Chapter Text
Jason hated Galas.
He always had. And with good reason too.
For one, he'd never been allowed to be just a guest.
Never able to simply enjoy the ridiculously named hors d'oeuvres and the drinks that sparkled as much as they bubbled. Never able to be swept away to another place and time by the classical music that resonated through the ballroom like a second heartbeat. Never able to get lost in the sea of people whose jewels and trinkets sparkled like the rippling waters of Bristol Lake during an autumn sunset.
No, he'd never been a guest or afforded the privileges that came with it because he'd always been the entertainment.
The rags to riches street rat whose accent was thicker than the sludge in Gotham's gutters, whose posture screamed 'poor upbringing,' and whose manners were 'most uncivilized.' The sideshow attraction that the city's elite loved to whisper and gawk at.
And it had only gotten worse since he'd officially and publicly 'returned from the dead.' He wasn't just Brucie Wayne's pauper child saved from a life on the cruel streets of Crime Alley anymore. He was the prodigal son, the found son, the son returned, and as far as Gotham's elite was concerned, the son who was better left lost.
They had 'loved' and 'grieved' Jason Todd when he'd died because mourning the idea of a child taken too soon was easy, but embracing the man that child had grown into, who also came back with labels like 'traumatized,' 'unstable,' and 'broken?' Well, that was a hell of a lot harder.
They didn't know what to do with him, and the only reason they tolerated him was because he gave them something to gossip about besides whose husband was fucking whose nanny.
Sure, Bruce had tried his best to mitigate the fallout of Jason's return to public life. He'd hired all the right lawyers, went through all the proper motions, and released an airtight official statement explaining Jason's "perceived" death as a case of mistaken identity and temporary amnesia.
Hell, the old man had even given Jason his last name.
But as much as Bruce tried, Jason knew Gotham's elite would never accept him as a Wayne, as Bruce's son, no matter how many declarations or grand gestures Bruce did that would say otherwise.
He wasn't Gotham's sweetheart like Dick, he wasn't one of their own like Tim, and he wasn't the blood son like Damian. He was the outcast, the black sheep, the stain on the Wayne family tree.
He didn't belong, he wasn't wanted, and wasn't that the story of his life.
So yeah, he fucking hated galas and everything that came with them, including the peanut gallery of one percenters. The only reason he'd even come to this one—after verbally (and colorfully) swearing off on any and all galas—was because Dick had asked him to.
Granted, when he'd said yes to the blue-eyed idiot, he'd been under the impression that Dick had asked him to come as his date. It wasn’t until after he’d arrived at the gala that he realized he was, in fact, not Dick’s date. Which was made abundantly clear when Dick greeted him with not just one of the Crowne twins hanging off his arm, but rather both twins clinging to him like he was some modern-day messiah come to save them from their own selves.
But God did Dick look every bit like the messiah the two women were making him out to be. The midnight blue of his perfectly cut, black lapel tux making his eyes look an inhuman hue of blue that reminded Jason of the oasis waters in Nanda Parbat, his golden skin tanned in a way that no one should be in a city that never saw the sun, and his hair artfully messy in that 'just rolled out of bed' way that nearly drove Jason insane with how badly he wanted to see just how much more he could mess it up.
But what Jason couldn't stop looking at was Dick's perfectly imperfect smile—with its two canines that were just a little too sharp and a little too slanted—that dimpled his cheeks and made the faint crow's feet around his eyes deepen with mirth.
He wanted nothing more than to run his thumb along those fine lines as if, by doing so, he'd discover the secrets of how to bring the other man such happiness that it would be permanently etched into his skin.
But that was the sort of touch shared between lovers in the morning hours of twilight, and lovers they were not, no matter how desperately Jason wished otherwise.
So instead, he plastered a smile on his face and pretended that his heart wasn't breaking into a million fucking tiny pieces as the man he'd loved since he was fourteen-years-old introduced him to the twins and them to him.
Dick had ended up introducing him as his brother, which was probably the worst fucking thing Dick could have gone with since God knew Jason wanted to be everything and anything but the other's man's brother.
