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Jason has never lived in an apartment before.
Long, long ago, back with Mother and Father, they were always moving from place to place. Nights were usually spent in their trailer, and they stayed in hotels when the weather was especially bad— those trips, however, were few and far between. The manor was different to any of that, a massive, sprawling property that felt more like a museum than a home. His replacement— Hood— had seemingly lived in one almost all his life, so the tiny apartment they’re standing in isn’t nearly as foreign to him.
“It’s disgusting,” Jason frowns, scanning the open med kits and trashed pizza boxes littering the floor, “Didn’t Alfred teach you better than this?”
Hood snorts. “He did. I’ve just been doin’ a stakeout the past few days, so I skimped on the cleaning.”
“That’s no excuse. You should have cleaned ahead of time.”
Hood doesn’t reply. He sets his helmet down on a coffee table cluttered with papers and skulks into the kitchen. Unlike the rest of the apartment, Hood’s kitchen is pristine and organized. A remnant of Alfred’s teachings, Jason thinks. The pans hang along a wall on hooks, the same way Alfred organized them. The cups are all stacked upside down, the same way Mother put them away. There are pieces of her, hiding in plain sight, that Hood surely can’t see. Was Catherine Todd the same as mother? Did she buy colour-coded plates and cups? Did she eat every meal with a fork rather than a spoon? Did she—
“You want somethin’ to eat?” Hood asks, interrupting Jason’s spiral, “I’m not gonna cook tonight, but I’ve got some shit in the fridge.”
“I don’t eat.”
“You ate a cigarette earlier.”
“I told you, I—”
“Like the texture, yeah,” Hood huffs, “so do you want something or not?”
Jason shakes his head.
—
Hood continues going on patrols over the next few weeks. Jason joins him. It becomes a sort of routine— they have different grudges against different kinds of people, but they deal with them in the same way: killing them. It’s a strange thing, to find an ally with the same tendencies as him after so long. As Robin, Jason has understood why Batman couldn’t kill. Batman was— is a symbol for good, no matter how dark he seems. At his core, he’s the very same as Superman, both paragons of light in shadow. Gotham’s idea of light is simply different from Metropolis. Now, torn apart by a reality beyond his comprehension, Jason sees no harm in a little bloodshed.
Each patrol goes roughly the same. Hood sets a target, the pair utterly decimates them, and they go home. Drug lords, pedophiles, traffickers— the only thing the targets really have in common is being scum. It only takes a few nights for Jason to notice which ones they tend to go after most.
Hood is bashing a man’s skull into paste at the moment. Jason watches, standing close by, but not interfering. He knows who this is.
“Uncle Pete,” he mutters, stepping over to the now-corpse.
Hood shudders.
“He was your uncle here, too?” Jason frowns, “Why’d you kill him, then?”
Hood’s right hand clenches around the bloody crowbar he holds. His left, however, travels shakily up his arm to clutch his chest. “Fucker deserves it.”
Jason doesn’t ask for more. Based on the type of men Hood targets, he doesn’t think he wants to know.
—
“You were Robin, yeah?” Hood asks one evening while slaving away over two portions of fried rice at the stove. He always makes two, even though Jason had never taken him up on the offer of food. “How’d that turn out for you?”
“Great,” Jason drawls, gesturing to the horrible mass that one could call his body, “just great.”
Hood hums in response, shifting the rice in the pan. “So Robin killed you.”
“No. Not really.”
“What did?” Hood does this often, starting quiet, emotional conversations. Though he hides it well behind his tough exterior, he’s sensitive. Good with feelings, when they don’t involve Bruce. He tilts the pan, checking that the peas and carrots are mixing in well.
“Everything. Nothing,” Jason says, remembering how it felt to be torn apart and sewn together again and again for an eternity, how it had felt to watch to watch a boy in his skin take his place, how it had felt when he realized— “God, maybe. Something I don’t understand.”
Hood doesn’t look satisfied with that, but he doesn’t press. He carefully transfers the rice into two bowls, one red and one black. Like Mother, Jason thinks.
“Did your mother colour code your kitchenware?” He asks, staring down at the black bowl.
Hood shakes his head, the red in his hand.. “Alfred.”
Jason says nothing.
—
“I’ve been thinking about creating a civilian disguise,” Jason tells Hood during a patrol one night, “I’ve become bored lounging around all day.”
“We’ll tell B you’re my long lost brother. That’ll be a field day,” Hood snorts.
—
They don’t tell Batman Jason is Hood’s brother. In fact, they don’t tell Batman anything. Neither of them have a high opinion of Bruce, so there’s no reason to. Telling any other Bats is practically telling them all, so they don’t bother telling anyone. Barbara sends Hood a few questions about houseguests, but doesn’t bother him any more than that. So, beyond her, the first to properly meet Jason is Stephanie Brown.
“Woah. You look like a tiny Jason,” she hums as she catches sight of him, “Cousin?”
“Something like that,” Jason shrugs.
“Where is Jason? We’re watchin’ Love Island tonight,” Stephanie asks, not seeming fazed at all, “if he skips out on me again, I’ll cover his helmet in glitter. The dollar store kind that never comes off.”
“Out. I didn’t ask where.”
“Damn. Flaky bastard,” she groans, plopping down on the couch. “Does Bruce know about you?”
Jason swallows. “That I exist, or that I’m here?”
“Both.”
“No.”
“Makes sense,” she mutters, leaning back, “he’d’ve made a whole thing about it.”
“He would have,” Jason nods.
“Yup,” Stephanie pops the ‘p’, “Classic Bats.”
Stephanie is a lot like Hood. Neither of them ask questions when they don’t need to. Neither of them have a high view of Bruce. Neither of them ever seem to get what they deserve. Jason decides, as she pulls a bag of microwave popcorn from her backpack and starts toward the kitchen, that he likes her.
“What’s your name?” She asks over the sound of popping kernels.
“I—” Jason fumbles, because he really isn’t Jason. Hood is Jason. He’s… “I don’t think I know anymore.”
Stephanie turns to him, head tilted. “Pick one, then.”
Jason thinks about Rena, hair tied up in a ponytail just like Stephanie. He thinks about nights spent holed up in his bedroom at the manor, pressed to her side while reading a book. He thinks about glances shared during social studies classes and lukewarm beers stolen from Dick.
“Jase,” he says, “I’m Jase.”