Archive of Our Own

"I don't want to go to school."

Bruce turns the page noisily. "You are." Because Jason hasn't stopped talking about acing exams and lunch breaks and cool backpacks since Bruce proposed the idea to him a few days ago. Which had been surprising. He’d braced himself for a middle finger when Alfred had his back turned. A glare, some cursing, maybe a rebellion or World War three. Instead, he'd been greeted with an unexpected tight hug and a million of enthusiastic yes yes yess.

"I'm sick."

"No you're not."

"I'm dying."

"No, you're not."

"Honest. I'm gonna faint n’ everything."

"Do it away from Alfred's vases, if you'd be so kind."

The newspaper is snatched from his hands, allowing a disarrayed Jason to make eye contact with him – were Bruce a cruel-er person, he would've verbally pointed out that Jason's appearance could currently give Frankenstein a run for his money with the way his hair was sticking up in all directions. "I'm serious, asshole."

"You're just nervous, Jay," he assures. "It's normal to have the first day jitters.”

"Did Dick have 'em?" the boy asks – mutters, actually, and no matter how much Jason wants to argue it's not, Bruce recognises a pout when he sees one. The petulant ones, especially.

Admittedly, Dick had been more excited than afraid (Bruce was the one freaking out for him). Always the natural social butterfly, he knew he'd have no problem making friends – his loudmouth did get him into rows with the other boys, sometimes too teasing and cocky for his own good, but he’d made more friends than enemies.

"Everyone reacts differently." Which is technically, technically, not a lie. He reaches a hand to smooth back wild locks, then uses his fingers to twist Jason’s head the other way around. "Put on your tie and let's go."

"I can't find my tie."

"I saw you hide it inside your shoe not fifteen minutes ago, Master Jason."

The boy's betrayal is written in the way he gapes at the older man, eyes bulging out of his skull. Bruce sniffs, placing his index under his nose to cover the inevitable smile. "Alfred," he hisses, then sighs, shoulders deflating as he bends to take his shoe off and pulls out the crumpled tie. "A buncha traitors, you big society people."

The Jason that leaves isn't the same that comes back; he's energised and red-cheeked and his clothes are a little crooked, his tie undone and hanging half-loosely around his neck, and he's smiling so wide Bruce briefly considers testing for Joker gas. He stumbles over his words as he retells the day's events, from Ms. Lawton's personality to the blonde girl with pigtails who asked Jason if he wanted to play hide-and-seek-catch. It's endearing as it is heart-breaking, a painful reminder of Jason’s upbringing, failed by those who were meant to protect him.

Bruce wonders if he has, unknowingly, inserted himself under that category by letting him fight crime.

"B?"

Because – because of course Jason would notice his inner turmoil. Of course this wonderful, empathetic, caring little boy would realise something was wrong without Bruce having to say anything. "Yeah," he forces out. Jason frowns, and his senses yell perturbed child, worried, child, alert alert alert! in fluorescent red letters in his mind. "Just thinking about the sudden disappearance of your deathly sickness, is all."

There's a beat of silence, and then, "I never said that. You're goin' crazy. All those hits to the head musta got ya real good, B."

Bruce can't help but laugh.

It ends up in a fight, because of course it does. They used to be inseparable, him and Dick. The dynamic duo, in and outside their suits. Now they can’t even stand in the same room without it turning into a screaming match. The most frustrating part of it is that the sarcastic quips and purposely incoherent mumblings and eyerolls and cold shoulders and shortened patience, Bruce was more than ready for. Especially in a boy as angry as Dick. Still, it takes him by surprise every time, because it's so far from the Dick Grayson he knows (knew?), so different from the boy who used to make puns and hold Bruce's hand because he felt like it and sprawled all over his lap like an overgrown cat and forced Bruce to nap and was excited to share everything with him.

He likes knowledge, facts, understanding the whys and hows; young adults, Bruce finds himself struggling to understand, and to his unvoiced heart-ache, it's Dick he's begun to strange.

It was somewhere between him commenting on Dick’s severely injured ankle, “If you did your ankle wouldn't be sprained, now, would it?" and “I wanted space, not to be shut out” that things had gotten ugly on all sides. Insults were thrown – Dick. Old hurts that never quite scarred refaced and were used against each other – Bruce. It’s how it always went with them; competing to see who could hurt the other one the most. Two ticking bombs at the ends of their ropes.

And somewhere between all that, concealed by their mutual anger, behind the pointing of accusatory fingers and getting into each other’s spaces, there had been Jason. The boy’s presence was almost non-existent, barely a speck of yellow in their blood-red coated tiles, but the one time Bruce had spared him a glance in the middle of his and Dick’s test of who could scream loudest, Jason had looked so… small. Tiny, despite him standing in his full size. And unsure. Like he couldn’t decide between staying out of it, intervening or fetch Alfred.

"That is quite enough," Alfred says once entering the room, and Alfred's command is one neither Dick nor Bruce can or will ever dismiss.

"You," he continues, dangerously tight-lipped, staring straight at Dick with so something reprimanding it makes the youngest physically coil around himself, "are supposed to resting."

"Sorry, Alf."

"And you," the butler's withering gaze settles on him now. Despite Bruce’s multiple exposures of said gaze, it never fails to make him feel like he’s ten again. "Have a boy upstairs ready to go."

He turns to look at the vacant chair beside Dick's cot where he swears Jason was just a moment.

