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Damian is not familiar nor strongly associated with Todd. The man remains on the periphery of the other Gotham vigilantes, only occasionally coordinating for necessary missions.
He does not visit the Manor. He does not participate in Richard's mandated bonding times. He does not have a good relationship with Father.
Todd maintains his territory in Crime Alley and primarily communicates with Oracle or, surprisingly, Red Robin. Red Hood will only perform joint missions with Brown, Drake, or, if the situation allows for it, Thomas. He is firm and strict with his boundaries regarding non-vigilante relations. Red Hood may discuss casual topics or exchange lighter banter with those previously listed, but Todd is a private man.
Only Pennyworth seems able to maintain cordial conversations with both Todd and Hood.
Damian has only had a few conversations with Todd after the younger one had been entrusted into his father's care.
Red Hood, on the other hand, is as scathing to Robin as he is protective of him. Damian has attributed the contradictory behavior to the erratic ideals the man seems to place upon the mantle and his probable trauma relating to his death.
Because of Todd's patterns, Robin was not expecting to find the man on patrol leaning against the decaying brick of a rooftop stairway access. Even odder, he doesn't move away.
His teal eyes slide in Robin's direction before slipping back to the sight of Gotham’s smog-filled skyline.
It's not acknowledgement, but it's not a dismissal. Perhaps the burning of his lungs placates him enough to linger where he'd usually bite or flee.
His face is illuminated by the cherry-end of his cigarette as he takes another breath in. His expression is melancholic and empty. Even as the smoke curdles out his mouth, his form is still, tense, and pensive.
Damian wouldn't be able to pinpoint the reason for his actions later, but he silences his com. He doesn't approach the man, but the kid angles his body towards the hazy streetlights and shop signs peaking between seemingly haphazardly placed buildings.
The city is never silent, between the regular traffic, loud music, never ending construction, sirens, and general movement, but the wind and distance dampens it. It's why Robin is able to hear the dejected exhale of Hood.
“They don’ just let ya be, do they?”
The man takes another long drag in ignoring the glowering from the kid. Damian’s eyes narrow further. “What are you on about?”
Todd waves the hand with a cigarette in the kid's general direction. “Whoever's takin’ care of ya.” He brings it back to his lips for another drag.
“If by ‘let me be’ you mean that they allow me to do whatever I want, then no. They do not.”
An amused snort. “Nah, runt.” Tobacco is inhaled. “Let ya exist.” It's exhaled with the words.
Robin bristles at both the title and the implication. His left heel slides backwards, he rotates towards Todd, and his hands twitch. “I'm not sure what you mean.”
Todd hums and allows the cigarette to droop between his fingers. “Tis simple. Yer a kid. You ain't treated as one.” He shrugs and keeps his body turned towards the edge of the roof as his eyes flicker over Robin's form. “Kids need boundaries and whatnot, not ta be shoved inta whatever box their parents wan’ ‘em ta fit.”
The younger one becomes increasingly motionless at the accusation. The vacant drop of confusion, the tenseness of protective defensiveness, and the flaring heat of anger rapidly fill the teenager as he tries to decide how to respond. Does he ask more questions? Berate the villain for insulting his father? Yell at him? Take him in a fight?
At the flash of emotions on Robin's face, Red Hood heaves a sigh. He remains leaning against the wall, but he twists until his side is pressed up against it instead of his back. He slightly chews on the damp cigarette with a scowl.
“Love's supposed ta be unconditional, kid.” With a disgusted frown, he spits out the soggy cig, reaches into his jacket pocket, grabs the cartoon, and taps until he can pluck out another cigarette. Only after it's lit and he's taken a long drag does he talk. “And they sure do have a ton of conditions.”
Damian, unfortunately, can't find it within himself to contradict. He doesn't blame his father for the various rules, but it was incredibly frustrating to navigate what his father deemed acceptable in comparison to his mother. He still struggles with the contradiction even years later.
As far as love being conditional, Damian wants to believe this isn't true. Dick, Alfred, and his father have verbally reaffirmed that they will love Damian no matter what. It's mostly likely his own fault that he continues to feel as if his place is one he earned. One he has to maintain.
Regardless, Robin noticed the usage of the word ‘they.’ He asks to confirm his suspicions of who Todd is referring to. “Father?”
A sardonic smile cuts Jason's face. “Yeah. Yer father, yer mother, and yer brothers. All of ‘em. Even Alfie.”
Damian’s eyebrows furrow and his mouth presses into a firm line.
