Chapter Text
There wasn’t a time in Jason’s life when he didn’t feel like he needed to hide who he was. He didn’t know why — maybe it was the look of disgust on people’s faces every time he said anything as a child. It didn’t matter what it was about himself that he revealed, whether he wanted to tell his dad about a book he found or when he told a random lady on the streets that he didn’t have a home when she asked, the reactions were always the same; previously content expressions rapidly morphing into disgust, eyes condescending as if he were a stain on their pristine white floor.
He knew it wasn’t their fault, he should have stepped on the little flicker of vulnerability that tried to dig itself out of his skin as soon as he noticed it, but it always came up anyways. His emotions always managed to bubble up and out of his skin like a sickness that his body needed to expel.
He felt so raw, a plucked chicken with no comfort of feathers to be able to hide the ugly, mottled skin underneath. He had practically spilled his guts to the bats during his start as the Red Hood, specifically to Bruce; he could still remember the feeling of the emotions coming up and out of his throat — the way they scratched and clawed their way to the surface, unbidden tears staining his face as he held a gun with trembling hands.
Of course these emotions never led to anything good; a sharp edge of a weapon once a friend now suddenly digging into his neck, as if trying to reach down into his vocal chords and rip them out so that he never spoke again. It was his fault though wasn’t it? He couldn’t tame himself — it wasn’t as if others cared what had happened to him, and even if they did then the gut wrenching pity that oozed out of their pores always gave him mixed feelings.
At this point he was content to just allow people to make whatever assumptions they wanted to about him and if need be he would just drop the truth into some random conversation as a joke for the dramatics of it. He was a dramatic literature nerd after all, plus playing it off as a joke usually blew the steam off the heaviness of his words, even though it still made him want to throw up afterwards anyways.
Currently, he was sitting on the side of some shitty building — legs dangling off the edge as he looked at the skyline, Dick’s voice droning on about everything and anything beside him.
He had been mid-patrol on a relatively slow night when the man popped up in front of him, hair comedically standing upright, suit scuffed, and still smiling that stupidly wide golden smile he seemed to carry in his back pocket at all times. Jason had very kindly snorted and declared that he looked like shit before promptly fucking off in the other direction. However, he was followed; now he was on top of some random building with (his brother?) Dick, talking about random things.
It was rather weird; of course he remembered some good moments with the man before his death but ever since he came back he was more… How to put it — present?
He smirked automatically behind the helmet as the voice beside him described the fight that got him looking so ‚artfully dishevelled’ as Dick put it.
„Maybe you shouldn’t have started flexing your acrobatic abilities mid-fight then.” He said as a response to the man’s complaint.
„I didn’t—„ he started, but Jason quickly cut him off again.
„Oh come on Big Bird I know you, you’re always doing cartwheels mid-fight.”
The man next to him sighed, „I did one trick!”
This shouldn’t have felt as natural as it did, going back and forth with Dick arguing about pointless crap to no avail, but it did, and Gods if it didn’t cause another emotion to begin bubbling in his soul. He snorted, which evolved into both of their laughs filling the rooftop. He felt content, happy even and he wondered about when this emotion would inevitably get ripped away from him again.
They settled themselves, a comfortable silence overtaking them as he observed a random civilian walking briskly through the streets, unaware of their presence above them.
There was a cat Jason could see in the distance rummaging through a rubbish bag, he couldn’t see it that well from here but he thought he could see some white fur amongst the black softness that engulfed most of it. Next to that there was a parked car, it looked like it would be decently priced and he wondered how long it would be ‚til the tires would ‚randomly’ disappear.
„Hey Little Wing?” He was dragged back into a conversation as the man next to him spoke up.
”Hm?”
„I was just thinking… It’s fine if you don’t know or just, I dunno, don’t wanna say — but there was something that had confused me for a bit.”
He pointedly did not like the sound of that at all; these types of conversations always ended awkwardly for him. His mind flicked through various possibilities of what this could be about, none of them leading to a very pleasant conversation.
„Just spill Goldie.” It was better for him to get it out sooner rather than later or else the suspense was going to suffocate him.
”Well… There is a woman buried next to you,” he felt himself go rigid, complex emotions immediately rising up. Sheila. It’s Sheila. „and I was just wondering if you knew who she was, because Bruce always used to leave flowers at her grave alongside yours.”
He blinked a few times, he didn’t know how to approach this without skinning himself alive in front of Dick. The fact was that he didn’t know how to feel about his biological mother; he barely knew her for a day, with her deciding to sell him out to the Joker mere minutes after he told her he was robin. But she was also the last person he remembered being excited to hug, she was the last person he saw before the world turned into a cacophony of explosion and, well, he knew to some extent that she was just as wrapped up in the Joker’s nonsense as he was.
After a brief silence he slowly opened his mouth, picking his words carefully. ”Her name was Sheila, she was…” he hesitated, „my mother.” He didn’t know if he should have called her his mother, he barely knew her — but blood didn’t lie, and his blood said that she was his mother.
„Biological, not Catherine.” He added as an afterthought.
„She was with me when the Joker… Ya know.” He imitated an explosion with his hands, adding half-assed sound effects that didn’t do much good to mask the major dip in his mood.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dick looking at him with a complex expression, probably trying to scrutinise his body language to get an insight into his mind and Jason suppressed a shiver at that calculating gaze. He realised a second later that his hesitation could have been interpreted as guilt for her death, which… Wasn’t completely accurate, but he didn’t know — he had mixed feelings about it that buzzed just under his skin like a live wire. Either way, Jason didn’t really care what conclusion Dick came to, he would let the man think what he wanted to — the alternative was akin to peeling back his skin for the man and he didn’t want any more of that than he already had.
”…I’m sorry Jay… I didn’t know.” His tone was earnest and he suddenly felt intensely uncomfortable, feeling the need to shift around on the brick under him.
Instead he waved it off, „It’s fine, I’m guessing B was too emo to tell you — and no names in the field Dick.” He lightly punched the man’s shoulder alongside his last remark, aiming to slowly ease the tension out of the air.
It visibly worked, the golden grin easing back into view, ”You know I can tell when you use that as an insult you know?”
Jason grinned, ”You have no proof of that Dickhead.”