The Reverend Todd Series: Amazing Grace
Title: Amazing Grace
Character: Jason Todd
Word Count: 1228
Summary: When Jason started seminary, he came to the conclusion prison was purgatory.
A/N: So, I was talking to Aiyokusama last night and she ended my happy little world by informing me Jason had been shot and sent to prison at some point and I sulked. Then I plotted, and somehow, out of the entire mess came the idea of 'Reverend Todd'. So, here's Jason's path to being reformed in his own, uh, special way.
-
T'was Grace that taught
my heart to fear
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear
the hour I first believed.
-
Of all the things Jason expected to find in prison, God wasn’t one of them. His mom had always talked about taking him to church on Christmas, but they never went. First, because his dad always showed up just in time to ruin the holiday season and later because all the churches had cleared out of crime alley. It wasn’t like anyone blamed them; nuns were easy pickings for all sorts of things and a single man in clean clothes attracted all the wrong attention. So, the only places he’d heard of ‘God’ was on the lonely street corners, mumbled by the well-meaning evangelists who had grand ideas of preaching to the sinners - because, according to them, there were other ways to live. Jason always wanted to ask them how, but they never stayed long. That and from one wailing criminal or another, but no one ever thanked the big guy when their kneecaps were being shattered.
Things were different in prison.
Jason wasn’t Latino or Black; he wasn’t part of one gang or another. No one really knew what he was in for, only that he never needed homies to watch his back. Surprisingly, in his den of thieves, Jason lost the urge for justice. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see it; just that prison seemed to have more justice than any place on earth. Criminals were criminals, sure, but no innocents were ever killed. There was a hierarchy built upon who committed what, but no one forgave those who hurt children.
After a few years, Jason was transferred to a medium security prison; time off for good behavior and all that. He was given a cellmate: an older Latino gangster, shipped out from California. He never said what group he was from and Jason never asked, letting the strips of charred flesh where tattoos used to be speak for itself. There was one tattoo untouched, however, and Jason did ask about that.
“Santa Maria,” Pito had replied, reverently, “she saved my life.” It was a badly done tattoo, probably Pito’s first, judging by the fading, but the simple grey lines meant more to him than the cigarettes smuggled through the yard or the slop fed at mealtimes. And at night, Pito would lay on the bunk above him and talk. It was soft, whispers of Spanish, but the words changed every evening. Sometimes he was thankful for the letter from his mother, sometimes he was sorry for killing Ernesto, other times he seemed to talk about everything and nothing at all. Jason never said a thing; Pito obviously didn’t know he spoke Spanish, or maybe he just didn’t care, but the quiet time right after lights-out was personal.
Pito died nine months after Jason met him, stabbed in the showers by a Sureño gangster under the arm with the faded woman. The funny thing was Jason heard Pito had died happy. The Sureño boy had railed about it for days after leaving solitary. He swore up and down Pito was mad, foaming at the mouth when he died, but others said he’d merely smiled and whispered a last prayer. That’s when Jason snapped.
He ordered every version of the bible he could from the library, he poured over the theories of St. Thomas Aquinas. In a month, Jason could name every famous biblical character and give a detailed character analysis. In six, he’d studied the dogma for Catholicism and knew the stories of over five thousand saints. In nine, he’d studied every protestant denomination he could find, taking in every conflict over baptism and communion he could.
In one year, he’d fallen in love with the Lutheran church. It wasn’t so much the modern interpretation that spurred Jason’s interest. In fact, he didn’t much care for the nitpicking and the fine points. It was the concept of a loving God. It was a common belief that God and acceptance were synonymous, but after all his research, Jason knew it hadn’t always been the case. Centuries of indulgences had bankrupted the masses, threats and fear had pulled them close, but Martin Luther’s epiphany of a God without expectations was enthralling.
