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Jason Todd did not come to Wayne Manor often. After everything—the life, the death, the resurrection, the blood shed between—he usually stayed as far from the gilded cage as possible. But when Alfred messaged him—no, scratch that, *when Tim messaged him pretending to be Alfred*—saying it was “imperative” that he make an appearance, Jason had been suspicious enough to show up anyway. Curiosity was his Achilles’ heel, even if he’d never admit it out loud.
Now he stood in the study, leather jacket still on over his shoulders, helmet tucked under one arm. Damian was perched in one of the high-backed chairs like it was a throne, Tim stood with arms crossed in front of the family computer terminal, Barbara leaned against the wall, and Dick… well, Dick was trying his best to look like a peacekeeper, planted near the fireplace with that bright, everything’s-fine smile that only half worked these days. And of course, Bruce loomed behind his desk, posture sharp, cape folded around him like he hadn’t shed the Batman mantle even in his own damn house.
Jason had shown up ready for one of those “intervention disguised as family meetings” Tim loved so much. He hadn’t been ready for what actually came out of Tim’s mouth.
“Jason,” Tim started, and his tone was that clipped, precise mode Jason hated—the Detective Junior routine, unnecessarily severe. “You know why we called this meeting.”
Jason lifted an eyebrow, slid his helmet onto the desk with a little *clunk*. “Enlighten me, Replacement. I was busy before this grand jury.”
Tim’s mouth pressed the way it did when he was trying not to grit his teeth. “Are you seriously pretending you don’t know? You were spotted behind Wayne Industries yesterday evening. Smoking.”
Damian made a quiet *tsk*, clearly pleased to see Jason play the villain in this little melodrama.
Jason tilted his head. “Smoking. Wow. So scandalous. What, nicotine finally outlawed in Gotham?”
Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Not cigarettes. Weed. You were caught by the surveillance system lighting up *behind* the company your family owns, in broad daylight.”
Jason blinked once, then let out a snort of laughter—low, sharp, almost mocking. “That’s what this is about? You dragged me *here* for *that*? Unbelievable.”
Barbara coughed into her hand, poorly hiding her chuckle. Dick gave her a look, then turned quickly back to Jason like he was keeping score of everyone’s composure. Damian still looked smug.
Jason jabbed a thumb toward Tim. “He’s acting like I just cooked meth in the employee lounge. Jesus, Replacement, you might be wound so tight you squeak.”
“I’m not joking!” Tim snapped, more heated than usual. “You compromised our public image. Someone hacks the cameras, leaks that footage, suddenly it’s a headline: *Wayne Heir Caught Using Drugs Behind Company HQ.* It undermines everything we’ve built!”
Jason couldn’t resist: “’We’? You’re not even a Wayne legally, kid.”
That was when Bruce—who had been stone silent, gaze on his folded hands, for the entire exchange—finally stirred. His voice came gravel-deep, carrying the absolute authority that made the Bat-cave go silent the moment he spoke.
“This is… barely important, Tim.”
Everyone turned.
Tim’s face did something complicated—confusion mixed with disbelief, layered over exasperation. “I’m sorry, *what*?”
“I said,” Bruce repeated, evenly, “this isn’t worth the resources.”
Jason lifted both brows, fighting to keep down his grin. Oh, this was gonna get *good.*
“Barely important?” Tim started, his voice climbing toward incredulous. “Bruce, it was reckless, it was stupid, it was—”
Bruce cut him off with all the subtlety of a guillotine blade. “Back when I was a teenager,” he said, as if confessing the time he dented the Rolls-Royce, “I once did LSD with Harvey Dent. Woke up naked on Clark’s parents’ farm. Lying in the cornfields.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Jason’s grin broke wide, feral. “You—” his voice cracked, laughter threatening to spill—“you *what?*”
“You *what?*” Tim echoed, his composure fracturing. “I’m sorry, did you just—did you just say—”
Damian, for the first time that evening, looked up from his self-satisfied silence, eyes slit thin. “You engaged in… narcotics?” His voice processed each syllable like a betrayal.
Dick nearly choked. “Bruce,” he said, shaking his head with that laugh he used only when he had absolutely no idea how to handle what had just been spoken aloud. “Are you—*are you kidding?*”
Barbara was outright laughing now.
Bruce’s face stayed maddeningly impassive, unreadable in that classic Wayne way. He leaned back in his chair, steepled his hands beneath his chin. “Harvey and I were in college,” he said simply. “Exploring.” Then, almost offhand: “We probably had sex, too. Memory’s hazy. Point being: compared to that, what Jason did outside Wayne Enterprises is tame.”
Tim let out an audible sound of outrage, somewhere between a strangled gasp and a cough. “You—*excuse me?* And you’re just—just… *admitting* that?”
“I fail to see the scandal.” Bruce’s tone didn’t budge. A flick of his gaze toward Tim. “Again. This was a waste of resources.”
If the room had been shocked before, now it was in uproar.
Jason had slid half down into his chair, laughing hard enough his ribs hurt. “Oh my God—oh my *God,* the Great Batman just confessed to a gay acid trip in a goddamn cornfield, and Tim’s over here staging a Senate hearing about weed behind an office building. I’m staying. I’m never missing another meeting again.”
Bruce glanced at Jason, unbothered, then returned to his papers. Discussion over, case closed.
But Bruce didn’t let them off without one final dagger. He adjusted the cuffs of his suit, calm as still water, and muttered with deliberate finality:
“Happy pride month.”
And Jason heard it—the tiniest suppressed chuckle in his father’s chest. The smug, controlled amusement Bruce thought no one could catch.
Jason nearly fell out of his chair laughing.
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