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In all honesty, Bruce had never intended to involve Jason in his… evening affairs.
But as Alfred had once helpfully pointed out; what else had he really expected to happen?
Bruce had known he’d had to do something with the boy, that night a few months ago when they’d first met. Granted, adopting him on sight had been a rather impulsive decision, something he’s never been prone to doing outside of his public persona.
And while it had helped his image - and by proxy, that of Wayne Enterprises’ - it doesn’t mean he’d done it as his public persona. At least not the one the public knows so well anyway.
It had been Bruce Wayne who’d made that decision, who’d offered companionship to a child desperately in need of one, who’d reached out instead of withdrawing into himself like he usually would under any other circumstances involving voluntary human interaction.
So why on Earth is it Batman whose approval the boy seems to sought?
The first few weeks of Jason Peter Todd joining the Wayne Household had been hell on Bruce’s sleep schedule, as abnormal as it already had been. Rather than the one or two precious hours of rest he would usually get, he’d gotten none. His thoughts had been too preoccupied with the boy to shut off.
Despite knowing Bruce is Batman - or perhaps because of it then? - Jason had been wary of Bruce whenever they were in the same room together. He’d been jumpy and cautious, speaking only when spoken to, keeping his eyes always anywhere but on Bruce.
It’d been as if Jason had been scared of him, and Bruce hadn’t been able to - and still isn’t able to - fathom why.
When he’d asked Alfred about it, Alfred had simply levelled a flat stare at him in response, as if Bruce had asked him the most obnoxious question he’d ever heard from him to date. Considering Alfred’s staunch opinions on Bruce’s choice to moonlight as Batman on a nightly basis, it’s an impressive feat to make him think Bruce had done something even more obnoxious than that.
On the other hand, Jason had shown no such fear whenever in the presence of Batman. Which had been often, in the past two months.
Bruce had sometimes returned to the cave after patrols to find Jason sitting at the computer there, reading through his case files and generally fiddling around with the controls. Instead of making himself scarce and withdrawing into himself like he usually does with Bruce, Jason would perk up at Batman’s return and instantly bombard him with numerous, quick-fire questions.
How does this thing work? What’s your suit made of? Is it bullet-proof? Fire-proof? Do you have a remote-controlled Batarang like the cars they sell down at the plaza?
The first time Bruce had heard the word Batarang, he’d been at a loss. Then Jason had helpfully explained that it’s what he calls the bladed projectiles Bruce uses in fights. According to him, since they’re bat-shaped and they’re pretty much boomerangs, then voilà; they’re Batarangs.
And then Jason had proceeded to call the cave; the Batcave, the computer; the Batcomputer, the car; the Batmobile and-
Well, he’d been so excited talking about everything, Bruce hadn’t had the heart to discourage his obsession with tacking everything in Batman’s arsenal with the eponymous prefix of Bat.
It’d been the first few times Bruce had ever seen Jason display any sort of emotion besides timidness and caution since he’d taken the boy in, and if the pleasant swell of warmth in Bruce’s chest as he’d listen to the boy talk enthusiastically hadn’t been enough reason to allow him to continue, then Alfred’s approving nod in the background had certainly been the deciding factor.
But then Jason would revert back to silence whenever Bruce would take off the suit, and Bruce would be at a loss all over again.
It comes to a head when, four months, two weeks and three days since Jason had officially become a Wayne, Jason accidentally destroys an antique vase on display in the sitting room.
Bruce had been in the middle of a mind-numbing board meeting Lucius had blackmailed him into attending when Alfred had sent him a message on their emergency line.
Master Jason’s been in an accident.
The one, deceptively innocent statement had left Bruce in a shock.
He’d zoned out for seventy-two seconds, his mind playing back to a dark night that had started out ideally for a family of three. His ears had rung with the deafening explosion of gunshots in the cold night air, and when Bruce had looked away from his phone, he’d found himself standing once more in the middle of a deserted street, his parents lying prone and lifeless not three feet ahead of him-
He’s not sure what excuse he’d given to the board when he’d left the meeting, nor how he’d even gotten back to the manor in one piece.
But he hadn’t expected to find Alfred standing in wait calmly by the door, and Bruce had returned to reality with the confusion.
“Where is he?”
Alfred points over at the sitting room, and Bruce doesn’t waste another second to rush in there.
He’d expected to find Jason wrapped in bandages from head to toe, lying still on the chaise lounge in front of the fire, or at least looking like he’d ‘been in an accident’.
