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23 hours and 47 minutes
It’s not uncommon for Jason to run into someone who has so little time left. He lives in Gotham – he looks death in the eye every day. Normally he would just move on. There’s no point in warning someone about the dwindling number above their head. Even if they believed him he would only be placing a heavy weight over their shoulders for their final hours.
It took him a while to figure out what the numbers meant. He hadn’t always been able to see them. They appeared some time after his death – somewhere in the space between the Lazarus Pit and his return home. He doesn’t remember much of that time. Time would ebb and flow and happen all at once and he’s not quite sure what was a hallucination and what was real.
But he remembers the first time he watched someone’s number hit 0. He remembers watching them fall. He remembers the light leaving their eyes.
He doesn’t know why the universe gave him this ability. Maybe it’s to remind him that not everyone gets a second chance. That his life is unnatural.
It’s an indescribable feeling. Knowing that someone is running out of time. Knowing that someone has made plans that they will never be able to fulfill. He’s tried to prevent it. He’s glued himself to a stranger's side in hopes of saving their life but death is not so easy to run from. It’s easier to not get involved. To let the universe take control of its children and lead them to a place far away from here without his interference.
But something about the woman in front of him made him falter. She looked to be about his age. Young. Happy. She seems like the kind of person who looks forward to tomorrow.
The woman gives him a weird look and he realizes he’s been staring.
He clears his throat, “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Oh! I was just asking if you had a pen I could borrow. I left mine at home.”
He normally would have said no. The awkward small talk that he’s required to participate in while he rummages through his bag for a spare pen just isn’t worth it. Normally he would find interacting with someone he can’t save to be too painful. A reminder of all the people he’s watched bleed out while he can do nothing but stand by.
But he surprises himself, “Yeah, I’ve got a pen you can use. I’ll even let you keep it if you do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
He gestures at the seat across from him, “Sit with me.”
“...What?” she squeaks.
“Sit with me,” he repeats.
The girl blushes, “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you to sit if it would bother me.”
She worries her lip for a moment, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, why not.”
Jason stares at her for a moment, “What do you need a pen for?”
“I’m an artist.”
“An artist? What do you draw?”
She shrugs, “People. Clothing. I moved to Gotham to pursue a career in fashion.”
“Really? You’re from France, aren’t you?”
“Paris, yeah.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
“I am.”
“Do you miss it?”
Her expression shifts, “Every day.”
“Marinette!” the barista calls.
“Oh!” the girl – Marinette – stands and clears her throat, “That’s me. Excuse me for a moment.”
Marinette . He likes it.
While she’s gone he rummages through his bag and finds a pen, offering it to her when she sits back down a few moments later, “As promised.”
“Thank you.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a notebook, opening it to a blank page. “I never did get your name.”
He smirks and holds out a hand for her to shake, “Jason.”
“Marinette,” she shakes it.
“Do you come here often?” Jason asks after a moment.
Marinette shrugs, “Once a week maybe. I live a few blocks from here. What about you?”
“Oh, all the time. It’s a good place to go to get away from my family.”
They fall into an easy silence. Outside, the sun continues to rise and the fog begins to fade. Jason continues to stare at the woman in front of him. She has no idea , he thinks, she has no idea that she’ll be dead this time tomorrow. She has no idea that she just missed her last sunrise.
“If you had 24 hours left to live, what would you do?”
She stares at him oddly but answers anyway, “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it before. Call my parents probably. Watch the sunset. Go stargazing. Go on a picnic in the park one last time.”
Jason slams his book shut and stands up so suddenly his chair makes an awful screeching noise, “Well then what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
“Huh?” she drops her pen, “Go where?”
Jason offers her his hand, “Let’s live like today’s our last. You look like someone who could use an adventure.”
“I-” she splutters, “I hardly know you!”
He grins, “Well, we can fix that, can’t we? Come on!” he pulls her to her feet, “Let’s go on a picnic and lay in the sun.”
Marinette hesitates for a moment, “Alright. Let’s go on a picnic.”
