madelinerainbow

[madelinerainbow]

I wanted to share my fanfiction here in tumblr format too! Are there any Jason Todd / DC / Batman fanfic writer communities out there? :) Such as a discord or group? Pls let me know!

Jason Todd Fic | I’d Sneak Up Behind You And Set You Free | Chapter 1 | An Accumulation of Anguish

Summary:

Six years after his resurrection, Jason Todd did what he sought out to do: Kill the Joker. He's hellbent on purging Gotham City of its injustices, and he's alienated himself from his family and left Laura, a childhood friend, in the dark about his revival. Grieving his death at the news of the clown's murder, Laura and Dick gravitate to Jason’s grave like a pilgrimage to a shrine they both didn't want but felt compelled to journey to.

Word count: 5,122

Rating: Mature

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Major Character Death Additional Tags: Past Violence, Past Torture, Morally Ambiguous Character, Grief/Mourning, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Cemetery, Swearing, Murder, Resurrected Jason Todd, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson Gets a Hug, Past Abuse, Dark Past, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Dark Jason Todd, Emotional Hurt, Hurt Jason Todd, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jason Todd Kills Joker (DCU), Dead Joker (DCU), Fist Fight (Mentioned), Joker Murdered Jason and Jason Murdered Him Back, Uno Reverse Card Bruh, But Make It Really F**king Sad

Category: F/M

Fandoms:

Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), DCU (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham Knight Genesis (Comics)

Relationships:

Jason Todd/Original Female Character(s)

Dick Grayson & Jason Todd

Bruce Wayne & Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Damian Wayne

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62326162

Chapter 1 - An Accumulation of Anguish

If I was Atlantis and you were the sea /

I’d sneak up behind you and break your knees /

I’d cut off your fingers and both of your feet /

So you couldn’t reach me, but you couldn’t leave

- Noah Gundersen, ‘Atlantis’

*** 

Time and again, Gotham City failed to rouse her alarm bells. It shouldn’t, but when the TV in the children’s section of Gotham Central Public Library broadcasted the coverage of the latest crimes with the same subdued flatlined drone of weekend weather announcements, she almost didn’t blink. Almost.

But not today.

Not on the day of the clown’s death.

A child leaned on her knee, desperately involved in the adventures of Ivan the Iceman, along with ten other unshakeable young pairs of eyes upon the storybook in her hands. The children sat in front of her for Storytime, each one riveted with their full attention. They looked like mismatched chess pieces, perched on the colorful foam playmat tiles that swept through the children’s section like a pastel rainbow checkerboard. But their adults: parents that scrolled idly on smartphones, grandparents who cooed over their little ones, and one older preteen brother in attendance, all looked towards the TV monitor with an almost unconscious pull. 

Her neck craned upwards as the newscaster’s words filtered from the TV monitor’s low volume. It was a library. The TV monitors were always set to quiet volumes, yet the words: “Joker’s death” ricocheted like a gunshot through the low hush of the building.

The storybook in the librarian’s hands slapped down on her knees like a plane plummeting from the air. The child at her legs reached for the fallen book as if it was the Holy Grail set in front of him. The young boy mouthed at a cardboard corner of the picture book. She vaguely registered the innocent defacement of library property. No one else seemed to notice.

The newscasters shifted in their chairs with an eagerness that wasn’t usual for news beats. Crime in Gotham, she knew, was as common as the snow squalls that settled upon the city. Gotham felt as if it were in a snow globe shaken in the hands of an overzealous handler. If crime was a season in Gotham, it would be an endless winter. Grand larceny, stabbings, bank robberies, cartel trafficking—as ubiquitous as the dirty, garbage encrusted snowbanks pushed up against every sidewalk curb on every street.

The newscasters’ hands flew to their earpieces as a crisp paper fell on their desk, freshly printed. It cut through the screen like a wispy snowflake. its featherlight thinness betrayed the heaviness of the words printed on its face. They scrambled for it like polar bears fighting over the carcass of a plump seal.

“We just received breaking news, Gothamites. Our sources are confirming that the Joker, ruthless and psychotic murderer, has been killed—”

Gotham Central Public Library, already silent, became as quiet as a mausoleum.

She felt herself stop breathing.

The Joker has been killed.

Some part of her brain registered the familiar sound of quick, low-heeled shoes hurrying through the library like a marble skittering across hardwood. Their trajectory was no doubt aimed at her. Voices suddenly hummed up like the chittering of a wasp hive. A parent exclaimed in vengeful joy, a grandparent pulled a child closer. Patrons across the floor spoke in an uproar without regard for the rule of remaining mindful of volume.

And she still couldn’t breathe.

The heeled shoes stopped at her side. A warm hand squeezed her shoulder. She was still startled. She finally inhaled. The boy who tried to chew Ivan the Iceman’s storybook fell to the playmat with an unceremonious thump. The small boy, eyes watery, wailed. The librarian blinked down at the boy, but rather than console him, instead looked up at the owner of the hand on her shoulder. Head Librarian Cathy Mules regarded her with a pinched expression that only those offering condolences could conjure.

“It’s finally over, Laura.” The older woman said to her. Her voice wobbled.

Reflexively, Laura picked up the boy that had fallen at her feet and deposited him on her lap.

“Y-yeah..” She replied. Was it over? “But…they’ve reported his death before, and it was false…” She said. She looked up at the TV monitor again. The child in her lap slowly quieted.

“I feel it, Laura. I know in my arthritic bones that the damn bastard is dead.” Cathy said. None of the parents protested at the profane language. They did not seem to notice, only the preteen boy cast a curious glance at the Head Librarian and noted in baffled silence that no one took offense to the older woman’s curse.