It's Monday morning, Bruce realises. First day of the new school term.

"I will tend to Master Dick," Alfred reassures distractedly, unwrapping the bandage – Bruce catches sight of a nasty gash just beneath his son's shoulder. It's definitely going to scar.

Alfred gives him the we’re going to talk about this when you get home look as Bruce passes him on his way out.

Jason has a book in his hand – The Golden Compass – when Bruce reaches him, sitting on the first step of the stairs, his school bag by his ankle. He's frowning at the pages, fingers tight against the hardback cover. They've started to turn white.

"C'mon."

The walk to the garage is a quiet one, and while it usually would've alerted Bruce something was wrong (because no way in hell would Jason Peter Todd be silent on his first day of school after summer break), he can't help but appreciate it, his mind still reeling with the fact that he can no longer hold a simple conversation with his eldest without it turning into some kind of argument.

The silence follows them outside the gates of Wayne Manor.

"You're not."

Bruce keeps his eyes on the road.

"I mean, repressed, sure. It's like somebody shoved a stick up your a–"

"Hn."

"Bum," he amends, the roll of his eyes impossibly endearing, "and forgot to take it out."

With a tone drier than a dessert, "thanks, Jay."

"I'm not done. You're repressed as shit, but you're not uncaring. Or unloving, for that matter. Dickface was just being a dick."

"No," Bruce admits, for the first time to someone other than himself. Of course he's thought of the what-ifs; where Dick and Jason grew up with a normal cocker spaniel-owning white picket-fence family, loved and safe and away from the weight of Kevlar and spandex. "He's not."

He feels rather than sees the move. The passenger seat lacks several WE documents and black binders to make way for one curly haired, uniform-clad boy.

"Bruce,” Jason begins, serious yet gentle. Alfred’s influence, no doubt. “I've seen uncaring. I've seen unloving." A hand comes to rest on his forearm. Fingers squeeze. "You're not them."

Bruce knows – knows – he can't afford to look at Jason right now, because he knows he's going to find the kind of genuine, unlimited compassion and understanding only a child possesses, one he will forever remain undeserving of. He knows if he even glances at the little person with the biggest heart he's ever seen, Bruce will openly and uncontrollably weep. Snot and all.

He doesn't deserve Jason. The world doesn't deserve Jason.

Which is why he very determinedly insists on watching the road ahead. But his throat is still all raw and scratchy and his voice comes out just a little cracked as he hitches, "thanks, Jay."

He presses the end of the hair comb into Jason’s face like a paparazzi. “Jason Todd. Oh Jason Todd, how does it feel to finally be a sophomore? Any comments?”

“Shut up.”

The school holds a memorial in honour of their deceased classmate.

Alfred comes back with a bagful of homemade cards. Bruce burns them all.

Jason's no Oracle, but he can hack files like it’s nobody’s business.

Bright. Intelligent beyond his years. Extremely knowledgeable. Good student, needs to socialise more. Mature for his age, responsible and an independent worker. Timothy is a straight-A student with very good individual revision skills, but very quiet. He should put his hand up more often.

Timothy Drake's early academic file are all the same; fan-fucking-tastic student, socially awkward little bitch. The pretender just had to copy him in this, too. Greedy twerp.

Timothy Drake's later academic files, however, dated around the time the kid must've been fifteen or sixteen, are mostly the same in the whole socially inept department, but the teacher's opinions do a 360 that leaves Jason frowning because holy obvious academic gifted kid burnout, Batman; Timothy is not reaching his full potential, not due to inability but a lack of want, grades have dropped drastically. It is recommended he studies harder. He's doing average when it's obvious he could be top of his class if he really tried. Concerningly uninterested in academic activities, classes and making friends, below average student, does not show up most of the time and does not do homework as told. Does not pay attention in class nor does he participate. Seems to know the material well, but does not bother with exams.”

The high school file is incomplete. Kid’s a fucking high school dropout. The thought makes him want to shoot the little ungrateful bitch. As he’s grabbing his helmet and moto keys, Jason thinks he actually might.

"Pretender."

To his credit, the replacement doesn’t startle. Instead, he eyes Jason with an unbothered look as he brings a steaming mug to his lips.

"You're a fucking privileged, ungrateful asshole, you know that?"

"I do now."

His vision swims in green for a hot, dangerous second. He takes a steadying breath.

"Highschool. You dropped out of fucking high school."

It seems that whatever it was Timothy expected the source of Jason's outburst to be, it clearly wasn't over this, if the way his eyebrows jump is any indication. His eyes remain all the wrong shades of lifeless as he says, unashamedly and like someone who's privileged but doesn't realise would, "ages ago, yeah."

"Why?" he asks through gritted teeth.

He’d heard from Oracle and Nightwing, back when he used to hack into their comms without either knowing, that Timmy’s as quick witted as he’s stubborn. A kid who could ‘go toe to toe with B if the situation warrants it and come close to winning’, was Dick’s exact wording.

And the kid must’ve been having an off day, because his answer, after a long silence, is, “water?"

Jason's brain screeches. “Huh?"

"I'd offer you tea but I don't wanna share it with you, so it's water or you can turn left and straight into dehydration street."

What.

"Is this a fucking joke?"

The imposter laughs. Hard. It's a touch hysterical. Mad-scientist-turned-maniac like.

