Happy Death Day

Jason woke from yet another nightmare. Cold sweat drenched his back, and he bolted upright, his chest heaving in violent, ragged gasps. Beside him, you were startled awake by his sudden movement, turning over sleepily as your soft arm draped across his waist, murmuring something incoherent. Jason looked down at you; the morning light filtered through the gaps in the curtains, gilding your face in a pale, golden hue. Your eyelashes were long, trembling slightly in sleep, and your lips were slightly parted from the position of your head, your breath steady and warm.

Jason couldn't tell how many times this had happened. No, he knew—he knew with a sickening, crystalline clarity. This was the fourth time. After your third death before his very eyes, he had woken up once again in this bed, beside your warm body. He reached out to touch your face, his calloused fingertip tracing the curve of your cheek, sliding from your cheekbone down to your chin.

The touch woke you. You scrunched your nose, nuzzling into his palm, and with your eyes still closed, you murmured indistinctly, "Jason... sleep a little longer. I'll go get the cake for you."

Jason's heart constricted painfully. That sentence.* Every single time, it was that exact sentence. August 16th—his birthday. You were always more attentive to it than he was. You said a birthday couldn't pass without a celebration; you said you wanted to surprise him, that you'd pre-ordered his favorite chocolate cake and would go pick it up while the streets were still quiet. When you said it, your eyes would sparkle like they held the entire summer sun.*

Then you would leave. And then, you would die.

The first time, a truck ran a red light. The second time, the ground outside the bakery was slick, and you fell, your head striking the edge of the stone steps. The third time, a mugging in an alleyway—you refused to hand over the cake.

Every single time. Every time, Jason would wait at home, waiting for a door that would never open again, waiting for a stranger's voice on the phone to announce your death. He couldn't even go to claim your body, because he was trapped in this godforsaken day, waking up to your smiling face and the morning of August 16th all over again.

"Jason? What's wrong? You look pale." You opened your eyes, looking up at him with a gaze full of sleepy confusion and concern. You pushed yourself up, the duvet sliding down to reveal a glimpse of your collarbone and shoulder, the thin strap of your nightgown slipping slightly. You leaned in, your warm palm pressing against his forehead. "Did you have a nightmare?"

Jason grabbed your wrist. His grip was too tight; you let out a sharp hiss of pain, but you didn't pull away, merely tilting your head in confusion. Jason stared at your face, at those eyes that knew nothing of the horror, his throat feeling as though it were clogged with ash, unable to utter a single word.

Say it, Jason Todd. Tell her she's going to die today. Tell her not to go out, not to get that goddamn cake. But the words wouldn't come. The last time, during the third loop, he had* said it. He had knelt before you like a madman, gripping your shoulders, screaming that you would die today. You had only blinked in surprise, then knelt down to hug him, pressing his head against your shoulder and patting his back like one would soothe a child.*"Alright, alright, I get it. I won't go, okay?"

You didn't believe him. You thought he was joking, or that this was just his way of trying to stop you from celebrating. When you comforted him, your voice was so gentle, so soft. Jason's ear pressed against the skin just above your collarbone, feeling your pulse—thumping, living, warm, and real.

Then, while he was in the bathroom, you would leave anyway.

You thought he hadn't noticed. You'd leave a note on the bedside table:"Going to get the cake! Be back soon, love you sweetie~"*with a little heart drawn at the end. Jason would clutch that note in his fist and run through the streets like a man possessed. By the time he found you, you were lying in the mouth of an alley, the cake box discarded nearby, white frosting oozing from the cracks like a mocking, cruel sacrifice.*

That alley wasn't on your way home. Someone had lunged from the shadows, choking you, stealing your bag. As you struggled, the back of your head struck a fire hydrant. The blood from your wound mingled with the smears of frosting on your face. With your eyes closed, you looked like a discarded doll.

Jason had knelt beside you, cradling your cooling body, burying his face in your hair—which still smelled of your shampoo—amidst the screams of passersby. He thought, if there is one more time, I will stop you. No matter what.

And then, dawn would break.

And he would wake up again. To the warmth of your breath and your soft voice: "Jason... sleep a little longer. I'll go get the cake for you."

The fourth time. This time, he wouldn't let you leave. Absolutely not.

"Don't go." Jason's voice was a jagged rasp, torn from the depths of his throat. You blinked, startled, seemingly unable to grasp the sudden intensity in his tone. Jason released your wrist, only to wrap his hand firmly around the back of your neck, pulling you forcefully into his chest. Your nose bumped against his sternum, and you let out a muffled, confused hum, your warm breath seeping through the fabric of his T-shirt and against his skin.

"Jason?" Your voice came from his chest, laced with confusion and a hint of a laugh. "What's gotten into you? I'm just getting a cake, I'll be back before you know it. Sleep for another half hour and I'll—"

"I said, you're not going." Jason tightened his arms, crushing you against him so fiercely that you could hear the frantic, heavy thudding of his heart.

(I changed a translator and hope it works well.)