Laura’s hand rubbed soothing circles against the child’s back. The young boy wore a soft, baby blue pint-sized cardigan. Ivan the Iceman’s rosy-cheeked, playfully ice-frosted face was on the front of the child’s shirt. The boy regarded her with tears that dried on his cheeks. She didn’t know if she was comforting him anymore, or herself.

“I’ll believe it when they bring in a body.” She said. “And even then…”

“I woke up today, Laura, and knew--I knew something was going to happen, Laura.” Cathy continued.

Laura grimaced. “Cath, you say that every Wednesday.” Laura replied.

“Is this live?” A parent asked. The young mother pointed at the TV monitor.

Cathy, with a light in her eyes that gleamed with the eagerness of someone all too happy to talk, nodded. “Yes ma’am. Can you believe it? Justice. We finally have justice!” She said. Cathy’s hand tightened on Laura’s shoulder. The gesture was meant to be comforting, but Laura felt like the ring of master keys that dangled from the Head Librarian’s hand at all hours of the day: kept close—and meant to open doors.

Cathy’s face schooled into a solemn expression, her frowning lips thinned as she focused her attention on the young mother. “You know, Laura here, she lost someone very close to her, because of that despicable—"

Laura didn’t realize she was moving until she rose from the seat and quickly deposited the child into Cathy’s unassuming arms. The Head Librarian let out a noise of surprise. The older woman held the boy with a frown, the kind she often wore when inspecting a damaged book from the returns. Laura brushed past Cathy.

“Laura?”

“I need to take my lunch.”

“Oh yes. Well, alright. I’ll finish up Storytime.” Cathy said. She sat on the abandoned seat, the child in her lap, and neither of the two participants seemed to like the new development. Laura mercifully put distance between herself and the group of parents who murmured about the news. The library suddenly felt too crowded. She heard the fading conversation as Cathy continued to speak with the parents.

“Laura is a great team member. So great, it’s just hard—as you may or may not know, she lost—”

Laura burst through the stairwell door by the non-fiction stacks. She slammed it behind her and sealed herself within the muffled, cold vacuum of space in the stairwell. She exhaled shakily.

Was it over?

She had expected some sort of feeling of cold satisfaction.

A sense of justice satiated.

Righting of a wrong.

A bittersweet relief.

Closure.

Was it over?

She sank onto the stairway landing and sat on the concrete step. She pulled out her phone and selected the news app. She scrolled and tapped the live broadcast.

“GCPD has confirmed that their coroner’s office has a body. Forensic identification is underway to confirm that DNA matches that of the Joker, with results set to be announced later this evening—”

Something strangling and sickening suddenly echoed through the stairwell. Laura felt her stomach drop and looked away from her phone. She listened intently for a moment. The sound was almost inhuman. And then it happened again.

A sob.

She clamped her hand over her mouth. It didn’t help. It happened again. A sad, agonized sound. Her phone clattered onto the step by her feet, and she heaved another body-racking cry.

Was it over?

No.

It would never be over.

She cried with the ferocity of a plastic bag tossed up into the air by a wind tunnel—her body weak and flimsy against the larger, errant force of emotion that swept through her. She cried hard, low and anguished. It echoed in the stairwell. When a doorway above opened, and she heard a pair of patrons discussing a book club read, she clamped her hands over her mouth again and took in a watery breath.

She scrambled to pick up her phone off the step and scuffed her nails against the concrete. She rose to her feet, and felt an uncomfortable tightness in her chest. She couldn’t take a full breath. She stumbled down the flight of stairs towards the basement of the library. She fished her keys out of her pocket and opened the door at the bottom of the stairs. The usual musty, old carpet smell of the staff room wafted over her as she entered the room.. She felt tears and snot run down her face, which she wiped with her sleeve.

No.

Joker’s Death.

It would never be over.

She sobbed again. And then froze. David, one of the library’s cataloguers, looked up from where he stood in the break room’s small kitchenette. He held a cup of coffee in one of his slim hands and in his other, he held his ancient flip phone. His eyes widened as he regarded her.

“Oh, Laurs sweetheart—”

“M’okay, David.” She swiftly said.

“Laurs, my son just sent me the news.” He said. He set down his cup and phone on the stained, beige laminate countertop. He pulled off his reading glasses. His eyes, sharp and fatherly, settled on her. He spoke to her in a low and soothing voice. “It’s alright, Laurs. We know how hard this must be for—”

“It’s okay, David. I just need to go sit in my car.” She replied.

“Laurs—”

“I just need a moment, David? Okay? That’s all I need.” She said tearfully. She moved to the staff lockers by the seating area and grabbed her jacket from her assigned locker. Her work bag. Her uneaten lunch. Her mittens. Her hat. 

She cast a look back at David, and she noticed his lightly stubbled chin bobbed for a moment in the dim lighting of the kitchenette’s lamp. He ran a thin hand through his salt and peppered hair. He looked as if he wanted to offer her a hug, but he sighed heavily instead and stayed rooted in the kitchenette like a dog told to stay. He held up his hand in an appeasing gesture.

“I’ll tell Cath you headed out early, Laurs. You take the day. You take all the time you need; you hear?” He said.

Her throat bobbed. David suddenly looked blurry. She nodded. “Thankyou.” She said, and rushed back out of the staffroom door. 

She ascended the stairwell and pulled on her jacket. The jacket that she couldn’t make herself throw away. The one that she inherited six years ago. The one she religiously kept clean, re-zippered when the zip broke once, the jacket she kept close, the one she wore even when it started to get too warm. A keepsake. A memory manifested into an everyday object. One that haunted her.

Joker’s death.

She hugged the jacket closer. The brown leather still held the scent. Another broken sob left her mouth as she rushed back up the stairs.

A death too late.

She entered the stacks of the main floor and trekked across the library towards the entrance. She didn’t spare a glance at the children’s section. Not at the TV monitors. Not at Cathy who drew a crowd of parents as she disclosed something so grievous and confidential that Laura felt she should file a formal HR complaint. She couldn’t look and witness those parents who would surely gaze back at her now with eyes full of pity.

