and all the beautiful things
Title: and all the beautiful things
Author:
somehowunbroken
Fandom: DC comics
Characters: Jason Todd-centric; appearances by Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, and Bruce Wayne
Word Count: 1103
Rating: R/swearing and allusions to violence and blood
Notes: This is, more than anything else, me trying to wrap my words around the concept of Jason Todd. This is a series of tiny ficlets, somewhat interconnected, wherein I put Jason in different situations and see what happens from there. Your thoughts on my take are greatly appreciated.
Summary: There's crazy and there's not, and then there's Jason.
There’s crazy and there’s not, and then there’s Jason.
He smiles as he puts his knife away, listening to the sound it makes as it slides down the sheath, the hiss-snick-click as is locks into place. He’ll need to clean it when he gets it home, but for now it’s better off sheathed.
Better off, better off. He’s better off alive, or is he?
Jason laughs as he stands and slings the strap of the bag over his shoulder. It sways against his hip as he walks, bounce bounce bounce, and he hums and taps his fingers against his thigh as he heads down the street.
-0-
He’s not crazy. Crazy means you don’t know what you’re doing, don’t know where it falls on the scale of right and wrong, black and white.
There’s a lot of gray in there. Jason is just finding his shade. He’s aware enough to know that maybe that’s the point, that maybe figuring out how close to the dark side you’re comfortable falling is the first step in the wrong direction.
He pulls his knife out of its sheath, click-snick-hiss, and sits at the table with an oilcloth and some cleaning polish. He works quickly and confidently, and not once does he think about the bag on the floor behind him.
He falls into the darker shades, that much he knows. So far he’s comfortable.
-0-
“Jason.”
He doesn’t start, doesn’t turn. He doesn’t really even want to.
“Nightwing,” he says, staring through the dark at something darker. “Hi, glad you stopped by, it was nice to chat, now fuck off.”
“Jay,” Dick sighs, and it’s half-irritation and half-something-else, something broken and twisted and sad, and it pulls Jason up more than flat-out anger could have done.
“I’m a little busy,” he says, and he is, he is. He’s got a scumbag with a long and storied history of beating up little girls to take care of, and these days he’s not even killing them when he catches them. Mostly. He won’t kill this one, anyway, and he wouldn’t have even if Dick hadn’t shown up.
“We can do this later,” Jason offers, and he means it, means it more than almost anything else he’s ever said to his brother. “Tell you what, tomorrow night, the diner on the north side of the Reservoir.” He grins without taking his eyes off of the target. “I’ll even leave the hood at home.”
He jumps off of the fire escape, lands soundlessly, and doesn’t look back as he slips into the warehouse.
-0-
He refuses to call it awkward silence.
“I didn’t know you’d be bringing mini-me,” he finally says. He gets twin glares from across the table. “Oh, come on, that one was at least a little bit funny.”
“It really wasn’t,” Tim says, raising an eyebrow. Dick takes a slurp of his ridiculously large milkshake. “Though, to be fair, I wasn’t really aware that you were the contact we were meeting tonight.”
Tim’s gaze flicks to Dick, and Jason lets his smirk spread across his face as he does the same. “You lied to the baby bird, Dick? That’s not nice.”
“One more short joke and I’ll take you out,” Tim says without looking away from Dick, who’s trying his best to do his who-me-surely-not schtick. Tim’s eyebrow climbs higher up his face, and Jason gives him a few mental points. Kid’s not dumb, that’s for sure.
“So,” Dick says brightly, “burgers! We’re getting burgers, right?”
-0-
Jason isn’t positive, but he’s pretty sure that this qualifies as an awkward moment.
“I’d say ‘I can explain,’ but that assumes that you’d give a shit,” he says, standing up and crossing his arms over his chest. It smears blood across his tee shirt, but whatever. It’s not like he’s fond of it or anything.
“Jason,” Batman growls. “I taught you better.”
“No, you taught me different,” Jason replies, cocking his head. “Better is in the eye of the beholder.” He glances at the corpse by his feet. “Him, well, he probably agrees with you.”
“Jason-” Batman starts, but Jason has heard this speech a thousand times. He’s not wearing the cape any more. He doesn’t have to take the bullshit as if he is.
“You know what,” he says conversationally, “I’m pretty sure the kids this asshole killed agree with me.”