Instead, he finds Jason curled up in one corner of the chaise, his face buried in his knees and his tiny form so tensed that Bruce thinks he might as well have been made of stone with how taut he is. Barbara is kneeling on the floor in front of him, cooing gently and trying to coax him out of his stupor.
“Bruce,” she says when she notices him approach, standing up herself with a helpless look on her face. “Thank god you’re here. He’s been like this for an hour.”
“What happened?”
Bruce doesn’t take his eyes off of Jason, who doesn’t seem to register his presence at all.
“He was messing around because he didn’t want to do a Math quiz, and then he threw the book across the room.” Barbara points to the other side of the room, where Bruce realizes that one of the vases that had been on a shelf is now a priceless heap of broken, fifteen-thousand-year-old Chinese porcelain. “It was an accident. I should’ve been more strict, Bruce, I’m so-”
Bruce rests a hand on her shoulder and shakes his head. “It’s fine, Barbara,” he says to her, although his gaze is once more on his immobile son. “You can go home now. Thank you for staying with him.”
“Are you sure? If you need me to help-”
“I’ll handle it.”
Barbara hesitates, and Bruce spares her a glance and a brief squeeze of her shoulder. She relaxes minutely under his touch, and looks down at Jason with hesitation.
“It was an accident,” she says again.
Bruce nods curtly. “I know. It’s fine.”
She finally leaves with one last, worried look at her student, and Bruce sits down on the chaise next to Jason.
The boy still hasn’t moved a muscle, and Bruce leans his arms on his knees and buries his face in his hands and wonders what the hell he’s supposed to say to the kid.
He remembers a time when he’d had a similar experience, when he’d been five and he’d destroyed his father’s 3D model of an expansion plan for Gotham General. He’d been terrified of the repercussions, fear petrifying his little body as he’d watched the model collapse in what had felt like slow motion.
His whole world had narrowed down to that one point in time, as he’d watched his father’s hard work go down in less than five seconds, knowing that it had been his fault. That he’d wasted his father’s precious time and effort, and for nothing less than a ridiculous game of solitary ball throwing. He’d felt so awful, he’d thought he was dying.
But his father hadn’t gotten angry when he’d seen what Bruce had done. If anything, he’d been amused.
You’re right, he’d said, ruffling Bruce’s hair and crouching down until they were almost eye level. He’d gazed at the destroyed model with a thoughtful look on his face. That wasn’t good enough, was it? What do you think would make it better, Bruce? You always have the best ideas. We can rebuild it together.
Bruce doesn’t know Jason enough to know if Jason does have the best ideas, and it’s not like he knows a thing about how to start restoring a priceless piece of historical art.
He’s never- as much as he treasures the fond memories of his late parents’ warmth and love, Bruce has zero knowledge of caring for children himself, although he knows that this moment, right now; whatever he says to Jason will have a critical impact on the boy. Bruce could care less about the pretentious vase, but Jason evidently doesn’t feel the same way.
Bruce isn’t sure how to best let Jason understand that without making things between them worse, but he knows he has to damn well try.
“It was pretty ugly,” he says aloud, looking up and gazing into the fireplace. “I owe you a thank you for taking care of it for me.”
He doesn’t think it’s enough, by any means, but he can sense Jason stirring slowly from next to him at least, and he sees the boy’s head lifting from out of the corner of his eye.
Bruce waits another moment to let the fact that he’s not angry at Jason for breaking an expensive antique ornament before he continues, “Alfred might need help with the cleaning up, of course, but I’m sure you’re alright with holding the dustpan while he sweeps. Aren’t you, Jason?”
Jason doesn’t say anything, but he also doesn’t curl back up into himself like Bruce is going to- to blow up at him at any second. It feels odd, being so aware of another’s fears besides his own, of being responsible for it, and Bruce swallows discreetly before standing up from the chaise.
“I have to get back to work now, but I’ll be happy to take you shopping for new decor later if you’re interested,” he says.
He’s not expecting an answer to that, and doesn’t get one, but Bruce doesn’t know what else to do. He thinks it’s enough that the boy knows he’s not going to be punished for a harmless accident, and he’s about to take his leave and speak to Alfred about disposing of the broken vase before anyone could get hurt when something catches on the back of his jacket.
