn’t figured out. Jason Todd walks the earth again. End of sentence, no further questions allowed.

The second unspoken truth of Jason Todd’s Death: the leeward side of the dirt nap. His death, looming over them like a specter. The sun was in nearly the same position it had been when he’d first seen his mother in that damn tent. And-- no, he wasn’t about to think about the rest.

The night before, he’d been buzzing, trying to hide the fear. Maybe the earth would swallow him whole again. Maybe the giant question mark that had brought him back would simply whisk him away. Maybe he’d become a zombie. Maybe he’d turn to dust. Maybe absolutely nothing would happen because-- everything was fine.

He’d woken up, still incredibly human (?) and staring at the inside of his closet, nestled into a pile of coats. Waking up anywhere but the bed with the closet door barricaded obliviously wasn’t good but hey, he’d been sleeping at least. And, hopefully Bruce hadn’t noticed.

“I’m still here.” Jason said carefully as he sat down for breakfast. He’s in his favorite red sweater, matching the still red eyes from the crying session he’d had before breakfast. How do you begin to process the fact that you’re around to mourn your own death?

Despite the cloud and the still damp eyes, he’s happy. As happy as he can be. It’s unbalanced, a calm wrapped around the storm inside, hoping he can smother it out if he just tries a little harder, smiles a big brighter. “It hasn’t worn off yet at least.” He broaches one unspeakable topic to avoid thinking about the other. A shrug, the motion feels robotic. “It’s weird.” Weird, yeah that sums up a lot of their life lately, hasn’t it?

[gothamincarnate]

Mmmm the Barbatos vibes are so good

[gothamincarnate]

Writing snippet from an old starter that I want to save:

He wanted to just-- stitch the wound closed as quickly as possible. Jump the gap, there’d been no dirt in his lungs or timer counting down. He hadn’t been gone.

There were two sides to the same wound, two pieces of his life painfully severed. Neither part of the... hiatus... was good.

There were two unspoken truths about Jason Todd’s Death. The first one was unspoken in the sense that there literally was nothing to speak on it about. A week of poking as much as Jason would let the old man, nothing had come of it.

He was breathing when he shouldn’t be breathing-- literally. Nothing was there, in his body. But he felt perfectly fine. (Well, aside from the still healing injuries.)

The how that they still hadn’t figured out. The giant fucking question mark.

Jason Todd walks the earth again. End of sentence, no further questions allowed.

The second unspoken truth of Jason Todd’s Death: the leeward side of the dirt nap. His death, looming over them like a specter. It had been five months for everyone else, but for Jason it had been just a few hours.

He’d fallen asleep under the blue desert sky, woken up in a dark miserable coffin halfway across the world. No one seemed to get that, in the weeks he’d been at the Manor. It was five months for everyone else, but the explosion still rung in his ears, the smell of tobacco and cloves still made him feel like he was going to suffocate.

Conceptually, he knew people had mourned him. He’d been missed, which was as reassuring as it was awkward. There was that haunted look they’d get when he walked into a room, even a year later. A split second of ‘Is this a ghost?’ ‘Am I dreaming?’

Jason Todd’s life had been suddenly peppered with awkward double takes and wide eyes. It was uncomfortable.

But he hadn’t been gone, he hadn’t died. He’d fallen asleep, he’d dug out of his coffin, he’d come home. That was good news!

Why was everyone so horrified?

[gothamincarnate]

[ @who-is-tommy-elliot ]

-- Alive. He was alive. He was alive and unwanted.

He was broken. Less than he should be, considering everything. Just breath through the pain. Get somewhere you can patch yourself up. Survive.

He wants to go home. He wants to see his dad. Dad has medical equipment, Gradpa knows how fix his broken bones. Would be able to wrap the twisted ankle. Tell a joke just as a bone snapped back into place.

He'd gotten used to having a family. Too used to it. But he knew how to survive alone.

How long has he been walking? Away from his grave in the backyard, away from his home. He kneels down with a grunt as the man finally goes out. Steals the knife from his belt. He's got his own suit jacket and the man's jeans sliced into strips: splinting his right humerus, bracing his left knee and ankle. The smaller strips of denim are wrapped around each finger to protect the already rended nailbeds. It's about the same stiffness as his Robin gloves.

An old crate plank is quickly scrubbed free of splinters and used to hoist himself up. Just breath through the pain. Deep breaths. You're Robin. You're Jason Peter Todd.

He wraps the belt around his waist, sheathing the knife. It's a horizontal carry, easy to hide beneath his mud stained shirt.

One of the low income clinics is here. He'd come here as a kid and he'd raided the place for legbreakers as Robin. It's empty, closing up.

Good.

He ties the last black strip around his eyes in a parody of a domino mask.

He's got a knife to the receptionist's throat before she can hit her car alarm. She walks back to the glass door and unlocks it. She tells him she has kids. He just laughs. It's all a bluff, but the point is intimidation.

She picks up the phone, she's shaking. "We...named Mister Cadillac here...waiting area."

He hadn't given his name. Fuck! It was a code. He hangs the phone up and wraps an arm around the women's throat before she could get up from the chair.

Nothing to do but wait.

[gothamincarnate]

[ @clownntm ]

-- The explosion is still ringing in his ears. He’s been walking for thirty minutes. It’s only been an hour and a half since he fell asleep in agony under the afternoon desert sun. But it’s Gotham at night.

Robin woke up underground on the other side of the world. Back home. He-- he-- he was in a coffin. He hadn’t passed out. He’d died.

And he’d dug his way out.

Now, he’s a vaugely human shape covered in mud. It’s like a poor costume of Clayface. Hair sticks out of the cakes of mud on his scalp. Tears wet the mmud that crumbles off his cheeks.

He wants to be home, he wants his dad, he wants to be safe. He wants this to all be a dream.

He’s limping, dragging, shambling like the zombie he is. One foot in front of the other, mind clouded with tobacco and blood and the burns that had once been on his arms.Nothing but broken bones now. Good? Probably.

He stumbles, shouts. Lands wrong and clamps down on his tongue to swallow the scream. Whatever he’d been able to walk on had just shifted out of place.

Breathe through it. Come on, Robin. Can’t die now.

He forces himself up, stumbling on his feet and teetering, catching himself on the alley wall.

Someone’s moving in the shadows.

[gothamincarnate]

[ @nighttknight ]

"We need to cover up my grave."

Jason had gone even if Bruce hadn't wanted to. But he knows Bruce, he's banking on him showing up.

But this isn't about his death. No matter what Bruce thought.

"Her gravestone looks nice." He starts with after they've almost finished. He's feeling vicious. He keeps his voice casual, no attitude allowed in despite his wants. It's all in delivering it. Jamming the knife under the skin then wrenching it.

"You should add something to the epitath, though. Something about how how she killed me would be fitting." He shrugs casually, patting down the top. Finished.

He'd needed to come here, to see it and put it behind him.

Nothing to do but talk.