Archive of Our Own

Jason Peter Todd-Wayne is a king.

A elegant, tradition keeping, regal appearing king—he knows how to talk down the most furious of men, with all but an arched eyebrow, speak fluent french, how to dip his chin, but not bow, he knows all the ins and outs of politics ( no , he’s gotten used to saying, after you [asshole] ), and to please others all while getting what he wants, he knows how to do everything just right—a perfect one at that.

He is the youngest of his father’s children, the one who was never meant for the throne yet taken after him anyway, raised up in the quiet shadow of his brothers, away from the strict clutch of his father. He is the one that wears the Batclan crown on his head, he is the one who rules the kingdom. 

Him. Not his brothers.

Richard. Robin. Jason.

A boy named after a powerhouse of a man, a sly leader; brave, true of heart. A warrior raised not to conquer with a sword, but his bright tongue. And finally, a doomed love, the healer and not the king; salvation.

They were each raised under the iron-fist of nobility, told that they are the sons of the Great House of Wayne , one of them will rule Batclan, one will be the face of Batclan, all the ones destined to carry on the pure bloodline, they are sons—not daughters—and that means they must find someone suitable instead of being handed off.

Jason was told all of his life that he is not someone destined to be loved—he is someone destined to carry on the bloodline no matter who it took. That if someone is good enough, you pick them out of the crowd and you make them yours , because he is a Prince and maidens will be snapping at his heels to be given a chance.

But that’s not him. If someone wants him, truly, they’re going to have to leave one hell of an impression.

They’re going to have to make him fall in love.

It was everything against what his father ever tried to teach him—“Love.” King Bruce would spit. “Such a useless thing.”—but he grew up in a house where his parents didn’t love one another, he grew up with a father that’s like a ghost, quiet, nearly see-through. 

There, but not. 

He grew up with a snake of a father.

He’d carry on the bloodline, yes, but he would do it his way. Not his father’s way. Jason will never make a child feel the way that he did growing up. Replaceable. He wants to be a father that others will brag about (and Jason always wanted to be a father, before he was told he had to be). 

His children will be loved.

Just as Jason plans to be.

The rich high-court families often met up for dinner, for manipulation strewn out across plates like the steak Jason’s father loved so much. It wasn’t for court purity. It wasn’t to keep everything to themselves. It was for their society, for the interactions that they need to thrive (and definitely about the money).

But as anyone would tell you, robins are solitary creatures—even if snakes, stars and ravens aren’t.

“This is about legacy, how you both are my legacy.” Father told them, as he watched Dick and Robin get ready in their finest suits with the help of Mister Pennyworth—their man servant, Jay sitting on the bed behind them still in his nightwear. “About our community.”

Richard had to go because he was going to be the king, and needed to know who he was going to be serving. Robin needed to go because he was the Wayne family’s finest speaker, he needed to grow up to know who to be friends with, and who to hate, and everything in between. Jason had no such requirements himself.

“About history?” Dick suggests, eleven years old and proud.

Robin smiles in his know-it-all fashion. “About culture.” He was always prouder.

The children were meant to talk to themselves, make their parents proud on the outskirts, between ten and fifteen, when they could start to be respected as people instead of simple-minded prodigies. The too-young ones—what Robin would always classify Jason as—stayed back in separate rooms, watched by serving ladies and butlers alike.

The young ones: 

Duke Oliver’s son—eight, Marquess Cain’s daughter—seven, like Jason, Crown Prince Damian—Jason’s three year old cousin, Flash’s Countess’ son, Bart—four, Super’s King’s son, Jon—three, Wonder’s Marquess Troy’s daughter—six, Super’s Knight’s children—ten, eight and eight.

Harper and Cain and the Wayne’s stay on one side, Damian in Jason’s arms, crying against his collarbone, wanting to play with the dice the Super boy has—Bart and Troy sit quietly on the floor, playing babbling while Jon and the Drake’s badger butlers for sweets.

Timothy Drake has a red threadbare blanket that he won’t let go of, and cries every time that Jon accidentally touches it, which scares the other boy into a forced silence. His father would call him weak. He’s seven (and his oldest brother already proved he can be strong).

“My mother said that we’re both destined to help Batclan.” Roy says. 

Jason swears that the entire time they’ve known each other, since they were about five, every sentence of his has started with ‘my mother’. My mother told me this, my mother will hear about this, my mother —it drives the seven year old mad.  

It’s more annoying than how Damian won’t stop pulling on the white patch in his hair.

“I’m sure that’s true.” Jason said. “I’m a prince.” Because that has to mean something.

Roy grinned at him, missing teeth and near-red hair catching in the light. “I’m a duke.”

He blinked at him, blue-green eyes questioning as his head tilted, aware that if he talks above a whisper, Damian will start crying again. He thinks this is because Aunt Talia yells so much (so he’s calm if you talk calmly, and used to the sight of blood). 

“Do you like ponies?”

“Uh… I like horses?”

“Okay.” Jay said. “That’s close.”

“Enough?”

“Yep.”

Even with the simplicity of such things, manipulation, court interests and political maneuvering started far too early. Each child already knew if they’d be allowed in the adult-room, or if they’d forever be babysitting the younger ones.

Jason knew, at least.

Eventually, everything fits itself into place.

Richard, the crown on his head so new he was constantly fixing it, scared if it would fall off, had ignored it when a Starfire princess had tried to joke with him and instead shook hands with the Super Queen, curtseying kindly. Robin met Flash’s King, smiled tight-lipped, chin pointed up and said “I’m going to be like you one day” when what he really meant was, better than .

Bart Allen and Timothy Drake would end up having a fight over something stupid when they were thirteen that would lead to them never talking again. Victor and his sister, the Drake knights, would swear up and down that if that wasn’t the case, the two would have married.

Robin had sneered about crybabies in Damian’ direction, and then threatened to drop his little brother, Robin the Fifth (who they call Robbie), down the stairs when asked to hold him for a family picture. Jason took him in his arms, balanced both princes on either hip and stared at the painter, trying to make it look like his eyes were smiling even if he was not, Damian’ fist clenched angrily around white hair.

Harper and Troy would train together enough that they’d rather call one another enemies than friends, but once Earl Al Ghul’s son—who was already in the adult room—joined them, they pretended to be joined at the hip. Harper would always ask when he would join him, and she would say, quietly, “One day.”

Cassandra Cain grew up quiet, too, and let her mother lead every conversation, long after she was allowed into the inner circle. Prince Conner Kent came to his first meeting in the adult room with that unbearably ugly red blanket resewn as a scarf he didn’t know others could see through, and let Jon wear it when the boy began to shiver.

Everyone knew of his and Drake's affair.

The closest thing that Jason ever came to being truly considered one of them, from watching from a distance, is when Damian went to go up to the short, scared Miraculous girl with a wide smirk on his twelve year old lips, ready to risk his social standing for a maid and he stopped him by grabbing his wrist.

“Aunt Talia’s watching.” He said, plainly, chin pointed, looking regal. Being quiet means that he notices a lot more. The Miraculous court rarely comes to Justice, but when they do, Princess Chloe should be the one to go after. Surely not a maiden. “Don’t risk it.”