He looks down to see a tiny hand gripping onto it, fingers so slim and short that they might as well belong to a toddler and not the eight-year-old boy he’d picked up from Crime Alley.
Jason’s bright, teal eyes are looking up at him with confusion, brimming with unshed tears, and it’s such a jarring sight that Bruce actually forgets to breathe for a second.
“You’re- you’re not gonna throw me out? Or- or hit me?”
Jason’s voice is as small as his hand, and even more fragile than Bruce could possibly imagine. This- this is far from the angry, indignant little boy that he’d met, not five months ago, and Bruce realizes with sudden clarity exactly why Alfred’s been so exasperated with him recently.
Bruce reaches down to take the hand in his jacket, ignoring the instinctive flinch from the boy at Bruce’s movement, and turns to kneel down on the floor, until he’s not looming over Jason, but looking at him in the eye. Jason tries to tug his hand out of Bruce’s, but Bruce holds fast and twines their fingers together in what he desperately hopes is a comforting gesture.
“Jason,” he says, measured and calmer than he actually feels.
(Inside, a part of him weeps at the fear that’s been haunting this boy since that night, weeps at his own ignorance and inability to understand earlier what Jason had perceived as a constant threat.
How could he have been so blind to the effects of this boy’s traumas? He’s supposed to be his father now. How has he failed him so quickly and so devastatingly without even realizing it?)
“I will never be able to replace the man that was your father and I would never dream to. But you are my son now, my responsibility. I will never throw you out for as long as I breathe, not even if you wanted me to. There will never be a good enough reason to warrant me letting you go, not until you’re legally an adult and would like to leave of your own free will. And even then, I swear to you, I will never be happy to do so.”
It’s easier than he’d expected to say all that, but Bruce attributes it largely to the fact that’s it’s all true. He means every single word that he’d said, and he only hopes that Jason believes that too.
He watches quietly as Jason sniffs; once, then twice. And then the tears flood over and stream down his cheeks in thick, salty rivulets, and Bruce finds himself with an armful of sobbing boy.
“Do- do you- me-mean that?” Jason wails between sobs, and Bruce only just about manages to understand him as he wraps his arms around the boy’s small form and hugs him tightly.
“With every breath in my body, Jason,” he assures him. “No matter what you do, you’ll always be my boy.”
Jason sobs harder against Bruce’s shoulder, his arms trembling uncontrollably where they’re looped around Bruce’s neck, and Bruce lifts him up and cradles him to his chest before settling back down on the chaise.
“I’m sorry,” Jason babbles. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- to break it- I just-”
“I know, son, I know. It’s alright. It’s just another thing. We have plenty of those to spare.”
Bruce sits there just holding him for a long time, even an hour later, after Jason had fallen asleep in his lap, exhausted from his tears.
He’s thinking.
He’d been avoiding Jason because he’d thought Jason had been avoiding him, and he hadn’t known why until now.
Jason’s been afraid of angering him, of doing something wrong in front of Bruce out of fear that Bruce might throw him back out onto the streets. It’s a ludicrous thought, but not to a child like Jason.
As far as Bruce is aware, Jason’s never had a stable, loving home. His mother had been a drug addict since he’d been two years old, and his father’s a two-bit crook working for Dent. When Jason’s mother had died three years ago, his father had been arrested for a robbery, and Jason would’ve ended up in the Boys’ Home if he hadn’t run away to live on the streets on his own.
That’s when he’d met Batman.
Bruce still doesn’t know how a five-year-old had managed to survive for three years on the streets, much less by himself, and he’s not sure he wants to know the details of that. He’s sure he wouldn’t like any of it, and it’s hard enough not to cross the line to being a murderer with monsters like the Joker and Penguin terrorizing the streets.
He’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself if he finds the bastards that had ever hurt Jason while the boy had been alone and vulnerable and struggling to survive.
(He’s not sure he’ll regret not stopping himself if he does.)
Evidently, wires had been crossed here, and Jason’s fears had gotten the better of him. Bruce thinks it’s about time he remedies that.
“Alfred?”
“Yes, Master Bruce?”
“How soon do you think you could make another Batsuit in Jason’s size?”
“Another Batsuit, sir? Do you think it’s wise to make a miniature version of yourself to bring on your evening romps?”
“Am I hearing a better suggestion?”
“The boy does favour Robin Hood. A more fitting persona given his tendencies, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’ll leave it in your capable hands then.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll have it ready in a week.”
