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[personal profile] munnin
Title: Homesickness.
Rating: G
Characters: Jason with passing references to rest of the Batclan.
Disclaimer: No ownership, no profit and no offence meant. Everyone is of the age of consent in their country and period of history
Author’s notes: 100% organic. May contain minor flaws and imperfections that beta-treated slash wouldn’t.
Summary: The smallest thing can make you pine for home.

Note: Hey guys, it’s been a long time I know and I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m a long way from home and feeling it tonight. Somehow Jason found the words for me.


It’s the dumb things that hurt.’ Jason mused as he trudged up the stairs to the hovel he used as a base. It wasn’t bad...comparatively. He’d lived worse places. At least the water was still connected and no-one seemed to have noticed the power he was siphoning from the building next door. His ‘penthouse suite’ was the top floor of an abandoned factory by the docks with easy access to the rooftops of Gotham and a view of the harbour if you stood on tiptoe to peer through the cracked and greasy glass. It stank of the factories nearby, was never dark or quiet enough and no matter how he tried to block up the cracks; there was always a draft.

This wasn’t home. It was just a place to sleep.

He didn’t have a home. Not anymore.

His memory of home was a manor on the outskirts of the city, literally a lifetime ago.

It was the dumb things that hurt; stupid little things that made him homesick as hell. Not just the obvious ones likes like Alfred’s cooking or the knowledge that there was always a warm, clean bed waiting after a long patrol but little things. The scent of a fabric softener Alfred used on the clothes of the woman who pushes past him on the train. It had gutted him so badly and so abruptly he nearly missed his stop. Or the way a young man on the station tussled his little brother’s hair as Jason walked by, his smile so like Dick’s. Buying groceries and seeing the little bars of nougat Bruce loved; the ones Alfred would hoard for just that moment when Bruce needed something. He was still so angry with Bruce, over the Joker, over the replacement, over everything and yet his fingers itched to buy one just because they were familiar.

But he didn’t.

Red Hood had no home, needed no home. He needed to be a ghost in the wind, a shadow in a city of shadows. The draft-ridden warehouse had more weapons that furniture and was lined with traps set to burn the place to the ground if he ever needed to cover his tracks. It was a place he could turn his back on in a moment’s notice when the time came.

Jason stowed his shopping away, no longer hungry and flopped down on the stained and crushed mattress that served as a bed. With a bitter chuckle that echoed coldly in the empty space, he clicked his booted heels together.

There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home.

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