Jason crosses his arms. Waits. More laughter. The pretender wipes a tear out of the corner of his eyes, locks eyes with Jason, and immediately dissolves into a fit of giggles that are honestly creeping him the fuck out because what the actual fuck.

Eventually, Timothy sighs – the mockery of a content sound – placing a hand on his stomach as if to steady himself. "Ah, it's been a while since I've laughed like that." Jason very pointedly bites his tongue because whatever that was, it was not a laugh. "Why're you here? Slit my throat, the sequel?"

He should be concerned with how at ease the kid looks as he asks a six-feet-tall technically dead man armed to the bones whose reputation isn't blood-free if he's here to finish the job that involves, you know, murder. But the anger he felt a couple of hours ago is nothing to the blinding fury that overtakes him; how dare he. How fucking dare he take the situation so lightly in front of someone who never even got to finish sophomore year.

“Honestly, fuck you. Fuck. You,” he snarls and throws the file on the floor like a monk would with an ouija board, channelling the fury of a little boy who dreamt of a future he’d never see, the waver of his voice doing nothing to dimmish just how much he means it. There’s so much more he wants to say, so many creative insults he has planned, and yet his throat decides to close up right there and then.

That seems to sober the pretender up; he regards him for a quiet, calculating moment, his eyes narrow in an unnervingly cat-like manner that would’ve left Selina Kyle cooing and fighting Bruce for custody, the same way Alfred's did when he caught Jason (and more often than not Bruce) doing something strenuous while injured. Jason swears he’s seen that look before, on some important, scary-looking high-class woman Bruce told him to keep away from at galas, but he can’t put his finger on the name. Jacqueline or Jane or something.

Whatever.

"If you're so mad," the teen eventually begins, carefully, the hysteria replaced by a newfound apathetic demeanour. So the kid ain’t fond of questions – it’s so Bruce, deflective and dismissive it kind of makes Jason want to laugh. Or cry. Or both. "Why don't you go back to school? I'm sure you do more than make heads roll around."

Externally, Jason scoffs. Externally, Jason's posture doesn't change; no tension, no nervous twitch, his breathing is even and his nose doesn't flare. Internally? He feels a little like that one SpongeBob meme where he’s sitting down and smiling while there’s a transparent overlay of him screaming in panic. Because. He could, couldn’t he? Go back? He always thought it was too little too late, but there’s always community college. The GED, too. There are part-time courses. He’d be a mature student, and it wouldn’t be anything like high school – he’ll still have missed the crucial experiences; the school tours and eating lunch surrounded by kids his age and having fleeting but fun hallway crushes and graduating with his friends – but he’d be studying again, wouldn’t he? He could… he…

Despite the safety of his helmet, Jason still feels like he has to be careful as he risks a glance at the lethargic pretender, a far cry from the little boy in a bright cape playing soldier Jason had observed from afar for months. He thinks he’s beginning to understands. Not the whole picture, not even a quarter of it, but a little; the change of name, the lack of emotion, the whole living-away-from-the-manor thing he’s got going on. Dickface had done it all, even moved to a different city. Which means, Bruce and/or Dick and the replacement mightn’t be on such good terms as Jason had always assumed. The new arrival of the miniature wannabe tyrant could also be a possibility for the distance, but Jason’s seen less of Damian al-Ghul than he’s seen Red Robin so he can’t exactly assume anything before he has solid proof.

He’s not sure how long he’s stood there, all silent and statue-like, but when he comes to himself Timothy’s hunched over his computer, an energy drink can by the now steam-less tea mug and black headphones over his ears. Jason is glad he’s facing the opposite direction – him seeing Jason trip and stumble on his way out would’ve been Jasons’s thirteenth reason.

"I'm going back."

“Back to…?”

“School.”

Roy chokes on his cigarette. Jason takes the distraction as an opportunity to reach across the redhead and snatches the beer can. He's three or four responsible gulps in when Roy's coughing subsides.

"Shit."

"Yeah."

He can feel his friend's gaze on him, searching without sound. Jason focuses on the cigarette pack beside him; rationally, he knows Roy's approval should mean squat. Jason’s never been someone who does things because others would approve it – if anything he was driven by spite and harmless sadism. Like a cat. Or a really pissed off kangaroo. But Roy's his best friend. His brother, for all intents and purposes. He doesn't wait for a kid, young and gullible and a complete fucking moron to come back because Roy's smarter than everyone thinks and he's chosen to appreciate the fact that Jason's back and breathing and whole, give or take a few chronic pains as a get 2 for the price of 1 deal; unlike the big man or Dickface, Roy's accepted him back, guns and helmets and homicidal tendencies alike. Therefore, it earns him I-care-about-your-opinion rights.

"Is this what you want?"

"Yeah."

“Nobody forcing you?”

“Nope.”

"Okay then." He reaches into the cooler between them, new beer can in hand. "Congrats, man."

Jason clinks their cans together, exhaling in relief.

"I'm honestly surprised it took this long. I mean, I love you and all but how. How can you have so many books. Your apartment is more books than furniture."

"Bookshops. Thrift shops. Alfred."

Roy shakes his head. "You're gonna be insufferable, I can already see it."

"I believe the word you're looking for is enthusiastic."

"No. Definitely insufferable." But Roy’s looking at him now, and there's a soft smile pulling at his lips, eyes suddenly gentle. "But I am happy you're doing something for yourself. You deserve it."

