#and half

Eddie: They aren’t together anymore shoot your shot

Stan: He’s not together anymore

This is what nobody tells you about the aftermath of a fight: Adrenaline takes a while to leave your system, even when the threat is gone it is still buzzing inside of you.

The silence feels like an invisible weight setting on your shoulders, the echoes of the battle still ring inside of your ears, you can almost taste the vibrations of the swords hitting their targets.

This is what nobody tells you about the aftermath of a battle: Blood dries fast. It starts with the edges and makes its way to the center, the process much quicker than most people believe it to be, staining everything.

The smell of blood is overpowering as it clings to every surface you can see, as it dries on your clothes, your weapons, your hands, your mouth. You know, in a part of your mind you are not truly paying attention to, that you will have to throw away those clothes- Blood doesn't leave them as easy as it does armour.

This is a lie they tell you about the aftermath of a slaughter: It's poetic. There is no poetry in this, the blood drying on the white walls is not artful, it's just blood splashed without care, the sounds of the dying don't sound like music, they sound like pain, like regret, like begging.

The victors are not heroes standing proudly side by side, they are warriors shaking with left over adrenaline, whimpering in pain as they hold their wounds, eyes haunted.

This is what they don't want to admit to you in the aftermath of a massacre: It feels good.

You are standing in the middle of a Federation office as the world buzzes around you, as people talk and walk, as time keeps ticking away. Your hands are painted red with dried blood, you don't know if the blood on your armor belongs to you or to any of the bodies on the floor. You don't care. Blood paints your face like a mask, you know you must look like a demon, like a monster.

Good.

They are the ones who made you into one. It's fitting that it's the last thing they see.

It is still alive. Barely but still, a part of you is actually impressed about It's resistance and endurance. The white fur is barely recognizable under the blood, this blood is still fresh, still vivid red and wet as it leaks from the wounds, the eyes are as emotionless as they have always been.

You wonder if It can even feel pain.

You hope It does.

An arm is thrown, almost carelessly, over your shoulders and you tense, hand gripping the sword tighter but you recognize the person easily enough. Your shoulders are still tense, but you don't attack.

"Good fight"

Etoiles' smile looks out of place in the situation, the cheer on his voice foreign. There is a wound still closing on his forehead, his hair is painted red with blood you are half sure doesn't belong to him, his scythe is carelessly thrown over his shoulder already gleaming as if cleaning it was the first thing he did, his armor is in much better state than your own.

You just nod back, still staring at It. Etoiles hums, not bothered by your tense posture or your dismissive gesture, his shoulders in contrast are relaxed, his expression peaceful.

It's a sharp contrast to what it was moments before. The grin as sharp as steel, the eyes so dark they could as well be voids, the laughter that could be heard over the screams and the swords.

He looks at It and tilts his head to the side, curious but not overly so. Etoiles is a fighter at heart, you don't think he could understand your urge, your desire, to stare at It, he would have ended it as soon as he could, he doesn't understand but he respects your needs.

There is another presence arriving next to Etoiles and he turns to grin at the newcomer who, again, just gives him a grim nod back, eyes fixed on It, his weapon still in hand.

You are surprised by the dark satisfaction shinning in Philza's eyes but maybe you shouldn't. It's easy to forget that the friendly and calm man atop off the wall has a past as drenched in blood as yours, probably even more as the whispers of death cling to him like a second skin, they never said an angel of death had to be merciful after all. You wonder who he was before, no common man would take to planning this as easily as he did, no common man would walk among the slaughter as if there was nothing amiss, no common man would ignore the blood so easily.

You recognize someone welcoming back a part of their past.

Almost on their own accord your eyes drift to the rest of the room, cataloging who is still here.

Baghera is the furthest away, her weapon nowhere to be seen as she crouches on the ground to speak to terrified figures, hands clean as she holds them up in a non threatening position.

Your own hands clench on your sword fighting the instinct to go to her, to stand guard at her side because you don't trust them. Those workers, those survivors who she insisted on protecting, on forgiving, when they dropped their weapons and begged, you don't trust them to not put a sword to her back, a knife to her gut, to repay her kindness with pain and betrayal.

You don't understand her need to save them, but you respect it.

You only relax when you make eye contact with Forever. He is just a few steps behind her and he has his sword in hand even if his posture is as non threatening as it can be, he looks between you two and nods just once, determined, and you nod back.

He has tried to clean the blood from his face, perhaps to look less frightening to the workers, but there is only so much you can do about it. You have to turn away because you hate how blank his eyes look, you hate how haunted his expression is.

Some people are just not made for the bloodshed.

Others, you suppose, are far too used to it.

You never saw Fit's face as blank as it is now. He is more statue than man as he leans against one of the blood soaked walls, posture tense as if he expects an attack at any moment, eyes anywhere but here. This man is a survivor, you realize tilting your head to the side, this is a man who has had to suffer and made others suffer before.

You almost smile when Pac approaches him. You would if you thought your lips could remember how to move to that position, as your friend leans against him without words, taking a bloodied hand on his own, equally as red.

Fit relaxes, just the tiniest bit, and squeezes the hand back.

They will be okay. Not today, not tomorrow, maybe not for a long time, but as long as they have each other you know they will heal.

Your eyes look for your beloved next.

Roier is already looking at you and you have to break eye contact first. You don't know what he is seeing but you know it can't be good.

No one likes to see a monster.

No one can love a monster.

It was good having him by your side. You hope he knows your heart, as cursed and dark as it may be, will always belong to him.

You focus on his hand instead, in the way blood has dried all over it, the way he didn't bother to wipe it off. They are protectively on Jaiden's shoulders as she is kneeling on the floor crying so hard her whole body is shaking.

