(one step off and one long fall, that's it. everyone hates him. they hate him so much they're blaming him for shit he doesn't even know about. he wasn't good enough for bruce. dick knew better than to even let him try, knew he was a fuck up from the start... and jason went and proved it. nearly fucking died.
not like it's the first time. it's been his whole damn life, he thinks, standing there on the ledge. bounced between foster care and juvie, because no one can fucking stand him. conner shouldn't be laid in the infirmary bed, jason should be six foot down. he's fucking a curse. he's so sick and tired of it. he thought he had this one nice thing going and like every other goddamn time, he fucks it up.
dick tries to talk him down, you know. but it's so fucking half-hearted, man. it's a joke. what a fucking joke. no one can fix him, no one wants to waste their time with his bullshit.
he jumps.
he wakes up, slow and groggy with a pained groan, eyes fluttering open at the soft feeling of a rag cleaning his face. blurry, he makes out a pretty, elegant face. long hair. an angel, his dumb groggy mind wonders. he's dead. except when the rag presses against his face, the fibers of it are rough on a cut, stinging and that has realization hitting him quick and abruptly he's pushing himself to sit up with a gasp like he's waking from a nightmare. another groan follows quick, face twisted up with the pain of a fucked up arm. he craddles it to his chest.) Who the fuck are you? (he asks, voice rough and raw and unsure. he's supposed to be dead.)
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not like it's the first time. it's been his whole damn life, he thinks, standing there on the ledge. bounced between foster care and juvie, because no one can fucking stand him. conner shouldn't be laid in the infirmary bed, jason should be six foot down. he's fucking a curse. he's so sick and tired of it. he thought he had this one nice thing going and like every other goddamn time, he fucks it up.
dick tries to talk him down, you know. but it's so fucking half-hearted, man. it's a joke. what a fucking joke. no one can fix him, no one wants to waste their time with his bullshit.
he jumps.
he wakes up, slow and groggy with a pained groan, eyes fluttering open at the soft feeling of a rag cleaning his face. blurry, he makes out a pretty, elegant face. long hair. an angel, his dumb groggy mind wonders. he's dead. except when the rag presses against his face, the fibers of it are rough on a cut, stinging and that has realization hitting him quick and abruptly he's pushing himself to sit up with a gasp like he's waking from a nightmare. another groan follows quick, face twisted up with the pain of a fucked up arm. he craddles it to his chest.) Who the fuck are you? (he asks, voice rough and raw and unsure. he's supposed to be dead.)