His favourite colour was green.
It reminded him of those rare good times. Before his dad left, before his mom turned to drugs, it had been the colour of their kitchen walls. His mom taught him cooking basics there, his dad gave him his first pocket knife at the table. That was the last time his dad gave him anything but insults and bruises.
After his dad left, but before his mom started using, she took him to a field outside of the city. The perfect summer day, one of the few that wasn't clouded over with the usual Gotham grey skies. They had a picnic and his mom apologized because things would be different now. By the time they got back to Gotham, their apartment had been repossessed.
They moved in with Francis, his mom's boyfriend. His apartment was dingy and smelly and had the worst orange wallpaper. Like an Oompa Loompa had eaten seventeen oranges and hurled the lot on the walls. Francis got his mom started on drugs. And whenever Francis got mad (which was a lot), he liked to punch those walls. Eventually, he turned on Jason's mom and when she became too strung out to be a fun target, he turned on Jason. When Francis died in a gang war, Jason couldn't find it in himself to be upset.
They'd stayed in Francis's apartment. Partly because they didn't have anywhere to go. Partly because Francis had been squatting anyways and the building was too condemned for anyone to care about. If they decided to live there, if they died when the building collapsed, it was their own darn fault.
Green had been the colour of the blanket Jason had scrounged. He draped it over his mom's shoulders, reading to her as she stared at him with horribly dilated eyes, seeing nothing. He tried to keep his voice steady, even as he shivered. Gotham winters weren't friendly, and this apartment couldn't keep out a draft. He hitched the blanket higher on her shoulders. The green looked really nice on her pink shirt, what pink was still visible under the stains, and he told her so. She didn't hear him.
The first meal he stole after she died had been green. Covered in mold, almost guaranteed to make him sick. But he made it through the night without tossing his guts, and that kept him going. The next day, the third pocket he'd picked had been full of cash, held with a green money clip.
When the impossible happened and Jason was picked up by the Batman, the first room he was led into (after the kitchen and bathroom, to feed and clean him), was a bedroom, with muted green curtains, and an emerald bedspread. The butler, Mr. Pennyworth, said they could change the colour scheme to anything he wanted. He kept it as is.
(Partly because green was the best colour. Partly because he didn't want them to go through all the trouble.)
He was Robin, crimefighting child partner of Batman! He fought baddies and tossed them in Arkham. Batman showed him how to defend himself. He would never be some tool's punching bag ever again. Often times, when he thought Batman wasn't looking, he would run his green gloves over the gold of his cape, trying to convince himself it was real. Someone like him was good enough to be Robin.
He asked Batman if his domino could be green. The next night, his domino was green.
Then, everything fell apart. He found his mom, his real mom. He still loved Catherine, remembered the bedtime kisses and stories, those first crucial cooking lessons that had kept him fed on the streets. But she had left him, decided that drugs were more important than her son. But he had a second chance.
Sheila decided that money was more important than her son.
His vision faded in and out. Nothing existed but the steady thud of metal striking flesh, bone. His breath wheezed past the blood filling his mouth, trying to occupy his lungs and failing. Everything was red. Blood splattered the walls, pooled on the floor, covered the madman beating him. The only things that stood out were his mom, sitting with white shirt and green pants pristine on a crate, and the other green. The green of the madman's hair, eyes. The eyes which were all too joyful at the idea of hitting a fifteen year old with a crowbar as hard as he could.
Those eyes would follow him to the grave.
And they followed him out.
After that, everything was hazy impressions. Green curtains, but not the muted ones he knew. Sterile, hospital green. A green jacket that didn't keep him warm. Somewhere new, a man in a green robe. A woman with green eyes. And a child, who reminded him of someone.
And then everything was green again. But this wasn't the green of warm kitchen walls or wind whistling through trees and grass. It wasn't heavy curtains or holey blankets or moldy sandwiches. It wasn't the green of a uniform he had thought he would never deserve. It was acid and fire and nails. It burned his lungs and ripped at his consciousness. And when he finally flung himself to shore, it congealed on his skin. His fingers clawed at his chest, noting with surprise the scar there. Not its presence, because it should be there, even if he didn't remember ever getting it. But the flatness of it. Or maybe he was surprised that he had any sensation in his fingertips, although he wasn't sure why that was surprising.
He didn't have time to think on it. Someone, a lady – Talia, his memories of Bruce's files whispered at him – grabbed his arm and started pulling. Up stairs and outside, his feet digging into the stone and protesting. But why? He'd had callouses there since he was eight and didn't have any shoes for a month.
Talia threw a duffel into his his hands and tossed him in a river.
Days later, he was in a German hotel room. He was still numb. Replaced. Forgotten. Some other kid, more worthy, wearing his colours. With a sigh, he headed for the bathroom for a shower. It was probably just his imagination, but he swore he still felt the Pit water on his skin.
The shower was exactly what he needed. It didn't wash the entire sensation off, but it helped. He was drying his hair when a flash of green in the mirror caught his attention.
Green. His eyes, once blue like the sky that day, blue like the last good memory of his mom, were green. But not wind-in-the-grass green. Not warm-kitchen green. Green like acid and fire.
Green like too-clean pants, pristine despite the crime on the wearer's hands.
Green like eyes that smiled and swung.
His eyes.
And Jason stumbled away form the mirror. His arms came up to protect himself from the blows he knew were coming. His back thudded against the wall, and he slid down, but the eyes followed, reflected on the stainless steel handle of the cupboard.
Those eyes brought pain, and fire. That colour brought betrayal. That colour brought false hope, the idea that a boy from the streets could ever wear it proudly.
And he closed his eyes, unable to bear the burden of those eyes.
He avoided mirrors.
When he decided on a name, he chose red. A colour he had worn. A colour that had spilled onto the floor. A colour he deserved.
A colour that was not green.
He debated his own cowardice, but caved. A domino went over his eyes.
His favourite colour was green.
Was.
AN: I apologize for nothing.