Jason's only saving grace in the whole situation was that Dick hadn't introduced the twins as his' dates.' It was a small mercy, but he'd take it.
Dick had barely even finished their introductions before Kaitlyn (or was it Kennedy? Fuck, Jason could never tell them apart) was stomping her foot like a petulant five-year-old and whining in her overly nasally voice that she was 'bored and that Richie just had to dance with her.'
With a slightly strained smile in apology and a promise to 'catch up with Jason later,' Dick allowed the petite blonde to drag him towards the dance floor, leaving Jason behind with a very vexed-looking Kennedy (who could've actually been Kaitlyn for all he knew).
He had tried giving the remaining twin a small smile in an attempt to be polite, but that only resulted in her looking him up and down with a sneer curling her glossy lip and her emphatically saying 'no' before turning on her heel and storming off in the direction that her sister had spirited Dick away to.
Which first of all, Jason hadn't even asked her to dance, let alone wanted to. And secondly, screw her because now everyone in the immediate vicinity was giving him the stink eye like he'd actually done something to offend the Crowne heiress's delicate sensibilities.
Mrs. Dumas—who was wearing at least three endangered species tonight, and hoo-boy, she better hope Damian didn't see her—was already whispering into some other old hag's ear, and he knew by the end of the evening that a rumor about him being a perv or some shit would be in full swing. He just hoped it didn't make its rounds to Vicky Vale, who was no doubt lurking somewhere in the sea of bodies.
The last thing he needed was to make Gotham Gazette's front page… again. He could already see the headline, Jason Todd-Wayne Sexual Deviant!? Crowne Heiress Latest Victim!
For Christ's sake, he hadn't even been here for ten minutes and was already in the middle of his latest bullshit scandal.
He needed a fucking smoke.
— — —
After smoking no less than three Pall Malls on a (blessedly) empty balcony and gurgling a glass of champagne to hide the evidence on his breath, Jason went back inside. He spent most of the night sulking at the open bar and nursing a rum and coke as he watched Dick twirl girl after girl on the dancefloor.
And when he wasn't busy watching Dick dance with everyone but him, Jason was playing a riveting game of hide-and-avoid with Bruce, who kept trying to start painfully awkward small talk with him.
It was a game that Jason was currently losing.
"You should get out there and dance with someone, Jaylad," Bruce said, sidling up to him at the open bar.
Jason hummed, taking a sip of his drink and letting his eyes roam the dance floor as if he was actually considering Bruce's suggestion. Which he absolutely was not. There was only one person Jason wanted to dance with, and said dickhead was currently prancing around like Prince Charming with some gorgeous doctor from Sweden who also just so happened to be part of the royal family because of-fucking-course she was.
"You offering, old man?" Jason asked, deciding to be a little shit since he had nothing better to do.
If he hadn't been in such a crap mood, he might have even laughed when Bruce full-on, ugly choked on his champagne.
Few people could make Bruce Wayne lose his composure, let alone choke on his drink. Jason was proud to say he was one of them.
"No," Bruce said around a cough, the word very much strained, his eyes watering. Jason found it highly entertaining that the older man was trying his absolute damnedest to talk despite still very much choking on his champagne. "Not to say—cough—that I wouldn't want—cough—to dance with you, Jaylad. If- if you—cough— wanted that. I just- Well, I thought- I wasn't suggesting—cough—myself. But I would love to dance with you if—"
Jason snorted. "I'm just fucking with you, Bruce. I'm touched that you wouldn't turn me down for a dance, though." He grinned, far too amused with himself.
If Bruce wasn't still working on clearing the inhaled champagne from his lungs, Jason was sure the old man would be heaving out a long-suffering sigh. Jason was very familiar with the sound of that particular sigh.
"Don't look so relieved yet, old man. I might still write you down on my dance card."
"I hope you know you're going to be the death of me one day." Despite his words, Bruce's face gave way to an exasperated yet genuine smile. His ice blue eyes warm with fondness despite still being red-rimmed from his coughing fit.
And this was the way Jason liked Bruce best.
Maskless.