She heard when Cathy called out her name, but Laura ignored her and pushed through the library’s front doors and out into the parking lot. It had snowed again, another fresh half foot of snow. The wind whipped it up as she trudged to her car. She swept the snow off the top of her car and the windshield with a snow brush. Her movements were choppy. She practically threw herself into the driver’s seat. She keyed the engine into ignition, and blinked away tears. She maneuvered her car out of the snowy parking lot and into the streets of Gotham.

She drove straight to the cemetery.

***

In loving memory

Jason Todd

1990 - 2008

Loved Son

Steadfast Brother

Loyal Friend

The grave marker left out a few key details.

Second Robin

Joker’s Victim

Laura brushed off a layer of snow from the top of the dark stone. The cemetery was vacant of the living, except for her. The markers sprawled across the acres of snowy land. Bare trees intermittently interspersed between the graves and trembled in the icy wind. The midday sky clouded above her, the slate grey sheet of clouds were as grey as the graves and threatened more snow.  

 She gulped in a stinging breath of air. 

“He’s dead.” She told the stone.

You're dead.

Her lavender mitten brushed away more snow off the top of the grave marker. She did it with the reticence one would if they were dusting an old, delicate painting. And then her hand curled into a fist. It dropped against the flat of the granite, hard and angry. A smattering of snowflakes scattered as wool and flesh thunked against rock ineffectually. 

“God– ” She choked out, and wept.

She cried without care for retaining any decency about it. She cried until she heard footsteps crunching through the snow–steady and approaching. 

When she looked up she saw the bright blue sleeve of a winter jacket splayed out before her, and then she was swept up into a familiar embrace. She smelled the plastic, wintery smell of the polyester jacket–and then the bright scent that was Dick Grayson.

“Hi.” She said, and her voice sounded watery.

He didn’t reply right away. He just held her and let the warmth that was him settle over her.

“You shoulda called me, sweetheart.” He said. His voice sighed with the long-suffering, concerned chiding of an older brother. 

“Did they really kill him?” She asked.

“Yeah, sweetheart.” He replied. 

She wept harder.

“W-who did it?” She asked.

Dick stiffened, and she felt the sharp stubble of his jaw sweep across her scalp as he bundled her closer under his chin.

“Doesn’t matter, hun.” He said.

“Yeah it does–”

She felt his jaw tick, but as quickly as it did, it relaxed into a sigh that warmed her hair.

As if reluctant, he finally spoke.  “They call him the Red Hood.” He said, voice low and tight. A beat of silence. “You’ve heard of him yet?” He asked.

She nodded and his jacket crinkled against her cheek.

It was quiet. Dick’s head swiveled toward the grave marker. She felt more than watched as he silently looked at the grave that housed his younger brother. When she pulled away from him, Dick’s eyes were contemplative and pained.

She thought she recognized in his expression the same grief and anger that filled her own heart. It was only later that she realized that his grief was different. His grief was borne of a different kind of loss and anguish that she herself would soon confront. 

They called him the Red Hood. 

The Joker’s murderer.

And Gotham celebrated. 

And two out of a handful of people within Gotham–that had loved Jason–did not celebrate. They mourned.

Dick’s eyes returned to her. His gaze sharpened with a swift and intense intelligence; a familiar look that he and his family had an uncanny likeness with. They shared an evaluative stare that unnerved most, and Laura recognized it as an ability ingrained into them with their vigilante roots. Or maybe it was just a Bruce Wayne glare that he imparted along to his adoptive children. Nonetheless, out of the entirety of their family, Dick had a gentleness to him that always chased and tempered the intense stare as quickly as it appeared.

“Let’s get some lunch, Laurs.” He volunteered.

She shook her head. Her stomach felt as if hewn from the stone of the grave marker. It felt heavy and inorganic in her gut. “I can’t eat when I’m like this.” She said.

Dick’s eyes softened. “Alfred misses you.” He said gently.

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. 

Laura broke into another fit of tears. Dick pulled her by her elbow into another hug. “He made shepherd’s pie, your favorite, Laurs.” He murmured into her hair.

Laura shook her head. “I can’t go back–” she sniffled. 

She felt Dick’s hands grasp the  thick leather of the jacket–Jason’s jacket–around her shoulders. 

“Yeah you can.” He said gently. “You’re always welcome back.” He said. “You know that.” He murmured.

His voice sounded impossibly assuring. It sounded like this was something he had said before–and recently–because when she lifted her eyes back to his, Dick’s throat bobbed heavily.

“It’s just lunch, Laurs.” He said.

She gave him a soft glare. Dick’s thin mouth upturned into a half smirk, but there was an anxious exhale of breath that accompanied it.

“Okay, maybe I can admit that Alfred’s stress-cooking. And Bruce’s been holed up in the Cave all morning…” He acquiesced. His eyes turned imploring. “And you're here …crying…” He added gently. “And I’d like us all to be together…y’know.” He continued, and he squeezed her.  “Dealing with this together.” He murmured.

She stared at him, feeling something more than rigid, rough grief in her body. 

“Okay.” She said.

He rubbed her shoulder through the leather jacket, then nodded towards her car–and his car parked next to it–in the distance. He must have been on his way to the cemetery just as she had earlier. She wasn’t sure if it was because he himself had needed to be here, or if he had known she’d gravitate to Jason’s grave like a pilgrimage to a shrine they both didn't want but felt compelled to journey to.  

“You can head over to the Manor. I’ll be behind you in a minute.” He said. She nodded. She turned her face back to the tombstone, and with one final look that traced the letters of Jason’s name, turned and walked to her car. 

Dick watched her bundle herself into her little tiny Toyota. Her car swept out of the cemetery with both what looked like a reluctance in its wheels and an earnestness in its speed. He exhaled bodily. 

