A/N: Yesterday was Jason Todd's birthday and this is a little fic to honor the occasion. If you stumble upon this, please drop a review.
Most evenings, Red Hood looked forward to returning home. Home. Had someone told him four years ago he'd have somewhere to call home, somewhere to feel at home, he would have shot them in the face. And yet, here he was, with a place he sought refuge in at the end of his draining days. His lips twitched with pride. His home.
He had ditched the safehouses when he accepted that moving on was more important than holding on for the sake of a past that was never really his. He had rented an apartment that he chose on his own, paid for on his own, and furnished on his own. A place where he lived alone, slept alone, and ate alone. A place where he could toss the mask, set the knives down, disarm the guns, and remove the armor. Where he could unwind. Where he could strip away Red Hood and get a glimpse of Jason. Get in touch with Jason. Feel like Jason. He was just getting to really know the guy.
He drew a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his leather jacket's pocket and lit one. The strong aroma of burning tobacco filled his senses, the nicotine melting some of the tension from his shoulders. He stood at the edge of the rooftop on the building across from his and stared at his windows. Most nights, he'd smoke this cigarette on his sixth-floor balcony, music playing in the background to drown out Gotham's hum, a cold beer in hand, his eyes trailing the edges of the city. His city. Most nights, but not this one. Because he knew. He knew his house wouldn't be his tonight, and his music wouldn't play in the background, and if he walked through that door, he wouldn't be able to ditch the mask, ditch the armor, and be Jason. Not the real Jason anyway.
If he went home tonight, he'd have to be a memory, a disappointment, a promise, a prospect of redemption, a predecessor, a stabbing pain in someone's heart, a memory of a beating in someone's body, a wishful future presence in someone's life. If he went home tonight, he'd be everything everyone else wanted him to be. Everything everyone remembered him to be. Everything he never was and never will be, and nothing he really is. If he went home tonight, it wouldn't be home. It would be a cell, a coffin, an old green, red, and yellow suit. He'd be a silent, awkward nod, a desperate hug, a playful punch on the shoulder, a rigid handshake, a pleading smile, a pat on the back.
If he went home tonight, it wouldn't smell of tobacco and smoke; it would smell of pizza and candles, burning slowly, melting on a cake with his name scribbled on it and a number that meant nothing. If he went home today, he wouldn't hear his unwind playlist while washing off the day's blood and sweat, but a happy birthday song—each word a punch in the gut. If he went home tonight, he wouldn't read the book left open on his couch, but colorful cards filled with wishes and promises and the scribbled names of people who were still salt in an oozing wound.
A plume of smoke swirled upward in intricate formations until it vanished into the thickness of Gotham's night. His eyes fixed on his windows, he waited until the light went on. Familiar figures moved about hurriedly—except for one that stood rigid on the side, shoulders tense, and eyes—Jason imagined—haunted. Haunted like his own, though the ghosts that danced behind them were different. As different as the demons that clawed their insides, tearing one heartstring at a time. A shadow of the man he once considered a father. A hand clasped on Bruce's shoulder. Jason couldn't see who it belonged to, but he didn't have to. If he went home tonight, Dick would, as always, play his failing role as mediator between him and Bruce. If Jason went home tonight, he'd see Dick shooting off ten jokes per second, desperately trying to please them all, crack smiles, take photos, make memories, and mend what was shredded and torn beyond recognition. If Jason went home tonight, he'd witness Dick ending up just as miserable and broken as Bruce and Jason, but with a forced grin plastered on top.
If Jason went home tonight, he'd see Bruce ready to burst at the seams—a frigid mass of disappointment, suppressed emotion, and guilt. A stony chest filled with echoes and memories of something that had never really been. He'd have to nod in Bruce's direction and feel his heart shatter when Bruce would simply nod back. When he wouldn't close the distance, when he wouldn't reach out for a hug, a pat on the shoulder, or even shoot him a look that didn't drip of disguised rejection, of disguised disgust. If Jason went home tonight, the phantom pain of a busted lip, a broken jaw, and three cracked ribs would make him grunt and hiss. If Jason went home tonight, his mouth would be filled with the taste of his own blood, and he'd feel the batarang slit his throat again and again and again.
