Ficlet: On the Corner | DCU | Jason Todd | R | 1/1
Title: On the Corner
Fandom: DCU
Character: Jason Todd
Rating: R
Word Count: 854
Prompt: For 50_darkfics: Ghost
Summary: Jason finds himself in a familiar place, and confronts a very dark part of his past.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own everything. The schmucks.
Author's Notes: Follows Just Another Night Out. That ficlet was supposed to have been the start of a series looking at Jason's life before Bruce took him in, but it wasn't meant to be after all. I think this pretty much sums up what I'd wanted to write. Also, I'm pretending Jay was 13 when Bruce took him in, rather than 12, but he'd been out there working for a long while.
Warning: References to underage prostitution and smoking (13-year-old Jay), physical abuse, rape, torture, and murder.
On the Corner
If Jason doesn't get some nicotine in him pronto, he might just have to break someone's arm. After the night he's had, busting dealers and pimps left and right for hours on end and getting nothing but a bunch of bruised ribs and a busted lip for it, he's sure no one would blame him, either.
But his team would likely kick his ass for sending another loser to the hospital, and since there's a fresh pack in his jacket, there's no point in not getting a little fix to take the edge off his frustration. Finding a good rooftop to pause for a break before heading back to the Clock Tower, he settles on the concrete ledge, dangling his legs over the side to watch the street corner six floors below. It's pretty quiet at this hour on this particular block. Always has been. Probably why he was able to get away with-
Freezing with his Zippo halfway to the cigarette dangling from his lips, he realizes with a shock of cold adrenaline that this used to be his corner.
Back before daddy Bats found him boosting the tires from the Batmobile, Jason spent more than a few nights-six months worth of nights, more like-on this very corner, peddling himself to johns three and four times his age. It was good money at the time, even if it did come with the risk of getting his stupid twelve and thirteen-year-old ass raped or killed.
Forcing himself to finish lighting up as his heart pounds with old unfocused rage, he takes a long, shaky drag of the same brand cigarette he's smoked since even before then-minus those brain-dead years in between his death and dunking in the Pit-and rolls the smoke around in his mouth the same way he used to to entice his customers. Slow twist of his tongue, rounding of his lips, fat smoke rings to show just how much he could take.
He thinks maybe if he squints hard enough, he can see the ghost of the dumb ass kid he used to be still standing there, leaning against the light post and blowing those smoke rings at whatever old bastard pulled up to the curb. He can see himself flicking the ashes off his cig onto the sidewalk, just as he does now, quick little thumb twitch, and lean back, arms folded over his scrawny chest, legs crossed at the ankles. He was such an arrogant brat, oozed sex and fucking knew it, didn't give a shit how much trouble he attracted so long as the money was right.
His cocky little attitude did wind up getting him hurt, too, much as he was loathe to admit it, and more than once, not even counting his run-ins with penicillin and the rashes that wouldn't quit. The first time, the creep smacked him around after one too many snarky remarks until he almost passed out from the pain of a cracked cheekbone. He's still got the burn scars that even the Pit couldn't erase to prove the second time. Third time, well, suffice it to say he wasn't exactly a virgin when Bruce got him the hell off the streets. He doesn't ever want to remember that night, but dreams have a way of making a person hold onto shit from their past, whether they want to or not, and sometimes clowns and coffins are the least of what has him screaming awake in a cold sweat.
Still, he was damn lucky that was the worst of it. He could've wound up like the kid down the block, kept by a pimp and high on coke every night. Or the one girl he found strangled and bludgeoned in the alley two blocks down just a few days before Bruce took him home. Or the other kid in his building that froze to death; he at least made enough cash to keep the damn heat on in his rat hole of a place. Most of the time.
And every once in a while, he still hears rumors of kids getting tortured out here, carved up into little pieces and passed around like party favors. Hasn't ever caught anyone in the act or gotten a solid lead on anything that serious going down, even through his most unofficial channels, so he holds onto hope that it's all just an urban legend, nothing but talk to keep other brats like him off the corners. This is Gotham, though; anything's possible, and he damn well knows it.
Shivering at the thought, he takes a final long drag from his cig and pushes up from his perch on the ledge, field strips the butt and stows it as he turns away from the darkest part of his past to get moving again. A decade ago, he'd have flicked the butt into the street, caution thrown to the wind, and not cared who took an interest in him-hell, he'd have winked and jutted his hip out in an invitation to trouble-but he supposes some things do change.