No Batman, no Brucie, no CEO Bruce Wayne, just Bruce, his dad. The dad that Jason remembered before he died, the one who would openly laugh at his jokes, who wasn't afraid to show he cared, who would give as good as he got when they bantered, and who made Jason feel like there was always someone in his corner no matter what.
"Don't worry. I'll just throw you in a Lazarus pit, and you'll be good as new," he replied without missing a beat, his words deadpan.
"Jason," Bruce hissed in reprimanding shock, even though his eyes danced with reluctant amusement, his lips twitching upwards despite his best efforts.
"Hey," Jason raised his hands in mock surrender, one hand still loosely gripping his rum and coke, "all I'm saying is don't knock it till you try it."
"I honestly can't tell if you're joking."
Jason raised his glass to his lips in lieu of answering, prompting a heavy sigh from Bruce that only made Jason smile wider into his drink.
"Besides tormenting me, are you enjoying yourself tonight?"
"Eh," Jason said with a shrug, feeling his good humor dissipate almost immediately. If he was being honest, he was having an absolute shit time, but he wasn't about to say that to Bruce. He knew the old man wouldn't drop it until Jason told him what was wrong, and funny enough, Jason wasn't quite ready to explain to his dad how he was basically having a teenage angst fest of unrequited love over the man's other son. Bruce knew that Jason didn't see Dick as a brother, but that didn't change the fact that Bruce saw them both as his sons. "You know this sort of thing isn't really my idea of a good time." Jason settled on, waving his hand in a vague motion that was meant to encompass, well, everything.
"I know," Bruce said, wincing in sympathy. "I don't enjoy them much either, but they're a necessity." No, shit, Jason wanted to say but didn't. They both knew Bruce's idea of a good time was dressing up as a flying rodent and punching criminals in the face while a brightly colored child egged him on. "You look the part for tonight, though," Bruce continued. "Your suit fits you well. It's your color."
Jason glanced down at himself and couldn't help the bitter smile that flickered onto his face. It was his color. A burgundy red, complete with a black Oxford shirt and matching tie. He'd picked the colors himself, just like every other aspect of the suit, from the cut to the buttons. Not to mention he'd also spent the better three hours of a Sunday afternoon getting it tailored to his specific measurements.
He usually didn't put much thought into what he wore, let alone wasted money on getting clothes custom-made, but he had agonized over this suit. Thinking that this was going to be the suit he wore on his first date with Dick and to a gala of all places. So yeah, he might be a twenty-one-year-old crime lord who moonlighted as a vigilante, but God dammit, he'd wanted his Cinderella moment!
For fuck's sake, he'd even raided Bruce's bathroom, and 'borrowed' his boujie ass hair gel in an attempt to tame his many cowlicks that made him look like he had a perpetual case of bedhead.
And it had all been for nothing but unnecessary heartbreak. The worst part, though, was he'd done it to himself. Most people could at least say that someone else had broke their heart, but like the overachieving idiot that he was, Jason managed to do it all by himself.
He should have known that Dick never would've asked him out on a date. Hell, him even thinking that's what had transpired should have been cause for doubt because what would someone like Dick want with someone like him? Even without counting his Joker-related trauma, Jason was fucked up beyond measure and came with enough baggage to open his own luggage shop.
Sure, they'd started hanging out more. Usually grabbing chili dogs or Thai food after patrol and even partnering up on patrol when Damian wasn't being a needy brat and demanding Dick as his partner. They also had a standing movie night every Wednesday that consisted of Jason listening to Dick's running commentary more than watching the movie itself, ending with them crashing at each other's places more often than not.
But that didn't mean Dick wanted him, at least not in the way Jason wanted him.
"Jason?" Bruce's brow was furrowed in concern, making Jason realize he hadn't responded. "Are you okay?"
No, Bruce. I'm not fucking okay. “Yeah, no. I'm fine."
Bruce obviously didn't buy his 'I'm fine,' judging by the way his frown only deepened. "You can tell me anything, Jaylad. You know that, right?"
And fuck, the look on Bruce's face was just so goddamn earnest that part of Jason wanted to tell his dad everything. He wanted to tell him how he'd been in love with Dick since he was fourteen, and that's why he refused to acknowledge him as his brother. He wanted to tell him that the stupid suit had all been his idiotic attempt to woo the other man. He wanted to tell him that his heart felt like it was ripping itself apart each time he watched Dick take someone's hand that wasn't his.