---
Jason thinks Robin is too cheesy a name and green is one of the least intimidating colours for a superhero - Bruce can’t wait to mention that to Jordan at the next League meeting; he’d love that - so he paints the helmet Alfred had made for him with glaring, red spray paint and does the same to the Bat symbol on the chest of his suit’s top, and calls himself Red Hood; protector of the downtrodden.
Brue thinks it’s a little overdramatic, but if it makes Jason happy, well.
Just like Bruce had suspected, Jason thrives in his physical training. He’d already had above average reflexes for someone so young, and once given purpose and direction, they complement his martial arts almost too perfectly in combat.
Jason is fast, and vicious, and with Bruce’s instruction, he grows to be more effective than half the Justice League when it comes to close quarters fighting. Sometimes, Bruce thinks the boy could take him down, and it’s a genuine challenge to keep his own edge so that Jason doesn’t know it.
Street life had made Jason a survivor, and with the formal training Bruce is providing him with, Jason makes for a formidable opponent, especially since he’s not above fighting dirty.
Bruce is still a little wary of bringing him out on patrol, even after three months of Jason eagerly training and learning under Batman. But the boy’s been getting restless, impatient to apply the skills he’s learning, and Bruce has unfortunately developed a weakness against Jason’s pouting, puppy-dog eyes.
(He wonders if he’d ever done that to his parents, and Alfred assures him that he most certainly had.)
So Bruce takes him with him, three nights a week, and only after he’s done the homework Barbara’s assigned.
Their first night together had been terrible, at least for Bruce. He’d been hyper-aware of Jason’s position and movements every second since they’d left the cave, worried that the boy might have landed wrong, or someone might have gotten the better of him.
He’d been so distracted being worried about Jason that he’d missed several punches and had allowed himself to get hit far too many times than usual.
Not to mention, the vile, disgusting things the criminals they’d faced had sneered at the boy, the allusions that Batman had taken up a sidekick so young because of his predilections.
(Bruce had maybe been a little more violent than necessary with a group of low-level street thugs that night, but he’s not even sorry that he doesn’t regret it at all.)
Bruce had changed his mind once they’d retired for the night, about to tell Jason that he might have to wait until he were a little older before he could officially be Red Hood - maybe twenty, if Bruce is feeling generous - but Jason had been so pumped up and excitedly recalling the fights he’d won and the men he’d beaten up and the one mugging victim he’d single-handedly saved that Bruce hadn’t been able to get the words out of his mouth.
“That was awesome, B! Did you see how I did that fwoosh move thing you taught me? Wasn’t it great? I took down the jerk just like that! It was so freaking cool!”
How could Bruce possibly take that away from him with good conscience?
He couldn’t, of course. So he hadn’t.
They’d kept patrolling together, and after a few weeks, Bruce finally learns to trust that Jason’s perfectly capable of holding his own in a fight. That Bruce had taught him well and that the caution and the lessons that Bruce had imparted on him had actually stuck, had actually tempered the old recalcitrant rage that had once embodied the boy.
Watching Jason in action now almost takes Bruce’s breath away with pride and warmth, and Bruce can’t remember a day when he hadn’t had someone to trust to have his back while he fights against the dark underbelly of Gotham’s criminal underground.
(He still has nightmares, and he often wakes up in a cold sweat after the sight of Jason’s cold, lifeless eyes staring back at him; his cheeks streaked with blood and his young face contorted in an accusatory expression.
But Bruce is no stranger to fear and Jason’s happiness trumps any fear Bruce could ever have to experience.
Besides; that’s what the tracker in Jason’s arm and all the emergency protocols he’d set up with Alfred are for.)
Jason’s insightful too, in a precocious, child-like way. Bruce knows it’s partially a result of his broken childhood, but it doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate it whenever Jason says something from a perspective that Bruce had never seen, as much as he tries to be objective in everything that he does.
For example-
“You know, just beating them all up and dropping them off at GCPD isn’t a very good long-term plan,” Jason says.
They’re taking a break and eating on the gargoyle of the church’s belltower, and Jason had finished his food in seconds earlier and had started walking along the narrow ledge, practising his balance.
Bruce doesn’t bother saying anything, because Jason never needs him to if he has an idea or a question. Whether or not Bruce responds, Jason will tell him about it anyway.
As expected, Jason continues, eyes set on the ledge in front of him and his brows furrowed in concentration as he speaks and strives not to fall over at the same time.