“Mother said she wasn’t going to come tonight.” Damian bit back, eyes on the young prince, knowing enough to not look around for his mother—to not give it away.

Jason clicked his tongue, dropped his hand and took a step back. “She lied. Pretend I told you the Super Prince was looking for you, please.” 

Jon Ken always did have a way of finding the perfect time to cause trouble with his cousin, and since they were both princes, it wasn’t considered mischief—it was considered high-class socialization.

Ponies and horses both had saddles, and the court royals had their children start riding them young. It would stop being fun eventually, when they started to actually grow up. They joined the Hall of Kings. They put on a crown. They grow up. The adult room doesn’t stay the adult room, it turns into ‘the room’, and then it has no name at all.

But not for Jason. He does not get to dance around dukes and earls and marquesses. 

He is the spare. Replaceable. Just like he said.

Jason stayed in the room with all the ones that were cast offs or too young and he told wild stories of knights with strong horses, and pixies who rode ponies in groups of a hundred, never smiling, or putting on a crazy voice, but adding just enough of those long-words and long-winded sayings that his cousins were so fond of to make the little high-court kids awe at him.

He does not know what his future holds for him. He will always fight for it anyway. Whatever it is, he was sure even at seven—ten—twelve—fifteen—seventeen—that it would be worth the wait.

When a child in the kingdom of Justice turns ten, they go to League’s Crown Shop—no matter which of the courts they’re in, no matter their status—and gets a ring made for them. The ring symbolizes their destiny, their path in life, often, their family. Their fate.

At eleven, Jason is handed a silver ring scratched raw, brown polish smudged over a carving of a bear, half of it carved into fern leaves, red polish pressed into every crack. It was bulky and garish, and J’onzz, the witch that runs the shop, told him it wouldn’t grow with him like most rings given out to children of the courts.

“It will fit you, one day, child.” He said, bowing to him slightly. “Perseverance, elegance, they’re what describe you. Be true to your own values, dear. Your values, not anyone else’s. Like a bear.” J’onzz turned away from him, not looking back. “It’ll make sense eventually.”

“Thank you, sir.” He replied.

“Oh no, your highness,” A term used for queens and kings, not for the last heir of an old house—but he wasn’t going to correct him. It would be considered improper. “Thank you .”

“Always take in a person’s posture, the way they lift their chin.” Their father, King Bruce, says. Jason is ten. “You must always be able to tell what kind of person they are. Are they a prince or a duke, or are they peasant scum trying to look like someone they’re not. Look at their clothes, their hands. Are they calloused or clean? Find what is fitting to you.”

Find what is fitting to you.

“A Batclan woman,” the King would say. “A princess or duchess or royal. Someone in the court of the robin. Someone who knows how to bow before you.” 

Richard heard a pushover. A princess-consort, not a queen. Someone destined not to be able to love you. You don’t need to be loved. Why are you thinking about love? He never learned how to stop thinking it, just learned how to stop sharing it, just learned how to reason with himself like father doesn’t love anyone. This mattered to them all. They had you anyway. Love is useless . You don’t need it.

Robin translated his words into, find someone who will never be able to strip your title from you. Someone you can use. Someone that won’t need any of your power. You have power. It’s yours. Use it. It’s the closest to the venom their father spits. Be someone who smiles while stepping on the back of someone else. Better yet, make them smile while your heel digs in their back. Become someone who can come back, no matter what. Who will always be needed.

Jason, quiet in the background, raised his chin. He will not be told who to love . He ignored the women that looked at him, waiting for him to grow old enough to take, straightened his back, leveled his shoulders, dressed the best and most fashionable of the three boys, always in silver and red, in silk and velvet, in a ruby crown, had his nails filed and hands soft. He will not go out in search of a princess or a duchess or a royal. They will come to him, if they want to love him . 

See, they all think of themselves as princes, but there is a difference. 

Richard is king-to-be, the true ruler, the one meant to make all the important decisions, Robin is the beloved Crowned Prince, the one who talks to other nations, that is the face of the court, dealing with the barons and viscounts, and Jason is the last heir, the last Prince of the House of Wayne, he is the youngest, the one farthest away from the throne, the one farthest away from their father’s love.

It shapes them, you see.

Richard ignored himself for the right to the crown, Robin thought of himself as the most important (the only thing standing between him and the throne was a boy), and Jason understood he wasn’t needed for anything other than a placeholder. 

He was his family’s way of getting from one thing to another—three sons, to daughter-in-laws, to more male heirs.

Out of the three Wayne sons, Jason took after his father the most. Their father is under the impression that is a bad thing.

Richard was like the (im)perfect blend: a wild card, bold, daring, someone who’s as clever as they are reserved. Powerful in his own right. Dick’s not afraid to speak his mind, but also acknowledges the times that would be suited better if he didn’t talk at all. He was sparks.

Robin was flames—a spitting image of their father's dark side. He has a sneaky cruel tongue, he knows how to manipulate to get what he wants and bat his eyes—to be venom and sweet all at once. He is not someone who seems naive. He is brash—cold—but he makes you feel alive, like you can do anything. Robin is there, in the center, in the spotlight.

Jason is a wallflower: more like the king than he cares to admit. 

He rarely smiles, and he doesn’t laugh, it’s considered improper, and what does he have to laugh at anyway? He is perfect at following the leader—he can fit into whatever spot you need. Replaceable. He is not sparks or flames but the cold flint that creates them; the one who holds others up; who says look at them , ignore me ; aren’t they amazing?

They are princes, but only one would be told you are a king , only one would be told you’re important . Jason was not either of these. He was the backup. The scapegoat. The spare. Why would he want anyone to fall in love with him, when they wouldn’t gain anything? 

Why would anyone want to sacrifice for him?

Justice, resourcefulness, manipulation, and cleverness are the tenants of Jason’s family. Perseverance and elegance mark him as different. Patience, however, is what he thinks is his own personal value. There’s nothing in the world that Jason wants to do that he is not content waiting for—that’s how he knows things are worth it, he thinks.

He is patient. He has to be.

When Dick turns sixteen, he has the option to go to the ball with royals or to the hunt with Father. He chooses the hunt, and as an extra birthday present, he brings his younger brothers alongside him. It’s their first hunt, and Dick’s last—he tells Jason later that the blood spill just isn’t for him.

Father thinks that princes are just as capable of hunting as knights are, but Jason doesn’t believe him. 

It’s not that princes aren’t capable of a kill—Robin, with his cold eyes and Father’s anger, is—it’s that knights are more hands on, more angry, more violent. When princes kill, often, not nearly as much blood is spilled. He remembers Father’s first, a blade through the side of a bird’s neck. They’re clean about it. Hunting is messy. 

Jason hates it.

But he does quite love horses. 

All of the Wayne boys got horses for their sixth birthday—“What fine lord doesn’t know how to care for such well-bred beings as these?” Father had asked, lifting his boys up onto his horse, Batman, while Pennyworth fumed somewhere in the background at the prospect of them shoveling hay—Dick got a black shire horse he named Batarang; Robin got a spotted grey and brown Friesian horse, Father and him named her Justice together; Jay got a white steed, a Cob horse he named Ace.

So this, he supposes, was okay. 