September is slow to come and Jason’s anxiety only grows as the fourteenth approaches, but it’s all worth it when Tayson Jodd crosses GCC’s gates.

He has enough self-awareness to know how lame it sounds, but it doesn’t lessen the rare, euphoric feeling of being exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Sometimes he wakes up with a quiet gasp, hands reaching upwards, claw-shaped fingers ready to dig through the dirt. Sometimes he wakes up screaming, attempting to drown the sound of manic laughter in his ears. Sometimes he wakes up, lays still, and feels everything pulsate painfully under his skin, nerves and bones reacting, specifically, the growing bone spur in his hip joint – one of the many silly little gifts Joker left him – and the sound of a ticking bomb in his ear.

And sometimes, the worst nights, he simply wakes up; cries and wishes he hadn't, but he always wakes up. On those nights Jason studies harder than ever, focuses all his attention on comparative essays due ages away even though he can barely see through the blur of fatigue and tears. On those kinds of nights, he ends up falling asleep on top of his laptop and refill pads, feeling better than he should. Overworking himself academically is the quickest road to burnout, if the pretender’s files aren’t enough proof, and it's probably not the healthiest way to cope, he knows. He also doesn't give two – nay, five – lying fucks. If studying Lord Byron's poetic techniques and comparing/contrasting elements of hardboiled genres to thrillers, then to hell with healthy coping mechanisms.

In Jason’s defence…

Alright, he doesn’t really have any. All he has are chronic pains, PTSD and a stupid three-thousand-word argumentative assignment due tonight at midnight, and he would’ve done it had he not been too busy watching over the new stripping bar near the docks in Red Robin and Spoiler’s district to make sure no creep tried anything funny with the working girls.

This is how he finds himself on the rooftop opposite the bar on the night he’s supposed to hand it in, and the funny part – the absolute punchline – is that he hadn’t trusted the replacement or the replacement’s brief replacement enough with the surveillance or protecting, but somehow Red and Spoiler found him three hours ago and are currently teaming up to help him finish this last essay before Christmas break, and Jason trusts them enough that he’s just letting them.

Jason Todd, who doesn’t trust his own hands to lift his briefs past his asscheeks most days, is chill with allowing two teenagers – a high school dropout and a first-year college student, both of whom he’s attempted to kill once or twice – who seem to share a single braincell between them to write the last couple thousand words for his final essay that’s worth seventy percent of his grade. Is he absolutely terrified they’ll fuck it up? Yup. Does he care enough at this point of the semester to do anything about it?

His computer could be on fire and he’d drink a mimosa. Take a nap. Go on a return-less trip to Europe.

And yet, somehow, he knows they won’t fuck it up (not on purpose anyways), because the fact that they’re not even on official speaking terms and they still offered to help him is enough for Jason to consider a partnership. A truce of sorts. He’d sacrificed so much time into making sure he never ever needed anything from the bats; he’d made a map of everyone’s routes so he could avoid them, which often ended up with him taking a much longer and dangerous path. He’d noted Oracle’s various communication channels and dodged them all. He’d been proud of it all. Now, as he looks at the two kids busting their asses to understand Brontë’s rebellion against traditional style of writing and how the use of chaste simplicity in her sentence allowed her to increment intentional flaws into her writing affected it, he feels like it was all unnecessary. Maybe even a little dramatic.

(There’s also something else, voracious and consuming and ugly, an emotion he dares not name, because then it’d make him vulnerable, and last time he let himself be vulnerable he ended up dead. But it’s there, in all its green glory, going tête-à-tête with his ill-timed aloofness regarding this very important assignment)

The absurdity of it all is simply hilarious.

He gets an A.

Timothy and Stephanie receive care packages sent to their apartments shortly after.

On the seventeenth of May, Tayson Jodd submits his last assignment ever.

On the third of July, he receives an email in his student account with details about the upcoming graduation ceremony taking place in September.

“You’re the first to know,” he admits, unexpectedly abashed. The chai tea Alfred makes is nothing special, but Jason still takes a really long gulp under the scrutiny of the older man’s gaze.

“I see. How do you feel about it?”

“I’m not sure. I mean,” he worries at his lips for a moment, “it’s community college. It’s really not all that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with community college. It’s just as good as any other college.”

See, Jason knows it’s just as valid; he’s lost count of the times he’s encouraged a Crime Alley kid to apply to GCC, even before he’d thought about doing it himself. But.

“They don’t even have a lawn,” he huffs, shuffling his feet.

It’s not about the lawn, and the look on Alfred’s face says as much, but what Bruce lacks in sensitivity the butler makes up for, so neither comment on it.

“So,” he continues at the expense of Alfred’s silence. “I don’t know if I’ll actually go through with it. They can just email me my diploma later.”

Alfred hums. Sets his own mug down to place a gentle hand on Jason’s knee. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, my boy. Yes, it is scary. No, it wasn’t meant to be like this, but this is our reality now and I’m so proud of you for finishing college – unlike others.” Jason laughs. Alfred never did get over Bruce leaving medical school. “You’ve more than earned this. Nobody deserves to receive this diploma and move the hassle more than you.”

“You’d be there too, right?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Despite the anxiety, the corners of his lips tug upward in a small smile at the confirmation; he’ll have a cap and gown – a cap he’ll get to throw in the air! Oh, oh, and he can do that thing where he moves the tassel from one side to the other! And he’ll get a diploma. A diploma. He’ll get to frame it and hang it on the wall and when people ask what he graduated in he can officially and sincerely say “Modern English Literature”.