His gloved hands felt cold even in the deep wells of his winter jacket pockets. He stood for a moment: a statue of contemplation and contained restlessness. He pulled his phone out. He tapped at the screen, slotted an earbud into his ear, and waited as the phone dialed. His mouth hardened from the reassuring smile he had given Laura into a fatigued frown. The phone rang, for an impossibly long time, until he figured the recipient wouldn’t pick up. Typica–

The line connected. 

A heavy, weighted silence followed. And then sharp and straight to the point, Dick paced the line of grave markers and spoke, his breaths punctuating the air.

“I don’t know what I’m more angry at, Jaybird.” Dick volleyed, voice prim. “The fact that you killed him, or that you’re still leaving her in the dark.” He said, voice bitter and accusatory.

Silence taunted him. Until he heard the shuffle of a phone jostled on the other side of the line–the uneasy creak of plastic and thin metal under a fair amount of stress. The unmistakable sound of a fist that tightened around a piece of technology that should definitely not be compressed.

“You know why it’s warranted, Dickhead.” Jason answered. His voice was colder than the barren cemetery.

Dick felt anger seize his thoughts. “Murder? Or pretending you’re still dead?” Dick whipped back. “Both aren’t warranted.” He continued. “Bruce is beside himself, Jay.” Dick said, and his voice suddenly lowered into an apprehensive register. 

His paces along the grave stones stuttered until he stopped: a statue now bent like the figure of Atlas. The world held heavy on his shoulders. “And you know what? So am I.” Dick continued, as vulnerability seeped into his tone.

A harsh scoff puffed on the other side of the line. 

A hot vein of anger burned in Dick’s chest and overpowered the mounting anxiety.

“Jay– Jesus –you killed him! You went against the code.” He said. He pinched the bridge of his nose between two gloved fingers and squeezed his eyes shut. “I know you’re dealing with the effects of the Pit–but it’s like you’re a different per–”

“I didn’t shoot the bastard because of the Pit, Dickhead.” Jason’s voice was like a shotgun blast. “He deserved to die, Dick.” He growled.

Dick inhaled sharply.

He remembered a boy, twelve years old, who beat the shit out of a prickhead tenth grader twice Jason’s size because the kids had made a nasty comment about Jason’s mother being addicted to drugs.

He also remembered a boy, fourteen years old, that had cried when he read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. A boy who sobbed when the family of villagers rejected the monster due to its grotesque appearance.

He remembered a sixteen year old kid, who laughed when an attacker’s gun had blasted a bullet way, way too close to Jason’s head. He remembered the sheer stomach dropping fear that had twisted Dick’s insides, even as Jason–as Robin–landed a fist against the shooter’s face. The blow had been devastatingly precise, with a little too much force, as the boy grinned without mirth.

He remembered a boy that bolted down Alfred’s dinners like someone might take his meal away at any moment. Bruce had gently reminded Dick later that Jason had spent time in the juvenile system, and had reminded him of how often Jason had gone without proper meals living with his mother and her addiction.

“He deserved to die –” Jason repeated on the other side of the line. His voice filled with such a feral viciousness that made Dick remember with startling, agonized clarity that one memory of Jason’s last Christmas six years ago–when Dick had gifted Jason a first-edition copy of Frankenstein. He remembered the soft and meaningful, almost boyish tone of: “Thank you,” from Jason.

“I did what had to be done.” Jason said. “And I will continue to do what needs to be done.” He growled. “Because this goddamn city deserves actual justice–”

“It’s not justice, Jason!” Dick snapped. “It’s murder! It’s killing! ” He said.

“It’s necessary!” Jason shouted.

“It’s not you, Jason!” Dick argued.

There was an angry cry from the other side of the line, then a series of harsh cracks, like a phone being slammed against a table repeatedly. The volley of fury pierced at Dick’s eardrum. He winced.

“I killed him!” Jason bellowed with cold certainty. “Wrap your goddamn head around it–! I am not stopping at just the clown.” Jason snarled. “I’ll kill every rotten, sack-of-shit lowlife in this city! I will purge every god forsaken corner–” 

Dick remembered the tapes sent by the clown to taunt Bruce. The horrific, insane, unreal tapes of something that should have never been done, let alone filmed. He remembered the harsh blue and purple of Jason’s skin in the tapes: Jason’s entire torso bruised inhumanly. The sight of an eighteen year old boy harmed so badly that Bruce had never really recovered from it. Jason’s tortured figure had been so wrong that Dick’s first and visceral reaction had been That’s not my brother.

The same thought welled up in his head like blood burgeoned from a wound.

That’s not my brother.

“I will tear down every cartel–every trafficking ring–”

“We can help you, Jay–” Dick’s voice didn’t sound like it usually did; confident, assured…it sounded small and breathless. It pleaded.

“I’ll put a bullet right through the head of every single shit stain that walks these streets–”

“We can help you, I promise.” Dick’s voice shook. “We can get you help–”

“I don’t need help! ” The voice rioted from the other side of the line. Jason’s breaths were like the sharp snaps of a nail gun, fast and piercing. “I don’t need your fucking help!" He said.

“Yes you d–”

The line went dead.

Dick cursed. He tore the earbud from his ear and ran a hand through his dark hair. He stared, his eyes wet and hot, at the tombstone. He stood–knowing somewhere in Gotham–Jason was doing the exact same thing: 

“Deep breaths, center yourself in your body. You’re less effective when you’re overcome by emotions."  Bruce’s training echoed in both of them.

He collected himself by piecemeal. 

He felt cold snowflakes against his cheeks.

Laura was already likely driving on one of the highways, making her way to the Manor.

He scuffed the heel of his boot into the snow tracks.

Alfred was likely coaxing Bruce out of the cave with the pointed emphasis only an Englishman can have on attending tea time like a respectable Wayne. 

