Doors Secrets (doorssecrets) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-07-08 22:11:00 |
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Entry tags: | plot: secrets |
Who: Help
When: Secrets Plot
Warnings: None. Someone has to come out of this okay....
He was trapped, trapped in his body, in his mind - he didn't know what had made death seem so final. But he knew now it was the freedom. The freedom to stop. There was no guilt in death, there was no duty, or obligation, there was nothing but freedom. And in his case? Honor. He'd have had an honorable death. He'd have been mourned and honored and missed. Sure he would have missed out on a long and happy life, but was long and happy ever in the cards? It didn't matter now, not really. He hadn't been given a choice or opportunity.
Which part of him knew he should be grateful for. Grateful for others, not himself, others who needed him. Or one other as the case may be. But that was enough, that was always going to be enough.
He didn't know how to describe the night he'd had. Uneventful and introspective. And accepting. More than anything it was a moment of accepting certain truths that he'd been ignoring. He didn't know who he'd told, or why, but he knew just because he was a prisoner didn't necessarily mean he was being punished.
He needed help, he needed help more than most - and that was saying something. But he found, once again, the message that had been lost in so much turmoil. The reason why they'd devoted themselves to the shadows, the reason why they'd chosen this life. It was a life born out of pain, the choices they made, and the choices that had been made for them were governed by pain and unimaginable loss. Exactly what he was feeling now, pain and betrayal, an unimaginable loss of himself.
It was odd how a loss of oneself would lead a man directly back to everything he'd been trying to escape. But it was okay. Well, nothing was okay, nothing was ever okay. He couldn't quit, he couldn't stop, if he stopped what did that make him exactly? It made him nothing. And perhaps he was - but he was supposed to be.
He didn't feel better, but he wanted to, and he cared to. He found himself walking down a dark street, just one of many he knew like the back of his hand. He found his leisurely pace quickening until he was running he darted down an alley, jumped on top of a dumpster and leaped forward to grab hold of a building's fire escape. He climbed up and up. Sometimes taking the slower option of utilizing the ladder, other times just swinging himself up to the next level. Climbing poles and posts, not looking down, not slowing down, and he didn't stop until he was standing on the corner of a building ledge, one foot on each side and staring out over the rooftops of the city.
It was always windier up here, it was always more peaceful than it was anywhere else. His hair whipped around and he closed his eyes tightly and held his arms out as wide as they would go. He listened, he smelled, he felt, and when he finally opened his eyes again he reached into his phone and dialed the number from memory, even thought he didn't have to.
He got voicemail, and he wasn't surprised so he just cleared his throat a bit before he started speaking, "Hey there little D, it's Grayson. I'm standing on top of the Gotham Bank Building in Midtown just looking around. Best view in the city as long as Bruce isn't listening right?" he chuckled then, clearly if Bruce was listening Wayne Tower had the best view in the city (still wrong). "So, I just stepped out of strange central again - I'm checking on you, making sure everything is a-okay. I think it is. A-okay I mean. I think it is going to be okay. Call back soon and check in. I love you, kid." He exhaled a bit shaky and turned his phone off and went back to taking in the view around him. Cold, dark, lonely, and home. One corner of his mouth turned up slightly.