But he didn't, even though he could feel each unsaid confession bubbling its way up his throat, begging to be heard.
He didn't because he was too afraid he'd be forced to watch Bruce's concern morph into disgust, to endure the rejection of one of the only people who actually gave a shit about him.
It was all too much. The unsaid words that were beginning to choke him, Bruce's stupidly earnest and concerned face, the gala, the people, Dick.
He was cracking underneath the weight of it all, and he was afraid of what might just spill from those ever-multiplying fissures.
He needed to leave, to escape before the hidden truths written on his bones were exposed for everyone to see. He needed—
Bruce's hand wrapped itself around his forearm, his intent well-meaning, but Jason was so deep in his spiraling panic that he jerked back as if he had been burned, subsequently knocking into a waiter and sending a tray of champagne glasses flying. The sound of the shattering glass was loud, but the silence that followed it was deafening.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Jason repeated on loop, raking his hands through his hair as he stared at the mess of golden liquid and shattered glass. He could hear the scandalized whispers begin to pick up around him, feel his unwanted audience's eyes on him like vultures to a carcass.
Bruce was calling his name, but Jason couldn't take his eyes off the glittering shards, each broken piece a mocking testimony to the fuck up that everyone thought he was.
Dropping to a crouch, Jason made to start cleaning up his mess because he could fix this. He would clean it up, and then no one would have shit to talk about, and Bruce wouldn't regret letting his Crime Alley street rat come to his biggest charity event of the year, and maybe, just maybe, Dick wouldn't hear about his minor freakout. And everything would be fine.
But before Jason's hand could even make contact with a jagged piece of glass, Bruce was dropping down next to him and grabbing Jason's wrist with a speed that Brucie Wayne shouldn't be capable of.
"Don't fucking touch me, Bruce!" Jason snarled like a wounded animal as he ripped his arm from the man's grip. If people weren't staring before, they sure as hell were now. Hurt flickered across Bruce's face before his expression shuttered into something more neutral. A mask slipping back in place.
It was only then that Jason registered what he'd said and the venom he'd spoken the words with. He hadn't meant to snap at Bruce like that. God knew Bruce didn't deserve it. The man had only been trying to prevent Jason from cutting himself. Bruce had been nothing but kind to him. And how did Jason repay him? By causing a scene and embarrassing the man in front of his peers.
"I-I didn't- I'm—" Jason stammered out, trying to apologize, but his words failed him.
"Shit!" Jason shouted in frustration as he pressed his palms to his eyes to stave off the pressure he could feel building up behind his eyes. What the fuck was wrong with him?
"Jaylad, it's okay." Bruce sounded so understanding, so patient, so genuine, and Jason knew he didn't deserve any of it.
"No, Bruce! It's not!" Jason shot back, his voice too loud, his cadence mercurial. His outburst once again causing a hush to fall over them, reminding Jason that they had an audience.
He just couldn't do this right now, not with everyone watching and judging him, thinking ' poor Brucie having to deal with his emotionally unstable son. That poor boy was better off dead if you ask me, God knows it would have saved him and his family from all this heartache.' Jason needed to be anywhere but here.
Scrambling to his feet, Jason ran to the oak-carved entryway, ignoring the way Bruce called after him and the viper eyes that followed him. He heard the whispers pick back up the second he stepped over the threshold and wondered what story they'd make up about him this time.
Throwing open the manor's heavy wooden doors, Jason took the stairs leading to the property's grounds two at a time, not sure where he was running to. The hysterical thought that he finally got his Cinderella moment popped into his head as he made his escape. It wasn't the one he'd hoped for, but it was a Cinderella moment nonetheless with the way he was running from the the 'Grand Wayne Ball.' But in his case, there was no prince running after him.
Unbeknownst to Jason, though, the moment Dick saw him fleeing from the ballroom, the other man was releasing his current dance partner as if the woman was nothing but water falling between his fingertips, of no consequence or importance.
Jason ran.
And Dick ran after him.