Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I can do it," a pause to catch breath that was fleeing too readily in the excitement thrumming beneath fair skin. "I can be Robin."

This was not a conversation Bruce was in the mood to have with Jason.

Jason Peter Todd, 13 years old. 5 foot 3 inches. Underweight at an even 100 pounds. Child of Catherine and Willis Todd. Father in jail, mother currently checked into a long-term rehabilitation program. Hide tough as nails with a soft underbelly he wasn't willing to show to just anyone. Bruce had caught the kid trying to break into the Bat-mobile one night, futilely swinging a lead pipe against one of the windows in hopes of smashing through the reinforced glass.

It was ballsy.
It was stupid.

It was desperate.

It hadn't taken long to figure out the kid's story. CPS did most of the heavy lifting in removing him from his mother's 'care'. In almost a week's time, Jason Todd was the newest ward of Bruce Wayne...

"I can do it," Jason insists again as he steps closer. He's small and wiry. Has to tilt his head back to even hold Bruce's gaze this close. "I'm tough enough. I know how to fight. I can be Robin."

"No." Bruce hears himself saying, voice grim.

Emotion flickers over the boy's freckled face, brow furrowing tightly. Anger, confusion, embarrassment, hopelessness. His fists ball at his sides as his jaw sets with tense determination.

"I can learn to do a flip. I know how to somersault. I can sorta do a cartwheel."

Bruce can't help that he snorts back a laugh. As if that was the problem, that he was worried Jason couldn't do a cartwheel. It's the wrong reaction; Jason's eyes grow cold and hard.

"Jason," He starts as he clears his throat. "I said no."

"Why!?" The boy's face flushes with fury, righteous indignation making his voice crack and peal up an octave. It's a testament to how upset he is that he doesn't cringe at himself but rather stamps his foot and leans into Bruce's space. As if he means to intimidate him into answering. It'd be cute if it didn't set Bruce's teeth on edge. He places one hand on Jason's shoulder to hold him at the correct distance away from him.

"I didn't bring you here for that purpose." He hadn't. Regardless of how Alfred had eyed him warily when he had started digging into the boy's history, combing through the details of his father's illustrious career as a petty criminal and his mother's various overdoses. How he had stopped attending school at eight years of age. Slipping through the cracks of a system designed to fail.

"I don't care why you brought me here- I'm telling you I can do it. I want to do it!" He has all hundred pounds of himself straining into Bruce's hold. There's a new note to his voice. Something that sounds a lot like desperation.

The reasons tumble from his lips easily, replayed from a conversation that feels a whole lifetime ago: You're not trained, it's dangerous, there are people who will try to kill you or worse, don't follow me down this path, stay away. Jason refutes it all.

"I can't let you." He finally settles on. Jason grits his teeth.

"But you're Batman."

"Exactly," Bruce sighs. "I'm Batman. Not Robin."

He sees the pieces click together in Jason's head, brown eyes widening.

"It's not my mantle to pass." His hand falls from Jason's shoulder and the boy sways on the spot with the loss of anchorage. There's silence between them for several long moments before Jason finally licks his lips and speaks again, voice barely above a whisper.

"Then... whose is it?"

The ETA for the prodigal son of the Wayne Manor had been just over two hours. Two hours of which Alfred had spent trying not to catch the Young Master Todd underfoot as he pestered him over 'who' and 'why' and 'how can I help'. Normally he would not begrudge the boy for his eagerness to make use of himself; It was, after all, a trait of his that had become apparent very early on. Being waited on did not come naturally to a child like Jason Todd.

That said, he was making himself more a nuisance than an assistance as he darted about this way and that attempting to "help" in whatever way he could. Alfred was already tired of chiding him and instead merely gave a mutely irate sigh every so often when Jason's 'help' was not so helpful.

"Will Robin stay the night, you think?" Jason asks, poorly masking his excitement over the concept, as he rocks on the balls of his feet. Alfred doesn't so much as pause in his task of fitting one of the guest beds with fresh sheets.

"That would be up to him, Young Master." The boy swoops in to start hastily tucking the bedding on one side as they flutter down. Alfred feels only the vaguest sense of disgruntlement at seeing how crooked it ends up.

"Right, yeah, of course, I knew that. I was just thinking that, since you know him, if you think he would-"

"Young Master Todd," The boys mouth snaps shut and he blinks owlishly. "Might I advise of you to freshen yourself up? It wouldn't do to give... Robin, a poor first impression, would it?"

Jason immediately drags a hand through his short blond curls. Alfred is patient as he watches the gears turn in the boy's head; He gives a curt nod and hurries out the bedroom- only to catch himself on the door frame and pop his head back in.

"I told you before, you don't have to call me all that- Young Master and all. It's weird. Just call me Jason." And then he's gone with the loud thump of socked feet on the runner rugs in the halls. Despite his prior agitation with the young boy, Alfred cannot help himself but to sigh fondly after him. He really hoped this worked out.

It was official. He was a moron.

How Jason had failed to put two and two together was frankly beyond him- but the second the front door of the Wayne Manor opened and Richard Grayson proceeded to let himself in like he owned the place it all started to make sense... It didn't stop Jason's breath from catching in his throat.

"Master Richard." Alfred bends perfectly at the waist in greeting and Jason is too busy gawking to consider if he should be doing that too or not. Richard shoulders a worn but clean backup further up his shoulder as he kicks the door shut behind him.

Richard Grayson is not someone Jason is wholly unfamiliar with. He'd seen his face on the televisions at the electronics shop, plastered on the front of ♡THROB magazine- the premier magazine for any tween looking to makeout with a picture of their favorite unobtainable celebrity dreamboat. Not that Jason knew anything about that. He'd only stolen a few issues and only because he had been really bored.

Richard is saying, something. His lips pulling into an easy lopsided smile; His teeth are bright white like a movie star's, canines a little longer and sharper than what's probably normal. Jason runs his tongue over his own teeth.

Alfred stands back up and nods to him. Jason's not sure what they said or if it's important. Richard shakes his hair back, the locks so black they look blue even in the warm yellow light of the manor. His hair is wavy and long enough that the curled ends flirt with resting against his shoulders. Jason's pretty sure most people would say Richard looked like a 'fag' but he thought the guy was the kind of pretty a lot of people spent good money trying (and failing) to achieve. The sort of pretty that usually you'd think was too good to be true, except here it was standing right in front of Jason and doing a damn good job at completely ignoring his existence.

Richard is hugging Alfred now, that long straight nose scrunching slightly with the force of his smile as the old butler pats the back of his head. Jason just stares at Richard's profile until the two part ways.

"-- said it was important, so where is he?" Sounds comes back to Jason all at once as he inhales sharply. Richard's cologne was strong, strong enough that it had overshadowed the cologne that Alfred normally wore. It makes his eyes water slightly, but he doesn't think it necessarily smells bad.

"Master Wayne is downstairs at the moment. I fear he does not wish to be disturbed at this exact time. Business. Would you care to take tea while we wait?" Richard rolls his eyes and his pretty face is immediately split with a scowl that has Jason staring at his mouth again.

"Seriously? I come all the way out here, because he said-"

"You're Robin." Jason blurts all at once.

Alfred clears his throat quietly, and Richard's gaze drops and locks onto him. All emotion has left his face which is now a hard (flawless) mask. His eyes are stunning, pupils ringed in an electric blue offset by the deep brown that edges his irises.