He heard the pale, soft scrape of a dislodged autumn leaf blown across a snowbank.

Tim was likely orbiting the cave like a satellite, making nonchalant overtones of hacking the morgue’s systems to ensure they did an actual, qualified autopsy on the clown. However, he was overseeing their father’s quiet, brooding breakdown with thinly veiled concern. When he types too loudly on his laptop, he’ll hear Bruce say: “Not so loud, Jason.” In a low cadence that makes it known Bruce isn’t aware he just called Tim by his other son’s name.

He tasted the wind: frigid and mild against the thickness of his tongue that felt too dry in his mouth. He sucked at his teeth with another breath.

Damian was probably still sleeping into the late afternoon. But Alfred would rouse him, patient and impart the sensitive news. Damian would arrive in the dining room later, cast furtive looks at Bruce and Laura and Dick, and sit with them until he would make some awful, awful little brother joke about something innocuous that would rouse all three of them out of their grief.

Because Fuck. They were grieving. In different ways. Laura didn’t even know. And Dick wrangled with the urge to tell her. But how could he tell her?

That Jason was the Red Hood?

Because that wasn’t his brother.

He walked back to his car, got into the driver’s seat and began to head to the Manor. 

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had left something behind after that phone call.

That feeling lingered as he thought of the empty coffin in Jason's plot. The sickening realization that Jason wasn’t still six feet under the soil—a fact that should have been rejoiced. And yet, with his resurrected brother roaming Gotham like a vengeful fallen angel, Jason felt more dead to Dick than if he were buried.

He wondered how often Jason wished that he was still dead. 

No one becomes so fixated, so unyielding in dispensing death, unless they’re running from something—driven by a need to impose fear, control, or escape their own demons. Dick had seen too much of Gotham's worst to miss the shadow that now hounded his brother.

And Jason had run right to the Joker, shot a bullet through the clown’s grinning teeth and vindicated his own death-–with more of it. 

Dick thought of Jason’s Frankenstein , the first edition book carefully shelved. His other copy, paperback, that had still been left on his bedside table in his old room in the Manor. Dick’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. After Jason’s death, he remembered flipping through the annotated pages of the paperback. He had been grieving and seeking the ghost of his little brother in the highlighted pages of a story beloved to Jason. He remembered one quote, scrawled by Jason on the title page-–a quote inscribed in the book from the film adaptation:

“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine, and rage in me the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other."

Jason had been expelled from the school for beating up the tenth grader. Not even Bruce Wayne’s nepotism had gotten Jay back into that school's good graces. He had had to re-register to a different school and Jason’s violent reputation had followed him there too. 

That’s not my brother.

But it was. 

It was.

Dick drove, feeling out of body, in the way only an eldest sibling can when it feels like pieces of him walked the world four times over: in his own body, in Tim’s, in Damian’s, and in Jason’s. In Jason’s. 

Jason had died that day six years ago by Joker’s insidious hands. After months of torture.

But so had a piece of Dick. And to then have that piece recovered –to have Jason walk the Earth again–resurrected and hurt and angry...

Dick often felt like he was struggling to sweep up all the pieces he carried–all the pieces he had to carry–to keep all these people he loved safe– the world pitching off of Atlas's shoulders …

He knew somewhere out there in Gotham City, Jason was trying to collect himself too. He knew that they both carried a piece of something that they needed to carry, but struggled with the weight of it.

”You’re welcome, Jaybird.” Dick had replied. 

Jason held the gifted first edition book like it was a treasure.

“You wanna watch the film later? Frankenstein looks pretty freaky in it.” Dick said. There was a twinkle in his gaze that hinted at playful mockery. Jason tossed him an eyeroll.

“Shut up, Dickhead. The film’s trash. Also the monster isn’t Frankenstein– it’s the doc–”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that, you nerd.”

Jason’s expression twisted with further frustration, but he thumbed through the novel’s pages with a reverence in his body language that spoke of quiet gratitude. His sharp eyes returned to Dick, glaring but not simmering with their usual fire.

Because that was his brother. 

A man filled with rage. But love. There was also love in Jason.

And a handful of people knew it.

He just hoped Jason remembered he was one of them.

[madelinerainbow]

I understand the appeal of writer!Jason Todd while he’s the Redhood but I don’t think YOU understand the appeal of writer!Jason while he’s a pre-teen Robin. That young man writes a field report like it’s a mystery novel, and like what is Bruce even supposed to say “Hey, chum… while the pacing of the report was very intriguing, I need you to be LESS detailed about the color of the suspects ‘emerald green orbs.’” No, he won’t!! because Jason may be a bit annoying but it’s a vast improvement from Dick “What happens with the titans is between me, god, and the emergency room on 34th ave.” Grayson who used to just write “fixed it :)” on cases he completed.

[madelinerainbow]

My own personal canon, I guess

But the way I see it, Bruce hates that Jason kills because it puts a worse target on his back. If rogue’s fight against Red Hood and know their lives are genuinely on the line and not just a prison sentence, they’ll fight back harder and dirtier. Red Hood being a killer means that every encounter w him is life or death. So Bruce hates that Jason kills because he’s scared.

It wouldn’t make sense for Bruce to work w people who kill but constantly lecture Jason about it. But it does, because Jason’s different.

The difference being that Bruce doesn’t really care if those other people get hurt. Or no, he does, but not as much as he cares about Jason.

He lost him once, and brutally. If Jason continues on the path he started when he first comes back as Red Hood, Bruce can only see one result. His boy. Dying again. Brutally.

[madelinerainbow]

So Batman: The Brave And The Bold #9 casually included the most emotionally devastating short I've ever seen and I'm just gonna leave a few panels here because I need you all to suffer with me. To make things clearer, Alfred narrates this whole story.

Okay sooo what if I kms. What then.