Jason also fell in love with Mary. Pito had prayed to Santa Maria every night, but Jason had never felt much kinship to the Madonna. She was set on a pedestal, perfect for the world to see, and Jason could never come close. Magdalene, on the other hand, was a woman Jason understood. A beautiful woman who sold her body for food; it was a story so familiar he could name fifteen faces off the top of his head who fit the bill exactly, including his mother. It reminded him of a thousand more - even himself. He understood the risk she took, throwing herself at the mercy of some rogue prophet who called himself the Son of God. The concept of spending all she had on a bottle of expensive perfume to give him and scrubbing the dirt of the road off his feet with her hair was the same to Jason as setting her head on the chopping block. Yet, beyond the insanity of the situation, she did it anyway.
When Father Jacobs visited from St. Augustine’s Chapel, Jason always asked to go last. All he wanted to do was talk, and he wasn’t in the mood to make men whose souls depended on confession wait. Jason would have his interests catered to one way or another and he finally understood patience as a virtue, not just a handy ability during stake-outs.
When Jason started seminary, he came to the conclusion prison was purgatory. It was time to cleanse his soul and pay back some of the anger and hate he’d given the world. In changed him in some ways, fortified him in others, but most of all it helped him find himself. Jason would never be the calm voice of reason, but he seemed rather adept at being the annoyed snark of reality. His temper was volatile, but a prayer - or fifteen - a day kept the doctors from taping up his hands. Jason loved dogs, hated cats, thought children under five were the cutest damned things and teenagers needed to be locked in iron cages until their hormones evened out. Most of all, Jason realized he didn’t need Bruce, and the only reason he’d ever thought he did was because he loved him. So Jason wrote letters.
Sometimes, Alfred would pen him a five page epic on the going-ons of Wayne Manor, making veiled comments to the active nightlife of his brothers. Bruce was only mentioned briefly, and he never wrote back himself, but It was alright. Jason was finally talking to him and if Alfred was writing back, it meant Bruce had read them. That was all he wanted.
The last letter Jason wrote from prison was to ask a favor. Instead of a response, the day he was released - forty years early, he noted with pride - the guards gave him an envelope with a deed of ownership, a list of phone numbers, and an address.
Bruce had built him a church in Crime Alley, just like he’d asked. Reverend Todd had smiled at the guard and stepped out into the world, ready to battle the demons of the night, all over again.
This time, though, he had a much bigger stick.
-
Character: Jason Todd
Word Count: 1228
Summary: When Jason started seminary, he came to the conclusion prison was purgatory.
A/N: So, I was talking to Aiyokusama last night and she ended my happy little world by informing me Jason had been shot and sent to prison at some point and I sulked. Then I plotted, and somehow, out of the entire mess came the idea of 'Reverend Todd'. So, here's Jason's path to being reformed in his own, uh, special way.
-
T'was Grace that taught
my heart to fear
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear
the hour I first believed.
-
Of all the things Jason expected to find in prison, God wasn’t one of them. His mom had always talked about taking him to church on Christmas, but they never went. First, because his dad always showed up just in time to ruin the holiday season and later because all the churches had cleared out of crime alley. It wasn’t like anyone blamed them; nuns were easy pickings for all sorts of things and a single man in clean clothes attracted all the wrong attention. So, the only places he’d heard of ‘God’ was on the lonely street corners, mumbled by the well-meaning evangelists who had grand ideas of preaching to the sinners - because, according to them, there were other ways to live. Jason always wanted to ask them how, but they never stayed long. That and from one wailing criminal or another, but no one ever thanked the big guy when their kneecaps were being shattered.
Things were different in prison.
Jason wasn’t Latino or Black; he wasn’t part of one gang or another. No one really knew what he was in for, only that he never needed homies to watch his back. Surprisingly, in his den of thieves, Jason lost the urge for justice. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see it; just that prison seemed to have more justice than any place on earth. Criminals were criminals, sure, but no innocents were ever killed. There was a hierarchy built upon who committed what, but no one forgave those who hurt children.
After a few years, Jason was transferred to a medium security prison; time off for good behavior and all that. He was given a cellmate: an older Latino gangster, shipped out from California. He never said what group he was from and Jason never asked, letting the strips of charred flesh where tattoos used to be speak for itself. There was one tattoo untouched, however, and Jason did ask about that.