They rode out before the sunrise, his father in the lead, and decided to split up in groups, Dick deciding who he wanted with him first, due to it being his birthday—Marchioness Cain and the Super Viscountess that her father is fond of, Lady Gordon were the lucky few. 

Gordon was the type of woman who didn’t find value in men, no matter their status and that suited Richard well, as he didn’t find the value in girls who felt so entitled to disgrace a future king, as well as the quiet woman Cain was. Jason felt him brave for that, but bravery, Father would say, is a Super trait. 

You are not brave. 

You are smart.

Then Robin, of course, wanted to be with Earl Ra’s—the older man that he’d been making eyes at for weeks now, alongside one of father’s knights. 

It was obvious that he was trying to impress him, freshly fifteen in all his innocence, him, twenty-one, with all his faux genuinity. Jay didn’t like it, he wanted him to leave his big brother alone. But their father was alright with it, thought that in a year, he’d be a fine suitor for him, and so Robin was held out in front of the earl like bait—dangled in front of him while Father taunted, it won’t be too long before you can take a bite .

That left Roy Harper, the Duke’s heir, with Jason as Duke Oliver chatted Father away. The king, chin lifted in the air as the duke finishes his laughter, asks “Mister Harper, would you consider your son to be a complimentary bachelor?” and he felt like dying.

Jason and Mister Harper immediately lock eyes, blush, and look away. 

Arranged marriages are one thing, but asking someone if they think their son is worthy enough to marry his child in front of their son is another. If he wasn’t so flustered by the idea, he’d be mad at his father—but never scold him, for that was improper.

It was embarrassing, him asking. He never asked for Richard or Robin, trusting them to find their own suitor like he did. For him, apparently, it was different. He was not something to be chosen, someone who’s greatness was sought after. He was something to be given away.

Jason thought that things like that were only for little girls.

It was things like this—the little things, that everyone else would call meaningless—that Jason would never forget.

“You don’t think he’s serious, much, do you?” Mister Harper asked, slowing down his horse to be side-by-side with Jason, who pointedly keeps himself facing forward. He takes his silence as a yes. “Dad’s always bringing up stuff like this, which is probably where the king got the idea to ask. I’ll tell my mom to make him stop.”

“It doesn’t bother me.” Jason lies, expertly. Voice stable, eyes unflinching, hands collapsed over Ace’s head collar. “It is his job as a father.”

Mister Harper tilts his head, stark red hair hanging down in front of his face. It’s a wonder he doesn’t get sick, moving about on his horse as he does. “Why’s that? Can’t you find someone you like yourself? It most likely won’t be me, you know.”

He arches an eyebrow at him, finally turning to give him his full attention. “Most likely?”

“Who knows?” He shrugs, green eyes twinkling in the growing sunlight. His smile, he’s discovered, always looks a bit like a smirk. “I could grow on you.”

“That’s unlikely, Sire.”

“Just wait, Your Majesty,” He responds, nudging his brown steed with his spurs, causing her to trot faster. Her name’s Arrow, and she’s got a lovely brown coat. “Just wait.”

Jason sighed and looked down to where his hands were clasped anxiously against one another, wringing up until Mister Harper had bothered to bicker with him. He… he wanted a friend, actually, more than anything else. When he looks back up, Roy Harper’s there, five feet ahead, staring over to the growing sunrise.

While Duke Oliver and his father (his knight, actually) set up the sleeping spaces for the night, it’s Mister Harper and Jason’s job to track where the deer herd settled, so that they can catch up to them in the morning. Jason doesn’t prefer it, but Harper’s good with a bow.

It surprises both of them when their horses step into a clearing and across the field is a young looking buck, who stares at them, instead of running away.

Harper raises his bow, shakily—thirteen and inexperienced—not aimed, and glances at Jason. He does not say anything. He doesn’t have to. Neither of them are killers. He, just as shakily, puts it back down. “The buck’s too young,” He says—a lie. “It’d be wrong.”

“Yes,” Jay says. “Too young.”

His father would scold him for losing track of the deer, telling him as a duke, he ought to be able to keep track of animals more so than people, to shoot them dead, but Mister Harper never commented on the deer in the clearing or about Jason. He was covering for him.

It was… interesting.

It is Robin’s sixteenth birthday. Richard is already sixteen, and will be seventeen in a few months—he’s more spacey than ever, but he’s kind. Robin is not. Jason is fourteen, his birthday all but two weeks ago, close enough that when Father drags them out of Wayne Palace on the eve of Robin’s birth, he can say that it is for them both.

Richard spends the day in Miss Martian’s and Robin spends the day having Earl Al Ghul buy him anything he so wants because, “A fine young man—” Man, not lord, not boy, never to be a boy again. “—such as yourself must have whatever he desires.” and Jason spends the time in the square Anywhere But With Them.

He window shops and explores the jewelry store, and finally picks up a necklace for Robin that is a small vile, something to store powder or a tiny amount of liquid in. Jay doesn’t quite know why he thinks so strongly of Robin when he sees the small silver trinket, but he does. 

It screams his name.

(It speaks more about his older brother, and how he refuses to exist without being useful. How his father raised him to be a weapon, to be someone to point at people, to be someone to make others bow. Robin is not a boy. He is his father’s pet. He is a snake.)

He buys it instantly.

At the end of the day, Robin’s present is tied up into a neat little box and delivered to his quarters by Mister Pennyworth, Jason being far more pleased by this than having to deliver it himself. Intimacy, as simple as that, makes him squeamish. Especially with boys as thank you, put it down, I’ll look at it later, no, yeah, I like it, I’ll ask Father to put it on me tomorrow, thanks, bye -ish as Robin is.

Then a knock comes on his door, Mister Pennyworth’s service bell ringing.

“Come in.” Jason says, looking up from where he is at the desk, pushing his drawing to the left, hiding it under his wrist. Artistry is not something his father appreciates—there’s nothing useful about it unless it’s a map. It feels like breaking a rule.

Mister Pennyworth nods, lips pursed (he is not the kindest servant in the world) and bows, exposing Richard behind him, in his nightwear already just like his little brother. He doesn’t wait for either of them to speak before excusing himself—something Jason ignores but something her father would have scolded Pennyworth for.

“I could have come to your room, if you wanted a goodnight, Dick.” He offers, but Richard just shrugs it off with a ‘I’m not going to bed yet’ as he moves over to sit on Jason’s bed. “Is there something going on?”

“Happy birthday.” Dick says, head tilted to the side, blue eyes digging into his blue-green ones. “I don’t think anyone’s told you yet.”

“Oh.” Jason relaxes against the wood chair, turning over to face Dick, feet crossing underneath him—feeling small and five years old again. “Thank you.”

“You want a gift?”

His cheeks flush at the attention. He’d rather it stay on Robin. “I… um, I, yes. I would.” And doesn’t that just feel selfish? “Thank you.”

Leaning over the bed, a small box in hand, throwing it across the space in a very Richard-style fashion, Dick’s interrupted in settling back down by a hard knock on the door, scared it’s their father. Robin’s curly black head of hair poking through a second later—absent from Mister Pennyworth’s presence.