“Who else will be invited?”

“You,” he says, attempting for finality, but then Alfred lifts a single eyebrow and Jason knows he won’t drop it until more names are added. “The troublesome trio too, I guess.”

Alfred chuckles. “Timothy, Stephanie and Duke, I take it?” Jason nods. “Splendid. Would you like I tell them?”

“Thanks, Alf, but I’ll tell them.”

“Do it sooner than later, if you’d be so kind. Miss Stephanie is beginning her second year and Master Tim needs time in advance to clear his schedule.”

Jason feels the beginning of a blush creep across the bridge of his nose. His shoulders hunch to his ears. “If it’s too much trouble maybe they shouldn’t be here.” Even if he really wants them there. “It’s really not all that.”

“Let’s agree to disagree.” The teasing lilt is gone when he lowers his cup again. There’s an abrupt change to the air, its easiness replaced by cautiousness. “Shall I tell Bruce to clear his schedule too?”

Translated, it asks “you’re going to invite him too, right?” It’s a low blow; one Jason was expecting.

“I’m just happy you’re coming, Alfie.”

The conversation isn’t over, he knows. Alfred’s going to prod him the closer it gets to the fated date, but that’s future Jason’s problem. He’s just happy to enjoy Alfred’s company and the weight of his hand on his knees.

“You’re wiggin’!” Dick – Nightwing – laughs, grabbing a handful of Gotham’s worst popcorn from the cheapest popcorn stand. Also the only popcorn stand still opened past midnight. “I graffitied Two-Face’s apartment. Remember, he lived in the Narrows at the time? You vandalised Chinatown.”

“No I didn’t,” he argues. In the name of God’s honest truth, Jason’s not exactly sure which part of Gotham he drew the batpenis in, ears and all, but riding the contradictory wave seems fun-er than admitting he might not fully remember how it actually went. “I was patrolling the Narrows that night, I remember it so clearly, Sparky.”

Jason did not remember it so clearly.

Dick shakes his head, swallowing the popcorn with a little too much force. Ah, so it’s stale popcorn tonight; way better than the runny one he and Bruce split once years ago behind Alfred’s back, although the food poisoning they contracted probably gave them away. In hindsight, they should really find a new popcorn stand.

Dick brings a fist to his chest, scrunches his face, and just when Jason’s about to move so his brother can puke his guts out he burps, then sighs in relief. “We’re clear.” He pops more into his mouth, extends the cardboard bag towards Jason – which for all his disgust he accepts, because are you even from Gotham if you don’t risk an intestine or a liver for the sake of eating definitely-unsafe fast food?

He chews on the – ‘stale’ was too kind a word – popcorn thoughtfully. Despite everything, there’s something almost sacred about this; the two of them, eating on a random rooftop, reminiscing on their earlier adventures that definitely made Bruce grey faster. He blames it on the nostalgia, because one glance at Dick’s all it takes for him to reconsider the whole invite-everyone-except-for-B-and-Dickhead thing he had all planned out. Dick would come, if he asked – he’d drop everything if Jason asked, actually. He’s always been reliable like that.

Jason feels the beginning of a scowl at the thought, because it’s not fair. Dick has no right to make him feel like he has to choose between being Crime Alley’s most notorious crime lord and Dick’s rambunctious little brother about something Jason was so sure of until now. It’s not fair because he hadn’t even planned on telling Dick, tonight or ever, and now he feels like he’s toeing a line he won’t get to reach the end to as he sucks in a breath and shakily says, “Nightwing–”

And because the universe hates him, their coms beep simultaneously. Oracle’s voice is tired as she says, “Robbery two blocks from your position.”

“Got it,” he says, getting up. Jason takes his extended hand lets him pull him up. “Was nice while it lasted.”

“Kinda makes you wanna shoot people too, huh?”

“Oh yeah, totally. Also, told ya it’d be less than an hour. Pay up.”

He grudgingly places a tenner on Dick’s gloved hand. What a fool he was to think Gotham could go an hour and a half without stirring anything.

"Timbers, just the kid I was looking for!"

"I'm twenty.”

"And I'm legally dead, we all have baggage." He shrugs off his coat, leaving it on the table just because Tim hates it. He tries to hide a wince. "I'm hungry."

"I'm sure the rats would be kind enough to share some of their scraps."

"You're a horrible host," he whines, making his way towards the living room where said terrible twenty-year-old is in the middle of reading something (probably uninteresting). Jumping over the back of the sofa and landing on the leather cushions, Jason reaches an arm over Tim's shoulder to grab a pillow, ready to use it to elevate his injured leg, then remembers he's supposed to be hiding he's hurt and hits Tim with it before placing it behind his own head.

It's still weird. Tim and him, acting all buddy buddy and teasing each other. It’s nice, but the years have done nothing to make it feel less strange. Jason hadn’t doubted him when he said he forgave Jason for everything – kid’s a total bleeding heart. A little bit of an idiot, too – but sometimes it was hard to wrap his head around the concept.

Still, he accepts the change with opened arms.

“A conscious act of rebellion against my parents." The teen grins, still skimming the pages.

"Whatcha readin'?"

"Words."

And they say Jason’s the difficult child.

"So."

"So?"

"My graduation's coming soon."