If Jason went home tonight, he'd see Tim playing it cool, wearing his "water-under-the-bridge" smile. His words would be measured and lighthearted, his presence carefully trimmed to fit the broken frame of their poor excuse for a family—small enough not to threaten, barely big enough to exist, dull enough not to draw attention, and colorful enough not to spoil the mood. If Jason went home tonight, he'd look at Tim and feel his stomach twist in knots of guilt, anger, and a sadness so deep it would leave him biting his lip until a rusty taste washed the bitterness away. If Jason went home tonight, he'd see he'd see Tim as a broken, shrunken mirror of himself.
If Jason went home tonight, he'd find Alfred misty-eyed and steadfast, the last thread that kept them all from falling apart. He'd see Alfred open his arms, and he'd walk into them, hypnotized. The kind face with the neat mustache would make the tiny Jason buried deep inside stir and claw to come out, only to scream at Alfred, "Why?". If Jason went home tonight he'd burry himself into Alfred's arms, he'd take in the smell of lemongrass detergent on the freshly pressed suit, and he would suffocate in it. If Jason went home tonight, he would ache for all the things Alfred never did, that Alfred chose to ignore, that Alfred pretended weren't there. And if Jason went home tonight, he'd crave to relive all the things that Alfred, in his bittersweet inadequacy, had still managed to give.
He took another drag, a longer drag, a deeper drag. His fingers trembled, his hands were clammy, and his heart beat like a drum. The smoke burned everything inside before it mellowed into a heavy warmth that settled in his chest. Damian's shorter figure plopped down on the couch. Jason's lips twitched as he watched the kid grab a book and bury himself in it, ignoring the world around him. The little shit would lose his page, and somehow Jason didn't care. If Jason went home tonight, Damian's eyes, his unspoken pleas, his clenched jaw, and his balled fists would break Jason from the inside out, leaving him panting for breath. A breath they'd all expect him to force out to blow out the candles between claps and cheers.
If Jason went home tonight, they'd all be there to celebrate his birthday. But Jason was done with that. The date didn't mean anything—not anymore, not for a long time. The letters on the cake would spell nothing of significance, and the candles would feel all wrong. If Jason went home tonight, he'd face his birthday, but all his mind would replay would be his deathday and the day he clawed himself out of the ground. The cake would read "Here Lies Jason Todd," and the dancing tiny flames would morph into the candles that greeted him as he gasped for air, spitting dirt on his graveyard's plot.
So Jason wouldn't go home tonight. He'd stand on this rooftop and watch as excitement and hope dimmed like his living room lights. He'd see the five men leave his building, their heads lowered, shoulders slumped, and faces dejected, making their way to the SUV discreetly parked down the next block. Jason would wait until the car vanished down the road, and only then would he go home. Only then would he toss his mask, armor, and knives. Only then would he disarm his guns. He'd throw away the cake without looking at it and tuck the cards deep in a drawer, not glancing at them even once. Jason would then have his beer, smoke his cigarette, and hope he wouldn't dream of graves, mad cackling, a torn Robin suit, Bruce's fists, and his throat slit.
And when Jason finally went home tonight he'd look in the mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of the real Jason—the one he had just started to see. He'd shed a few tears and then angrily wipe them away. The Jason in the mirror was the only one he could ever truly save. The one nobody ever saw, the one for whom nobody ever cared—not for real, and not enough anyway. Tonight, Jason would celebrate choosing the guy in the mirror and doing right by him. Tonight, he would drink his beer, listen to his songs, mute his phone, and forget it exists. Tomorrow, he'd text Dick to thank him for remembering, threatening to take his spare key away if he ever got into his apartment without permission again. He'd come up with an excuse for what kept him out so late and promise they'd grab a beer but not set a date. Tomorrow, Jason would call Alfred to thank him for the cake and promise to visit soon, even though he never would. Tomorrow, he would type, delete, and retype three different texts to Damian and Tim, before giving up and trying to forget he had nothing left to say. Tomorrow, Jason would feel bile rise in his throat and violently shove Bruce's image out of his mind, praying it wouldn't persist.
Tomorrow.
For now, Jason Todd would smoke his pack of cigarettes and stare at the shadows in his living room, hoping they wouldn't linger too long. For now, Jason would simply wait them out, eager to get back home.