“Ra’s left for the night,” He tells them, and neither of his brothers comment on what the older man was doing in his chambers on the eve of his sixteenth birthday. “So here I am. Thanks for the necklace, Jay.”

He’s wearing the vial necklace already, a fine yellow powder inside. It looks like the fairy dust they use in the corner of their eyes, making them sparkle. It makes Jason want to grin—and cry.

“Well there goes me being original,” Dick jokes, and Jason observes the jewelry box from League’s. “Great minds think alike. C’mere, Rob.”

Robin rolls his dark eyes, but sits beside their older brother nonetheless, facing Jay once again. “Jason, come over here. Must you always sit so proper?”

“He’s a lord ,” Dick argues, blue glaring into darkness. “It’s cute, he’ll grow up to be an amazing man, who never slouches—unlike you.”

“Hey! I don’t slouch . Peasants slouch. I just… take breaks from standing so properly, sometimes.”

“Yeah, Robin, that’s called a slouch.”

“Actually, Dick, I think it’s called relaxing.”

Jason, in the quake of his brothers bickering, opens the box, pulling off the red bow his brother had tied messily on top. Inside is a precious looking ruby necklace, carved gently into the shape of a bear—reminding him all too much of the bulky, unpleasant ring in the bottom of his desk drawer—and a matching bracelet.

His brothers quiet down when he holds it up, letting it spin in the light. “It’s handsome.”

Richard grins, leaning back onto his hands. “It reminds me of you.”

He takes off all of his jewelry on his miniature display stand and replaces it with the ruby set, proudly showing off the gifts. It’s not something he’d wear normally, in fact, Jason really only wears jewelry on special occasions—he likes looking at it more than wearing it—but he wants it to be out.

He wants to remember that once, he was loved.

Even if it’s temporary.

“I got you something as well.” Robin says—surprising both of his brothers, which apparently is obvious enough that he rolls his eyes at them, huffing. “I’m not completely thoughtless, you know.”

“Oh, is that just when the handsome earl is around?” Dick teases.

Jason, feeling giddy, presses on, “Or when father is fitting you for a suit?”

“You’re both mean , I ought to just throw the present away.” Robin says teasingly, nose pointed in the air. 

They’re all young and haven’t quite yet decided how they’re going to be want they know they want. He’s done nothing painful yet. They’re brothers. They love one another, even when it’s painful. Even when they wished they didn’t—they do.

Both Dick and Jay protest against this enough for Robin to call his bluff and go retrieve a velvet-laced box from Martian and Manhunters, an apparel shop in the League market that their father fancies for his scarves, cuff ends and handkerchiefs. 

“It’s not much, but it’s not something you can outgrow either,” He says, a light, embarrassed by his own thoughtfulness flush high on his cheeks. “But you only get it if you come over here.”

Shaking his head at his older brother’s antics, Jason is quick to tread over to the bed—yelping as Richard and Robin grab either of his arms and pull him roughly down onto the bed, squishing him between them with absolutely no warning whatsoever. “Guys!”

“What?” Dick laughs. “You agreed to come over here!”

“And now you get your present!” Robin adds.

“Open it!”

“I am, I am. Calm down.” Jason says, scoffing as he drags a thumb nail over the light slit of the box, opening it as gently as he can. Inside is a dazzling set of plain silver and emerald headpieces and cloak decor, more simple than any crown, fitting for all occasions. 

There’s small silver robins and Richard’s crown emblem and constellations laid out in gems.

Robin clears his throat a bit. “I had them custom made. Damian helped, with the stars. He’s little—” Just ten. “—but he spends every night out there on the telescope. I figured he’d know what direct to point me in. Not much of a talker, though.”

“This is Atlas,” Jason picks up a dainty silver headpiece, pointing to the third gem—star—down. Taurus. “This is Sirius, one of the brightest stars. And this,” She picks up a heavier headband, red gems embedded into the span of it. “Is Andromeda, the Chained Woman. One of my favorites.”

Dick, always greedy with knowledge, tilts his head. “Is there a Big Dipper?”

“There’s a bear, like my necklace, but not really in the myths.” Robin says, pointing to the silver, ruby and gold markings on a different headband. “See? They’re in the shape of a bear, kind of.”

Jason nods. “Bears.” Overcome with a warmth in his chest, the fourteen year old prince lets himself smile and throws his arms around both of his big brother’s necks. This is the part of his childhood that made him always happy, feel like it’s magic to be a prince, a brother. “I love you guys!”

Dick’s giggle is a shrieking laughter, and Robin scoffs but soon devolves into little chuckles as they fall flat against the bed, staring up at the ceiling, a little enclave of the Lake, where fish and coral thrive alike. They mumble the unfamiliar words back, but both make sure to say it.

Things like this—they’re small. They’re important. They don’t last.

They’re things he needs to remember for his whole life.

“Prince?”

Startling him in the garden, Jason looks over to find Duke Harper standing there—Mister Harper, Roy, who took over his father’s mantle at the age of sixteen, too young but still proper, strict, even—looking a bit nervous, a bit smiley. He clasps his hands in front of him after a small bow.

“Yes?”

“I want to know if you would like to go on a walk with me?” He asks, green eyes flitting about the space but standing straight, proper, otherwise, red hair catching in the sun. If he wasn’t so nervous, he wouldn’t have been suspicious at all.

Jason raises both eyebrows, chin dipping slightly. “Why would you like a walk, Duke?” Not dismissive, but not exactly welcoming either—he’s fifteen, the age Robin was when Earl Ra’s began to fully try and court him. When he took him. 

Now, Jay is wary of most men.

Duke Harper flushes a bit, a genuine response. “I have been… you’re… I’d like to be friends, perhaps, see if… could we walk? You can ask me any question you want and at the end, if you’d like nothing to do with me, I’ll leave you alone. But I’d like to get to know you more.”

He considers it, moving back over to his roses and fern, plucking off all the unnecessary bits, trimming the thorns—normally, it’s saved for a garden maid. There are just times he’d like to be productive; do something with his hands that isn’t clasp them together.

They’re in an open space, a public space, and from all he’s seen of Duke Harper, he’s been a pleasant boy. So Jason looks back up to him, where he is rocking on his heels, patient, waiting—starting as he realizes they’re making eye contact, green eyes widening just a bit.

It was amusing—it’s almost like he’s intimidated by him.

“Alright,” He stands, brushing his hands off delicately. “Where would you like to walk, Duke Harper?”

“Oh.” It seems like he didn’t think that far ahead, maybe assuming he wouldn’t get this far, but makes up for it by grinning lightly, attractively. “Around the bigger, outside garden? It is quite pleasant outside this time of day.”

Jason nods. “So long as it’s not windy.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty thankful we don’t live in a high tower.” He speaks while turning away, leading him right outside. “Creates a lot of wind. I couldn’t stand being a Wonder or Super.”

He shrugs, wrapping his hand gently around his arm as he offers it out to him properly. “I think you’d make a fine Wonder duke.”

“Do you?” Duke Harper looks interested in this, glancing down at her. “My mother says that I’m just a bit too studious for them—apparently, they’ve gotten quite the knack for being explorative. Great warriors. Not as bookish as everyone likes to think.”

“Oh—was she from Wonder?”