[madelinerainbow]

"Do I look like him?"

[madelinerainbow]

jason's first birthday at the manor

[madelinerainbow]

very tired of the ‘Dick Grayson is mostly a pretty boy with bad puns, golden retriever vibes’ trope. Give me German Shepherd Dick. Give me the ‘consummate performer’ Dick. The one all, brilliance, bloody smiles and showmanship, the one with razor sharp wit and charm made weapon. Dick who seamlessly switches between a million personas. The one who doesn’t know what to do when the show’s over. Give me the Dick no one wants to be on the wrong side of because Nightwing might not start battles, but he finishes them. The only one whose threats the entire Batfam (including Bruce) takes seriously. The one fear toxins can’t affect because he’s been to hell and back.

The Dick who unlike Jason doesn’t even mention how much he’s been fucked up and survived. The one the Joker knew he couldn’t break.

[madelinerainbow]

characterization cheat sheet: the batfamily boys

Hey everyone! I had the idea to compile a comprehensive list of different traits and attributes for each member of the batfamily based off of both canon and fanon interpretations. I think this could be useful for new members to the fandom, or those looking to write and/or draw for these characters. Remember that these will have a slight bias considering I, a fanon creator, am creating the lists. But I’ll try to make them as accurate as possible.

Appearances vary from artist to artist, so I’ll try to stray away from general details and add more little things you can consider in your art.

Bruce Wayne:

Age: 35-45

Appearance: Extremely physically fit, but signs of aging and prolonged exertion can slip through. Has a collection of scattered scars varying from fresh to fully healed. Strong, dark features. Conventionally attractive, but can easily switch to be foreboding/intimidating. Well kept in public appearances, but can look like death incarnate when in private.

Personality: Dual personas: “Bruce” (at home, but not as batman) and “Brucie” (public appearances like galas, news interviews). Bruce is stoic, well-read and educated, well-mannered, and occasionally can be witty and laid-back. Smirks rather than smiles. Brucie is loud, spontaneous, charming, and sometimes oblivious. He is the womanizer and scandal-maker. Often the actions of Brucie are motivated by Batman’s interests.

Speech: Bruce was mainly raised by as English butler, so his speech patterns are proper and smooth. Rarely uses speech fillers such as “uh” and “um,” except when interrupted while concentrating. Despite living in Gotham his entire life, he has not picked up the accent. His voice is newscaster American, almost impossible to pinpoint to a certain region. His speech as Brucie changes to relate more to the audience he is addressing. Speeches to Gotham high society will sound different than those aimed to the general public.

Additional Attributes: Bruce Wayne in all of his personalities is fiercely protective, and can easily slip into a deeper voice to intimidate. Bruce can be extremely empathetic and slightly impulsive when it comes to children who have lost their parents. As learned through his training to become Batman, Bruce is disciplined and can work for hours straight.

Dick Grayson:

Age: 23-29

Appearance: Dick Grayson mirrors a young Bruce Wayne despite their not being blood related. This could be a subconscious action by Dick to absorb traits of his father figure. His lean acrobatic body starts to set him apart from Bruce’s image. Dick manages to be well-built but still limber and flexible. His feet and hands are rough and calloused. His hair can get long but usually stays at a length in between Bruce’s and Tim’s. His eyes are bright blue without even a hint of green or brown. 

Personality: In one comic I believe it was Superman who said that Dick Grayson is a universal constant, meaning that on every alternate earth or timeline, you can always rely on him to be good and pure. I think this really sums up who Dick should be. He is kind to a fault, and can sometimes be naive and not think things through. He loves to love, be that in his family, in his romantic relationships, in his friendships, and even in strangers. He is a chronic hero who only wants to see the world as a better place. But it’s important to note that Dick can get angry when pushed, and holds grudges.

Speech: Dick is an extremely interesting study in speech patterns. As a child he traveled with the circus, until he lived with clear-spoken Bruce Wayne and a proper English butler. So influences to his speech and accent come both internationally and locally to Gotham and Bludhaven. As a child living at Wayne Manor, Dick picks up a slight Gotham tinge to his accent with some British flourish in his vowel sounds. He regularly speaks in slang. As Nightwing he is able to suppress his unique speech to sound more evenly American.

Additional Attributes: Dick acts differently around each of his family members as to be what they need in a big brother. For example, he is more fatherly to Damian while to Tim he is more an equal. Dick can fidget and has less of an attention span than Bruce. He can use jokes as a coping mechanism.

Jason Todd: 

Age: 22-26

Appearance: Hair is often long on top and shorter on the sides, sometimes with a white streak as a side effect from the Lazarus Pit. Tallest and heaviest of all the kids, very physically intimidating. Has a lot of scars and burns, and in some fan works he has a “Y” shaped scar the length of his chest from his autopsy. Never skips leg day. Green/blue eyes.

Personality: Jason goes through a lot of character development, but for this list I’m going off a timeline of post-Under the Red Hood, where Jason is on okay, yet still a little shaky, terms with the rest of the family. Jason has a hard time separating vigilante life and civilian life; his death as Robin ended his life as Jason Todd, blurring the lines between the two. Jason is legally dead, so he is basically building an identity back up. He holds some attributes from childhood: brave, impulsive, loud-mouthed, and street-smart. But his experiences post-Robin have made him a hardened loner. He lives modestly and with some semblance of order. He’s hard to foster a relationship with, but can be a passionate friend/family member when he opens up.

Speech: Jason probably has the least influence from Bruce and Alfred’s speech patterns, seeing as though he spent a lot more time with his biological family/on the streets than he did as a preteen in the manor. He is the definition of Gotham vernacular, with a rough edge. So much so that as a child, the high society gala attenders sometimes had a hard time understanding him. Often talks in curt, short sentences.