"What did you just say?" It's not a question. It's a dare to repeat himself. A challenge that both confuses Jason and spurs him into action all the same. He holds Richard's stare without wavering. Even if the venom in his voice has something small and fragile curling into a tight ball in his chest.

"You- You're Robin. It's your mantle to give, that's what he meant." He watches as a muscle near Richard's eye twitches, as his lips press until they're practically bloodless, and then without a word the older boy is storming away through the manor. When it sinks in that he's headed to the Cave, Jason springs into motion to follow him- Only for Alfred to catch him hard by the shoulder and stop him.

"Young Master, I would advise against that course of action."

"But-!"

"Jason." He stops tugging then and sags, grimacing as he fights back the pressure behind his eyes. It really felt like that could not have gone any worse than it did. Alfred's fingertips rub firmly into the tight muscle of his shoulder as he grit his teeth and averts his gaze to the floorboards between his feet.

Dick had tried to keep his cool. Really, he had. It wasn't like he came to Gotham hoping for a fight, much less looking for one. It was just- the kid. The fucking kid. Could Bruce not wait? Dick had only moved to Bludhaven a few months ago and already he had picked up another kid to fill the gap? He'd been ready to ignore the skinny, freckle faced blond entirely and just hear what exactly had been SO important that Bruce insisted he come back to Gotham.

(Back home, he had said, more specifically.)

Only a few months and there was a new kid in the house and he knew. He knew. About the Batman. About Robin.

("It's your mantle to give, that's what he meant.")

He had intentions of tempering himself and being reasonable, he really did. Dick had done all his breathing exercises and little compartmentalization tricks as he stomped down the staircase behind the old grandfather clock. It hadn't stopped him from seeing red when he finally got down there and was looking at the back of the Batman's head. Right. Business.

The punch he throws never lands.

Bruce sweeps out of the chair in an easy movement and his cape billows behind him like ink in water. Dick is left folded awkwardly over the back of the chair with his knuckle throbbing from having punched a solid metal desk. Figures.

"Dick." Bruce has the gall to sound even the slightest bit surprised. Any attempt to reign his emotions in completely fails at this point as Dick pulls himself back upright and rounds on the man.

"What's your damn problem!?"

It's a blessing and a curse that Bruce isn't wearing the cowl right now. It lets Dick see the faintest traces of confusion over what could be causing Dick to lash out right now, before the World's Greatest Detective puts it together and proceeds to grimace slightly.

"You've met Jason." Dick's pulse thrums in his throat as he grits his teeth and swallows thickly. The name reverbs in his skull, just barely audible over the sound of Dick's own breathing and the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

"Who is he? No, better yet- Why does he know?" His feet carry him closer to Bruce as the snare-like tendrils of grief thread around his ribs. "Is this what you called me here for? To tell me you'd picked my, my replacement?"

Bruce's palm hits his chest. Not hard enough to hurt, no, but firm enough to stop him in his tracks. To keep him away.

(When had that started to become a thing? Or had he always held him at arms length?)

"We're not having this conversation if you don't calm yourself down, Dick."

"Like Hell! Answer me, Bruce! You owe me that much, having me come all the way out here, and- You couldn't even be bothered to see me at the door!" He feels irrational, hysterical; The ever continuous stoicism of Bruce Wayne doesn't help him feel any less unhinged.

"I hadn't realized you'd arrived..." Bruce mutters, gaze drifting off to the left of Dick. He wants to call bullshit, because the Batman knew everything, but the words die on his tongue and rot there.

"Why does he know, B." His voice sounds raw and desperate, even to himself. Bruce meets his eyes again and sighs deeply. Like this is all one big inconvenience to him. Dick pushes Bruce's hand off of him and denies the urge to hold fast to it.

"He found out on his own."

"Because you let him." Dick throws back. Bruce doesn't say anything to deny it.

"He has no one, Dick. His mother hasn't been fit to care for him for years, and his father will be behind bars for at least another seven."

"So that makes him just perfect for you, huh? Poor little Jason's practically an orphan and that's just perfect-"

"Richard." It feels like a slap to the face and he hates how it makes him immediately cow and back down.

(Could he not stand to even sound angry? Frustrated? Anything but sternly disappointed?)

He steps away, paces, runs his hands through his hair and tugs at the ends. Bruce stand still as a statue; His eyes follow Dick's movement to and fro. After several long moments of silence the man clears his throat and brushes a hand down the front of his suit.

"You're upset," He starts. Dick barks out a laugh and rounds on him, teeth bared in a facsimile of a grin.

"What gave you that idea!? Huh? Why would I be upset that you're helping a poor, disprivileged youth off the streets?" Dick is well aware he's being unfair, but it's hard to keep a lid on his roiling feelings. Bruce is trying right now. If he weren't, then he would have never sent summons to speak to him at all. He could very easily imagine a situation in which Bruce had decided to not even involve him in this. Easily.

"You're upset because you think I'm trying to replace you. Because of our disagreements." Bruce continues. It makes a lump form in Dick's throat that he immediately chokes on. Bruce takes one step, then another, towards him with a nigh imperceptible softening of his expression.

"That's not... It's not about replacing you, Dick. I..."

It's funny, really, that Bruce always gets the same look on his face when he realizes he's walked himself into a moment of emotional vulnerability. He always looks a bit sick. Constipated, or perhaps stricken with a sudden case of moderate to severe indigestion. Either way he begins to grimace as he searches Dick's face for... something. Then promptly clears his throat and turns on his heels sharply to walk three paces to the right with his hands folded behind his back.

"The boy, Jason. He wants to be Robin."

"Ah," Dick intones vaguely. What more was there to say?

"I told him... it was not my place to say if he could or could not be. Robin. That is."

(It's your mantle to give. That's what he really meant to say.)

His knee jerk reaction is to say no. No. Never. Robin was his. He, was Robin. But... that wasn't the whole truth anymore was it? It hadn't been so long now since Dick had screamed in Bruce's face that if being Robin meant always being nothing more than the Batman's kid sidekick that he didn't want to be Robin anymore. That Robin was through, finished, done for. He'd even stepped down from leadership within the Titans, much to the shock and worry of his teammates. It seemed like everyone thought they needed Robin... but Dick wasn't Robin anymore.

He was Nightwing. Something new. Someone new. He'd hopped from apartment to apartment in Gotham for a year before finally taking the plunge and moving across the state for a fresh start. But then, if everyone needed Robin...

"How old is the kid even? Ten?" Dick croaks, mouth dry. Bruce hums tunelessly before answering.

"He's thirteen. Chronic malnutrition has stunted his growth somewhat."

"Jesus, B." He breathes.

"He can do a somersault. Half a cartwheel."

"He tell you that?" An affirmative grunt. Dick drags a hand over his face and walks to take a seat in the still vacant chair before the computer. It creaks familiarly beneath him and the scent of old leather is balm to his haggard emotions. A silence drapes over them heavy as a winter blanket. Dick watches Bruce absently rub at the bat symbol upon his chest, apparently also lost in thought. Eventually Dick breaks the silence between them. His voice sounds far too loud in the quiet despite him whispering.

"I can't make a decision like this in one night..."

"I know. Alfred has prepared a guest bedroom for you. I-" Bruce blinks as if suddenly coming off autopilot. His head turns and he fixes Dick in another one of his signature unreadable stares. "... I figured you wouldn't want your old room." He finishes.

God, Dick hates it when Bruce is right about things.