“Santa Maria,” Pito had replied, reverently, “she saved my life.” It was a badly done tattoo, probably Pito’s first, judging by the fading, but the simple grey lines meant more to him than the cigarettes smuggled through the yard or the slop fed at mealtimes. And at night, Pito would lay on the bunk above him and talk. It was soft, whispers of Spanish, but the words changed every evening. Sometimes he was thankful for the letter from his mother, sometimes he was sorry for killing Ernesto, other times he seemed to talk about everything and nothing at all. Jason never said a thing; Pito obviously didn’t know he spoke Spanish, or maybe he just didn’t care, but the quiet time right after lights-out was personal.
Pito died nine months after Jason met him, stabbed in the showers by a Sureño gangster under the arm with the faded woman. The funny thing was Jason heard Pito had died happy. The Sureño boy had railed about it for days after leaving solitary. He swore up and down Pito was mad, foaming at the mouth when he died, but others said he’d merely smiled and whispered a last prayer. That’s when Jason snapped.
He ordered every version of the bible he could from the library, he poured over the theories of St. Thomas Aquinas. In a month, Jason could name every famous biblical character and give a detailed character analysis. In six, he’d studied the dogma for Catholicism and knew the stories of over five thousand saints. In nine, he’d studied every protestant denomination he could find, taking in every conflict over baptism and communion he could.
In one year, he’d fallen in love with the Lutheran church. It wasn’t so much the modern interpretation that spurred Jason’s interest. In fact, he didn’t much care for the nitpicking and the fine points. It was the concept of a loving God. It was a common belief that God and acceptance were synonymous, but after all his research, Jason knew it hadn’t always been the case. Centuries of indulgences had bankrupted the masses, threats and fear had pulled them close, but Martin Luther’s epiphany of a God without expectations was enthralling.
Jason also fell in love with Mary. Pito had prayed to Santa Maria every night, but Jason had never felt much kinship to the Madonna. She was set on a pedestal, perfect for the world to see, and Jason could never come close. Magdalene, on the other hand, was a woman Jason understood. A beautiful woman who sold her body for food; it was a story so familiar he could name fifteen faces off the top of his head who fit the bill exactly, including his mother. It reminded him of a thousand more - even himself. He understood the risk she took, throwing herself at the mercy of some rogue prophet who called himself the Son of God. The concept of spending all she had on a bottle of expensive perfume to give him and scrubbing the dirt of the road off his feet with her hair was the same to Jason as setting her head on the chopping block. Yet, beyond the insanity of the situation, she did it anyway.
When Father Jacobs visited from St. Augustine’s Chapel, Jason always asked to go last. All he wanted to do was talk, and he wasn’t in the mood to make men whose souls depended on confession wait. Jason would have his interests catered to one way or another and he finally understood patience as a virtue, not just a handy ability during stake-outs.
When Jason started seminary, he came to the conclusion prison was purgatory. It was time to cleanse his soul and pay back some of the anger and hate he’d given the world. In changed him in some ways, fortified him in others, but most of all it helped him find himself. Jason would never be the calm voice of reason, but he seemed rather adept at being the annoyed snark of reality. His temper was volatile, but a prayer - or fifteen - a day kept the doctors from taping up his hands. Jason loved dogs, hated cats, thought children under five were the cutest damned things and teenagers needed to be locked in iron cages until their hormones evened out. Most of all, Jason realized he didn’t need Bruce, and the only reason he’d ever thought he did was because he loved him. So Jason wrote letters.
Sometimes, Alfred would pen him a five page epic on the going-ons of Wayne Manor, making veiled comments to the active nightlife of his brothers. Bruce was only mentioned briefly, and he never wrote back himself, but It was alright. Jason was finally talking to him and if Alfred was writing back, it meant Bruce had read them. That was all he wanted.
The last letter Jason wrote from prison was to ask a favor. Instead of a response, the day he was released - forty years early, he noted with pride - the guards gave him an envelope with a deed of ownership, a list of phone numbers, and an address.
Bruce had built him a church in Crime Alley, just like he’d asked. Reverend Todd had smiled at the guard and stepped out into the world, ready to battle the demons of the night, all over again.
This time, though, he had a much bigger stick.
-