“Her parents were, they moved to Batclan when she was a maiden.” He explains, pausing to flick a particularly tall sunflower, brushing some seeds out of the center. The duke is curious when looking around the garden, it’s clear that he’s rarely been here before—which is odd to Jason, having been invited there. “Dad’s full Batclan though.”

His father, who was kind of Jason’s father’s favorite friend, made that plainly obvious. He was proud of his heritage, it was just annoying to Jason who could never seem to escape his tangents.

Jason looks up to Harper, hoping it’s considered conversation instead of improper prying when he asks, “Why did he pass on his mantle to you this young?” He’s only a year older than him, and he can’t imagine being in his shoes at only sixteen.

Duke Harper shrugs. “His parents died when he was young, so he was given the mantle young, and he wanted me to experience the same. Said it was my turn to serve Batclan, and his time was up. Mom was furious at first, but once he suggested a vacation, she was all for it.”

“Parent’s ideals are so easily swayed at certain moments.” Jason muses, pulling away to investigate already-wilting roses—knowing they shouldn’t begin to decay for another four days at most, and in the gardens enough to know they bloomed perfectly on time.

“Careful, please, Prince,” Duke Harper says. “I wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

“Thorns don’t hurt all too much.” Jason notes, tsking as the back of his hand brushes against a few, breaking little scratches open along his skin—holding it out for him to look at. Honestly, he’s more concerned with the way the roses are wilting. “See? It-”

“Prince Jason— you’re bleeding !”

“Duke, I-”

“No, you’re bleeding,” Duke Harper fumbles his pockets while he just stares at him, shaking his head slightly. For a duke, he’s kind of a mess. No. He’s a lot of a mess. “Here,” He says, thrusting out a plain green pocket square. “Clean it off, please.”

He huffs. “It’s just a scratch, Mister—Duke Harper.”

Bowing briefly, he nods. “I’m aware. You just… you shouldn’t settle for things like that. Just because it doesn’t hurt much, doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt at all.”

“Are you sure you’re a duke?” Jason asks, taking the pocket square from him but doing nothing with it. “You’re acting more like a fussing knight.”

“Do you like knights?”

“I think they’re noble, yes, quite good people, at that.”

“Are you friends with any?”

“My brother, Richard, is quite fond of Knight Brown,” He says, not having a personal knight himself. “So I would say, formal acquaintances, yes.”

Duke Harper grins at him. “Does that mean you’ll be friends with me?”

Jason feels like rolling his eyes. “You’re quite determined.”

“I want to be friends.” He pauses, when he gives him nothing. “Are you still bleeding?”

He gives him something close to a glare—it’s not viscous like Robin’s, but it’s probably not pleasant, either. “You don’t actually care, do you?”

“I do, actually.” Duke Harper frowns at him. “We’re in the court together, I think you’re important and I think you’re growing up to be kind.” Kind? Most people call his attitude something closer to crass . Pennyworth definitely does. “I want to be your friend.”

“Okay.” Jason doesn’t think about it, he doesn’t want a chance to talk himself out of it.

“Okay?” He grins again—like a smirk, normal, cute. “Thank you.”

He bows, playfully this time, and it makes him laugh a little and bow right back. Friends , he thinks, offering his own arm this time, so they can finish the walk. Harper takes it with a wide grin. How strange .

His father did not ask Richard to give up the throne. 

Dick gave it up himself. He left the day after he brought Jay home a red, sweet and creamy type of pudding, and Robin a simple cupcake with sour yellow frosting. He didn’t bring back Father anything, and nor would he ever. Not for lack of trying, but because he wouldn’t eat it anyway.

Jason was never a fan of sweets and how they often stain your face with chocolate or sugar, or something else just as improper. He sat on the bench of the garden, one of the ones that you can see the stars from, instead of the ones in the dungeon overlooking the bottom of the Lake.

Fresh air was refreshing. It was like he was resetting his lungs, his eyes. Cleaning himself with it.

He was sixteen. His big brother just abandoned him. He refused to cry.

He wiped his eyes off with the simple green fabric sheet that Duke Harper had given to him, raised his chin, clasped his hands roughly in front of him and looked at the stars. Then, he assumed that the throne would be Robin’s for the taking—rightly passing onto the Crown Prince.

If Batclan was going to crumble from within, he was ready. He had been ready his whole life—that’s what being the spare means. He had his mind. He had his own two steady hands. He was his brother’s keeper, his father’s legacy, and he would not fall down easily.

Jason would always put up one hell of a fight. Just, quietly. Slowly.

The next morning, when breakfast came, everyone acted like nothing had happened at all.

Mister Pennyworth talked with Father about the ideals of the next Council meeting, and how… unfortunate it was that Starfire's were opening their doors to so many from Batclan—a monthly thing; Aunt Talia quietly ate, only addressing anyone to scold her sons or press them for using the right piece of silverware.

Robin was smirking and talking about Earl Al Ghul to Robbie, who hated the man and was less than happy with the exchange. He was heard telling Robin to shove the earl’s ‘oh so fancy sword as you so said’ somewhere vastly unpleasant before dramatically storming off to the stables—a weekly occurrence.

It was Damian who mentioned something.

“Uncle Wayne?” He asked slowly, carefully. Like he might lash out and bite if he moved too fast—he was right. “Where’s Grayson?”

Within moments the entire table goes quietly, still. His father dabbed at his mouth pleasantly, eyes digging into his young cousin, who stared back—a challenge. A tight lipped smile passed over the king’s lips, he raised his eyes to Damian and then he asked, “Who?”

Jason felt his eyes brim with tears and he looked over to his brother, who’s eyes were on his plate. His plate was finished, and he didn’t know how to feel. Jason hadn’t touched his food all morning, too nauseous to eat. Silent. Like always. 

He wanted to scream, wanted to knock all these fancy plates over and throw his hands in the air and cry, how could you say that about your own son! Don’t you realize you’re the reason he left, don’t you know that you’re the one who pushed him away? It’s your fault! It’s all your fault!

But this was Jason.

The youngest prince.

He was quiet, sweet—all wide blue-green eyes and nods, small curtseys and properness—all perfectly pressed dress and straight hair—all silent and agreeable—docile—naive—perfect—he could do nothing but think in a quiet rebellion, but that would be enough. That would have to be enough.

There will come a day when they will realize that the power they brag so much about? 

He’s the one who has it.

Robin never willingly talks about Richard again—it was like there was always only two of them. Like they grew up as the only two sons of the Great House of Wayne, as the only two princes—Robin and Jay, Jay and Robin, never Dick, never big brother, just them—and it hurts.

The one person that Jason thought he would be able to talk to, to whisper about the pain of the missing third of his heart with, stays silent.

Silence, at least, is something that he is fluent in.

Him and Duke Harper take walks around the garden and all of Batclan’s beautiful sights twice a week, after his knight training at Young Justice and before the Wayne family dinner. He asks him about everything, about Dick and Robin, and his father, about his cousins and how he feels about his court and duty and the roses he trims, and the fish in the lake.

He does not ask him about being king or the crowned prince or when he will take the throne.

I care about you , he translates instead of, what’s in it for me?

