It was funny, dying.

It hurt when his mother betrayed him, it hurt when the crowbar hit his body—over and over and over again—cutting him and bruising him, and it hurt in the explosion—for a second, for barely a moment, but mercy, that fire, that heat, that burning agony of scorching skin and bone, that impact of rocks and shrapnel and bricks that lead to the breaking of bones—each crack echoing in his ears, but then there was nothing, absolutely nothing. There was emptiness and oblivion and release, and he knew he had died, but he couldn't believe it, and he wondered if he was really dead.

Because it didn't feel like it.

When Jason woke up after the explosion, he didn't hurt. There was no pain now. He felt normal, 100% normal. He was still breathing, or at least, it felt like he was. He could feel the heat of his own body, could feel his heart beating. He opened his eyes slowly, taking in the grey, monochrome sky

He was just there, lying in a clearing amongst the rubble, completely unscathed. Not rip or drop of blood on his clothes.

He sat up slowly, wincing under the bright light of the sun.

"Hello, Jason," a voice said next to him. He looked over to see a girl sitting cross legged beside him. She was very pale, with black hair, and a black umbrella, and black clothes—torn jeans on top of fishnets, black shirt, leather jacket with a smiley face button, and black makeup—Egyptian-like with a little swirl under her eye, and a sweet smile, and a silver ankh.

"Who-" he said, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying again. "Who are you?"

"I think you know," she said. "You are a detective after all." He did. He felt it in, in his chest and heart and veins and bones.

This was Death.

He was dead.

"Oh," he said, bringing his knees to his chest. Tears pricked behind his eyes. "He didn't... He didn't get there in time, did he?"

Great job, Jason. You really messed up, didn't you?

"Hey, hey," she said, sitting down next to him. "Don't cry. It's not that bad. I promise. Look, you still get to eat ice cream when you're dead. Nothing can be that bad when you get to eat ice cream, right?"

"I don't want to eat ice cream," he said. "That's fucking stupid. I don't want to go. I want to be alive! How would you understand that?"

"I'm sorry, Jason," she said. "But your time is up."

He looked up at her. "Why did you have to pick me?"

"I didn't," she said, a little sadly. It's just my job, like how you were Robin. I'm Death, and I gotta do what I gotta do. I know you understand that. Now, come on. It's time to go. Take my hand."

He shook his head.

"Wow, kid, you are stubborn," she said. "Look, you have to come with me."

"Why?"

"Jason Todd. You are dead. You have to come with me. Come on. Get your peace, your quiet. You deserve it. You are a hero, and deserve peace. I know a thousand others who will never have this chance. Don't waste it."

She stood up holding her hand out to him. He hesitated.

"Is there any way I can go back?" he said. "Ever?"

"Right now?" she said. "No. But who knows what the future will bring?"

And then he reached up, and took her hand—it was cold, and it was warm, and it reminded him of home, like he was holding the hand of everyone he had ever loved—and there was a flash, and it was done.

It was funny, resurrection.

He felt like he was being dragged out of some wonderful dream, and he had been asleep for a thousand years, and that during that time, his body had been taken apart, and rebuilt, and taken apart again, and still wasn't entirely put back together.

He couldn't find the strength to open his eyes, so he just lay there, and it was agony, trying to wake up while trying to remain asleep.

"Jason," she was saying, and her voice was so familiar. He couldn't place where though. His mom? Barbara? That girl from down the street? It was all of it at once, and at the same time her own.

"Huh?" he said groggily.

"Jason, you remember me?"

He opened his eyes to see her.

Death.

Right?

"Hey, you," he said faintly. She laughed, waving.

"Yeah. Me," she said. He sat up, and almost immediately fell to the side. She caught him. "Woah there. Take it slow, this might be a bit much for you to take in all at once."

"What's-" he started, but his voice cracked. "What's going on?"

"You remember how I said, in the future, you could go back? Maybe?"

"Yeah," he said, scratching his head. "Yeah."

"Well, the show's back on, kiddo," she said. "You're getting an encore, and the curtain's about to go up!"

"Why are you here?" he said. "You're Death, not life."

"Yes. But I visit everyone at their birth," she said. "And this is sort of like your rebirth. Happy rebirthday!" She grinned. He didn't.

"Oh," he said. It was all he really could say. "What going to happen to me?"

"I don't know, Jason," she said. "I'm here for the opening and closing acts. Everything else is a mystery, even to me."

He nodded. Sitting up again in the rubble, he noticed it all looked the same as the first time he was here. The rubble—all exactly how he remembered it being placed, the gray sky—like it was filled with ashes, the clearing where they sat, the girl—still goth and gorgeous. He was even in his Robin suit. It was like nothing had changed.

"Will I see you again?" he said, suddenly. He had to know.

"Oh, of course you will, Jason Todd, I see everyone again," she said, extending her pale hand, and smiling that sweet smile. "And I'll be seeing you."

He took it, and there was a flash of light in the shape of an ankh.

And then he woke up, buried beneath the earth.

A/N: I've been wanting to do something like this for so long.

The title is a play on the first issue we meet Gaiman's Death, "The Sound of Her Wings", because robins and Robin and birds and wings

hope ya all found this peachy keen.