21 hours and 16 minutes
He brings her back to the manor first. A quick stop to his room and a 30 minute conversation with Alfred later and they’re on their way. The walk isn’t long and there’s a gentle breeze that makes it extremely difficult for Jason to take his eyes off of Marinette. Her hair blows in the wind.
Their hands brush together awkwardly and Marinette looks away with a blush. Jason can’t help but think about how beautiful she looks. He forces himself to look away before he gets too attached. He’s just here to make sure her last day is a good one. That’s all. There’s no point in getting attached to someone who won’t be here tomorrow.
Jason unfurls their picnic blanket while Marinette begins unpacking their lunch bag. They eat slowly, enjoying the good weather and the good company. Eventually Marinette pulls out her sketchbook and begins to draw again. Jason opens his book but finds himself watching her out of the corner of his eye.
She has an intense expression on her face. The sunlight that peeps through the leaves of the trees overhead practically illuminates her. She’s glowing , he thinks, She looks alive . Her chest rises and falls and her cheeks are a beautiful, rosy shade of pink. She hums some unrecognizable tune under her breath barely loud enough for Jason to hear and his heart aches .
The fact that humans can be killed through physical means feels impossible sometimes. A person is such a ridiculously infinite complicated web of thoughts and feelings and beliefs. Each person an acclamation of each memory and experience they’ve lived through. Every good moment and every bad one. Every sunrise they’ve gotten up early enough to catch and every sunset they’ve watched with a friend.
The idea that all of that knowledge and memory and emotion can just be removed from the world with a physical object is incomprehensible. People are infinitely huge and complex and the fact that you can kill the person by killing the body is unbelievable.
Jason hates it. He hates it. Imagine being able to throw a pebble at the Empire State Building and the entire thing and everything inside of it just collapsed into dust. No warning, no build-up, just everything inside is suddenly gone. Every staircase, window, and desk turned to dust between blinks. That’s what the existence of human death feels like. Impossible.
He knows death intimately. And yet somehow the existence of it always manages to catch him by surprise.
“I’m surprised you agreed to come with me so easily.”
Marinette sits up and glances at him and Jason gets the feeling that she can see right into his very soul, “I normally wouldn’t. But there’s something different about you.”
“Oh yeah?” he cocks an eyebrow, “What’s that?”
“You remind me of a close friend of mine.”
“Do I?”
She hums in agreement, “You both act arrogant. But he has a kind heart and I can tell you do too.”
Jason falls silent. He looks away from the girl next to him, her gaze leaving him feeling raw and exposed. His heart doesn’t feel very kind. In fact, he knows it isn’t. He’s killed so many times that he’s lost count. He’s punched and kicked and beaten people down into the ground until his knuckles were bloody and his fists ached for days afterward. Even now he can feel the dark energy of the Lazarus coiling around his lungs, squeezing tight and choking him.
He swallows, “That’s a bold statement to make about someone you only met a few hours ago.”
“I’m good at reading people.”
They fall silent once more, Marinette sketching while Jason lounges in the sun. A robin waddles near the edge of the picnic blanket, picking at some crumbs on the ground. A man plays guitar on a bench somewhere on the other side of the park. A mother and her two children play tag. The little boy trips but his mother is quick to pick him up and set him back on his feet again. He laughs.
All throughout Gotham people treat today like any other day. They eat lunch with their co-workers, they take their children to parks, they listen to music and dance and sing. Somewhere someone’s jumping the subway turnstile. Someone’s swiping a sandwich from the corner store. The only thing special about today is that it’s Marinette’s last.
Jason is ripped out of his thoughts when Marinette offers a piece of paper.
“What is it?” he takes it.
“Take a look.”
He chokes on a breath, “Is this me?”
She nods. It’s beautiful, he thinks. She’s obviously a skilled artist, that much he can tell. Each stroke was placed with care. He’s had his picture drawn on multiple occasions (courtesy of one Bruce Wayne) but this is the only one that’s looked like him. Normally the artists ignore his flaws. They draw him with perfect skin. They always depict him sitting up straight, his hair perfectly combed. But that’s not what Marinette saw in him. She drew him lounging on the picnic blanket, his hair messy and shirt crooked. She even got his nose right. Jason gently runs a finger against the page. He looks human.