Jason isn't sure what possessed him to do this; By the time he begins to think it may not have been a very good idea there's already dye staining the sink, his hands, the nape of his neck. He stares down at the black dye crusted under his nails to avoid having to look at his own reflection in front of him. This had been stupid, he was a fucking idiot. Too late though- even if he'd shaved his head now the evidence of what he'd done was damning. That and he'd definitely gotten the hair dye all over his scalp.

Brown eyes slowly, jerkily, rise to the mirror.

It wasn't... that bad, he guessed.

Wasn't like Jason could claim this had been a waste of money, he had definitely stolen that box of hair dye. It may have been a waste of time though. Fuck, he looked weird! The black was jarring and made him look way paler than he really was, and with his light brown eyebrows and pale eyelashes he just looked stupid. Watching an involuntary grimace creep across his own face, Jason diverts his gaze back into the sink bowl.

Oh, god, no. He was going to have to face everyone like this. He was going to have to face Richard like this. Oh, fuck, god, no, why did he do this?

His hand jerks the sink handle into the on position and ice cold water begins to pour from the spigot. Its splashed up and into his face without much care for if it soaks his bangs or the front of his shirt. That had dye stains on it too, damn it. It had been a lot tougher to do than he'd assumed it would be. Deep breath in, deep breath out. It wasn't that bad. He just needed to get used to it. He'd always wanted to try dyeing his hair anyways, right? His mom had the prettiest strawberry blonde hair...

Jason shoves any thoughts of Cathrine Todd back in the dark hole they belonged in. Only one crisis at a time.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

"It's not that bad..." He murmurs aloud, forcing himself to meet his own gaze in the mirror once again. Maybe he could snatch up an eyebrow pencil, or some eyeliner next time he went to go get cigarettes. Maybe a tube of mascara? Eugh, he could never let anyone know that he was out here stealing makeup and hair dye. He'd never hear the end of it. If Bruce knew... Well, maybe Bruce wouldn't actually care? After all, he had raised Richard Grayson and that guy was one dance number away from complete flamboyancy.

Besides it wasn't like Jason was stealing lipstick and nail polish. This was just... practical. He looked dumb otherwise. Yeah.

Pushing his damp bangs aside, Jason straightens up and tries to make himself look like less of a little kid playing at being something he isn't. Which is hard. That's basically exactly what he was.

"It looks fine. Not the hair that's the problem anyways, yeah? Just gotta tweak a few things and it'll look au natural." He cracks an unconvincing grin at the mirror and cringes, tongue running over his teeth, before he frowns. Lack of dental hygiene and too many years of too-young cigarette consumption had turned his teeth a pale shade of yellow. Jason had never really thought about it because, fuck, everyone on Park Row had fucked up teeth. But...

Bruce's teeth were straight as headstones, a natural shade of off-white. Alfred's teeth were a little cramped in his mouth and tea-stained but nowhere near as jacked up as Jason's own. And then of course there was Richard with that, fucking, movie star smile of his. Were they fake? Did Bruce pay out the ass to get little Richie Grayson the best smile in Gotham? Jason chewed on his lip in thought as he vacantly stared at his own mouth. Hell, maybe Bruce would be willing to funnel some money into Jason's own dental nightmare then. He'd never really wanted braces but if it helped fix his messed up mug...

Ugh.

Ugh.

A knock at the door makes Jason jump so hard he almost slips on the discarded, ruined towel by his feet.

"Young Master Todd? Brunch is ready."

"B..." His voice dies in his throat as he stares aghast at his reflection. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh, no, they were going to see his stupid dye job and they were going to see his dumb teeth and his crappy freckles and they were going to realize he wasn't meant to be there. They were going to see he was just a stupid street rat kid trying to play as the perfect little rich boy and they were going to laugh at him and-

The sharp crack of his own palm connecting with his cheek jolts Jason out of his downward spiral with a gasp.

"Be out in a sec, Alf!" He creaks out. There's a pause before the sound of the butler's footstep retreating allows Jason a moment to catch his breath.

Already a red imprint in the shape of his own hand is blossoming where he struck himself. His palm sting in tandem with the tingling of his face. Crap. How we he going to explain that? Damn it, he was so messed up.

"Whatever..." Cranking the water off and rubbing his singing cheek gingerly, Jason exits the bathroom to go face the terror of a mid-day brunch with the Waynes.

Chapter Text

One night turns into two, turns into three, turns into a week.

To say that Dick and Bruce did not butt heads would be a barefaced lie, but at the very least they had been keeping it behind closed doors. That they were also avoiding coming to physical blows was a relief. It didn't stop their tension from being a palpable thickness in the air between them, no, but at the least it meant that neither Alfred nor Jason were left having to walk on eggshells betwixt the two. What a relief.

It was hard to ascertain the current progress being made towards handling what Alfred was coming to term as Jason Todd's Infatuation of Flying Things. Certainly Bruce and Dick had discussed the situation, but Alfred was not yet privy to just what exactly had been said and what agreement they were attempting to work towards. All he knew really was that Jason had made a right and frightful mess of the en-suite bathroom of his room that nearly gave him a cardiac fit. He had calmly (so, very, calmly) informed the Young Master that if he so desired to color his hair again to please let him know in advance as he might assist him in the task. Dye did not come out of porcelain very readily.

The poor boy had practically turned green.

(If Alfred were a meaner man he might have taken some grim satisfaction in the fact. But he did care for the child, despite his struggles to make sense of him at times.)

One definite plus side of both Dick Grayson's return and Jason Todd's Infatuation of Flying Things was that the boy was finally no longer underfoot so constantly. Or, rather, he was not under Alfred's foot. The same could not be said of Dick's feet, of which Jason was under quite often.

It was charming actually, in its own way. Hearing a frustrated "Ugh, get out of the way!" layered over an equally upset "Ow!-- Why don't you watch where you're going?!" Alfred had to figure this was what much of his adolescent years had sounded like to his own mother and father, when he had constantly been dancing around his own two younger siblings.

Jason was making a very valiant effort to endear himself to Dick, even if more often than not his attempts seemed to yield the opposite results. Alfred overheard several conversations between the two that had devolved into jilted exchanges quickly for no fault but that neither boy knew how to deal with the other quite yet. He had given passing chiding over 'Behave' when ever he had the opportunity. Both boys would always begrudge him with a "Sorry, Alfred" in near unison.

All said... He worried. Of course he worried. He had worried himself to early greys over Bruce. To hair loss over the then nine year old Richard Grayson when he had first taken to the streets of Gotham at the Batman's side. Just because Jason was slightly older than Dick had been didn't make Alfred any less worried over the idea of Bruce genuinely allowing the boy what he was requesting.

Part of him had duly hoped, perhaps unwarrantedly believed, that Dick would shut it all down.

"Bruce?"

The sound of Jason's voice from the stairwell makes him pause in what he's doing for only a fraction of a second. Heaving a sigh, Bruce inclines his head to show he had heard the boy before returning to recapping the evening's events on the computer. The soft sound of socked footsteps approach before stopping just behind his left shoulder. The rhythmic clicking of keys as Bruce's fingers continue to move is the only sound for a few minutes before he grunts and Jason seems to remember that he had approached him.

"Oh, uh- I was... I was just sorta wondering if I could, ask you something, I guess."

