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The night began like any other — cold wind, quiet rooftops, and Jason Todd walking home from patrol.
He was sore, tired, and only half-listening to the gravel crunch beneath his boots. Gotham never truly slept, but for once, it felt like it was holding its breath.
Then something broke it.
A sharp sound split the silence — the unmistakable crack of a sniper rifle.
Jason’s body jolted. Pain bloomed in his side. He stumbled forward and hit the ground, hard. His vision swam, and everything became noise — boots against pavement, someone screaming his name.
Bruce.
He was there within seconds, out of breath and wide-eyed. Jason was barely conscious, blood soaking through his jacket.
"No, no, no," Bruce muttered, dropping to his knees. "Stay with me, Jay. Look at me. You’re going to be okay."
Jason coughed, blood staining his lips. "Didn’t think... it’d be like this."
Dick was shouting over the comms, calling 911. "We need help now! He’s bleeding out — it’s bad!"
Bruce ripped off part of his cape, pressing it down on the wound with steady, practiced hands. But they were shaking.
Jason’s hand twitched in his. Then — stillness.
The hospital lights were too bright. The machines beeped in rhythm with a heartbeat that was barely holding on. Jason was in a coma, unmoving, pale, almost unrecognizable without his usual fire.
Bruce sat at his bedside, silent and still. He hadn’t changed out of his suit. The cowl sat on the table beside him. He hadn’t spoken much since they arrived.
Dick paced the hallway, punching the wall once when no one was looking. Tim brought him coffee and updates from Oracle. Damian stood by the door like a sentinel, pretending he didn’t care, but never leaving.
Cass came with books and gentle words. Stephanie snuck in one night with a stuffed Red Hood plush she found online. No one said anything.
Well except Dick, because he clings to it like its Jason.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
The doctors were cautious. The wound had barely missed major arteries. The bullet had fractured a rib, clipped his lung. There had been internal bleeding. They weren't sure if he'd wake up at all.
But then — movement. A flicker. A twitch of his fingers.
Dick was the first to see it.
"He moved!" he shouted, almost dropping his coffee. "He just—he moved!"
Bruce was at his side in seconds, hand on Jason’s shoulder.
Jason’s eyes fluttered open. The room held its breath.
"Told you... I'd be fine," Jason rasped.
"You’re an idiot," Dick said
"You scared the life out of us," Bruce murmured, brushing Jason’s hair back. "Never do that again."
Jason grinned weakly. "Can’t make any promises."
That night, he dreamed.
The manor kitchen, bathed in warm afternoon light. Alfred stood at the counter, stirring a pot of tea.
Jason blinked. "Al...?"
"Took you long enough," Alfred said with a soft smile. "Master Bruce has been beside himself."
"Am I dead?"
"Heavens, no. You're resting. And healing."
Jason lowered his head. "I messed up a lot. Didn’t think I’d get this far."
Alfred wiped his hands on a towel and walked over. "You made it through. That’s more than many can say. I’m proud of you, Jason. Truly."
Jason looked up, his voice breaking. "Thank you."
Alfred just smiled. "Now go on. They’re waiting for you."
Jason woke up with tears on his face, and sunlight warming his skin.
He didn’t wake into peace.
He built it — one breath, one step, one stubborn heartbeat at a time.
It had been six months since the shooting. Spring bloomed over the manor grounds, green and gold and impossibly alive. Jason was walking again, even running. He still got winded if he pushed it, but he was moving forward.
Bruce found him in the east garden, lying on his back in the grass, just staring at the sky. The sunset was beautiful at these hours, impossibly rare for Gotham.
"You look comfortable," Bruce said.
Jason shaded his eyes. "You know, I used to think silence meant something bad was about to happen. Now? It just means I’m still here."
Bruce sat beside him.
"You were always still here. Even when you thought you weren’t."
Jason chuckled. "That’s poetic coming from you."
"I’ve had practice."
They sat like that, side by side, the sun warming their shoulders. Bruce passed him a flask of lemonade.
Jason sipped it. "This is actually good."
"Alfred’s old recipe. I found it again."
Jason was quiet a moment. "I saw him. In a dream. He said he was proud."
Bruce’s voice went quiet. "I hope he was. I hope he still is."
Jason turned toward him, something sharp and soft in his eyes. "He is. And so am I. Of us. Of this."
They didn’t speak again for a while. The silence wasn’t heavy anymore. Just full.
Jason smiled, finally at ease.
Which was why it hurt more when his vision blurred.
Why the sudden jolt of pain in his ribs felt so wrong.
"Jay?" Bruce asked, frowning.
Jason swayed. His breath caught. His hand trembled.
Then he collapsed.
Bruce caught him before he hit the ground.
"Jason? Jason—look at me!"
But Jason was gone again.
The warmth of spring didn’t reach the chill in Bruce’s hands as he shouted for help.
Peace was always fleeting.
And sometimes, the fight wasn’t over even when you thought you’d won.
I watched him from the edge of the clearing, where the trees thinned and the shadows folded over themselves.
Bruce didn’t see me. Maybe he couldn’t. He just stood there, gloved hand resting on the headstone like it hurt to let go. I wanted to say something—anything—but my voice felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.
The wind carried the words for me.
Still here.
I don’t know if he heard it, or if he only felt it in his bones. But when he finally turned and walked away, I stayed behind. Or maybe I followed. Maybe I was never really gone.