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zodion Notes to Jason
It took Dick days and days, after he realized Jason was gone, to find his way to the library (at night, yes, he snuck in through a window, he was going to leave almost everything as he found it) and sit in front of the notebook he'd left there only weeks ago, with a plain back pen and tears soaking through the fabric of the cowl.
He was sad. Jason had seemed steady, here. Calmer. Trapped, of course, but he'd found friends. He'd allowed himself friends, and they'd been good for him.
They hadn't had that talk he'd wanted. The one to make it all right. (There was no such single talk. He knew that. But he could still... hope.) And now his big little brother was back home, to take up the full suit-up of the Red Hood. And Red Robin, for a while, far away, and, very briefly, the same cape and cowl (well, similar) that Dick was wearing just now and.
And do all the things Jason had done, in Dick's past.
But he had pen to paper, now.
Hey, Little Wing.
You're probably never reading these words, and that's probably for the better, but I can't just write about you. Not when I can't decide if it's you or me who needs these words more.
Because I wish I could say that you'll be fine, back home, but I know better. You won't be.
You'll be so, so angry by the time you get back home. You'll almost kill the Joker (ah, those close calls, I'm sorry, Little Wing), you'll nearly kill B. Will kill a lot of other people. Most of them criminals. Some of them people I could almost, almost agree deserve it. Many who don't. All of them, I know it's not up to us to judge. And we'll fight about that one. Oh, we'll fight, Little Wing.
I wish I could say that I come around to what you believe, too. But it doesn't work that way. Not when you slice the throat of a Robin. Not when you put a bullet in the chest of a ten-year-old. I can't - I still can't understand how the boy who wore my colors so proudly - who made me so proud to have been wearing my colors - could do those.
So, yeah, I didn't tell you all about what things'll be like for you when you go back. Because you'd forget them, so why burden you with them when you can't change anything? And also because what if you don't care? What if that's who you want to become, through and through, over and over again? Where would that leave me?
Where would it leave you?
Because I can't hate you, Little Wing. I haven't, and I don't, and I won't. But who you will become hurts, and I wanted to give you the chance to not go there. Not yet. And now I've got nothing, and you're home where you'll do all these things, and I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, Little Wing.
The sobs choked him, though he tried to stifle them in the silence of the night-time library. He stared, at the barely-legible scribbles that only pretended to be legible words and coherent thoughts in his mind. His hand crumpled the page, then tore it away, the paper sticking to the surface of the gauntlet neatly.
It took him a few minutes to compose himself, after he closed the notebook and faded into the shadows of the large room, then he flew out the window, closing it gently behind him. This had been a stupid idea in the first place.
He was sad. Jason had seemed steady, here. Calmer. Trapped, of course, but he'd found friends. He'd allowed himself friends, and they'd been good for him.
They hadn't had that talk he'd wanted. The one to make it all right. (There was no such single talk. He knew that. But he could still... hope.) And now his big little brother was back home, to take up the full suit-up of the Red Hood. And Red Robin, for a while, far away, and, very briefly, the same cape and cowl (well, similar) that Dick was wearing just now and.
And do all the things Jason had done, in Dick's past.
But he had pen to paper, now.
Hey, Little Wing.
You're probably never reading these words, and that's probably for the better, but I can't just write about you. Not when I can't decide if it's you or me who needs these words more.
Because I wish I could say that you'll be fine, back home, but I know better. You won't be.
You'll be so, so angry by the time you get back home. You'll almost kill the Joker (ah, those close calls, I'm sorry, Little Wing), you'll nearly kill B. Will kill a lot of other people. Most of them criminals. Some of them people I could almost, almost agree deserve it. Many who don't. All of them, I know it's not up to us to judge. And we'll fight about that one. Oh, we'll fight, Little Wing.
I wish I could say that I come around to what you believe, too. But it doesn't work that way. Not when you slice the throat of a Robin. Not when you put a bullet in the chest of a ten-year-old. I can't - I still can't understand how the boy who wore my colors so proudly - who made me so proud to have been wearing my colors - could do those.
So, yeah, I didn't tell you all about what things'll be like for you when you go back. Because you'd forget them, so why burden you with them when you can't change anything? And also because what if you don't care? What if that's who you want to become, through and through, over and over again? Where would that leave me?
Where would it leave you?
Because I can't hate you, Little Wing. I haven't, and I don't, and I won't. But who you will become hurts, and I wanted to give you the chance to not go there. Not yet. And now I've got nothing, and you're home where you'll do all these things, and I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, Little Wing.
The sobs choked him, though he tried to stifle them in the silence of the night-time library. He stared, at the barely-legible scribbles that only pretended to be legible words and coherent thoughts in his mind. His hand crumpled the page, then tore it away, the paper sticking to the surface of the gauntlet neatly.
It took him a few minutes to compose himself, after he closed the notebook and faded into the shadows of the large room, then he flew out the window, closing it gently behind him. This had been a stupid idea in the first place.