"You could." Backspace, backspace, backspace. Rewrite, revise, shorten. He can hear Jason wringing at the sleeves of his sleepshirt- really nothing more than one of the ratty hoodies he had refused to part with despite Bruce's offer to replace his wardrobe. There's a moment spared to crane his neck and flex his fingers; The joints all seem to pop in tandem. A humbling noise, really- Bruce surely wasn't getting any younger was he?

"... What're you working on?" He doesn't bother to pause his typing when he answers this time.

"That isn't what you came down here to ask, Jason." The boy makes an incredulous noise at this and Bruce can feel his presence looming closer at his shoulder. When he doesn't bother to actually posit the real question, reveal his real reasoning, Bruce stops and looks over. The boy's face is right next to his own. His eyes are trained on the codified report on the screen, rapidly taking in the information; He hadn't been taught yet how to decipher the coded shorthand that the Batman took his notes in.

"This, it's about that serial killer dumping hookers in dumpsters, isn't it?" Bruce's eyebrows pop up a few millimeters.

"You can read this." It's not stated as a question but Jason shrugs in answer regardless.

"Kinda? I mean, not really, I guess." 'Am I not supposed to?' hangs unsaid between them. Bruce stares hard at Jason's profile before turning back to his notes.

"There's been another murder. The GCPD is still struggling to narrow down a suspect. The victims don't have anything in common aside from their... profession." The short bark of a laugh that Jason lets out is almost enough to make Bruce's shoulders lurch in surprise. Almost. When he spares another glance to the boy out of the corner of his eye, he can just make out the mirthless grin on his face.

"What, nobody thought to just go up and ask them?"

"... Ask who?"

"The girls. The workers. The whores."

"Ask them who's murdering them..." Bruce can't help the tone that leeches into his voice, but Jason doesn't seem the least bit bothered as he steps forward past him to turn and take a seat directly on the computer desk. He has to heft himself up; His feet don't reach the ground.

"Yeah? The girls talk, you know, and they tell each other who to look out for. And if there's some creep hanging around cutting them up into pieces and dumping them like a bad Macky D's meal then they'll be warning each other. Not like their pimps are going to do nothing if the guy's paying enough to make up for a few missing bodies." Jason explains it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, legs swinging slightly as he leans his weight back on the heels of his palms. Bruce reclines in his seat and folds his hands together in thought.

"You have experience consorting with prostitutes?"

"No," Jason spits too quickly. Judging by the way his face blanches and he ceases all movement, he really meant 'Yes'. Bruce clicks his tongue in admonishment for the piss poor attempt at lying. They would need to work on that. For Jason's sake. Bruce lets him off the hook for now with a disbelieving but ultimately dismissive hum.

It's strangely humbling to be provided with so simple a solution, especially one that he may not have considered until it was far too late and more damage had been done. Perhaps, even if Dick decided against giving Robin to the boy, Jason could still assist Bruce in his own way?

"What did you come down here for, Jason?" The pivot away from the topic at hand causes some (only some) of the tension to release from raised shoulders.

". . . Does Richard not like me?" The warble of vulnerability in the boy's voice makes Bruce slightly sick. The downward tip of his chin, the way brown eyes look up at him with such clear uncertainty, the faint dust of pink across the apples of his cheeks. Embarrassment, hope, dread. Bruce swallows.

"Has he done or said something to make you think he doesn't?" He counters.

Jason's shoulders roll in a shrug as he averts his gaze down to the floor. Bruce unfolds, and refolds, his hands.

"You know I don't speak for Dick," He begins slowly. There was a delicacy to be had with conversations such as these that always gave him the sensation of walking through a tight hallway where he couldn't see the end. Too many variables. Too many branching routes. Jason's mouth presses as his jaw shifts.

"It just feels that way, I guess. I don't know how to..." Bruce is already making a mental note to speak to Alfred later about how Dick and Jason have been getting along, and then to speak to Dick alone regarding any possible resentment stirring between the two. It seemed below Dick to want to pick on and take out his frustrations on someone so much younger than himself; He had been exhibiting strange new behaviors for the past year or so and thus it couldn't be ruled out.

"Consider this your first lesson, Jason- Never make assumptions when you can gather facts instead. Hunches and gut feelings are not proof." With that nugget of wisdom dispensed, Bruce gives the boy one firm pat on the knee.

"Right... Okay."

"Off to bed now," And seeing Jason open his mouth to refute. "No buts."

Jason rolls his head along with his eyes as he heaves a dramatic sigh and slips off the computer desk. It's only once the boy is back to the staircase and on the way up that Bruce stops typing again to rotate in the desk chair.

"And Jason?"

"Mm?" A long pause. Bruce nods slowly.

"Thank you for your insight on the case."

One of the few downsides to living with Bruce Wayne was that suddenly someone seemed to give a damn. Which, there were sure worse problems to have! Jason could attest to that easily! But it made going out to smoke a real pain in the ass. He was trying his hardest to keep the nasty habit as much of a secret from his new... new...? His new, whatever-Bruce-was-to-him, but it was probably only a matter of time really. It'd be good to have a reason to quit, though.

Exhaling slowly around the cigarette clenched between his teeth, Jason watches the street from the tucked away spot he'd chosen to hunker down. He was half hidden in the cover of an in-set doorway to a now shuttered duplex. He digs some dirt out from under one nail with the edge of another and flicks it away.

There was of course another reason he came all the way out here from the hills-on-high, and it wasn't just to smoke where he couldn't get chastised for it. As dumb as it would probably sound, Jason... well, he missed it out here. On the streets. With people like him. The cigarette bobs between his teeth, knocking away loose ash.

He wonders if anyone around here would recognize him. Could recognize him. He feels, changed, somehow. Not just because of his dye job either, though he had come around to how it looked after a few days of waking up and having small heart attacks over the stranger in the mirror. The bruises on his knees and knuckles were fading. He finally couldn't count his ribs whenever he took a shower. His cheeks were filling in- though that he could do without. They made him look even younger now. Like he needed the help.

The split in his lip and gash in his eyebrow that he'd came to the Wayne Estate with had already healed over and left behind only thin, silver scars. He felt unrecognizable as the Park Row, Crime Alley Kid he supposedly was. Would his Momma even be able to recognize him?

Hell, who was he kidding.

She couldn't recognize him most of the time anyways.

More smoke spills from around Jason's cigarette before he plucks it from between his lips and drops the butt underfoot to crush it out. It's about that time that someone joins him in his alcove, prompting him to freeze up and get ready for a fight-

Except that someone is Richard Grayson.

"What?" Jason exhales. Richard flicks his sunglasses up in response and stares down his nose at Jason.

"Those thing'll kill you, you know?" He asks instead. Several emotions tear through Jason at once in the moment: Indignation, frustration, shame, fear, surprise, and something a little warm and weird that he shoves down as deep into his chest as he can get it for fear of having to name it.

"What're you doing here? Did you follow me?"

"Was taking a walk." The sunglasses are pushed further up until they're atop Richard's head, keeping his bangs pinned back out of his face. He's clad in a Gotham U hoodie that's zipped up most the way, a 'Queen' t-shirt poking out from underneath, and jeans that ride low enough that the 'Calvin Klein' waistband of his underwear can be seen peeking up. His sneakers are white and far too clean for their surroundings. Jason almost wants to spit on them.

How was it that even dressed down like this, Richard Grayson still managed to stand out?

"Didn't answer my question. You following me?"