Additional Attributes: He has trouble expressing his emotions, more specifically anger and/or grief. Can both love or hate furiously. Inherently good, but sometimes does “bad” things. Protective over children, especially those living on the street. Very much a believer in “the ends justify the means.”

Tim Drake:

Age: 17-20

Appearance: Pale skin, dark hair. Sharp cheek bones and jawline, mostly from how skinny he is. His body isn’t technically “built” to be extremely athletic, but he’s forced a nice lean build from stringently working out. Easily loses and gains weight as a direct result of his work, causing fluctuations in his build. Five foot something, will eventually be out-grown by Damian. Long hair that can still be styled to look professional.

Personality: Tim Drake is very passionate in pretty much everything he sets his mind to. He feels as though he imposed himself onto Batman to become Robin, so he works twice as hard to prove his worth. He can be self conscious and deprecating. Tim as Robin or Red Robin is very different than civilian Tim; his hero personas can be bolder and more confident. Despite dropping out of high school, he values education.

Speech: Tim grew up rich, and his speech reflects an intelligence gained from private tutors. Despite this, he knows how to interact with those his age in using less formal language and slang. Often quotes books and movies. Can be awkward and stumble over his words when teased by his friends/family. He can manipulate people easily in business settings by talking fast and confidently while explaining complex topics.

Additional Attributes: Tim’s demeanor is directly tied to his varying levels of confidence and anxiety. Tim is has above-average intelligence and is diligent in detective work, but can still act like a teenager. He can be stubborn to extremes and will patiently play the long con. He does not cope well with loss.

Duke Thomas:

Age: 17-19

Appearance: Short dark hair, shaved on the sides and/or the back. Often wears the colors yellow and black. Around the same height as Tim, but a little taller. Stronger and heavier build more alike to Jason than Dick, but he’s still light on his feet. Expressive face that can give away his feelings easily. Still a bit of a baby face, but he’s still well-proportioned and conventionally handsome.

Personality: In my works, I’ve often described Duke as having a “sun-shiny” personality. He is one to not even think twice about putting others before himself. Duke uses his own personal experiences to guide him as a hero rather than suppress his emotions. Duke went from being an only child to having a large family, so he can sometimes feel overwhelmed. He is on friendly terms with every member of the batfamily, as well as many other heroes. Duke is self-sacrificial and is still learning how to effectively work as a detective.

Speech: Duke grew up in a middle class Gotham family, so his speech is influenced by his parents as well as his city environment. Duke has a mild Gotham accent and speaks a lot in modern slang. He hasn’t had much influence from Bruce and Alfred, considering he hasn’t lived with them for long. It’s possible that as he grows he will pick up some influences from Bruce and Tim’s way of speaking, but will most likely hold onto the accent of his childhood.

Additional Attributes: Duke is a metahuman vigilante in a city where Batman typically bans them, which causes a bit of an insecurity and a perfectionist drive. These are exasperated by the long line of history preceding him, as well as the fact that he involved himself in the Robin movement rather than being handpicked by Batman. He and Tim can relate in that way. Duke is an ardent student of Batman and is dedicated to the cause.

Damian Wayne:

Age: 10-14

Appearance: Looks similar to Bruce when he was the same age, yet stronger and with tanner skin. His hair is expertly cut and styled, but still age-appropriate. He is the shortest of the batkids, but still has a lot of time and potential to grow. He pretty much won the genetics lottery with Bruce and Talia as his biological parents, and is made for athletics. He has some scars that stand out with their pale coloring against his tan skin. 

Personality: Damian is slowly becoming less of a brat, to put it bluntly. He admires his family and tries to mimic them, but will never confess it. Damian is quick to judge and will voice his opinion no matter how scathing it may be, both as civilian and hero. Damian is slowly realizing he may not want the Batman mantle as quickly as he planned. Jon is a perfect foil to Damian, and often makes him a better person when they’re together. 

Speech: His speech is proper and formal. Prefers formal titles: ex. “father” over “dad” and last names over first. Damian is at least bilingual (Arabic and English), and can switch between languages easily. Most of his speech patterns developed from his tutors in the League, and more recently, Alfred. Influences like Jon and Dick have introduced him to a more modern, laid-back way of speaking, which he sometimes utilizes when relaxed.

Additional Attributes: Damian has problems with authority, especially those that he doesn’t respect like his teachers at school. He can be arrogant and childish ever though he often acts like he knows everything. Damian is still a child and has much to learn from batman and family as well as unlearn from his time at the League. Dami was forged to be a ruthless warrior, but now has to find a balance between the hero Robin and the child Damian Wayne.

Hope this helps someone! Feel free to add on if you think I missed anything. Just please remember to be civil and respect different interpretations of these characters. Let me know if you want another one of these posts outlining the girls or other characters.

[madelinerainbow]

[madelinerainbow]

♯ ATTRACTIVE THINGS THEY DO . . . without realizing

BRUCE WAYNE

rolling his sleeves

bruce wayne sat at his desk, eyes scanning the papers in front of him with a focus that bordered on obsessive. his brow furrowed slightly as he sifted through the reports, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him. with a sigh, he leaned back in the chair, his broad shoulders rolling as he stretched, the fabric of his shirt straining just enough to hint at the muscle beneath.

he reached down to his cuffs, fingers moving with practiced ease as he undid the buttons. the action was simple, but there was an undeniable smoothness to it. slowly, he pushed the sleeves up, the fabric tugging against the defined muscles of his forearms as they flexed with the motion. the shirt rode up slightly, revealing the veins beneath.

once the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, he flexed his fingers briefly, feeling the weight of the day settle into his body. there was no rush, no hurry. bruce wayne wasn’t just a man who wore suits—he was a man who controlled the world around him.

looking down and leaning in to hear you better

he stood tall, his imposing presence filling the space as he leaned in slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. the difference in height between you made the moment feel all the more intimate, as though the world around you had faded into the background. his broad shoulders, strong and steady, seemed to fill the room with the weight of his silent power. every inch of him radiated control, and yet, there was something almost magnetic about the way he was focused on you now, narrowing the gap between you.

he tilted his head just a little, his gaze softening yet still intense, before his lips parted slightly. with a quiet, almost imperceptible shift in his posture, he leaned closer, his height forcing you to tilt your head back just to meet his eyes.

