It's not like something actually happened- it wasn't like someone said something or he went through something specific that just made him stare at the gun the way he did now, feeling it's weight against palm of his hand or trace his fingers over the trigger. It was gradual, stubble; it was something he didn't even realize he wanted until he walked into his apartment after eating pizza alone, again, and saw the gun laying there on his couch. His dirty, worn, muddy couch that he hated just as much as everything else in his life.
He knew he shouldn't be bitter, knew that what he was doing was for the better, and to do the better meant you'd have to make sacrifices, but it didn't make it easier. He didn't like the blood on his hands, hated the way it felt when it splashed against his face or when it seeped through his gloves, he hated the look of fear when the thugs realize what he was going to do to them.
He did what he had to; knew that no one understood what he meant when he said that, because they didn't understand him. He wanted to feel the open space of the manor again instead of his cramped apartment, he wanted to sit through the tough lectures Batman gave him, fight with Tim and tease Dick, wanted to be a part of their messed up family again. He didn't really understand how much he wanted it too, not until their morals got in the way and he got banned from their clan, until every time they encountered one another it was nothing but tears and bruises and shattered dreams.
Jason brought the gun up to his head, pressed its rim into his hair until the cool metal was a searing presence against his scalp, his hands shaking and his lips quivering. He didn't understand why they couldn't be together, didn't understand why the world had to be black and white, why the world had to be all right and wrong.
He thought about the words that everyone told him, about stopping what he does to join them again. They talked about right and wrong, about choices and decisions and unity. He didn't want too have to make decisions anymore, didn't want to feel like the reason he couldn't come home was his own fault, wanted the pain and the stress to go away.
But he knew what he did was for the better, knew that if he didn't do it no one else would, knew that being better meant making sacrifices. He put the gun down, because pushing off this luxury would be a sacrifice he would have to make.
R&R!