"Didn't answer mine either. Someone has to keep an eye on you, right?" His gaze is hard to meet, and not just because Jason has to practically crane his head back in such close quarters. He grinds the toe of his own ratty sneakers down harder into the butt still crushed beneath it.

"... 'm trying to quit."

"What's out here, anyways? Third time this week you've come out here. Long walk just to smoke a cig or two." Richard has turned his attention out towards the street now, leaned back against the wall in what's probably meant to be read as casual but just looks like posing.

"What do you care, anyways?" It comes out more curious than mean; Jason isn't sure himself if he meant for it to be mean or not.

"Echo, echo, echo..." Jason blinks blankly. Richard immediately breaks into a grin and begins to laugh at, whatever it was that was so funny about what he'd just said. He can feel his face heating up as the guy continues to laugh, wiping daintily at his eyes with one finger. Was it really that funny?

"Yeah, yeah, so serious right now. What were you saying?" It's genuinely unclear if Richard is making fun of him right now or not and it makes his ears burn.

"Why you're here?..." Jason presses. Richard nods and rubs his chin thoughtfully, gaze sliding from the street and back to Jason.

"You want something that belongs to me," His voice has lost the more lackadaisical lilt from before and dropped to a hush that makes the hair on the back of Jason's neck stand up. "I'm not just going to give it to you. It is mine after all. I get to make the final decision."

"What does that have to do with--"

"Everything." Richard cuts in. His gaze is scrutinizing now. Not for the first, and probably not for the last time, Jason is rendered speechless by those eyes. It feels approximately like what Jason would imagine being a bug pinned to a corkboard is like. He can wiggle around and move all his limbs and make dumb little noises but is otherwise powerless to move from the spot. Licking his lips, he doesn't dare to break eye contact. Richard's head cocks incrementally to the side and a rogue lock of blue-black falls from behind his sunglasses to tumble down against his temple. A million scenarios fly through Jason's head all at once and he stamps down the stupid impulse to reach up and tuck the hair back behind the guy's ear. Talk about a one way ticket to a broken wrist if he's lucky, broken jaw if he's not.

"Why do you want it?" Richard finally asks, flatly.

Why not? Jason almost shoots back bitingly. He swallows the words down and inhales slowly.

"I wanna be able to do something. Anything. M'whole life, it's like I've just been made to sit back and watch as bad people get away doing bad things. And nobody ever even gave a damn about it. And then- then-" He has to take a moment to recollect his breath, heart hammering against his sternum and trying to bully its way into his throat. "Then there was you, and him."

Like a balloon cut loose from its post, dandelion fluff on the breeze, a songbird let free from its cage.

It feels like Richard is trying to see inside his head with how hard he's staring him in the eye, but for once Jason can't find it in himself to want to look away. Eventually he grunts in a way that sounds suspiciously like Bruce and looks away first. The way his mouth is pressed makes it look like little Richie Grayson is pouting.

"There's something you're not saying..."

"You tried asking more specific questions?" Jason counters.

"Harhar," Richard snarks. The sharp curl of his sardonic smile exposes the long line of his canine and Jason finds himself suddenly very interested in his own shoes. Seeming to sense that the conversation will be progressing no further, Richard pushes himself off the wall with a long and luxurious stretch before starting to swagger away.

"Catch ya later, Jaybird." He calls over his shoulder as he knocks his shades back down to the bridge of his nose. Jason watches him go, reply lodged somewhere in his throat, suddenly in desperate need of another cigarette.

Chapter Text

"Have you come to a decision?"

Dick barely glances up from his game of Tetris, seated crossways in the Batcomputer's chair. Bruce is suited up with cowl pulled on and just about to head out for the night it seems. Dick only grunts and shrugs his shoulders as he clears another three rows off the screen.

". . . You've been here over a week now, Dick."

"Yeah, I know. Felt every second of it too." He grouses out, adjusting the screenlight he had clamped on his Gameboy. It was too dim in the cave to play without it.

"Richard, this is serious. You're going to drive the poor boy batty if you don't give him a definitive answer." The pun, intentional or not, makes Dick snort back a laugh as he finally relents and kicks off against the desk to spin the chair, facing Bruce at last.

(Bruce, or the Batman? Hard to tell some days.)

"I know it's serious, B. That's why I'm taking my time to think about it. You know? Like you always got onto me to do?" The Batman scowls under the cowl; Dick doesn't pay it too much more mind as he turns his attention back to the screen. There's a long stretch of silence broken only by the muted sounds of the game progressing along. Bruce clears his throat; Dick braces himself.

"You shouldn't be playing down here, Dick. This is-"

"Not the place for fun and games, yeah, B, I know." The Bat's eyes narrow, somewhere between confusion and suspicion.

"Then you know-"

"To take it upstairs?" Dick finishes, clearing another two rows. Bruce clicks his tongue in disapproval at his attitude but doesn't seem in the mood to pick a fight tonight. Instead he runs one gauntled-clad hand over his exposed jaw and sighs.

". . . I could use you out there tonight. If you have nothing better to do." Dick shuts the Gameboy off immediately and slips out of the chair in one languid movement. He waves one hand flippantly as he gives a long, fake yawn. As if he weren't wide awake, practically buzzing with unused energy.

"Yeah, pass. Just remembered something better to do, upstairs. See ya around, B, don't die out there. You see Selina tell her I said 'meow'." He lets his feet carry him away towards the staircase upward- but pauses. Craning backwards in what he knows is an impressive display of flexibility and core strength, Dick grins at Bruce.

"That's kitty cat for 'Hi', by the way." He doesn't wait around to hear any of the possible admonishments Bruce may be ready to unload on him and is taking the stairs two at a time before popping out back in the manor from behind the clock.

"What do you think, Alfred?"

"I think, Master Dick, that I would be pleased if you were to stop hanging off the chandeliers before you rip one clean from the ceiling. Sir."

Dick Grayson pouts something fierce at Alfred, face flushed from all the blood going to his head, as he hangs upside from the light fixture on high. Alfred had told the boy countless times that those were delicate and absolutely not meant to be used for any manner of acrobatics or gymnastics- but it appeared his words had never truly left an impression. Some day that chandelier would come crashing down and he would have nothing to say to Dick except a stern 'I told you so.'

(And perhaps after, a very worried 'Are you alright?' followed by a 'Please don't do this again.' )

"This helps me think! Really, Alfie, don't give me that look- but I mean it. What do you think? I'm stumped. I mean, I was out there punching muggers and mobsters before my voice even dropped... but I just don't know if it's the right call for him. He just- I don't know- He doesn't seem driven by anything. Not like Bruce." 'Not like me.' was not said aloud but rang in the crystals in the chandelier all the same.

Alfred cast a look up at Dick with a small frown. He need no reminder on just how young the boy had been when he first slipped back into the colors of the Flying Graysons for a whole new type of performance. One that had put his well-being and very life on the line despite the fact his greatest concerns should have been homework, chores, and what matter of sweets he would like to purchase from the cornerstore. It made his ribs feel snug around his lungs and heart to hear the same boy well and truly considering bringing another child into the fold. Though- Dick was barely more than a child himself, really. He lacked the kind of perspective that a man Alfred's age had.

"You said it yourself, Master Dick, that the decision rests on no one's shoulders but your own. It is your name to pass. Even Master Bruce could acknowledge as such, which, as you know-"

"Is a miracle in an' of itself, yeah, I hear ya, Alfred." The creaking of the ceiling bolts for the chandelier as Dick begins to rock himself within the boughs makes Alfred's throat tighten. That the boy doesn't even seem to be aware that he has started to rock the fixture like a trapeze bar...

