Chapter Text
Jason has always had a complicated relationship with gender. Or, if you’re being particular, he’s always had a complicated relationship with his gender in relation to the world around him.
When he was small, when he could barely understand the seemingly arbitrary lines people drew between people who looked like his mother and people who looked like his father; he was called Jacinta at home, Catherine Todd cooing “-- mi hija, Haci, te quiero--,”.
In the outside world, beyond the smoke stained walls of their apartment, he was Jason.
His father: “ --the fuck you doing, little fool? Jason get down from that damn wall, so fucking help me--,”.
With the power of hindsight, he could look back on his mother and her careful instructions, her cautious eyes and understand why. His father’s associates and her dealers weren’t good people, not even the few that played at being friendly. A little boy, while vulnerable, was infinitely safer than a little girl.
At the time, he’d simply gone along with it. It was all he knew and if he liked being out and about, liked it when he ran through the streets with the neighborhood kids and was called Jason, that was just him liking the pounding of his feet on pavement, like being walked to the corner store with his dad. Willis never did more than give him a swift smack to the back of the head for being mouthy when they were out. When they walked the streets, he was too sharp to risk being drunk in public.
After his dad walked out the door for the last time, after he and mom had to start squatting, after she finally succumbed to her self-medication and cancer, he became Jason all the time.
Bruce never called him Jacinta, he might have screamed if he did, because that was his mother’s name for him, that was a name filled with warmth and love and secrets not meant to be exposed to light.
Bruce called him Jason, even after he discovered his past. Bruce faked a birth record, Bruce gave him so many options , he gave him a future. The whole world expanded, like he’d snapped a rubber-band, growing beyond the press of survival.
Bruce never avenged him.
The dress slaps onto the bed and Jason’s fists tremble. His chest bubbles with an unfamiliar feeling, something that has been simmering in his stomach since he saw himself in the mirror the first time since escaping the burning ice of the Lazarus waters.
His chest heaves as he breathes and the now familiar prickle races down his spine at the weight there.
The door to the suite swings open and Talia steps inside.
She walks in wearing a sharp pantsuit, ears heavy with wealth and lips painted bright, like the warning hue of a poisonous viper.
“Still resisting Rosalind’s instructions?”
Jason crosses his arms and scowls at the squish , hating the flush of directionless anxiety that accompanies the movement.
“This is pointless,” he proclaims, “I should be learning how to poison, how to fight, how to do everything Bruce can do--I don’t need instruction on how to be,” his lips peel back an increment more, “ pretty .”
Talia clicks her tongue and strides forward, the delicate bracelets on her wrist flash as she picks up the silky, silvery dress from its resting place.
She holds it in front of Jason and hums, contemplating the color.
“Why not?” she asks as Jason turns from the offending article and glares at the wall. The patterns of the wallpaper curl in gold and blue, opulent.
“It’s,” the words stick in his throat for a second, “it’s a woman’s dress.”
Talia studies him with sharp eyes.
"And?"
Why is she like this? Ever since he'd gasped awake in her arms, she's been watching him. Seeing something that isn't there.
"I," he grinds out, "am not a woman."
Talia's lips twitch downward.
"Whatever my Beloved demanded so that you could be his partner, you need not cleave to those instructions now," her voice is soft, sympathetic.
Jason wants to scream .
"Bruce--," it hurts to even say his name , but he refuses to be bogged down by such a reaction, " Bruce didn't care that I was like this," he gestures to the unwelcome curves of his own body, unfamiliar and distressing, " I was the one who decided I'm not a girl and he, at least , respected that."
He glares at the woman who'd saved him, the woman offering her resources for his goal, whatever her motive truly is.
Talia lowers the dress and observes him. She throws the clothing over the armchair near the bed and sits on the edge of the mattress. Her form is all sinuous, dangerous grace as she crosses her legs and adjusts her cuffs.
"Despite that," she says, her voice firm, "you are not a man," her gaze flicks to his hands when they clench in reply, "not in the eyes of those who would observe you outside this room, Jason."
It's terrible how much the sound of his own name unwinds the tightening coil in his chest, just a bit.
It's pitiful, really.
"I don't care what people out there think."
Her eyes narrow, gleaming and green.
“It is foolish not to--you have never lived as a woman, Jason.”
Jason huffs.
“And I don’t plan to start now.”
Talia smiles bitterly.
“The world will not offer you that mercy, boy ,” she stands and takes Jason’s shoulder, turning him so he has to face the body length mirror in the corner of the room.
A girl stares back at him, with eyes that could be green, or gray, or blue. Late-teens, he notes clinically, olive-skinned, curvy, with dark, loose curls and full lips.
Pretty.
At her shoulder, Talia meets the girl’s gaze in the mirror and Jason’s mind is forced back into place, into acknowledgment of who the girl in the reflection is.
“You are beautiful,” Talia says, voice like a knife, “any man who looks at you will see a prize, will see a gem, an object to capture.”
Jason’s eyes try to trail away from the reflection, heart cold, but Talia grasps his chin and forces it forward.
“They will think you stupid for your sex, emotional and weak--but that will be nothing on the disdain they would feel for a failed woman, one who does not pander to their demands of beauty and modesty.”
Jason knows this, he’s seen it. Hookers always get the worst end of the stick and even if he’d tried to keep his own encounters, desperate for cash, down to handies and blowies, some had pulled his pants down and delighted in the surprise they found there.
His stomach turns at the memory.
“So?” he rasps. He sees it, understands what she is saying, but he doesn’t want it to be true; hates it with every fiber of his being.
Talia narrows her eyes at his stubbornness and lets go of his chin, stepping away and placing a hand on her hip.
“So you must learn,” she walks over to the dress and holds it in front of Jason’s form, “how to use those bias against them, how to navigate this world as a beautiful woman and use it as a blade--this is simply a weapon, Jason, another for your arsenal.”
Transition would take years.
He knows.
Bruce and he had talked about it, sometime after he was adopted. Despite his lack of regular food and late development, he had still started puberty by the time it became a topic he could speak to Bruce about.
Not that puberty blockers would have prevented the healing wrought by the Lazarus pit.
Magic solutions were out. Most magic, even that performed by a master, was temporary, or a curse with release conditions and a laundry list of caveats and risks.
That left science.
Hormones required a regular schedule, sterile conditions, access to pharmaceuticals. Surgery had recovery times, rest periods that would interfere with conditioning.
Possible to achieve, with Talia’s support, but time-consuming.
He already set his timeline for his return, he wouldn’t compromise it, not for this.
A tool is a tool at the end of the day, no matter how misshapen or uncomfortable.
He takes the dress.