“Ya went from one environment of rigid expectations ta a ‘nother. It don' matter that the Bat way is ‘better.’” Todd rolls his eyes at the implication, but his mannerism is defeated. He just seems tired.
Red Hood, the murderous boogeyman of the underworld, and he's tired. The kind of tired that clings and tears the same way death does. It's the exhaustion in the weight of Jason's shoulders and breath. It's the same dreary weariness Damian finds reflected in a mirror when he just can't get his hands clean.
Puffs of smoke leak from Jason's nose as his eyes numbly take in the bursts of understanding on the younger one's face. This situation brings the older one wry, bitter, and empty amusement.
“Yer still learnin’ how ta simply be.”
But Damian knows who he is. He's Damian Wayne al Ghul, son of Batman. He's Robin and he’ll one day succeed his father.
This is who he is. It's who he's always been. It's who he will be.
He may have a while before he's capable enough to assume his father's role, but he knows who he is. He is aware that the position will require great strength and effort. He will be bestowed the honor of his birthright even if he has to bleed himself dry. He doesn't need to ‘simply be.’
As if hearing his thoughts, Todds's head slants to the side in consideration. “Ya don’t get a break, do ya?” It's not funny, but the man huffs.
Robin’s eyes slip off of Todd at the pointed eye contact the man is trying to instill. The kid grits his teeth. “I'm a good Robin. Better than any of you were, anyhow.”
Damian's skin crawls with the look of pity he can feel Todd shooting him with. It's humiliating and shameful.
The man's eyes soon fall off of him and return blankly staring at Gotham's streets. “Ya know that's not what I mean. You’ve done good, kid. Ya fit the mantle well.” A breath in. Smoke curdling out again. “You shouldn't 've had ta be. Should’a just been loved.”
It's a crumbling and swooping sort of pain for Damian to hear that what he has worked tirelessly for, what he has struggled for years to obtain, is a leash. It's a noose his family tied around his neck in promises of love and fulfillment.
Or, that's at least how Todd wants to see it.
Damian couldn't be Robin if that's how he saw it as well. He wouldn't be able to follow Batman's orders or be his partner if he thought the role was unjustly tailored to the width of his shoulders. He doesn't know it, but he's still at the age where he wants to believe his parents aren't flawed human beings. That any faults are due to Damian, not them.
The kid doesn't understand Todd. He can't. Not yet.
The man's gaze on him is filled with hopeless sympathy. It's the eyes of a man watching someone walk the same desolate path that lead him to his own ruin. It's the expression of seeing someone else's doom and being unable to interfere.
When Hood leans off the wall and straightens, Robin’s hands fly to his weapons. The man continues to draw in nicotine air as he leisurely approaches. With a hazy exhale a few feet from the wary bird, he drops into a crouch. Wicked green eyes peer slightly up at Robin with a tired grin.
“Tell ya what, kid. When ya wanna continue this conversation, ya reach out.”
His gaze slips back to Gotham as he mumbles to himself. “Even if it takes ya years.”
For a moment, both of them stare at the activity of Gotham's nightlife. There's the yelling, laughter, music, and sirens faintly heard over the distance and wind. It's as peaceful and calm as the city ever gets.
Those teal eyes focus on Robin again. They seem to strip past the mask of bluster and confidence to prod at the shriveled insecurities that the twelve year old vigilante was taught to hide. “Yer a good kid, but ya don' need ta be. Ya don' need ta be a weapon either.”
Damian is confused with a torrent of conflicting emotions. He isn't quite sure how to take those words and what they imply. He doesn't like what they say about his parents. He doesn't like what they say about him. It's evident, by the clench of his teeth, that the kid reacts defensively to this. “Bold words from the deceased failure pretending to be a monster.”
A boisterous cackle erupts from the man as he throws his head back. The laughter echoes off the crumbling brick and concrete that defines Gotham's rooftops.
Damian, not expecting this reaction, shifts. The crunch of gravel and swoosh of clothes draws the older man back in. His gaze lowers with an amused glint.
“I ain't tryin’ a be a monster ta ya, kid.” His head tilts while he ponders. “A friend, maybe.”
They aren't brothers. They may have shared a brother, but they aren't family. Jason doesn't have any. “Ya figure out what I mean and stay alive, ya hear me?”
If another Robin dies, Red Hood isn't sure what he’d do. He reckons he'd be stupid and do something like fully becoming that monster.
Damian's hands haven't drifted from his weapons, but he nods in acknowledgement. Jason nods back.
It takes Damian four years before he's knocking on Jason's door.
Jason takes one look at the kid, at the sullen understanding, and draws him into a bone-crushing hug.