Chapter Text
Jason would never admit it, but when he saw Batman and Robin patrolling after he died, he felt a sharp twist in his chest- it was so calm, so different from what he remembered, a reminder of what he had lost.
Nothing had struck him quite like this- not even the discovery that his biological mom was alive, still out there, living while he had been in grief, mourning the mom who raised him. He remembers the first time he saw them. He could never forget it. After, he had laid in bed, that fragment of a memory just kept on repeating itself. Every time he closed his eyes, that damn memory was still there, taunting, whispering, pulling on his heart, reminding him how different everything was now, how nothing stopped even when his heart did, how the world moved forward, no care to if he was ready or not.
He had crouched in the corner where two buildings met, his green eyes- green? Wasn’t it always blue, blue like the sky, mom loved his blue eyes- tracking them as they swung from building to building, comparing what he saw now to the way it used to be. The city hummed, distant sirens wailing like the ghosts of nights he could never forget. He had almost forgotten that Gotham City was never quiet, not even in the dead of the night.
He saw the silver flash of their grappling hook on the walls. He saw the bright colors of the Robin cutting through the muffled silence of the city, and how the murky streetlight reflected off the bat-symbol on Bruce’s chest. Even though he knew that it was probably impossible, he felt a heavy stare aimed at him. Every shadow seemed to twist, to reach for him, and he shrank closer to the wall, trying his best to stay invisible and silent. He took a deep breath to ground himself, and the scent of wet asphalt filled his lungs. Jason smiled, it was part of the charm of the city, at least that was familiar. He inhaled sharply, sadness flashed in his eyes.
In the shadows of Gotham, Batman didn’t swing ahead. He didn’t go so fast that Robin was left clumsily trying to catch up, tripping on rooftops or dangling by a wire. He was patient. He waited. Waited for Robin to follow, even when the tiny kid struggled to keep up, even when the kid slipped down. What shook him was the fact that Batman didn’t yell, didn’t scold, didn’t storm ahead and pretend it didn’t happen. He actually stopped and helped.
That was a luxury he never got.
He remembered all those slips on rainy Gotham nights. Rain-slicked rooftops glimmered under the streetlights, reflecting the motion of their grappling hooks like fractured glass. Those slippery hooks that had failed to latch onto the building, the sound of wet boots scraping against brick. He remembered falling after desperately lunging at a wall to catch up to Batman. He still felt the fall, slowed as if time itself had stretched, the streetlights streaking like knives in his vision. He still remembered the wind rushing against him, as if desperately trying to keep him afloat. He remembered hitting the ground hard, his teeth and bones jolting in protest, his ribs fracturing, the icy chill of the night sinking into his uniform.
A bright smear of red, yellow, and green on the floors of an alley, a grounded bird with broken wings.
He remembered Bruce telling him harshly afterward, in the dark Batcave, as Alfred silently and gently applied the gel, that if he couldn’t keep up, he didn’t get to keep the mantle. He didn’t deserve to keep it. Not unless he could be like Dick, the perfect golden boy who didn’t need to be waited upon. Who didn’t talk back and obeyed every single order, like some soldier.
But that didn’t even hurt as much as the fact that Batman didn’t even fucking realize his ward had fallen until after he was landing on the next block and he turned around to bark an order at his sidekick. Only then did he realize the baby bird had fallen. And Jason was on the floor, his ribs feeling like glass shards were embedded in them, his glassy eyes staring up at the stinging light.
That stung. Even more than his ribs.
Why did the replacement get the patient Bruce now? Why not before, when another kid also needed him? Was it because Bruce saw the fire, saw the rage, the stubborn defiance inside him burning inside of him, and decided he wasn’t worth the effort? That was the way Crime Alley made him, the way the alley carved him. Why did they save patience for the replacement? He was just the practice Robin- the one Bruce could test on, the one who would take every mistake and blame because he’d never walk away. No, correction. He couldn’t walk away. He was always there. Always falling. Always learning that he wasn't good enough, that he could never be good enough, while others were praised. He was the easy option, had been nothing more than a trial run, the lesson, the disposable Robin who was never good enough to fit that shadow that Dick left behind.
He swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat, and melted in the darkness. He felt old bitterness rise, like poison crawling through his veins, the Lazarus pit fueling the rage. He knew his eyes were probably green, and he thanked the gods that the birds had already moved on to the next block. He tried to ground himself, his hands curling into a fist, resisting the urge to punch something. He couldn’t afford to get emotional, not when everything was at stake now. He angrily swiped at the droplets that dared to form. He couldn’t, he couldn’t do this. But you have to. With a thump, he collapsed, his frame curling in. In the Gotham chill, he started shaking, but not from the cold. He wanted to ignore the scene above him, a vision of what could have been his life if only things had been different.
Remember your plan, he whispered to himself, and perhaps that was the only thing keeping him from shattering completely. Lock your thoughts, and your hurt, and your pain, and your tears away, there’s no time and no place for you here. He stood up, pretending to not feel the frustration, the pain, and pure loneliness, and took a deep breath. He wiped away his tears, dark lashes fluttering above his sparkling green eyes. Blue.
After all, perfect soldiers don’t cry.