Standalone: Count Them
Title: Count Them
Fandom: DC
Character: Jason Todd
Rating: PG-13. Possibly R?
Timeline: Set during Jason as Red Hood
Summary: Some nights, Jason has only himself and that's when he counts them.
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The rain counted out a broken staccato on the pavement outside while Jason watched the overflow. The rivulets slide down the wall with a sickening familiarity, echoing the trickle soaking into his white collar. He tipped his head back against the rough cement and rubbed the gash against the grout.
Humming blearily, Jason ground his teeth and tensed his jaw, lips twisted nastily in disgust. He slammed his head back with a crack and rolled his jaw in satisfaction, feeling the rivulets multiply. He closed his eyes and lolled his neck brokenly, licking his lips and picking up his tuneless song in empty breaths.
The rats were rushing carefully along the edges of the storm drain in urgent single file lines.
With a heavy hand, Jason crushed one among the panic and pressed until it's death throws stilled on the damp floor. He counted the crunch of bone and licked his teeth at the pain when the ribs cracked and punctured flesh; inside-out, outside-in.
Inside-out, outside-in.
Crowbar in, fire out. In, out.
He had a mother; he had two. They had names and faces and he hated every one. Inside-out and she left him, sold him; once and twice. Outside-in wasn't inside him at all.
Inside-out. He squeezed his fist tight.
Outside-in. Jason flexed his palm wide and stared at the white splinters peering out of the smear.
It was red, he knew. Like his mask, like his helmet, like an apple.
Inside-out, with its outsides-in. Red skin, white blood.
He knew, but it was dark underground and he could only see the glistening on his skin in shades of shadow.
Infection, his training whispered. Jason listened to his training; always, always, even when it didn't agree. Heavy voice, light voice; man, woman; mercy, mercenary. Save and kill and stop and go and orders, orders, orders and he was always angry but his training was calm and it was right, so Jason pulled out his bowie and squeezed the leather handle comfortingly.
He raised his bloody palm to his lips and pulled the shards of bone out of his flesh with his teeth. He spat them out over the rising water and grimaced. It should have been harder. It should have hurt more. A fight, a burn, a beacon.
Jason twirled his bowie knife, mesmerized by the shine of the blade.
He had lines all over, now. He didn't with Talia. No lines until she decided. No scars unless she gave them. She did.
There were lines Jason remembered earning that were gone. A long twist up his left calf from a wire fence didn't exist.
Inside-out moved outside-in.
No signs, no proof, but Jason remembered.
He heard a song, somewhere.
Jason slammed his head back - Count them, Jason. The seconds, you see them. Count them down.
One, two, three,
Count them, Jason.
Four, five.
Count the last seconds, Jason.
Five,
Four,
Three,
How many mothers do you have, Jason?
Two.
Count them, Jason.
One...
His head cracked hollowly against the rain and Jason hummed as he counted.
The lines he'd earned, he wanted them back.
Count the losses, Jason.
One, two, three.
He counted with his blade, rolling up the soaked denim of his jeans and cutting his memories back into skin.
One from the fence.
Two from a bottle.
Three from a fall down the stairs.
One from a clumsy walk into a wall, right above his eye.
Two.
Jason watched his reflection shatter and form in the water, lit by the streetlights above.
Two.
Cock his head, Jason rolled up his sleeve, rubbing the edge up and down his arm, cutting away hairs lovingly.
Jason couldn't remember any more, but he wanted them, so he turn the soft flesh of his inner arm away and drew two straight lines along the back of his arm and a third and a fourth and a fifth and a sixth, up and up until he hit leather.
He hurt himself.
Jason stared at the ladder. He stared at the knife.
His training wasn't happy with him. It told him to clean his blade and put it away, so he did. Jason rolled down his sleeve - to protect wounds from open elements.
Jason had fathers.
Count them Jason.
One.
Two.
Three.
He didn't hate his fathers.
Did he?
He could, Jason thought. He could hate anything.
Father the Ghost, Father the Dead, Father the Forgetful.
Count them, Jason.
Count them.
Count them.
Count them.
Counting one, two, three, Jason hummed.
Counting, he rocked, knees pulled close against the cold, hand tangled above his head to fend off his training.
Mercy, he counted.
Mercenary.
Count them, Jason.