“sorry, what were you saying?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, the words lingering in the air between you. there was no rush in his movement, no hint of impatience—just the steady presence of a man who knew the effect he had, who made every action feel deliberate, calculated.

DICK GRAYSON

stretching

dick grayson towered in the middle of your bedroom, a small stretch escaping him after a long day of training and patrol. with a soft grunt, he raised his arms high above his head, his back arching slightly as his muscles flexed in the motion. the action was simple, but the way his body moved with effortless grace caught the light in just the right way, accentuating the sleek, toned lines of his chest and abdomen.

as he reached upwards, the hem of his shirt lifted slightly, revealing the faint line of his happy trail—dark and subtle beneath the fabric. his abs tightened with the stretch, his posture perfect and confident, yet so natural.

when his arms finally lowered, he relaxed, a small, satisfied smile curling on his lips, unaware of the effect the simple stretch had on your wandering gaze.

running a hand through his hair

he leaned back against the post of your bed, his chest rising and falling with each steady breath after another long night of patrol. he was tired, but not exhausted—just enough to feel the strain of the evening settling into his muscles. his hand moved instinctively to his hair, running through it with a relaxed sigh. the motion was effortless, but there was something undeniably attractive about it. his fingers tangled in the dark strands, pushing them back, only to leave them even more tousled than before.

his hair, usually neatly styled, now fell in messy waves, a little wild and chaotic—much like dick himself. as he scratched the back of his head, his tousled look gave off a carefree vibe, as if he didn’t have a care in the world despite the weight of his responsibilities. the slight rumple only added to the charm.

his lips quirked into a soft, knowing smile as he caught the look in your eyes, momentarily lost in them—so damn predictable. he had you right where he wanted you.

JASON TODD

leaning against a doorway

jason todd stood in the doorway, his posture relaxed yet undeniably intimidating. his arms were crossed over his chest, biceps flexing slightly with the movement, a stance that spoke of quiet confidence and a hint of defiance. his shoulders were broad, his body leaning casually against the doorframe, but there was an edge to him—something hard and unyielding beneath the surface. the way his weight shifted ever so slightly to one side gave him an almost effortless air, as if the world had to adjust to him, not the other way around.

his dark eyes scanned the room, taking in everything with a sharp focus, though he didn’t seem to be in a rush to move or speak. the leather jacket he adorned hung from his frame, the subtle creases and folds of the material giving it an air of worn-in familiarity, like it had seen too much for too long. but his gaze—intense, guarded—never left your figure, as if he was watching for something just out of reach, something that only he could sense.

the way jason held himself in the doorway, arms crossed with a hint of tension in his posture, felt like a silent challenge for most, though there was nothing overtly aggressive about it. it was just the quiet power of a man who was used to being underestimated, a man who didn't need to say a word to command attention.

wearing a shirt that fits just right

he moved through the motions of his training with practiced precision, the rhythm of his strikes steady and controlled. his black shirt clung to his body, the dark fabric stretching over the defined muscles of his chest and back as he moved. the fit was snug, highlighting the sheer strength in his frame, the subtle curve of his biceps flexing with each punch and kick.

swaet began to bead on his forehead, trailing down his temple as he focused on his technique, his breathing steady despite the exertion. the shirt, stretched tight across his shoulders, rode up slightly as his arms reached high, the lines of his stomach momentarily visible as he performed another series of rapid, forceful punches. his torso flexed, muscles tightening and releasing with each movement, and the shirt seemed to accentuate the sculpted definition of his body.

as he paused, catching his breath, the shirt clung even tighter, the movement of his chest beneath it noticeable with every rise and fall of his breath. jason didn’t seem to notice—or care—how the fit of the shirt left little to the imagination. his focus was on the work, on pushing himself further, but the way the fabric outlined his form only added to the unspoken intensity of his presence. even when he wasn't speaking, his body did all the talking.

[madelinerainbow]

Kinda really wanna ramble of Batman’s no kill rule. Because it’s not really a no kill rule as much as it is a no death rule.

And I feel like I’m always seeing posts which try to act like because it’s normal not to want to kill someone that means Batman is somehow normal for his no kill rule (which, again, isn’t really a no kill rule but a no death rule).

Yes, it’s normal to not want to kill someone.

No, that isn’t what Batman’s no death rule is about.

And no, Batman is not normal for his no death rule. It’s extremely weird, and he is extremely weird about it.

It isn’t logical either for the record, it’s highly illogical and entirely emotions based and Batman refuses to be normal about it.

And That’s fine! In fact, it’s extremely interesting!!

But please, please can we stop pretending he’s normal about it? His stance is not normal! His stance is, like almost everything else about the guy, fucking insane!! That’s what makes him interesting!

[madelinerainbow]

thetis arming achilles after patroklos’ death knowing achilles killing hektor will doom him to die vs talia arming jason & giving him that helmet. help

[madelinerainbow]

i’m having an aneurysm

[madelinerainbow]

Hi,

I'm Madeline_Rainbow on AO3 and I wanted to share my fanfiction Series featuring Jason Todd/Original Female Character!

Series (chapters are posted as individual works within the series): Jason Todd Fic | I'd Sneak Up Behind You And Set You Free

Two chapters are currently published:

Chapter 1 - An Accumulation of Anguish

Chapter 2 - Dear To Me

Link:

I'm new to sharing / publishing my writing and I would love your feedback :)

Thank you and enjoy!!