"I know," Tim says, and leaves it at that because he's an ass.

Jason taps a finger against the armrest of Tim's leather couch. Taps another when he sees Tim's left eye twitch almost imperceptibly. He’s a sudden firm believer of the whole ‘third time’s the charm’ bullshit when Tim slowly closes the book – architectural technology is the title, and Jason internally rolls his eyes because of course it is – and turns to level him with an exasperated look.

"Jason."

"Yes, my favourite brother?"

"I'll be there."

Yey, he thinks. Out loud, he says, "aw, who's gonna cover my patrol route then? I was kinda counting on you."

"Kate."

"Wait." That doesn't make any sense. "The brat's route is the closest though."

Tim blinks, hunches a single shoulder up. The picture of guilt. "How's your leg? You better not have bled through on my new couch."

"How did you even know? I didn't limp once – don't you change subject!"

"Wanna go to Lille for a couple of days? I'm so pale Cassie said she can practically see through me. It's kept me awake ever since."

"Tim."

"She also said I could give Casper a run for his money. I cried on my bagels. I had salty bagels for breakfast, Jason, it was so humiliating."

"I won't hesitate bitch." The threat is punctuated with a slap to the back of Tim's head.

The kid has the nerve to laugh as he rubs the sore spot. "You're crazy if you think the others aren't gonna be there, too."

"As long as you don’t tell ‘em they'll survive."

"They'll figure it out sooner or later, y'know."

Jason scoffs. "Ever tell the Waynes they can't have everything they want?"

“I’ve been kinda busy but I’ll see if I can set up an intervention.”

“Kid,” he begins, but Tim is prompt to cut him off.

“No, listen. I had a school thing once, and I wasn’t sure if my parents would wanna go so I didn’t invite them. I was broccoli and I did a dance with a girl that was playing beets, and the entire number I was just thinking they’re not here, and it was my fault they weren’t there.”

“Not that they’d be there anyways.”

“It was kind of a life lesson for me.” Tim goes on, interlacing his fingers like a businessman. “Therefore, I propose something.”

“Proposal denied.”

“You don’t even know what I’m about to propose.”

Jason blows a raspberry. “Denied.”

“If you’d just let me talk–“

“No,” he says, and watches said teen shut his mouth at the seriousness of his voice. “I don’t want them there. It’ll just make things awkward and Bruce’ll try to talk and you know how awful he’s at it. I was supposed to graduate high school. Alfred had a suit ready an’ everything. But I died, Tim,” he stresses, the word ugly on his tongue. “I didn’t finish high school. Bruce never got to drive me to college like we’d planned – I wanted to go to Yale. Bruce wanted me to go to Yale because he went to Yale and Alfred drove him there every school term. Alf didn’t get to wear the suit he’d spent a fortune on, okay?” he throws frustrated hands up in the air. “I died. Nothing went the way it was supposed to, and inviting them would just hurt – them. It’d just hurt them.”

Tim isn’t done, if the determination in his eyes – tenacious little shit – is anything to go by. “It’s never too late. New tradition can be made, and hey, hurt’s part of life, right? Plus, Bruce is made up of pure masochism so he’ll gladly go through any pain if it means he’ll get to watch you get your diploma, and I’m sure Alf’ll be more than happy to get a new suit for the occasion. The gremlin might even crack a smile, who knows.”

“I don’t want them there, damnit.”

Jason only feels the teeniest tiniest bit of guilt when Tim recoils, blinking rapidly, but he tried his hand at patience and it got him arguing with his younger brother. Next time he’ll just shoot him and get it over and done with.

“Okay,” the kid says after a beat of tense silence, sounding like he’s just had to decide between saving his best friends and an entire population of innocents. “I won’t say anything.”

“Great.”

“I still think you’re wrong.”

“Yeah, well.”

Tim sighs and his shoulders slump defeatedly – in Tim lingo it means the subject’s been officially dropped. Still, Tim’s right on one front; there’s no way he’ll get past Bruce without help.

As if reading his mind, Tim sighs again, "don't worry, I have a plan."

"You said you had a plan," he hisses, towering over the culprit. This move has never really worked on Tim before, but at this point it's a matter of pride.

Instead of preventing the family from knowing about Jason's graduation, Tim decided to throw his very simple and easy-to-follow request to the wind and do exactly the opposite.

"I’m a compulsive liar," he says with a shrug, and isn’t that the most unashamedly smug tone Jason’s heard in his entire life.

He's about to swear him a pretty string of profanities when the gremlin walks into the room, positioning himself right in front of Tim in an attempt to undermine him – except he's a couple of inches too short and it makes Jason laugh when Tim purposely places a hand on his shoulder, like some condescending older brother would, and Damian's ears go all pink as he shrugs it away more forcefully than necessary.

"As a gift to Father and Alfred, I'm willing to sacrifice some of my time to paint you in your gown and cap. For once in your life, pose adequately," he says, then leaves just as fast (and furious) and he'd come.

"That was... oddly adorable."

Jason glares. "Shut the fuck up. No opinions for scum traitors like you."

Tim, unbothered or training to perfect the arts of ignoring comments he doesn't want to hear, continuous his assessment of Damian's demand (request?), "I can't believe he offered to paint you. He's never painted anyone before. I need to lie down."

"Make sure it's in a grave so I can burry you without arising suspicion, asshole."