(This family was going to send him to his early grave, so help his soul.)

"Richard," He rumbles and Dick blinks, stops swinging, and sighs. He drops down carefully to the cleared dining table below with all the grace one human can possibly muster and sits there, legs folded crisscross.

"I guess I just... don't want to make the wrong call. I'm not even sure if my not giving it to him will stop Bruce from..." Snapping his polishing rag back over one shoulder, Alfred approaches Dick carefully and takes a seat in the nearest chair. He had considered such a possibility himself. Bruce had insisted up and down that he hadn't adopted Jason Todd for the purpose of bringing him into the shadows with him, of putting him down the path of the Bat- but it hadn't taken long for this whole conversation to come up regardless. Even if it had been instigated by Jason, Bruce had not done much to stop or shut it down.

(He missed Dick something fierce. Missed Robin. He would perhaps rather chew out his own tongue than admit to it, but it was clear as day to Alfred at the least.)

"You've a good head on your shoulders, sir. I trust that whatever it is you decide will have been done so with the utmost of thought and deliberation."

"Sounds like you're giving me non-answers so that when this all goes belly up you won't feel the need to wash the guilt from your hands..." Dick laughs hollowly.

Alfred declines to answer.

"Show me what you can do," Richard says as he casually sways side to side. His bangs are hanging damp in his eyes from whatever workout he was doing earlier and it's taking a monumental show of will on Jason's part to hold eye contact.

"You want me to hit you?" He breaths, gaze dipping down to where sweat clings to exposed collar bones before violently jerking back up.

"If that's what you think you can do, yeah- I want you to try." If weren't for the knowledge that this was the Boy Wonder he was talking to, Jason may have been inclined to start getting pissed off... Or, well, really, he was getting pissed off but had to remind himself of who was talking to him. If anybody had a right to get cocky in a fight it was going to be this guy. He'd been mopping the floor with people since he was, what, eight years old? Jason was pretty scrappy himself but at age eight he'd been better at taking hits than dishing them out.

"This a test?" He fishes, slowly drawing in on himself as he raises his fists. The slow half circle he starts to walk around Richard isn't missed- The older boy turns his head to watch him with eyes that betray the easy smile on his face. He's picking him apart and they've barely started.

"What do you think?"

"I think you ought'a figure out how to answer questions people ask you without throwing one back in their face." Jason hops like he plans to swing around one way only to pull in for a feint in the opposite direction. Richard doesn't even blink.

"Aw, come on, I'm just a curious guy! Can you really fault me for asking questions?" The second Jason ends up behind him, Richard having decided to keep his back turned, he lunges to strike. The punch is aimed at the back of the head- but never connects. Jason nearly trips as his momentum carries his legs straight into where Richard has dropped into a crouch. His extended arm is grabbed and pulled and all at once he's in the air and then flat on his back. Had he... had he just been flipped?

"Augh?..."

"Cheeky, but not very original. Want to try again?"

Jason can't answer at first, rubbing the back of his head and suddenly deeply thankful that they were in the portion of the Cave that had mats on the floor. A move like that would have hurt a whole lot more if he'd been hitting stone instead of foam.

He slowly rises back to his feet, turns to face Richard again, and tries to think of how he can go about hitting him. If he was meant to be hitting him? He hadn't been hit; That flip could have easily been an elbow to the throat or face. Richard could have spun around and punched him in the stomach or brought a knee up into his groin or gut. Was he meant to hit him or just get him down? There hadn't really been any clarification. Ah, shit, he was overthinking this wasn't he?

Step out, step in, step out- Swing.

Jason pulls the punch this time, more of a jab than a full lunging move, and finds that Richard is able to easily deflect it. Okay. Okay. He's not used to fighting people that even bother to do that. Usually on the street you just hit as hard as possible until whoever you're fighting stops hitting back. Throwing a feint one way and then reaching in for a jab to the stomach, Jason is more than a little alarmed that he's read effortlessly. Richard doesn't react to the feint at all and easily moves out of the way of the strike.

"Yeesh, is your plan to bore me into submission? Yaaawn..."

"Oh, shut up-" This was nervewracking enough without being smack talked. He throws a punch straight for the face and- his brain short circuits.

Richard leans backwards effortless out of the way of the slug and as Jason's traitorous eyes flit down to where his tank top is now riding up his stomach, the guy quite abruptly kicks him in the chin as he performs a flawless standing back handspring. The kick isn't overly strong but it still forces Jason's teeth together, head snapping back as his vision swims with dark spots. He's cognizant enough to realize that if Richard had really wanted that to hurt he would have made it so- but it doesn't keep him from having to stumble backwards and fight to keep his balance. Blood slowly seeps in his mouth; He'd bitten into the side of his tongue.

"Hm... Need to tap out?" He doesn't ask it meanly, not even teasingly, but Jason bares his teeth and growls all the same. All the bastard does is tilt his head to the side in a show of curiosity.

Jason throws himself back at Richard with a grunt. Blood has officially been drawn and everything in him is saying this won't be over until he can draw blood back- and maybe it's concerning that he just knows he's going to take some deep pleasure from making Richie Grayson bleed, because he will if it's the last thing he'll ever do, but he's too laser focused to bother dissecting the feelings. Instead he focuses on throwing punch after punch, hopping this way and throwing multiple feints in a row to try and trip the older boy up however he can. It feels like winning that he's slowly pushing them both towards the edge of the mat...

When Richard's heels are nearly off the padded mats, he suddenly catches both of Jason's fists one at a time and starts to push back. It's a bit humbling that Jason is pushing so hard into his grip that his arms are shaking, yet Richard just holds fast and doesn't budge an inch before forcing him backwards a step and a half.

"Can't say I'm too impressed with what I'm seeing." Richard rumbles- and something in Jason snaps abruptly.

He surges forward with a shout and slams his forehead directly into the guy's face. A 'pop!' that sounds almost more like a 'snap! rings between them and Richard lets go of Jason all at once and stumbles backwards off the mat. He has a hand clutched to the face but makes no noise beyond a short grunt.

They stand there for what feels like a small eternity. Richard says nothing; Jason fights to slow his breathing as the rage saps from his veins. He sees the leak of crimson from between Richard's fingers a second before the guy lowers his hands altogether to show that- Blood. Blood soaking his lips and chin and its staining his perfect teeth and he's- he's grinning at Jason. Something dark, sharp, a little unhinged about the strange delight dancing in his eyes. Jason can't look away from where the blood drips off the curve of his bottom lip and spatters against the stone floor below.

Richard laughs. It feels like it restarts Jason's heart because now he's gasping for breath, panic stinging like ice where anger had just roared like fire.

"I- Fuck, I, I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to do that." He feels a little queasy as he watches- can't look away from- Richard's tongue catch the blood still flowing over his upper lip and pulls it back into his mouth. His hand runs across his chin and smears it up across his cheek.

He had absolutely meant to do that.

"Hey, you're fine. Was a good hit. Sure showed me." He won't stop grinning at him and Jason's heart won't slow down. Suddenly Richard is musing his hair, ruffling it up with his clean hand, as he walks past him to head upstairs. "Catch ya topside, Jaybird."

"W... Wait!" Jason spins around, limbs still shaking somewhat with adrenaline. Richard stops at the foot of the stairs to turn and regard him. He's still smiling; It takes Jason a moment to find his voice again.