Batman stiffens. It wouldn’t be enough to notice, but Jason has always noticed, has always been able to tell. At one point he’d thrived on his ability to affect the unflappable.
“I think that means I win this one,” he adds.
Then he slips away. He’s aware that Batman lets him, and he’s not sure if he’s grateful or really fucking pissed off.
-0-
“Well then, I was not expecting this,” Jason says, and it’s even true for once.
Bruce looks as uncomfortable as Jason has ever seen him look. “Can I - come in?”
Jason steps back and gestures grandly. “Sure, sure, I can play gracious host.”
Bruce doesn’t touch anything, doesn’t sit on the couch, doesn’t take the beer that Jason offers. Jason shrugs and uncaps it, taking a healthy swallow. He’s pretty sure he’s going to need it. “So what can I do you for?”
Bruce flinches, and Jason half-hears himself as a skinny little kid, asking the same question a thousand times in a thousand different situations. He’d feel bad, but - no, he realizes. He actually doesn’t feel bad at all.
“I wanted to talk,” Bruce says, looking like he’s dredging each syllable out of some long-forgotten corner of his soul.
Jason spreads his hands. “I’m all ears,” he says.
Bruce doesn’t say a word.
Neither does Jason.
-0-
In the end, he figures, crazy isn’t the word. It’s not that he is or he isn’t; it’s that it’s the wrong answer for the wrong question. It’s not about black and white and gray.
It’s about the color that the scale doesn’t afford you, the sound that it doesn’t even pretend to account for. It’s the feeling of gravel under his boots and the way Dick snorts when Jason tells an off-color joke, how Tim’s cheeks flare with something that’s not indignation or embarrassment, not quite. It’s the way the moon shines on the water and makes Gotham almost beautiful at night. It’s how he doesn’t feel guilt or satisfaction when he kicks the next fucker down, or the one after that; it’s accomplishment, a feeling that each one he puts down is reclaiming a little more of himself, brick by brick.
Jason is in pieces, sure, but he’s always been good at puzzles.
This was originally posted at http://somehowunbroken.dreamwidth.org/171336.html, where it has
comments. Comment here or there.
Author:
somehowunbroken
Fandom: DC comics
Characters: Jason Todd-centric; appearances by Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, and Bruce Wayne
Word Count: 1103
Rating: R/swearing and allusions to violence and blood
Notes: This is, more than anything else, me trying to wrap my words around the concept of Jason Todd. This is a series of tiny ficlets, somewhat interconnected, wherein I put Jason in different situations and see what happens from there. Your thoughts on my take are greatly appreciated.
Summary: There's crazy and there's not, and then there's Jason.
There’s crazy and there’s not, and then there’s Jason.
He smiles as he puts his knife away, listening to the sound it makes as it slides down the sheath, the hiss-snick-click as is locks into place. He’ll need to clean it when he gets it home, but for now it’s better off sheathed.
Better off, better off. He’s better off alive, or is he?
Jason laughs as he stands and slings the strap of the bag over his shoulder. It sways against his hip as he walks, bounce bounce bounce, and he hums and taps his fingers against his thigh as he heads down the street.
-0-
He’s not crazy. Crazy means you don’t know what you’re doing, don’t know where it falls on the scale of right and wrong, black and white.
There’s a lot of gray in there. Jason is just finding his shade. He’s aware enough to know that maybe that’s the point, that maybe figuring out how close to the dark side you’re comfortable falling is the first step in the wrong direction.
He pulls his knife out of its sheath, click-snick-hiss, and sits at the table with an oilcloth and some cleaning polish. He works quickly and confidently, and not once does he think about the bag on the floor behind him.
He falls into the darker shades, that much he knows. So far he’s comfortable.
-0-
“Jason.”
He doesn’t start, doesn’t turn. He doesn’t really even want to.
“Nightwing,” he says, staring through the dark at something darker. “Hi, glad you stopped by, it was nice to chat, now fuck off.”
“Jay,” Dick sighs, and it’s half-irritation and half-something-else, something broken and twisted and sad, and it pulls Jason up more than flat-out anger could have done.
“I’m a little busy,” he says, and he is, he is. He’s got a scumbag with a long and storied history of beating up little girls to take care of, and these days he’s not even killing them when he catches them. Mostly. He won’t kill this one, anyway, and he wouldn’t have even if Dick hadn’t shown up.