Osito Bimbo's head is laid on her lap as she tenderly brushes the fur of his forehead, her tears falling on him non stop. There is a dark crimson circle on his chest, a straight hole where once a heart used to beat, gravity is making the blood sweep out of the hole on his chest and into her lap but she doesn't care.

You don't know who killed him.

You hope, for her sake, that it was quick.

Foolish is sitting cross legged on the floor next to Jaiden and as usual you cannot for the life of you understand what is going through his mind. As if feeling your eyes on him he turns his attention away from Jaiden to look at you, the grin that he sends in your direction is as bright as the sun, his eyes mischievous as he stares at It and then back at you in something that is both a question and a challenge.

It's a bit uncanny how natural the blood soaking him looks. Red blood, not a drop of his own.

The only sound in the room is Tubbo.

The kid is crying, his sobs come from somewhere inside of his chest, painful to hear in their heartbreak.

Fred's body is laying in his lap as well, Tubbo's hands are still uselessly pressing against the wound on his side that has long since stopped bleeding. Pierre's work you know, and a part of you think it was deserved even as Tubbo cries and cries over someone he thought loved him back.

He will realize the truth one day, you hope, he will realize that WA02 made a choice. He will realize that in the end his loyalty, or his fear you will never know, spoke louder and he chose the losing side.

It's a pity that Tubbo has to suffer but you will not mourn someone responsible for causing pain to your family.

Another touch brings your attention back.

Bagi is at your side, staring at you with familiar unfamiliar eyes. As she once promised she is as drenched in blood as you, it clings to her with the same natural way it does to you, you have no doubts that in this moment you two truly look like twins.

She looks at It like it's a piece of garbage on the floor, mouth twisted in disgust and her eyes are hard, determined. She isn't enjoying it, not like you, but you understand she doesn't see a problem either.

"End this." She tells you "It has to be you."

A part of you doesn't want to. A part of you want to just stay here and watch as It slowly and painfully dies, as life leaves It's body with each drop of blood, wants to heal It just to inflict the same fate over and over again.

Death sounds too merciful.

But Bagi is looking at you and as you look at Philza he also nods just once, Etoiles pats you in the shoulder and pushes you forward just a bit. You press your lips together, taking a deep breath.

You take your knife.

It makes no sound as you slashes It's throat.

It doesn't make you feel better, but it also doesn't make you worse so you take it as a victory.

Mike arrives seconds later, eyes still haunted as they have been since his return, but his smile is calculating, delighted and you are glad that at least you can give him that. He hands you the control of the explosives almost vibrating with excitement.

You all leave together, in deep silence.

Roier helps Jaiden carry Osito's body, Fit helps Tubbo carry Fred's body.

As you stand outside you look at Bagi.

You offer her the control of the explosives and you think you remember the smile she gives you, the way her eyes crinkle on the sides.

You hold her hand as the Federation burns. Roier joins you on the other side, squeezing your hand like a life line.

All the interesting little tidbits you could pick out of gamut of terrible to mid post utrh pre nu52 appearances, are left to subtext(because in the times he was being written being hinted at being queer just made you a 'darker'/'mature', throw away lines that might imply things like CSA and such were used to make him seem more irredeemable, blah, blah).

As ham fisted the 'war on drugs' narrative was as a product of the times and the writer, the underlying conflict of his appearance in those comics was the conflict he created by presenting a different option to Bruce's way of doing things. In the comics it's EXPLICITLY mentioned that crime is DOWN post Red Hood takeover.

Basically, her was Ghostmaker before Min Khoa became a thing.(if Min Khoa is actually a newer character and not some obscure callback refitted for the modern era).

His purpose was to point out Bruce's flaws in thinking, in his rules. To shine a light on the collateral of Bruce's actions and lack thereof. As many have pointed out he is the 'imperfect victim' violent, vengeful and threatening.

Because he was framed as being a RIVAL to Bruce in fighting, in planning, in manipulation.

But we can't let that kind of narrative stand, not in any of the Batman comics he appeared in after that.

There is, of course, the fact that many writers for DC had a grudge against Jason and have explicitly mentioned hating him since his days as ROBIN, before Winick did the utrh storyline.

His narrative purpose as a dark mirror for Bruce couldn't stand, because if it did they would have to face him killing actually named characters in Gotham. Or even showing Batman in a negative light if they truly wanted to dig into a conflict between the characters.

Instead he was stretched like taffy and shoved into whatever mold a writer could conceivable crunch him into(like more than one comic book character). So he alternates(before nu52/rebirth) between a mad, delusional sociopath or a cold, calculated danger with all of Batman's talents and none of his restraint. He also seesaws between incompetent and dangerous depending on which character they want him to prop up or knock down depending on their personal tastes.

Ignoring any pre-established motivations or system of morality that he explicitly HAD in his first post-resurrection appearance.

I like Jason Todd for the characters potential and like most comic book readers I take what I want from the comics and ignore everything else because that's my prerogative.

There's a REASON those that are fans of his character want him to either be a villain again or to be mostly removed from Batman comics except for select cameos and it has EVERYTHING to do with the fact that he can never live up to his potential as a character when in those kind of ensembles.

Because writers don't want to or CANT by editorial mandate, use him for the purpose he was created for post-ressurection.

This is coming from a guy who fucking LOVES fix-it and Batfamily fics, but as many can attest--what you like in ur fanfic is entirely different from what you might like from the original material.

A Day And A Half

A DAY AND A HALF

A DAY AND A HALF

A DAY AND A HALF

A DAY AND A HALF

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A HALF AND A DAY

A AND DAY HALF

DAY A HALF AND