"Did I pass? The test?" A heavy silence is his answer before Richard cracks another bloodied grin that makes Jason's stomach do concerning flip flops. Who had any right to look that good with blood in their mouth, anyways?

"With Flying colors."

Chapter Text

This is really happening.

Holy shit.

Jason is standing in front of a full length mirror that's been pulled out from, well, somewhere in the Cave. His reflection is swathed in red, green, and yellow- and this is really happening. The red tunic is longer on him than he remembers seeing it on Robin; It extends down his upper thighs rather than stopping at about waist length. The green leotard doesn't quite fit right, and having the full expanse of his legs on display feels weird when Jason has practically lived in the same three pairs of jeans for years. Not to mention the yellow of the cape is a bold brightness in the drab surroundings that makes him feel like he has a spotlight on him.

He runs a finger under the line of the leotard where it cuts into the crease of this thighs to adjust it.

"Uhm," How to ask this. "It doesn't come with shorts, does it?"

Richard snorts from behind him, arms folded over his chest as he takes in the right sight that Jason must make trying vainly to fill the space he'd left behind..

"Personally? If I could get away with not wearing pants still I wouldn't wear them if I could help it." Jason swallows and very pointedly does not think about a pantless Richie Grayson actually, thanks. He watches as the older boy steps forward to look a little closer. The expression on his face is hard to read and it's making him nervous not knowing what's going on in the guy's head. Did he hate it? Was he going to change his mind now that he saw how poorly Jason looked? This had been stupid, hadn't it? How the hell had he deluded himself into thinking he could ever-

"It's not bad." Really?

"Really?" A hand reaches out and runs over where the Robin's 'R' emblem sits; Jason only prays that Richard doesn't feel how hard his heart is pounding when he does.

"... I thought it be, weirder. I guess. Seeing someone else..." Jason cocks his head down slightly. Richard has this strange, far away look in his eyes. Like he's losing himself to a memory. He snaps out of it pretty quickly though, mouth pressing into a grim line before stretching into a smile that Jason abruptly realizes is fake.

"How's it feel? Everything you dreamed of and more?"

"Feels like a load of expectations." And that's the truth. Jason holds his own stare in the mirror and breaths in slowly. This was really happening. He was standing in the homebase of the Batman, with the former Robin, and he was Robin. Well, he was wearing the Robin outfit. If that made him Robin yet or not was up for debate but- point being this was really happening.

"Not backing out now, are you?"

"Never." Richard's smile morphs then to something a little more tentative, but a lot more sincere. It makes a pleasant tingle roll through Jason to know he had caused that smile.

A few moments are spent fussing at the costume more. Tugging at the ends of the gloves to get them to sit better on his fingers, straightening the Peter Pan collar of the cape, curling his toes tighter in the boots. That was one thing Jason noticed immediately. While a younger Robin had been bigger in the body than current Jason, the latter had bigger hands and feet than the former. Admittedly Jason could do with different shoes anyways, regardless of if they had fit or not. Which they didn't. So all the better.

"This isn't going to be easy." Richard says suddenly. His brow is furrowed and his mouth is turned down in a tight frown. Jason only blinks at him.

"Good," He states plainly. "I was getting real tired of how easy things were around here anyways."

Alfred wants desperately for his senses to be betraying him.

"Sir?" Bruce stops in his motions, one hand frozen at his cufflinks, to glance at the old butler.

"Did you not hear me?"

(No, rather, he was afraid he had heard him perfectly well, actually. Too well.)

"I fear not, Master Wayne- I seem to have chased a rabbit down its hole." He offers a wan smile and steps forward to fix how Bruce's bowtie was sitting. The man dutifully lifts his chin up despite no longer really needing to do so; A carry over from when Alfred had been a great deal taller than him and needed him to do so in order to see what it was he was doing.

"Both he and Dick told me themselves. Separately, of course. Robin is back." The muted excitement in Bruce's voice is unmistakable. The ball of dread that had been building in Alfred's chest abruptly plummets into his stomach. It feels like it tears through all his organs on the way down.

"Ah," He replies lightly. "Is that so?"

"He'll need training. Plenty of training. Balancing it with his return to schooling may be difficult, but it can be done. He'll need private tutors... I'll have to phone in a specialist to see where he'll need to restart. He's bright though. He's a bright kid."

"Indubitibly." They were all bright kids once. They had all been bright, promising.

"You know," Bruce doesn't seem any the wiser to Alfred's turmoil as he pulls on a pressed suit jacket and straightens it. "He helped me with a case already."

His mind wanders, meanders away through the years, and all at once Alfred is reminded of Teddy. Theodore "Teddy" Chamberlain. He had been young and bright once. Tough and wily. Had gotten away with being so much smaller than the rest of the militiamen by claiming malnutrition when young. His family had been poor, he'd claimed, but he grew up tougher for it. Nobody had even bothered to double check. Too desperate for bodies to throw at the Axis forces. He'd only been fifteen years old.

He'd only been sixteen when he died.

"Did he?" Alfred asks vacantly. He sees Bruce nod and open his mouth but doesn't hear what comes after.

Teddy had been on his squad. A savant full of odd and ingenius solutions, a keen eye and a sharp shot, and the fascinating ability to turn rations into something approaching actual foodstuffs. His half-cocked grin and youth had been cornerstone to the group's dynamic from the get go. Everyone had loved him, dubbing him 'Big Bear' or more commonly 'Big B' despite his being the smallest in the squadron by a longshot. Why nobody, not even their commanding officers, had sent him back home...

Maybe they had needed him. Needed him like the Batman needed Robin. A light in the dark, a lark's song in the unnatural silence.

He'd only been sixteen.

Theodore had been especially fond of Alfred, the two sharing stories of their siblings back home. Big B was the eldest of five himself and shared in Alfred's sentiments over the highs and lows of being the big brother. Alfred had shown him photos of Wilfred and Margaret, of his parents, of his dame back home.

(That relationship hadn't worked out. He hadn't come back the same boy that left for war. She hadn't been the same girl he left behind in London. They were both too far changed.)

Teddy carried the photo of himself and his family with him like it was a talisman. Like somehow it would protect him from all the horrors they were going to face, a lifeline to a world beyond dust and blood and gunpowder. It showed him with his two youngest siblings in his lap- the twins, Penelope and Priscilla- flanked by his middle siblings- Valerie and Robert. Behind them all on either side of the group were his mother and father looking both exhausted and proud. One big happy family.

He had only been sixteen.

He hadn't been the only one to die in the incident. The same attack had incapacitated and permanently disabled Trevor Klippin and Colin Ruthers. Had sent himself, Raymond Goode, and Clive Doughtery in critical condition to the medics. Had killed Big B Chamberlain and Ricochet Rick Lamar. It had broken a few of the men's minds, it did. Sent them into a state of catatonia for those lucky. For those not so lucky, they went completely manic. Alfred could count himself as the luckiest that he landed somewhere between the two extremes.

(Was it luck? Or had he simply buried Theodore Chamberlain so deep within the flesh of his body that even he had forgotten the freckle faced boy with hazel eyes that had come up barely to his chin and still had the nerve to call him 'Lil Al'?)

"Alfred, are you feeling alright?"

"Sir?"

"I can call off my attendance." He shakes his head both to clear his mind and stop Bruce from doing anything regrettable.

"If you do such a thing for my sake, I shan't hear the end of it from the good Miss Delgado."