Duke Harper was stationed on the north side of the castle during a training protocol. An hour in, a knight went down bleeding from his head, somehow, an arrow pierced his armor. It was a miracle that he survived. When the duke turned to him, an arrow embedded him in the shoulder.

It occurred to him that nobody knew they were injured. That it was a training day, for the knights returning from YJ.

He dragged the bleeding knight up with his good arm and carried him like a child back to the med bay, where Asa, the head healer at St. Lobo’s—Justice’s uncourted witch coven—healed him enough that he could wield his sword with only the smallest of a wince.

When it got back to King Bruce that the duke was injured in training because his archers needed a drastic lesson in aim, he was furious. 

“What if we went to war!” Jason heard him shriek at Aunt Talia, who, of course, stayed quiet. “We’d kill our own men! We’d be left with scraps! We can’t—this is wrong, Talia. We are Batclan, we are powerful. We’re not lame-tipped arrows and injured royals.”

Jason did not care about power, then.

He cared about Duke Harper.

The prince tied up his laces, tightened the clasp around his cloak and took off to the duke’s chambers. His butler scoffed and said “You mustn’t run, m’lord, it’s beneath you.” in a scolding tone but he ignored him, he didn’t knock before opening the door—his parents retired, ran away, they will not be back for anything, not for their son, only for their funerals.

Sitting there on his bed, eighteen year old Duke Harper is wrapping his shoulder with white gauze, mouth agape at the intrusion, green eyes wide. “Prince?”

“Duke,” He breathes, letting down his cloak, patting her suit down—trying to regain some dignity. “I had to… I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

He blinks at him once, twice. “I’m alright.”

“Well then,” Jason coughs, turning away. “Good.” Then he backpedals, spins on his heel and rushes out of his chambers, past the same butler who hummed in his direction, pleased with his brisk, proper walk.

“Wait! Prince Jason—Prince!” Duke Harper calls after him, pulling on a button up shirt as he races after him, catching up and walking backwards to face him, meeting his wicked pace. “What’s going on?”

“It doesn’t matter!” He rounds the corner of the main Batclan court and into his family’s Wayne Palace space—all connected by one walkway.

“But you’ve never, you’ve never done that before!”

“And I was wrong to do it in the first place,” He turns sharply into his own quarters, ignoring how Duke Harper yelps as he runs into the wall—shocking him when he follows after him a second later, letting the door slam closed behind him, putting them in the same room together. “Duke, this is—it’s improper for us to be alone.”

Duke Harper raises both hands in the air, and then winces, grabbing onto his hurt shoulder. “Nothing is going to happen, I’m not going to do anything. Plus you totally barged alone into my quarters first. I just wanted to make sure you’re alright, Prince.”

“I’m certainly well, unlike you. You should be in bed.”

He gives him a pointed look. “I was in bed.”

“Yet you ran out here to follow me,” Jason huffs, angry, but lets him take hold of his hand when he reaches out, kneeling slightly in front of him. He only feels weak, compliant around him. Like all of his sharp edges don’t matter. “What are you doing?”

He puts his hand on his shoulder, the wrap tight to his skin, flush with it and clean. “The healers did a good job, this is just for the leftover marks to make sure it doesn’t get work. I’m fine, I was hurt, but I’m fine. What got you so worried?”

Jason’s face flushes. “A maid told me that you could have died.”

“That was the knight—but he’s okay too.” The duke stands close to him, not dropping his hand and he can’t even blame him for it; he doesn’t pull away either. “If I were hurt, I promise you, Prince Jason, you would be the first one that I would want to see.”

“Me?” His face alights, cheeks quickly staining red past the dark strands against his cheek. He brushes a hand along his cheekbone, tucking a white strand behind his ear, eyes flicking between his own. 

“You.”

“Just because a snake has venom,” He remembers his father saying. “Doesn’t mean that it should use it every time they strike.”

Once forgotten in a drawer, Jason finds his bulky, ghastly ring and slips it on his finger. He pulls on his simplest suit, lets his hair fluff up—wearing the crown with Richard’s royal insignia on it for the first time in years—and goes down to the League square like he remembers Dick doing every week before he left. 

Some days, all he needed was a simple reminder:

He is alive somewhere. That is enough.

(But only because it has to be.)

In the chariot with him is Duke Harper, who takes his hand to help him down and spins him around Martian and Manhunters after slipping a cloak around his shoulders and telling him that between the two of them, it’s him that would make the best knight.

He squawks, gripping onto his arms for support. “Duke!”

“Prince?” He says, laughter in his voice.

Jason quiets down, realizes that he was laughing—her, the impassive, unsmiling prince, was laughing—even now, he was smiling—content—no, happy —and nods. It’s not something that Father, or now Robin, would be happy about and that makes it all the better.

He’d do anything to piss them off. They deserve it.

 “Yes, Duke?”

“Call me Roy.”

It was like there were three different worlds in front of them—these three (now two) sons of the Great House of Wayne.

These boys were raised not to be loved.

Richard got messy some days, snuck out of the castle with the blue drapes of poster bed drawn shut, he dropped his shoulders and slouched like a servant, he took the hand of a girl who wore crowns made of emerald and gold—and plain clothes in red and green—kissed her below bells that rang loud enough to daze him and pranced around the town square, came home with his black hair blown messily and slipped under his ruby silk sheets with a sly smile on his face, thinking this is how a snake sheds its skin .

These boys were made for the war.

Robin went sharp most days, stayed prancing around the walls of Batclan, his personality—once flexible, malleable, in the hands of their father—went hard, a boy raised for an upcoming war, he was ruthless in her thoughts, all his words stung, he met with the earl in the garden to make their relationship seem real while whispering this is how our venom is going to taste to one another in the place of sweet nothings, Batclan was not a crown to win, it was his life.

These boys wanted to be safe.

Jason was elegant every day, he stepped quietly around the walls and gold fixtures, raised his chin and bowed to all the passing councilmen—court fellows—even to some knights—he only smiled for a boy who wore robes made of ruby and silk ties, and let him spin him around in empty rooms.

He brought him in front of his father with no plan, no venom like Robin or a star like Dick, he made sure his crown looked perfect in place and stood there in the throne room, let the Duke say please let me court him, please let me become you, I too am covered in feathers, I am a wolves in sheep’s clothing, I’m just like you, I’m just like you, I’m —

Yes , his father said, chin raised, thoughts cruel, you can learn to bite too , and so he only smiled in private, laughing rarely—elegant.

The day that Dick would have been adored with the Robin Wings—a pair of wing-like white gold and ruby cloak decorations passed down from king to king, traced back all the way to King Thomas himself—and indoctrinated as king, his twentieth birthday, was spent with the family being silent.

His father was fuming. Damian was quiet—but that was normal. Robin, nineteen, was smug, thinking that at the end of the day, he’d be informed the Robin Wings were his (as they should be).

Jason is seventeen. He is not vindictive. He is sad.

He goes down to the market with Duke Harper— Roy, he remembers to call him; Roy —and goes straight to League’s Crown Shop and picks up a cloak decoration. cloak decoration inside of the box is a calm gold, twisting and hanging down in a single, handsome line of sapphire. They’re not small, but they’re not too flashy either. You could wear them for nearly every occasion.