“Something haunts you.”
He tears his gaze away from the paper in his hands, “What makes you say that?”
“We’re not so different, you and me. You said I looked like someone who needed an adventure. I look at you and see someone hurting. You need someone to see you for you.”
“You were right. Something does haunt me.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“That’s okay,” she reaches out her hand and their pinkies intertwine, “We can just lay here and enjoy the afternoon sun.”
16 hours and 15 minutes
Marinette invites him to her apartment after lunch. It was a nice apartment. It wasn’t in a bad neighborhood and had an in-unit washer and dryer – practically a mansion in Gotham terms.
“Do you want something to drink?”
Jason shrugs, “What do you have?”
“Hmmm,” she opens the fridge, “I’ve got Sprite, sweet tea, and sparkling water. And I’ve got some hot chocolate we could make if you would prefer that.”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Can you grab two mugs for me? They’re in the cabinet on the left.”
Jason complies while she pulls out the milk.
“You’re in luck,” she says, “I just went grocery shopping yesterday.”
His grip on the mug tightens. He pictures her at the store picking up bottle after bottle to find one with the best expiration date. A waste of time, he can’t help but think, she won’t outlast the milk.
His eyes wander over to the living room. Her couch is second hand, decorated with handmade pink throw pillows. There’s a shoe rack by the door, a few pairs of well worn shoes lined up in neat rows along the shelves. The coffee table is covered in knick-knacks. There’s a pile of books stacked precariously in the center, a ball of red yarn sitting to its right.
Jason smirks when he notices what’s lying on the edge of the table, “Is that Ultimate Mecha Strike V ?”
“Oh yeah! I bought it earlier this week,” she joins him in the living room and places a steaming mug in front of him.
“Bet you stood in line forever to get that. It only came out a few days ago, didn’t it?”
“Three hours.”
“Three? Damn.”
“Yeah. Me and my friends back in Paris used to play all the time. We’re all gonna call and play together next week.”
“Really?” the word burns his tongue.
“Do you wanna play?”
He laughs, “Of course I want to play.”
Marinette smiles, “Great!”
She sets the game up quickly and turns around with a smirk, two controllers in her hand, “Alright Jay, do you want to be player one or player two?”
“Jay?” He cocks an eyebrow.
“What? Don’t like it?”
“You can call me whatever you want, sweetheart.”
Marinette turns red, “You’re insufferable.”
“Whatever you say, Marinette.”
“Player one or player two,” she asks again.
“Player two.”
“Really? I would’ve thought you’d want to be number one.”
“I’m more of an even number kinda guy.”
She snorts, “Yeah sure. Whatever you say.”
11 hours and 14 minutes
He takes her to dinner. It’s not too fancy, in fact it’s kind of run down. The chairs are held together with gaff tape and prayers. The table tops are covered in permanent stains and the bathrooms have got to be some sort of bio-hazard. But Jason likes it here. It’s cheap. The food is good. And no one gives him a second glance.
He thought about bringing her somewhere nice. Making sure her last dinner is of the best quality – she had informed him she was a baker's daughter after all. But he liked to think that he had gotten to know Marinette pretty well over the last hours. She wouldn’t want to waste time in some stuffy restaurant where everything is overpriced and the portion sizes are practically too small to see. No, he would take her somewhere meaningful.
Tonight wasn’t about the food. It was about the company.
“What is this place?”
He leads her to a booth in the corner, “Welcome to Mama’s Dinner, Marinette. This place has the best burgers in all of Gotham.”
“Really?”
“Yep! I’ve tried every burger place in the city and I can say with certainty this is the best one.”
“You must really like burgers.”
He shrugs, “I like finger foods. Fancy restaurants aren’t for me. I can never remember which fork is for what and which side of the plate the spoon is supposed to be on. I found this place a few years ago. My brother and I got into a huge fight and I somehow ended up here. I’ve been coming back ever since.”
