Chapter Text
As the sun rose the light golden hue of its rays fell upon the barren landscape, chasing away the shadows of the night, leaving Jason utterly alone. While most find comfort in the light's warm embrace, few prefer the dark. For Jason Todd the shadows are an old friend, and as the sun rises he finds himself wishing the shadows back.
Jason grew up in the dark, hiding in shadows, fending for himself. For Gotham is a ruthless city. Leaving her people little light and little cover from the smog and rain, giving them not much more than shadows to sleep in.
Jason is one who found comfort in the city's cold embrace, her dark shadows winding and shielding the broken boy, who once lived on her streets for most of his youngest years.
But Jason is no longer that boy, lying on the cold hard ground, his vision blurred, his thoughts drifting. He's different now, his mind and body molded and shaped for the visions of others, to be better and stronger and faster.
The perfect soldier...
But Jason is tired. He's angry. But he's tired of being angry. That young boy who once lived alone on the streets wanting nothing but love and comfort found it within the shadows, but nowhere else he looked.
So here he lies up against the broken crumbling wall of a warehouse, blood seeping through his fingers as he tries to hold himself together. It's almost comical. Jason never had good luck with warehouses, but it's different than last time. His dad no, old mentor is long gone, dragging a laughing clown back to Arkham. He made his choice. And Jason wasn't it.
He's so tired, dried blood and tear tracks staining his disturbingly young face, a small outline of a jagged J carved into his cheek, illuminated by the fire creeping along the ground. His eyes are drifting closed and his hand is slowly going slack, loosening the pressure on his neck.
He's not scared to die... On the contrary. He's met death before. She was a welcoming embrace to the small broken, and beaten boy he once was. A comfort he was not used to, and just barely grew accustomed to before being ripped from the calming depths, to find himself clawing for freedom buried 6 feet under. But here he lies waiting for the familiar cold welcoming embrace, older and angrier but less scared, though underneath still the broken boy...
He came back angry, warped, wrong. Talia tried to fix him, but the pit did nothing for his rage, and the teachers may have honed his anger into a fluid dance of fighting. But he's still wrong and always will be. Jason at one point maybe even thought the woman had tolerated him, wanted him around even.
But who was Jason kidding? He was a broken shell of the boy wonder he once was. When people looked at him they wanted the boy who was buried. And Jason would never be that boy again.
Nobody would want him...
So maybe Jason decided to let go, to let his hand fall from his neck and let the blood soak his skin. Maybe he didn't want to be mad or scared anymore. Maybe... Maybe he just wanted to rest.