Disclaimer: Batman does not belong to me. I make no profit from this. Batman created by Bob Kane with Bill Finger.
Author's Note: So, I've found that I quite enjoy taking Jason Todd and writing intensely angsty pieces involving him, so I've decided that this is going to be a dumping ground for just that. It'll always be marked as complete, but I'll add something new if I get the urge.
Jason doesn't remember what it was like to use a crowbar before he died. He's sure that he did at some point; being a kid on the streets, it was necessary to use whatever he could get his hands on.
But now...
He takes off one glove. He wants to feel the metal in his hands. It brings him relief. Where it once was a weapon, an aid in his destruction at a time when he was powerless to do anything, now it is completely under his control.
What did Sheila think? Obviously, she couldn't have cared much about him, considering the role she played in his death, but surely...she must have felt something; he was her son, abandoned at birth or no, and there was no way she could have just _watched_ as his spirit was broken just as brutally as his body.
He grips the crowbar. He's standing in front of his grave.
It isn't cracked.
Reasonably speaking, it's impossible for there not to be at least one chip; the grass is impeccable and the grave's been there for three years.
Unless...
"Old bastard thought he'd keep it nice and tidy, did he?"
Jason drops the crowbar at his feet. Bruce will see it, if he visits, and he'll be unsettled, which is all Jason wanted.
But Jason will delay his return, for another night, another week...maybe another year.
Bruce Wayne did not save Jason Todd. And he never will.
