#pt 2

Now it was just Jason, in the corner chair, and the unconscious kid on the bed.

Leslie moved through her checks with a quiet, practiced efficiency, her hands steady as she adjusted the IV drip and noted the vitals. But her professional calm was a thin veneer. Each time her eyes flicked from the steady, strong rhythm on the monitor to the boy’s pale face, a fresh wave of disbelief washed over her. She had treated metas before; she’d even stitched up Superman once, his biology a testament to alien perfection. But this… this was different. This wasn't a body built stronger, but one that was actively, violently defying logic, if she was honest, even if just to herself, it was scary.

“He’s stable,” she murmured, more to the charts than to Jason. Peeling back the bandage with a gentle touch, she inspected the sutures. The wound beneath was still a horrific sight, but the edges already showed signs of integration that should have taken weeks. “Medically, this should be impossible. The damage suggests a traumatic evisceration from days ago. He should have succumbed to shock or sepsis within hours.” She shook her head, her voice dropping to a whisper. “His body isn’t just healing, Jason. It’s… regenerating in practically no time”

“Well, kid showed to be stubborn,” Jason grunted from his corner, his arms crossed.

“This isn’t stubbornness, Jason. This is a rebellion.” She shook her head, her gaze fixed on the nutrient bag dripping into his vein. “His white cell count is through the roof, and his metabolic rate is… frankly alarming. It’s as if his entire system is a furnace, burning fuel at a thousand times the normal rate just to knit itself back together.” She gestured to the IV. “I’m having to pump nutrients into him constantly. If I stop, his body will start cannibalizing its own healthy tissue to fuel this… this cellular riot. He’s not just healing; he’s winning a war against his own mortality, and the collateral damage is staggering.”

Jason didn’t reply. His gaze remained fixed on the kid’s chest, watching the slow, steady rise and fall. A furnace burning itself out to heal. A body so desperate to live it would cannibalize itself to keep going.

The math was mathing, and I felt like a brutal punch to the gut. This scrawny, fifteen-year-old kid was crawling with teeth and nails, holding on for dear life, fighting a war that was completely against all odds for his life, and he was doing it with a cheerfulness Jason couldn't have mustered even on his best day. He remembered being fifteen in a warehouse, choking on smoke and blood, his own body betraying him with every ragged breath while he dragged himself away and tried to escape. There had been no song, no calm, no deadpan humor. Just the explosion, the pain, and then, the darkness.

He saw the same will to survive here, the same refusal to let go, but it was inverted. Where Jason's had come back forged into rage, this kid's was polished into a terrifying, gentle humor. He wasn't just fighting to live; he was fighting to be calm and steady while doing it. The cheerful humming in the alley wasn't a bizarre quirk. It was him trying to… to stay positive.

The kid was winning a war Jason had lost, and he was doing it with a smile.

Yeah. That fucking hurt to watch.

The low groan from the bed was almost a relief, shattering the heavy silence and Jason's even heavier thoughts.

Danny’s eyes fluttered open, squinting against the dim light. He looked disoriented, his gaze swimming around the room before landing on Jason’s hulking, armored form. There was no fear. Just a bleary recognition.

“Hey,” Danny croaked, his voice rough. “Mr. Trash Can Connoisseur.”

A snort escaped Jason before he could stop it. “Hood. Red Hood.”

“Right. The edgy one.” Danny tried to shift and a sharp hiss of pain escaped his lips. He settled back, his face pale. “So. Not a dumpster. Did we upgrade to a medical facility, or downgrade to a creepy basement?”

“You’re at a friend’s clinic. You’re safe.” The words came out more gently than Jason had intended.

“Cool, cool.” Danny’s eyes drifted closed for a moment, then opened again, a weak smirk tugging at his mouth. “Guess I really… spilled my guts out back there, huh?”

Jason stared at him, the kid's gallows humor hitting him differently now. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, the armored plates creaking. 

“What is wrong with you?” 

He said it with a disbelieving huff of laughter, the sound rough and unfamiliar in his own throat. The question wasn't an accusation anymore. It was a genuine, bewildered plea for understanding.

“According to my last report card? A lot of things, man. ‘Does not apply himself.’ ‘Prone to daydreaming.’” He took a shallow, careful breath. “‘Prone to catastrophic organ failure.’”

“Your puns are horrible” Jason deadpanned, still a little stunned that the kid was making puns in the first place.

"Try and stop me," Danny wheezed, the effort of the comeback making him wince even as his smirk held firm. "I've got a million of 'em. They're my... stitch in time."