“It’s like, all we’re doing is hurting them, you know?” he’s saying. “Sure, we stop them this time, but they’ll just get out again and keep doing it anyway? And we stop them again, but they come out again, and we keep doing the same thing, over and over. It’s a few- fert- a fertile effort?”
“Futile.”
“Futile effort! Yeah! Like Alfred says about getting you to sleep.”
“Did he now?”
“Yeah. Anyway, if it’s futile, why do you keep doing it?”
“Because the same stubborn fools might keep trying, but others might know better than to try in the first place. Batman is a symbol, Hood. More than anything, he is a cautionary tale.”
“That sounds great and all, but it doesn’t really help, does it?”
“It sounds like you have a better idea.”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? I know a lot of these assholes-”
“Language.”
“Sorry. I mean jerks. I know a lot of them, you know? From before. I know why they’re robbing people and working for Two-Face and doing stupid sh- crap. It’s ‘coz they have mouths to feed. Families to take care of. Some of ‘em, they don’t even like being mean, but they have to ‘coz it’s the only thing they get paid to do. All I’m sayin’ is, beating them up doesn’t help them do that, you know? It doesn’t solve the problem.”
“Are you suggesting that Batman pays them to work instead?”
“That’s stupid, of course not. Why would you wanna work for the guy that put you in prison? But Bruce Wayne helped me, didn’t he? And I was a crook too.”
Jason falls silent, stops moving on the center of the ledge. His eyes are downcast, and Bruce can see that he’s really given this topic a lot of thought.
“… Why can’t he help everyone else?”
It’s a simplistic solution, something that could only be viable to a child, because he has a valid point; why can’t Bruce Wayne help everyone?
The short answer is he can. But the reality of it isn’t as easy.
In an ideal world, Bruce could certainly offer unlimited forms of employment to the unskilled public, and everyone would get fair wages and enough food on the table every night and not have to worry about keeping the roof over their heads and having their power cut off because they couldn’t pay the bill on time.
In an ideal world, Bruce wouldn’t have had to watch his parents die in front of his own eyes, helpless and afraid, too weak to save them and too scared to run; and now, too scarred to let go.
But they don’t live in an ideal world and Bruce can’t help everyone, even if he wanted to.
(And a part of him doesn’t want to, although he could never admit that to Jason.
The part of him that hates these bastards, that holds them all collectively responsible for the unfair deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne; that part of him wants them all to suffer, regardless of their circumstances.
It’s a part of him that he is ashamed of, but only because it would disappoint Alfred, and likely scare Jason.
In the deepest, darkest parts of his heart, Bruce Wayne thrives on that desire.)
For all of Bruce’s money, Wayne Enterprises isn’t run solely on his word alone, and like every company in existence, it would never condone a decision that would not only result in exuberant losses, but which wouldn’t even bring in any profit.
It’s a quarterly challenge to keep the board amenable to the Wayne Foundation as it is, and Bruce knows that if anything were to happen to him or Lucius, the Foundation would be dissolved immediately.
Jason’s idealistic solution is endearing, if not impractical, and Bruce feels a burst of that warmth he’s been experiencing lately flood his chest once more under his armour.
“I’m sure Bruce Wayne is trying to,” he says.
Jason looks up at him, his expression uncertain, but the perk of his shoulders giving away a clear sign of his eager hopefulness.
“In the meantime, Batman and Red Hood have their own work to do. Let's go.”
(On the other hand…
It’s not like Bruce doesn’t have the authority to increase the budget for the Foundation, and if some of the convicted felons do want to turn over a new leaf but simply don’t have alternative options to do so, there are courses available that they can complete, trainings for them to pick up practical skills that would provide them with those options.
Just enough to make them productive members of society, enough to give them a second chance that they otherwise wouldn’t get.
In all honesty, it’s not that the idea hadn’t occurred to Bruce before. He just hadn’t cared enough to think too much about it. He hadn’t wanted to.
But Jason’s so full of light, despite the horrible things he’s been through at such a young age. He’s still so naïve in spite of the things that he’s seen, that he’s had to do to survive.
How can Bruce be a good father to him if he doesn’t start letting that light into his own life too?
Bruce will try; not because of the scum of Gotham, but because of Jason.
Bruce would give the boy the world at this point, if only Jason would ask.)
"Wanna bet I could make the jump to that roof over there?"
"Hm. A week's allowance."
"You're on, old man!"