Chapter Text
I don't even know why I'm writing this. It's not like anyone's gonna read it. It's not like he's going to read it. He probably doesn't even remember I exist half the time. Or maybe he does. Maybe he thinks about me the way you think about a bad tooth you already had pulled—just a dull ache you're glad is gone.
God, I hate him. I hate him so much it makes my chest hurt. It makes my hands shake. It makes me want to scream until my throat bleeds and my lungs give out.
But I don't hate him. That's the part that makes me want to throw up. I don't hate him. I can't hate him. And I've tried. I've tried everything.
I've tried being angry. I've tried being cold. I've tried being so far gone that even I don't recognize myself in the mirror anymore. I've put on masks, literally and figuratively. I've been the Red Hood. I've been a killer. I've been a monster. I've done things that would make him curl up in that ridiculous Batcave and grieve if he knew—but he doesn't know, because he doesn't care, because he never cared, because I was just—
I was just the second one.
The second Robin. The practice run. The one they threw away when it got too hard.
And then before me was the perfect one. The golden one. The first Robin. The one who would die in a way that made everyone weep, a way that made everyone gather at his funeral, a way that made speeches and statues and goddamn memorials. And all I get? A dirty forgotten grave beside the woman who I thought was a caring mother, the woman that betrayed me, the woman I still protected during the explosion. I’m a name that nobody says. A memory that makes people feel uncomfortable.
But I came back. I clawed my way out of the dirt. I pushed through six feet of mud and maggots and my own rotting skin. I was screaming. I was screaming his name. I was screaming, “Help me, Dad. Please help me”—as if he could hear me. As if he was there. As if he was ever there.
He wasn't.
He was out there. Being Batman. Saving the city. Moving on like I never happened.
And I'm still here. In this city. On these rooftops. In the rain that never stops. Watching him. Always watching him. Like a ghost that doesn't know how to be dead. Like a dog that keeps running back to the hand that beat it because it remembers how that hand used to feed it.
I wish I could stop.
I wish I could wake up one morning and not feel this thing in my chest—this horrible, aching, desperate thing that just wants him to see me. To really see me. Not the soldier. Not the failure. Not the kid who got himself killed because he was too naive to run away. Just—Jason. Just me. The me that existed before the Joker, before the crowbar, before the explosion, before the grave.
Do you remember that kid, Bruce?
Because I do, I remember him so clearly it makes me sick.
I remember the first time you took me to the Batcave. I was so scared. I was trying so hard to act tough because I thought that's what you wanted. I thought if I were strong, if I were brave, if I could keep up, you'd keep me. You'd want me. You'd let me stay.
And you did. For a while.
You let me stay until I wasn't useful anymore. Until I got too loud, too angry, too much. Until I started asking questions you didn't want to answer. Until I started noticing that the people we put away always seemed to get out, always seemed to come back, always seemed to hurt the same people over and over and over.
I asked you once, "Why don't we just kill them?"
And you looked at me—looked at me—like I was something you stepped in. Like I was disgusting. Like I was the thing you were trying to protect the world from.
"You don't come back from that, Jason."
That's what you said. And I believed you. I believed you because you were Bruce Wayne. You were Batman. You were the man who could do anything, fix anything, save anyone.
But you were wrong.
Because I came back.
And now I'm the thing you were afraid of.
The irony makes me laugh. It's not a happy laugh. It's the kind of laugh that makes people step away from you on the street. It's the kind of laugh you hear in hospitals and prisons and alleyways where people go to die. It's the laugh of someone who's been so broken that nothing really feels like a joke anymore except existence itself.
I'm not laughing now, though. Now I'm just crying.
Yeah. Crying. Like a little bitch. Like a kid who scraped his knee and needs his dad to kiss it better. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
But that's what this is, isn't it? That's what it's always been. I don't want to be Red Hood. I don't want to fight criminals. I don't want to save the city or bring justice or any of that bullshit. I just want my father.
I just want my father to hold me.
I just want my father to look at me and say, "I'm sorry. I should have been there. I should have saved you. I should have done more."
I just want him to admit that he failed me.
And I know—I know—that even if he did, it wouldn't fix anything. The damage is already done. The scars are already there. The nights are already long and cold and full of nightmares where I'm back in that warehouse, and the Joker is laughing, and the crowbar is swinging, and I can't move, I can't scream, I can't do anything but wait for the end.