Jason actually rolled his eyes, a gesture lost behind the helmet but clear in the shake of his head. "Keep it up and I'll revoke your pun privileges on account of grievous bodily harm and terrible wordplay."

The door opened, and Leslie stepped in, her sharp eyes immediately noting Danny's conscious state. She moved to his side, her demeanor shifting from thoughtful to professionally warm. "It's good to see you awake," she said, helping him sip some water from a cup with a straw. He drank greedily, the simple act seeming to exhaust him.

When he was settled again, Leslie didn't retreat. She kept her voice soft but direct, "Kid, I need to ask you a few questions. It's important for your treatment. Can you try to answer for me?"

Danny gave a slight, tired nod.

"First, do you have any known allergies? Medications, foods, environmental?"

"None," he spoke softly.

"Good. That's good." She made a note. "This is a more difficult question, but I need you to try. Do you have any idea what caused this injury? Was it metallic, organic, chemical? Knowing if there's any foreign material or contaminant in the wound is critical."

Danny's eyes went distant, seeing something far away from the clinic's clean walls. "...Claws," he managed after a moment. "Big ones." He grimaced and shivered involuntarily “But… ah, You don't have to worry about infections?” he ends up, half uncomfortable, half unsure.

Leslie, to her credit, didn't falter. She simply noted it down. "Thank you. Lastly, your body is healing at an incredible rate, but it's consuming a massive amount of energy to do it. Is there anything you know of that helps? Specific foods? Resting in a particular way? Your system is under immense strain. And, do you happen to naturally run colder, or should it be a concern?”

This time, Danny's eyes flicked almost imperceptibly towards Jason for a split second before returning to Leslie. "Just... food. High calories. And... quiet. Dark helps. And u… yeah, i run colder, also low heartbeat" He offered a weak shrug that was clearly a mistake, his face tightening in pain. "I'm usually... better at this."

"I'd hope so," Leslie said, a hint of dry humor in her tone. "Rest now. That's an order. I'll have some nutrient-rich broth brought in shortly."

As she left, the quiet settled back over them.

Jason looked at the kid, who was already fading again, the brief burst of energy spent. The puzzle pieces weren't fitting together into any picture he recognized. He found himself speaking into the quiet, his voice low. 

“When I found you. You should have been screaming. Or already dead. Why weren’t you?”

Danny was quiet for so long Jason thought he’d fallen back asleep. When he spoke, his voice was a thin, tired whisper, all traces of humor gone.

“Turns out death doesn't want me.” He answered awry, with a lopsided smirk that didn't reach his eyes.

The words landed like a physical blow, knocking the air from Jason’s lungs. They should have sounded like the dramatic ramblings of a delirious kid. But delivered with that flat, weary certainty, they felt like a simple statement of fact.

Before Jason could form a response—a demand for clarification, a scoff of disbelief—the door opened again. Leslie returned, this time with a steaming bowl of broth. The moment shattered, the profound replaced by the practical.

"Alright, let's get some of this into you," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Jason watched as she helped Danny, who was now too spent for even weak puns. The kid’s confession echoed in the silent spaces between the spoonfuls. Turns out death doesn't want me.

Leslie finished and, on her way out, paused by Jason’s chair. Her voice was low, for his ears only. "His core body temperature is 94.5 degrees. His resting heart rate is 28 beats per minute. For any other human, those would be the vital signs of someone actively dying. For him?" She glanced back at the bed. "It seems to be his baseline. Whatever this 'biological rebellion' is, Jason, it's fundamentally rewritten his physiology. He's not just healing fast. He's... different. On a cellular level."

She left, and Jason was alone again with the sleeping boy.

Death doesn't want me.

The words twisted together with Leslie's clinical analysis. Fundamentally rewritten his physiology.

A cold, sickening understanding began to dawn on Jason. This wasn't just a kid with a strange healing factor. This was a kid who knew what it was like on the other side. A kid who had, somehow, been sent back. The cheerful humming, the terrible puns, the calm acceptance of horrific pain... it all clicked into a horrifying new configuration.

He wasn't just fighting to live. He was living with the intimate, exhausting knowledge of what came after. And he had chosen, against all odds, to be cheerful about it.

Jason leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. He looked at the heart monitor, its slow, steady blips a testament to a heart that had no business still beating. The ghost of a fifteen-year-old boy in a warehouse didn't scream in his mind anymore. Instead, he looked at this fifteen-year-old boy in the clinic bed, and for the first time, he felt a flicker of something that wasn't pity, or rage, or even just curiosity.