9 hours and 13 minutes
Marinette brings Jason to her room when they get back to the apartment. He settles on her bed and watches as she pulls the pen he gave her that morning out of her bag and places it on her desk. She handles the drawing utensil with care, as if it was worth much more than the two cents Jason paid for it.
“I’m glad I asked you for a pen, Jason.”
“Me too,” he chokes out.
She’s silent for a long moment, “What happens after today? Will you go on a picnic with me again?”
His heart aches, “Yeah, I’ll go on a picnic with you again. I’ll even take you stargazing next time.”
“I would really like that.”
“Yeah,” he chokes out.
She must notice something in his expression, “What’s wrong?”
He hesitates, “What do you do when you’re sad?”
She thinks for a moment, “I think of the future. I think of all the people I will meet and all the places I will visit. There are people I haven’t even met yet who will love me. There are friendships that I’ve yet to form, memories I’ve yet to make. It’s exciting, I think, to have so many things I haven’t gotten to experience yet.”
“Doesn’t it make you afraid? The future? What if something bad happens?”
Her smile is bittersweet when she responds, “Of course something bad will happen. That’s the way of life. But for every bad day there will be a good one. For every moment of sorrow there will be a moment of joy. Why focus on the negative when I can dream of a better tomorrow?”
8 hours and 12 minutes
At some point during the night they move back into the living room. Marinette let’s Jason borrow one of her books while she sketches some designs in her notebook. A cooking show plays quietly in the background.
“You know, cooking and eating together strengthens relationships. That’s what my father always told me. He was real big on making meals together when I was growing up. Something about how sharing food with someone builds trust, cooperation, and a sense of connectivity,” she sighs, “It’s a shame that everyone is too busy with life now-a-days to bake bread with one another.”
Jason closes his book and stands up, “Okay.”
“Huh?”
He grins, “Let’s bake bread together.”
4 hours and 11 minutes
Marinette falls asleep on his shoulder not long after the bread is ready, the cooking show still playing in the background. He tries not to imagine what his life will be like in 4 hours. He tries not to think too hard about how she’s just another person he couldn’t save.
Jason’s not the type of person to wear his heart on his sleeve and he’s definitely not the type of person who gets attached. But if given enough time, he could imagine teaching himself how to love so that he could fall in love with her.
He hates it. He hates it so much. But despite the pain in his chest, he can’t bring himself to regret sharing his pen. He doesn’t regret getting to know her.
How do you grieve someone who’s still alive? How do you love something that has always been dead?
Intensely .
0 hours and 44 minutes
They have to say goodbye eventually. Marinette has to go somewhere where he can't follow.
As he watches her leave he can’t help but remember laying on the cold concrete of an abandoned warehouse miles from the city limit, blood pooling at his fingertips. He remembers waiting, hoping, praying that someone would come and save him. He remembers the ticking of the bomb as his time dwindled. He remembers it hitting 0.
He hopes it’s quick. Painless. He hopes that it feels like falling asleep on the couch at home and magically waking up in your bed the next morning. He hopes that she rests easy. But mostly he hopes that he’ll see her again. Someday soon.
Jason hates endings. They come so suddenly and rarely make sense. Too often they come too soon. One minute you’re in the middle of the story, eyes hungrily taking in each page, each line, each word. Then the book ends. The final page is read and you sit there for a moment staring at the last sentence. It’s hard to close the cover.
Jason thinks of the book sitting open on Marinette’s kitchen counter. He thinks of the fresh groceries in her fridge and the new pink phone charger still plugged into the outlet by her bed. He thinks of the newly acquired pen that she had laid carefully on her work desk separate from her other art materials. He thinks of all the things she left unfinished because of the hope of an unpromised tomorrow.
Sometimes there is no closure. Things aren’t tied up in a neat little bow. Things end but you continue. Time marches forever onwards.
Jason knows a lot of people's last words. But he’ll never get to know hers.