Far below him, the ghost on the street corner disagrees.
~*~*~*~
Fandom: DCU
Character: Jason Todd
Rating: R
Word Count: 854
Prompt: For 50_darkfics: Ghost
Summary: Jason finds himself in a familiar place, and confronts a very dark part of his past.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own everything. The schmucks.
Author's Notes: Follows Just Another Night Out. That ficlet was supposed to have been the start of a series looking at Jason's life before Bruce took him in, but it wasn't meant to be after all. I think this pretty much sums up what I'd wanted to write. Also, I'm pretending Jay was 13 when Bruce took him in, rather than 12, but he'd been out there working for a long while.
Warning: References to underage prostitution and smoking (13-year-old Jay), physical abuse, rape, torture, and murder.
On the Corner
If Jason doesn't get some nicotine in him pronto, he might just have to break someone's arm. After the night he's had, busting dealers and pimps left and right for hours on end and getting nothing but a bunch of bruised ribs and a busted lip for it, he's sure no one would blame him, either.
But his team would likely kick his ass for sending another loser to the hospital, and since there's a fresh pack in his jacket, there's no point in not getting a little fix to take the edge off his frustration. Finding a good rooftop to pause for a break before heading back to the Clock Tower, he settles on the concrete ledge, dangling his legs over the side to watch the street corner six floors below. It's pretty quiet at this hour on this particular block. Always has been. Probably why he was able to get away with-
Freezing with his Zippo halfway to the cigarette dangling from his lips, he realizes with a shock of cold adrenaline that this used to be his corner.
Back before daddy Bats found him boosting the tires from the Batmobile, Jason spent more than a few nights-six months worth of nights, more like-on this very corner, peddling himself to johns three and four times his age. It was good money at the time, even if it did come with the risk of getting his stupid twelve and thirteen-year-old ass raped or killed.
Forcing himself to finish lighting up as his heart pounds with old unfocused rage, he takes a long, shaky drag of the same brand cigarette he's smoked since even before then-minus those brain-dead years in between his death and dunking in the Pit-and rolls the smoke around in his mouth the same way he used to to entice his customers. Slow twist of his tongue, rounding of his lips, fat smoke rings to show just how much he could take.
He thinks maybe if he squints hard enough, he can see the ghost of the dumb ass kid he used to be still standing there, leaning against the light post and blowing those smoke rings at whatever old bastard pulled up to the curb. He can see himself flicking the ashes off his cig onto the sidewalk, just as he does now, quick little thumb twitch, and lean back, arms folded over his scrawny chest, legs crossed at the ankles. He was such an arrogant brat, oozed sex and fucking knew it, didn't give a shit how much trouble he attracted so long as the money was right.
His cocky little attitude did wind up getting him hurt, too, much as he was loathe to admit it, and more than once, not even counting his run-ins with penicillin and the rashes that wouldn't quit. The first time, the creep smacked him around after one too many snarky remarks until he almost passed out from the pain of a cracked cheekbone. He's still got the burn scars that even the Pit couldn't erase to prove the second time. Third time, well, suffice it to say he wasn't exactly a virgin when Bruce got him the hell off the streets. He doesn't ever want to remember that night, but dreams have a way of making a person hold onto shit from their past, whether they want to or not, and sometimes clowns and coffins are the least of what has him screaming awake in a cold sweat.
Still, he was damn lucky that was the worst of it. He could've wound up like the kid down the block, kept by a pimp and high on coke every night. Or the one girl he found strangled and bludgeoned in the alley two blocks down just a few days before Bruce took him home. Or the other kid in his building that froze to death; he at least made enough cash to keep the damn heat on in his rat hole of a place. Most of the time.
And every once in a while, he still hears rumors of kids getting tortured out here, carved up into little pieces and passed around like party favors. Hasn't ever caught anyone in the act or gotten a solid lead on anything that serious going down, even through his most unofficial channels, so he holds onto hope that it's all just an urban legend, nothing but talk to keep other brats like him off the corners. This is Gotham, though; anything's possible, and he damn well knows it.
Shivering at the thought, he takes a final long drag from his cig and pushes up from his perch on the ledge, field strips the butt and stows it as he turns away from the darkest part of his past to get moving again. A decade ago, he'd have flicked the butt into the street, caution thrown to the wind, and not cared who took an interest in him-hell, he'd have winked and jutted his hip out in an invitation to trouble-but he supposes some things do change.
Far below him, the ghost on the street corner disagrees.
~*~*~*~