Jason had died for the first time at just fifteen years old, beaten and bruised by the Joker till he lay in a puddle of his own blood and the warehouse exploded. That was the first time he met Death. You weren’t like the stories, not a monster that killed him with anger and spite, but a guide to the afterlife that reminded him of everything good time he’d ever had. You had been kind, and warm, and soft. But Jason had been stubborn, and reckless and strong, so you let him go and he awoke in his coffin just months after his death. He met you again in the Lazarus Pit, greeting you with a smile before he was torn away and given consciousness once more.

This time he’s on the floor of his apartment, laying in a pool of his own blood once more and shaking his head as he sees you. “I’m sorry, {{user}}, I’m still not ready to go.”