Bruce coming to talk to him was always inevitable, but it still makes him want to fling himself off the nearest building, Red Robin-style. And it just had to be at the cusp of dawn, too. The weirdo that he is couldn’t just wait until normal-people time, noooooooooo.

It’s hilarious how Bruce, a man with so much height and muscle, manages to make his entire body awkward. There isn’t a single trace of Batman seeping through, not in the curve of his shoulders or the way his face pinches into a wince as Jason tries shutting the door – it’s just Bruce tonight. Looking every bit like a father who’s bracing himself for a difficult conversation with his estranged son.

“Lasagne.”

“What?”

“After the ceremony. Lasagne’s your favourite, so we’re having lasagne. After the ceremony.”

“Maybe when I was twelve, sure.”

Lasagne – specially Alfred’s – is still his favourite.

“We’ll have whatever you want then.”

“Who says I don’t already have plans?”

He doesn’t. Artemis and Roy had offered to hook up after for some drinks but he just wants to get it all over with and go home. Maybe pull a Tim and disappear off the face of the earth for a year or so.

“We can postpone the dinner.”

Jason huffs an incredulous laugh. “Geez, thank you for asking me if I wanted to come. It’s so generous of you to give me a say in the matter!”

“Is it really that much of a task to dine with your family?”

In his mind, Emily Gilmore is yelling for the maid of the week to grab her a pen so she can add that sentence to the list of sneaky shit she’s going to tell Lorelai to get her to agree to go to Friday night dinner. He prefers angry-and-towering Bruce than emotional-manipulator Bruce. Jason hopes the little bat is only similar to his father in bone structure and glary eyes.

The sound of the door closing is less of a bang and more of a go fuck yourself you slimy bastard.

It’s not even a full 24 hours before somebody knocks on his door again. Someone being Duke. A little unexpected, if he’s being honest. He’d been expecting Dick. Or Babs.

Thank God it’s not Babs.

“I was bribed.”

Of course. “How much he give you?”

“Like $100”

“Cheap bitch. I’ll give you $150 to leave.”

“Deal.”

“Todd, father says you have to co–“

“No.”

It goes on for three days. Bruce saved his best, most annoying weapon for last, because on a Thursday night at three am Stephanie – as Spoiler – proceeds to throw rocks at his window and refers to him as Juliet, except she changes the dialogue to Juliet-Jason, Juliet-Jason, let down your haaaair to the theme of fucking Spongebob.

He’s never setting foot in Wayne Manor ever again.

Tim’s always been observant – for all the wrong reasons. He soaks up any knowledge, personal or otherwise, he can get his greedy hands on. His mother initiated it; told him he’d be her little spy and he’d beamed at the thought of being useful. It’d been the highlight of the galas he’d attended.

He’s come to see it as a blessing, a skill polished and improved by years-worth of subtle eavesdropping and people watching. When Greta is overwhelmed and anxious, he notices, and holds her hand. When Kon pretends Superman’s attitude towards him doesn’t affect him, Tim hugs him goodbye just a little bit tighter, a little longer. When Cassie’s too proud to admit that yes, it’s cold and she should’ve brought her jacket, he’s suddenly and inexplicably roasting and offers his jacket to anyone who wants it.

On the end of the spectrum, the word ‘curse’ is written in bold, highlighted and underlined; when Cissie and Anitta physically recoil at the sight of Kon and Bart alive, Tim's the first to look away and pretend it doesn't happen to him too. If Bruce's gaze lingers on the upper left side of his abdomen, intense and guilty and mournful, Tim skilfully pretends he doesn't see. When Alfred pretends his hands don't shake when Jason's in the manor, Tim questions if his shoes look funky. When Dick takes Damian’s side for the umpteenth time and accidentally puts Tim into the backburner, he simply watches it unravel from the side-lines.

And when, amidst of all the little things he's come to realise regarding the family, good or bad, Tim catches Cass' eyes, he knows they're rowing the same boat. They never talk about the things they see – an observant person almost never does. Instead, they bring it with them; they build their life around what they notice, and either avoids, denies or accepts the raw snippets of someone's behaviour depending on how much they like the person. 'Lonesome is the path of the one gifted with sight', his mother would tell him in her most spy-like voice, playfully pretending to conspire with him. (She'd been nice. It made him think she wasn't as awful as his mind painted her to be. He'd felt guilty for hating her back then, too). She was right, of course. It's a tiring crusade, and sometimes Tim wishes he could unsee the nastier side of things, but when he gives her shoulder a squeeze or she hugs him way longer than necessary, it says I'm here, I got you, this isn't your burden to carry alone

Now, he’s not a full-time observer. He likes to take an off day every once in a while to spice things up, and certain aspects escape him, aspects that would’ve been blatantly obvious if he wasn’t having said off day. Today, for example, he’s fifteen minutes into the ceremony when Tim realises just how strategic the sitting arrangement is; Damian and him are on opposite ends with the rest of the family in between them. Alfred and Bruce are in the middle of everyone. Cass and Steph sit between him and Alfred, while Dick and Duke between Bruce and Damian.

It's a masterpiece that stinks of Alfred. Not for the first time, Tim wonders if Sun Tzu reincarnated into the sly butler.

“How long can this guy speak for?” Steph whispers. He’s pretty sure it’s Cass she’s speaking to, but Tim watches Bruce sighs in agreement.

“Have some respect,” Alfred chides, turning to stare disapprovingly at Steph and then at Bruce. “Master Jason will be out soon.”