And he rides quietly all the way to the Starfire castle, finds the head Knight by the gates and hands it to him along with a letter addressed with his oldest brother’s full name—something he’s assuming not many knew.

Richard John Grayson Anders, he wrote, unsure if he should have called him a Wayne. It is time you got your own set of wings .

“A quiet rebellion.” Roy states at his side, arm out for him to take—and he does, immediately. Daily, they take turns leading the other around.

“A quiet rebellion, indeed.” He agrees, staring at the castle built to be wide rather than tall like Wonder or Super, and certainly not to be mostly underground like Batclan. Starfire's are bright and bold, like they want to loudly proclaim here I am!   “He’ll like it.”

“I know.”

It’s a normal walk around the garden, checking on roses, watching the sun go down. Duke Harper— Roy —is at his side, his hand on his arm. After the past few years, they know every corner of the garden and expanded their walks around Batclan’s castle.

“It’s quite warm tonight,” He notes, grey eyes twinkling with mischief. “Want to go for a swim?”

“The sun is going down as we speak, Duke, oh, Roy ,” He corrects, Roy haven given him a certain kind of look. “Whichever. There is not enough time in the day to swim.”

He grins—mostly genuine, all-together smirk like. “Now that’s where you’re wrong. Have I ever told you that my mom loved to swim? She actually had father extend our quarters to the Lake, so she could swim whenever she wanted. Got a coal system to warm her little cove and everything.”

No longer suspicious of his actions, just wary of the consequences of them, Jason narrows his eyes at him. “And I suspect you’re going to invite me to this cove?”

“I wasn’t actually, but that’s a wonderful suggestion, Prince, thank you for making it.” The duke says, looking at him, chin dipped down. He didn’t grow up to be a flirt—he grew up to be an ungodly annoying tease, just as eight year old him predicted. Still talks about him mom just as much, anyway. “So, are you going to follow through?”

“With what?”

“Your suggestion.” He says simply.

Jason huffs. “It wasn’t my suggestion!”

“It was!”

He struggles to stop his smile at his antics, and caves so he doesn’t press and make him laugh all together. “Yes, Roy, I will go swimming with you.” And it sounds like an absolutely terrible idea, with all the whispering maids and waiting royal ears around.

But whatever. Jason owes them nothing.

It is less than an hour when they’re in the little cove, the air steamy and wading around. The water is warm and pleasant. It’s calm, it’s enjoyable, and he doesn’t touch him, he doesn’t look below his neck other than to tease him about the bright blue of his swimming shorts.

Quietly, hesitatingly, from across the space, he looks over to him. “Prince, I have a question for you. It’s serious.”

“Well,” He says, not worried. “Ask it before you forget.”

“Can I court you?”

Jason looks at him, expression serious with both eyebrows raised. “You aren’t already? What did we tell B for, then?”

He grins and moves a hand through his red hair, combing it back. “I guess that was a kind of silly question, wasn’t it?”

“Just a little.” He manages a smile right back, and then Roy’s diving into the water and popping out next to him, arms around his waist as he lifts him into the air, struggling just a bit. Jason grew large, bigger than both of his brothers and father. “Roy!”

“You’re mine now!”

“ Duke Harper! ”

“No,” He says, tightening his hold, face against his middle as he stares down to his ginger head of hair. “I really, just once, want to hear you say it, Prince. You’re mine. I’m yours. I’m courting you—officially and privately, the whole works. It’s only natural.”

Scowling but enjoying this moment far more than he would have ever expected, Jason says, “Alright, then.” He says. “I’m yours. Asshole.”

“Mom wrote to me about expecting a heir,” Roy says, coming to stand next to where Jason is reading at his desk. He glances up, hums, and then goes back to the sentence he left off on. “She’s acting like in a year, it will be too late. Or as if we could even-”

“Well, how do you feel about children?” Jason asks.

He smiles gently and drags a chair—meant for Mister Pennyworth when he’s fixing up one of his suits—over to the desk. He spends the next three hours talking about his childhood, and all the key memories he made with his parents and cousins, and the things he thinks he missed from it.

“I know that I want any kids that I have to be loved, and get cookies and soup when they’re sick, and not worry so much about how pressed their clothes are.” Roy says, tongue in cheek, eyes smiling for him. “Oh, and no duke at sixteen. Worst decision ever. I’m nineteen and I feel ancient already. What do you want?”

Jason smiles at him, small and gentle, “I want our kid to laugh, whenever they want to.”

“ Our kid?” He seems stunned—like he was hit over the head with a brick.

“You wanted one.” He deadpans, feeling it really is as simple as this.

Roy blinks at him like he’s dumb. “Well… yes.”

“Then yes.” His chin raises. “Our kid.”

That day that Jason promised himself to Roy, he woke up his father that night with a passionate urgency, bowing as deep as a peasant would, dressed in his finest robes, and asked for his hand in marriage. His father adored the way he answered questions.

He was all yes, your majesty, whatever Sire Wayne needs — wants — pleases, I’ll serve this court with pride, I’ll be loyal to the prince, I wear these feathers well like how any well-spoken duke must. He thought he was submissive in the presence of his son, quiet, maybe a bit naive.

A boy perfect for his youngest, especially after the sins of his first.

So he said yes, said a duke was more fitting to carry on the royal line than an unfruitful, rather unhinged earl would ever be. And so Robin, who was born second to the throne, the Crown Prince, would stay as such. Second best. Last in line. Everything Jason was meant to be.

The king called his sons down for dinner—their cousins and Aunt Talia wouldn’t be joining them due to Damian’s recent outlashes—and said there is something quite important to discuss. Roy Harper marrying Jason. Jason becoming the king. 

Something more.

When Bruce announces it—dark eyes meeting his second born’s, dark eyes meeting one another, passing bloodthirst and cruelty back and forth in a way that Jason never mastered—he smiles at Robin the widest he ever would, and says, “You didn’t think I’d really ever make you king, champ?”

Robin smiles back in reply, vindictive and twice as cruel. “No Father,” He says. His brother scares Jason half to death every time he pretends to be kind. “Of course not.”

Robin did not want to be a king.

He wanted to be an emperor.

What good was one of many courts of a single kingdom compared to the world—compared to everything? He was under the impression that it wasn’t . Robin was Wonder Boy. He wanted to conquer everything in his sights, everything he could touch.

It was like second nature, at this point.

“Your wedding will be a week from now, and you’ll be ordained exactly a month after.” His father says, dark eyes dropping to his plate casually, as if they were discussing the weather. “You’re not doing this just to be allowed to have sex, are you, Jason?”

Jason gasps. “Father!”

“The duke was so insistent, I just wanted to be sure. If you are, the wedding needs to be before you do. I want no talk about rumors. Plausible deniability.”

“No one wants a wedlocked heir or a whore king.” Robin adds, stirring food around on his plate. “If you’re going to slum it, don’t let anyone catch on.”

He could feel his cheeks alight as he replied back, “I am not having sex, Father, Robin. Duke Harper is a gentleman.”

Actually, he’s far from that—Roy is a down-right mess.

But Jason wasn’t going to say that now.