“We can do this later,” Jason offers, and he means it, means it more than almost anything else he’s ever said to his brother. “Tell you what, tomorrow night, the diner on the north side of the Reservoir.” He grins without taking his eyes off of the target. “I’ll even leave the hood at home.”
He jumps off of the fire escape, lands soundlessly, and doesn’t look back as he slips into the warehouse.
-0-
He refuses to call it awkward silence.
“I didn’t know you’d be bringing mini-me,” he finally says. He gets twin glares from across the table. “Oh, come on, that one was at least a little bit funny.”
“It really wasn’t,” Tim says, raising an eyebrow. Dick takes a slurp of his ridiculously large milkshake. “Though, to be fair, I wasn’t really aware that you were the contact we were meeting tonight.”
Tim’s gaze flicks to Dick, and Jason lets his smirk spread across his face as he does the same. “You lied to the baby bird, Dick? That’s not nice.”
“One more short joke and I’ll take you out,” Tim says without looking away from Dick, who’s trying his best to do his who-me-surely-not schtick. Tim’s eyebrow climbs higher up his face, and Jason gives him a few mental points. Kid’s not dumb, that’s for sure.
“So,” Dick says brightly, “burgers! We’re getting burgers, right?”
-0-
Jason isn’t positive, but he’s pretty sure that this qualifies as an awkward moment.
“I’d say ‘I can explain,’ but that assumes that you’d give a shit,” he says, standing up and crossing his arms over his chest. It smears blood across his tee shirt, but whatever. It’s not like he’s fond of it or anything.
“Jason,” Batman growls. “I taught you better.”
“No, you taught me different,” Jason replies, cocking his head. “Better is in the eye of the beholder.” He glances at the corpse by his feet. “Him, well, he probably agrees with you.”
“Jason-” Batman starts, but Jason has heard this speech a thousand times. He’s not wearing the cape any more. He doesn’t have to take the bullshit as if he is.
“You know what,” he says conversationally, “I’m pretty sure the kids this asshole killed agree with me.”
Batman stiffens. It wouldn’t be enough to notice, but Jason has always noticed, has always been able to tell. At one point he’d thrived on his ability to affect the unflappable.
“I think that means I win this one,” he adds.
Then he slips away. He’s aware that Batman lets him, and he’s not sure if he’s grateful or really fucking pissed off.
-0-
“Well then, I was not expecting this,” Jason says, and it’s even true for once.
Bruce looks as uncomfortable as Jason has ever seen him look. “Can I - come in?”
Jason steps back and gestures grandly. “Sure, sure, I can play gracious host.”
Bruce doesn’t touch anything, doesn’t sit on the couch, doesn’t take the beer that Jason offers. Jason shrugs and uncaps it, taking a healthy swallow. He’s pretty sure he’s going to need it. “So what can I do you for?”
Bruce flinches, and Jason half-hears himself as a skinny little kid, asking the same question a thousand times in a thousand different situations. He’d feel bad, but - no, he realizes. He actually doesn’t feel bad at all.
“I wanted to talk,” Bruce says, looking like he’s dredging each syllable out of some long-forgotten corner of his soul.
Jason spreads his hands. “I’m all ears,” he says.
Bruce doesn’t say a word.
Neither does Jason.
-0-
In the end, he figures, crazy isn’t the word. It’s not that he is or he isn’t; it’s that it’s the wrong answer for the wrong question. It’s not about black and white and gray.
It’s about the color that the scale doesn’t afford you, the sound that it doesn’t even pretend to account for. It’s the feeling of gravel under his boots and the way Dick snorts when Jason tells an off-color joke, how Tim’s cheeks flare with something that’s not indignation or embarrassment, not quite. It’s the way the moon shines on the water and makes Gotham almost beautiful at night. It’s how he doesn’t feel guilt or satisfaction when he kicks the next fucker down, or the one after that; it’s accomplishment, a feeling that each one he puts down is reclaiming a little more of himself, brick by brick.
Jason is in pieces, sure, but he’s always been good at puzzles.
This was originally posted at http://somehowunbroken.dreamwidth.org/171336.html, where it has
comments. Comment here or there.