“When we’re all gaga and forget our own names, maybe.”

“It says here the student speaker is next.”

“Oh, Duke. You beautiful, innocent, naïve fool.”

“Duke is everything but innocent and naïve,” Dick chimes in, half leaning on Bruce to look at Steph.

Duke groans. “Oh my God, Dick. I already apologised. Let it go, man!”

“Let go of what?” Cass asks. Tim’s leaning across her to hear better, curiosity irked.

“He ate my blueberry muffin. I was saving that blueberry muffin for two days because I wanted to eat it while watching my weekly telenovela. Friday night arrives – no muffin.”

“You watch telenovelas?” Bruce asks, at the same time Tim asks, “but how did you know Duke who ate it?”

“I watch ‘em ‘cause Jay likes ‘em,” he tells Bruce, shrugging. As an observant, Tim feels the need to point out that Dick never watched anything Tim recommended him. Ever. Dick turns to him now, but not without sending Duke a brief but icing glare. “He had crumbs on his shirt.”

“I’ll buy you blueberry muffins.”

“Save your dirty bribery for a weaker person.”

“Anyways,” Steph says. “Flyers are liars. Liars, Dukey-poo. When they say, ‘it’ll start at six thirty’, it means ‘get comfy and bring all your boardgames, you’ll be here until at least – at least! – eight fifty-five.”

The student speaker arrives closer to seven, and by then everyone’s more than antsy; Alfred won’t stop looking at his watch disapprovingly, Bruce has the facial expression of someone who’s listing their grocery in their head and has forgotten something crucial but can’t remember what it is, Damian’s posture is the embodiment of every bored thirteen-year-old with the way his spine is curving against the seat, Steph looks two more “it is with great honour”s away from either falling asleep or maniacally blasting cupcakke remixes on her phone, Cass has resorted to picking off Alfred the cat’s hairs off his suit – it’s just his luck that the hairiest of Damian’s pets happens to love rubbing himself against Tim, and it’s just Alfred the cat’s luck he’s possibly the cutest cat on earth – and Duke’s staring vacantly at his shoes. Emphasis on vacantly; there isn’t a single light behind his eyes. Not a single thought.

And Tim? Tim’s just waiting for the wholesomeness. It shouldn’t take very long, if it all goes according to his calculations.

Then, the calling of names begins.

“What letter we on again?” Duke asks.

He sighs. “D.”

“I wish Todd would’ve picked a better surname.”

“It’ll be even longer for yours, Dami,” Dick points out, bumping shoulders with him. “Wayne’s all the way at the back.”

“I’m aware, but I had no say in the matter. Jodd was.”

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Songül Erdoğan, Amanda Evergreen, Carlos Espinosa…”

Tick. Tick. Tick

“Eoin Farrely, Chiara Fratalocchi, Najia Hatem…”

Tick. Tick.

“Aki Joo…”

Tick.

“Tayson Jodd.”

There are too many people, too many reactions for him to fully analyse, but Tim catches snippets, grasps of emotions shinning through the hard edges of their made-up family; Steph smiles. Open and wide and as sincerely happy as Tim’s ever seen her. It’s a good look on her, he thinks. Cass, on the other hand, smiles with her lips. It’s tight – she’d never really forgiven Jason for the whole murder thing – but she’s the first to stand up. Claps the loudest, too, and whoops like she’s just received the best news in the whole world. The thing about Cass is that she absorbs happiness like plants the sun, and if she smiles just a liiiiiittle bit wider when Jason’s questioning eyes land on her, well. Tim saw nothing.

He has to crane his neck to watch the other side of the party; Dick looks… so proud. So, so, so proud, eyes shining and face set in awe – Tim doesn’t think it’s over seeing Jason graduate, per se, but simply seeing his little brother graduating – Tim shifts uncomfortably in his seat. When Jason looks over at Dick, looking all six-foot younger sibling than ex crime lord, Tim has to look away. He never liked intruding, anyways.

Damian claps distractedly – unlike Tim, the kid has no problem intruding, if the way his gaze keeps switching between Dick and Jason is anything to go by, confused and even a little jealous.

Duke is the most articulate and vocal of them all. He raises his fists in the air, whistles, cheers, applauds and whoops from the moment Jason’s name is called upon stage to the very last moment he disappears behind some big red curtains. Tim watches Jason blush and avoid looking at Duke at all costs. He’s going to give him so much shit about that later.

Alfred is – Alfred’s crying. There are literal tears rolling down his cheeks. He’s clapping and smiling and crying.

And then there’s Bruce. Not Bruce Wayne. Not Brucie. Not Batman. Just Bruce, flesh and bone and emotions peeking through a veil of constant torment in beams of sunlight, somehow managing to be all of them at the same time, clappig and crying and cheering and smiling and articulate and his eyes light up like stars reflecting against the brightness of the moon with the ocean beneath them. Just Bruce, who looks like he’s about to parkour over chairs and heads to sweep his giant of a son in a hug and hold him in his lap forever. Just Bruce, who sniffs wetly when Jason looks at him, all wide-eyed and Robin-like.

Just Bruce and Jason. Just a father and a son who’ve come a long way. A father who’s throwing his son a party, and a son who’s totally going to said party despite claiming he won’t.

He catches Cass’ eyes, smiling. Okay, he articulates soundlessly. They’re going to be okay.