I relive it every night. Every single night. I close my eyes, and I'm there. I can smell the sweat and the blood and the fear. I can taste my own teeth in my mouth. I can feel my ribs cracking one by one.
And you know what's the worst part?
The worst part is that in those dreams, I'm always waiting for you. I'm always looking at the door, expecting you to burst through it, expecting you to save me, expecting you to be there.
And you never are.
You're always too late.
Or you're not coming at all.
And I wake up screaming. I wake up sobbing. I wake up grabbing at the sheets like I'm grabbing at dirt, like I'm trying to dig myself out again, like I'm drowning all over again.
I can't keep doing this.
But I can't stop.
I came back to the city tonight. Same old routine. Found a rooftop. Watched the streets. Waited for him to show. And then I saw him—down there, dealing with some thugs, doing his thing, being the hero. And I felt it. That same foolish rush. That same foolish hope. That same foolish spark that says, "Maybe tonight. Maybe tonight he'll look up and see me. Maybe tonight he'll call my name."
He didn't.
He finished the job. Grappled away. Didn't even glance in my direction.
And I just—I just stood there. Like a statue. Like a monument to my own naivety.
The rain was pouring down. I was soaked to the bone. And I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I just stared at the spot where he'd been and felt something inside me crack open again.
It's like I'm bleeding out, but there's no wound. It's like I'm dying, but I'm already dead. It's like I'm screaming, but nobody can hear me.
I don't want to be like this.
I don't want to be the guy who can't let go.
I don't want to be the guy who's still in love with the idea of a father who never really existed.
But I am.
I am that guy.
And I hate myself for it.
I hate myself for every sleepless night. I hate myself for every time I've been this close to ending it all, just to make the pain stop. I hate myself for every time I've picked up the phone to call him, knowing he wouldn't answer. Knowing he wouldn't care.
But I also love myself enough to keep going.
That's the fucking tragedy of it, isn't it? I love myself just enough to keep trying. Just enough to believe that somewhere, somehow, there's a version of this story where it works out. Where he loves me back. Where I'm not just a mistake he made. Where I'm something more than a cautionary tale.
There's a voice in my head that keeps saying, "He loved you once. He must have. It wasn't all fake. You were his son."
And then there's another voice—the louder one, the one that sounds like the Joker—that says, "You were a costume. You were a mask. You were a placeholder until something better came along. And when you broke, he threw you away without a second thought."
I don't know which voice is right.
I don't know anything anymore.
All I know is that I'm still here.
Still on this rooftop.
Still in this rain.
Still wanting him.
Wanting him to want me back.
Wanting him to see me.
Wanting him to love me.
Wanting. Always wanting. Never getting.
I'm so tired.
So fucking tired.
I'm tired of being strong. I'm tired of being tough. I'm tired of pretending like this doesn't eat me alive every single day.
Tonight, I'm not Jason Todd, the Red Hood, the vigilante, the killer, the survivor.
Tonight, I'm just Jason.
The kid who wanted a dad.
The kid who died alone.
The kid who came back wrong.
The kid who's still waiting for a hug that's never coming.
I should probably stop writing now. My hand's cramping. My eyes are burning. There's a lump in my throat that won't go away no matter how many times I swallow.
But I need to say this one more time. Just in case. Just so it's out there. Just so someone—even if it's just me, even if it's just the rain, even if it's just this stupid piece of paper I'm going to burn when I'm done—knows the truth.
I'm a fool to want you, Bruce.
But I can't stop.
I can't stop.
I can't stop.
God, please, make me stop.
---
I'm folding this up now. Putting it in my jacket. Maybe I'll leave it somewhere he'll find it. Maybe I'll destroy it. I don't know yet.
But I feel a little better. Not much. Not enough. But a little.
The rain's still falling.
And I'm still here.
And he's still gone.
And I'm still wanting.
Always wanting.
Never getting.
Just the way it's always been.
Just the way it'll always be.
Goodnight, Bruce.
Goodnight, Dad.
I miss you.
I hate you.
I love you.
I'm sorry I wasn't good enough.
I'm sorry I died.
I'm sorry I came back.
I'm sorry I'm still here.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
…
Okay. That's it. That's all I've got.
Time to go.
Time to be the Red Hood again.
Time to pretend like I don't feel anything.
Time to be the monster everyone expects me to be.
Maybe one day I'll believe it too.
But not tonight.
Tonight I'm just a broken kid in a rainstorm, crying over a man who doesn't even know I exist.
And that's the most human thing about me.