Talia’s always poised. There’s something about her – about the careful tilt of her jaw, and the slope of her shoulders. He’d say it’s like a peacock, but it isn’t, really. It’s too pretend for that.
“Do you have a next teacher planned for me?”
“This would be significantly easier if you stopped killing them, you understand.”
“Counterpoint: it’s even more instructive.” And she snorts on that syllable, despite herself. Maybe there should be something in his own chest that lightens at the noise, but there’s just quiet.
Stillness.
“There’s a woman out in the Sahara desert. We’ll go for survival training this time.” And he wonders for a moment if he did anything to piss her off. It’s not like she’d even tell.
It could be the teachers of course, but she’s not wasteful. If it actually mattered to her she’d just stop giving him teachers. Plus, she is like Bruce in that way. She admires justice, even if she can’t bring it herself.
Could be the killing itself, but he also doubted that. She was league. It wouldn’t be new to her.
Of course, it could also be the fact that it was him doing it. Jason Todd, fifteen and death, sixteen and angry, Robin ‘till his end and not a single second longer. He could guess that she’d had plans to give him back to Bruce, a son returned. He’d thoroughly screwed those plans – if he went back as he was, Bruce would want nothing to do with him.
He could still pretend, of course. She’d hide it if he asked her to. If he repented, and crawled back into Robin’s dead skin, went out as the ward of Bruce Wayne. It’d burn even single goddamn second, but he could do it. It might even be better, forgiveness and relief, if he could choke it all down. It’d be a good life, a good destiny, even.
Except look where destiny got him. Look where Bruce got him. Six feet below, in a box made of rotting hardwood, right next to the grave of his mother. Right next to the woman who’d murdered him.
So why choose closure, or comfort or sonhood, when he could have the Joker instead. Because: Jason had a question that demanded an answer, and either Bruce would break, or Jason would show him that there wasn’t a Robin left in him. Maybe he’d find something in there – closure or rage or certainty or something. But at the very least, he could pull that burning out of him, and shove it down his throat.
“I’ll get my things ready.” He says, aloud. She glances back at him, something hidden in her glance. Maybe she still thought he’d turn over a new leaf.
But there were no more leaves to turn. He knew the path he was on, certain as blood, or rage. Talia could look for the scraps of a dead kid in him for a while longer – he knew the path he was on. And no matter which was he turned out, at least he’d have the chance to shoot up flames.
“Alright.” He rolls up to his feet, and spins on his heels.
Maybe if he were more inclined to the supernatural, or the quiet, he’d hear it. Because: when the universe had shattered, it’d placed his feet back on the ground, gave him back his destiny. He’d defied it on accident, but there was a chance, if he wanted it. A chance, for what was supposed to be.
But what was supposed to be cannot help being ground under what is.
no subject
Talia’s always poised. There’s something about her – about the careful tilt of her jaw, and the slope of her shoulders. He’d say it’s like a peacock, but it isn’t, really. It’s too pretend for that.
“Do you have a next teacher planned for me?”
“This would be significantly easier if you stopped killing them, you understand.”
“Counterpoint: it’s even more instructive.” And she snorts on that syllable, despite herself. Maybe there should be something in his own chest that lightens at the noise, but there’s just quiet.
Stillness.
“There’s a woman out in the Sahara desert. We’ll go for survival training this time.” And he wonders for a moment if he did anything to piss her off. It’s not like she’d even tell.
It could be the teachers of course, but she’s not wasteful. If it actually mattered to her she’d just stop giving him teachers. Plus, she is like Bruce in that way. She admires justice, even if she can’t bring it herself.
Could be the killing itself, but he also doubted that. She was league. It wouldn’t be new to her.
Of course, it could also be the fact that it was him doing it. Jason Todd, fifteen and death, sixteen and angry, Robin ‘till his end and not a single second longer. He could guess that she’d had plans to give him back to Bruce, a son returned. He’d thoroughly screwed those plans – if he went back as he was, Bruce would want nothing to do with him.
He could still pretend, of course. She’d hide it if he asked her to. If he repented, and crawled back into Robin’s dead skin, went out as the ward of Bruce Wayne. It’d burn even single goddamn second, but he could do it. It might even be better, forgiveness and relief, if he could choke it all down. It’d be a good life, a good destiny, even.
Except look where destiny got him. Look where Bruce got him. Six feet below, in a box made of rotting hardwood, right next to the grave of his mother. Right next to the woman who’d murdered him.
So why choose closure, or comfort or sonhood, when he could have the Joker instead. Because: Jason had a question that demanded an answer, and either Bruce would break, or Jason would show him that there wasn’t a Robin left in him. Maybe he’d find something in there – closure or rage or certainty or something. But at the very least, he could pull that burning out of him, and shove it down his throat.
“I’ll get my things ready.” He says, aloud. She glances back at him, something hidden in her glance. Maybe she still thought he’d turn over a new leaf.
But there were no more leaves to turn. He knew the path he was on, certain as blood, or rage. Talia could look for the scraps of a dead kid in him for a while longer – he knew the path he was on. And no matter which was he turned out, at least he’d have the chance to shoot up flames.
“Alright.” He rolls up to his feet, and spins on his heels.
Maybe if he were more inclined to the supernatural, or the quiet, he’d hear it. Because: when the universe had shattered, it’d placed his feet back on the ground, gave him back his destiny. He’d defied it on accident, but there was a chance, if he wanted it. A chance, for what was supposed to be.
But what was supposed to be cannot help being ground under what is.