“And I gave that boy a stern talking to years ago, so did Richard, when he was worthy of it.” Robin announces, smiling due to this—proud of himself. Like he was suddenly such a good brother. “He would never deflower a brother of mine. Not after that.”

It was the first time in years he's heard that name come out of either of their mouths.

Clasping his hands properly in front of him, Jason’s chin raises in the same manner as his father’s. “I would never fail the Batclan Court.”

“Like Dick.” Robin finishes the thought, seething in her seat as if he hadn’t just mentioned him.

The Crown Prince was always supposed to inherit the crown, he with the sharp tongue, and black and white ideals, he with his smirks, and propriety, he with the snake’s tongue and all his royal lessons, his conniving mind and sharpness, him being the reason why a robin needs its wings.

Yet it went over his head, passed on from the family disgrace to the quiet, undeserving boy he still thought Jason to be, all because of the man, Ra’s, who he let swallow him whole, who he gave his all to. It was fair. Honestly, Robin’s crown was as good as dead.

It would revive with Jason, placed on his head.

He made his choice at fifteen.

Dinner ended shortly; the Wayne family loving nothing more than to talk to one another less.

Jason—chin up, blue-green eyes forward, hands neatly tucked behind his back—passes Robin in the hall—who would never look at him the same—shoulders squared, half expecting to be shoved, or hit, or spat at, and says, “At least Dick is a king.”

They’re married quietly, both sides of their family fitting on less than fifteen chairs.

Jason is dressed in silver, not white, the gold, heavy cloak decor on his shoulders—the Robin marking glistening next to dark curls and ruby jewelry instead of emerald ones—to hold his suit fixtures; Roy in fine robes, a pale red tie—that old green pocket square in place on his chest—grinning nervously the whole time, enough that the priest asked him about cold feet, to which he responded, “More like too-warm ones.” and made him smile.

His father pretended to fuss and cry like he wasn’t himself, and Damian helps walk him to his spot down the isle as they waited for Duke Oliver to do the same for Roy, not quiet, smiling wide. “You chose a good one, Todd,” He says, green eyes critical. “I wouldn’t have chosen a better man myself. Don’t mess it up.”

“I know,” Jason responds. “He’s good.”

Damian is quiet for just a moment, as if this is life or death. “You’re happy?”

He nods, letting himself smile, just a bit—just enough. “I’m loved.”

Jason is crouched over a potted daisy that Roy grew for him, watering it. He grew it to try and teach their two year old son—Lian—his father’s love of plants, despite how he was telling him that he wouldn’t remember any such things. He loves the flower anyway, and potted five more to line the royal stables.

Across the way, on the field, is Roy stabilizing Lian on the back of a pony.

“He’ll be the best Bowman player ever, Jay!” Roy calls, grinning while Lian babbles out a pony, pony, pony! in his direction. Bowman is an archery sport that his husband fancies growing up, and despite it seeming a bit unsafe, he thinks their son will be the best spotter one day. “Look at this strong grip.”

“As long as he enjoys it,” Jason responds. “I don’t care what the boy does.”

“Dada!”

“Yeah, kid?”

“Pony!”

“I know, Li,” He smiles at his son, cupping a hand in a small wave. “Red Hood is my favorite pony too.”

“Your dad loves animals, so you know,” Roy tells him, Lian turning to watch his father, eyes meeting—matching green crinkling at one another in happiness. “He quite likes dogs and dragons, but I think that if he was an animal, he’d be a bear. Do you like bears, Li? They go ‘rawr’!”

“Rawr!” Lian mimics, voice attempting to faux-growl like his dad, and failing. It’s adorable, however, and it makes Jason’s heart swell.

He has a family. He is loved—worshiped. He is free to smile as he pleases, though it still comes rare, and his son and husband share the same eyes—smile—laugh—humor—love—everything—and he couldn’t be more pleased with it. If there was anyone he’d want this kind of life with, it’s Roy.

Roy’s a dumbass and quick to draw, and sweet.

Jason knows he’s lucky to have found him.

Lord Joker was born from a witch and a man from Gotham, and he rose within power before anyone really knew what was happening. He didn’t think that Justice should be a kingdom made of courts, available for the public, having many kings.

He thinks it should only be for the pure blooded, for the pure of mind, those who believe that society shouldn’t be… diverse as the Council (Head Councilman Curry in particular) preaches it should be.

The way his father explained it to them made it seem like heaven on Earth. 

Roy believed him more so—but after a year of nothing but pain and deaths, he wasn’t convinced. Jason waited it out. His husband agreed that Batclan, their duty to the throne and Lian would alway be more important than what Bruce Wayne had to say about a fictitious man. 

They had their own thoughts about blood purity.

He didn’t protest when Robin told him that he and Earl Al Ghul planned to leave for his little cult out in Gotham Siren Valley—a previous no man zone between Batclan and Super that he transformed into a castle, as if he deserved it, as if he was a king.

Robin Al Ghul thought that he was a king.

The next day—after his father wished him a farewell, Jason and Roy quiet behind the previous royals, Lian sound asleep in his father’s arms, three years old and due for a nap—his father called the family down for breakfast. Robin was the last down, feet dragging behind him.

Robbie’s trying to talk. “I was out with Viscountess Brown and-”

“We all know who your friends are.” His mother interrupts, hand in the air. 

After Damian— but we do not speak his name in this house! —came home talking about Supers and knights and Princes, Aunt Talia got sour over the prospect of her first son having friends. To the Wayne’s, no friends are better than the wrong sorts of friends.

Their viscountess was a proud girl—Barbara Gordon, whose father was recently appointed as Countess—that raced his cousin on their horses (though being the bowman that he was, a spotter, nobody could out-ride him) and their third, Cassandra Cain.

Jason was quite fond of both of the girls, and then their fourth, Duke Thomas, Super’s Viscount’s son—who was quite the trickster.

They’re all good for his cousin, the Marchioness and the Countess more so, but all of them don’t let him be as naturally as self-destructive as he is. Jason can already see the change in Robin. He thinks Damian would have been proud (but Damian no longer exists, not to them).

Robbie looks around the table, eyes confused. 

Father knew months before it happened that his son was leaving for good because of how he’d talk, but Dick’s escape caught Jason terribly off guard—so out of everyone, he wouldn’t expect Robin to abandon his Batclan ideals, especially not for the Joker or Ra’s Al Ghul.

And he was right.

“Where’s Robin?”

Jason, who compared Robin leaving for the death-hold of an Al Ghul in the center of Siren the exact same as Dick leaving for a Starfire—both leaving Batclan—both rare to return—both not looking back—looks at his father, a twist in the corner of his mouth, white spot in his hair bright.

He remembers that when Damian left, he held the little Robin tight and said I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I get it, I'm so sorry you lost him, we will find him again, but now he doesn't care.

His lips tight, eyes shifting nonchalant over the table, Jay replies, simply, casually, as if it meant nothing, like his big brother meant nothing and said, “Who?” 

A quiet revenge. A simple rebellion. This is all it takes, sometimes, for things to fall back into place.

At least, he thinks so.

Batclan would never crumble from within, and Jason had himself to thank for that. That’s the way stories like these always end, isn’t it? In quiet rebellion—in victory.

Justice, perseverance, and all that (power never interested him much anyway).