"Florence can survive an evening without taking my picture, Alfred." That was debatable. Alfred was fairly certain Florence Delgado only continued living for the purpose of documenting her muses, of which Bruce Wayne was her prima. He gives a soft, irritated sigh and fixes the buttons on Bruce's waistcoat.

"Really, sir. I was merely lost in a memory. You'll understand once you get to be my age." If you get to be my age, Alfred wanted to say. It was best not to tempt the devil's hand. If he could manage it, Alfred planned to make sure Bruce lived a ripe long life. One fixed bowtie and sutured wound at a time.

"... If you're sure. You know you can phone me if I need to come back to the manor for any reason."

"You forget yourself, Master Bruce. I am well aware of how and when to contact you should the need arise." Alfred snipes back dryly. Bruce doesn't have it in himself to blush in embarrassment but his mouth does thin and he clears his throat curtly.

"Right. Is the chauffer out front?"

"If he weren't, I would be sorely surprised, sir. Do try to have fun." Bruce claps a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, holding on longer and with more force than what would usually be acceptable. His smile is small and unsure, gaze searching.

"Of course. Don't let the boys stay up too late." Alfred nods once in acknowledgement before watching Bruce take his leave, only glancing back over his shoulder three times at the old butler before finally rounding a corner out of sight.

Chapter Text

"You don't have to leave."

The musculature of Dick's face pull tighter as he fights against whatever expression he really wanted to make. Bruce merely frowns.

"Look, Bruce. Look," He runs a hand back through his hair as he ducks his head and sighs through clenched teeth. "I don't know what your plan was- and don't try to deny having one, I've known you too long to believe that- I don't know what it was but I'm really not interested in playing along with it."

There were many merits to planning ahead. He thought he had drilled that into Dick a long, long time. As with many things he had tried to impart on the Boy Wonder, that had apparently not stuck as much as he would have preferred it to. It wasn't wise to operate without some idea of what one was going to do, what was going to happen, the possible routes that may need to be taken to achieve an optimal outcome...

Invite Dick back to Gotham, done.
Have him meet Jason, done albeit suboptimally.
Receive verdict on passage of Robin, done.

Technically the plan that Bruce had made and laid out had already come to fruition. After the fact, well, there had been no real plan for after. Just faint hopes, ephemeral desires. Thin as candle smoke and just as easy to waft away.

"I was merely offering the choice. So you know it's there."

"Right. Yeah." Dick doesn't sound convinced. Bruce straightens the cuffs of his dress shirt unthinkingly and stares at one of the small beauty marks on Dick's cheek in lieu of meeting his untrusting gaze.

"It will take time to train him. Jason. It would do him best to learn from someone with more experience fighting at such a size disadvantage." This appeared to be the wrong thing to say. Dick's lips thin and his eyes narrow. His brow comes together and his nostrils flare. Irritation, indignation. Embarrassment? Maybe. He's rolling his eyes now as his arms fold over his chest. Closing off. Pushing away. Bruce tries to open his own stance in response.

"The time it will take to train him can be circumvented if he has more than one teacher. During such, it would benefit to have a second pair of eyes on the city."

"Oh- Oh, I see. So this is about you trying to get me to come back and play sidekick for you, right?" Yes.

"No," Bruce mutters.

Dick's arms unfold and his hands ball into fists at this sides. His jaw tenses and the blue of his eyes darkens. Bruce feels the muscles of his own body coil in preparation to duck or dodge away. Hopefully it won't come to that. Dick has always excelled at keeping his anger on a tight leash. Better than Bruce himself at times.

"I have a life, Bruce. One that doesn't involve you, or Gotham, or the Bat. One that I've already put on hold long enough for you as is."

"This isn't about me. This is about Jason."

"Ooooh, my god, B-" Dick groans loudly. "Do not! Don't try and use him as some, bargaining chip! I'm not staying in Gotham. That's final. If you have such an issue with that then take it and shove it. Not my problem."

Bruce's mouth stays clamped tightly shut as he watches Dick storm back towards the stairs. The sound of someone scrambling to make themself scarce reaches the both of them; Dick only misses a beat before continuing to stomp his way up the stairs noisily. The whole interaction is already playing back in Bruce's head as he takes a slow seat in one of the foyer chairs. His fingers lace, unlace, relace. With a soft sigh he begins to formulate the beginnings of a plan. After all, Dick would have to come back down and exit through the foyer later.

Jason's not sure what he expects of the inside of Richard Grayson's room, but it is surprisingly normal. He stands leaned against the door frame watching as the room's owner digs through a box of vinyls and a case of casettes with feverish intensity. As if moving fast enough would hide the way his hands were shaking.

He shouldn't have been eavesdropping. It was in poor taste, a bad habit, and bound to get him into trouble- but his curiosity had won out, sue him. It was hard to parse that Richard really was just going to up and leave. Logically Jason knew the guy didn't live here anymore and it had been obvious from the get go that something had happened that had driven a wedge between the Boy Wonder and the Batman. Jason was slowly starting to get the picture that maybe the something was Bruce himself. He would have to figure out how he felt about that later, because right now Richard had stopped digging around and sagged into himself in silence.

His head turns slightly, expression obscured by his hair.

"I know you're there. Either come in or get lost." Jason swallows tightly before pushing himself out of his lean and taking one hesitant step into the room.

There's old posters on the walls. Most of them music, some of movies, a few miscellaneous ones- like a promotional flyer for a circus and a more personal one of a girl that Jason has to double take at to register that, yeah, no, not a human being, an alien. There's a few trophies and medals, some certificates framed and displayed- A trapeze bar installed right into the ceiling, fascinating. The bedsheets are blue and white striped with mismatched pillow cases and an extra blanket half tossed over the whole thing.

"Sorry." Because Jason doesn't know what else to say. This feels... weird. A little too intimate. A little too much like they know each other in any real way. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and tries not to stare too hard at everything around him.

"Whatever..." Is the only response he gets for a long while. Jason toes at the floor with one socked foot as he just stares at Richard's back in the silence that stretches between them. Was there really anything he could say that would make this any better? Or would he only make it worse? He didn't really know Richard. He only kind of knew Robin, and the guy wasn't even Robin anymore. He was.

"Where do you live, anyway?" That felt right. A good thing to ask. Talk to him about himself, but not about Gotham or Bruce or the Night. Richard shrugs once before seeming to realize that doing so to a question as simple as 'where do you live' was sort of stupid. Instead he turns around and leans his weight back against the cabinet he was searching through, fixing Jason in one of those nerve wracking stares where his face betrayed nothing of his thoughts.

"... Upstate. On the coast. Little town called Bludhaven."

"Never heard of it." Jason admits immediately. A small exhale, the approximation of a laugh, is his answer.

"That's kindof the point. Nobody has." He hums tunelessly in understanding. The urge to disappear somewhere wasn't completely foreign to Jason.

"S'it nice?" The start of a smile plucks the corners of Richard's lips up a tick. He seems to genuinely consider the question for a moment.

"It's not Gotham," He settles on. Jason's turn to huff out a laugh, because frankly that didn't answer jack diddly shit. There weren't a lot of places like Gotham in the world- and thank God for that.

"That supposed to be a good or bad thing?" It's asked lightly, blithely. Richard shrugs again as his smile widens another increment.

"It's not a destination location for a reason, I guess, is what I'm saying... but it's quiet." A quiet city seemed like a completely foreign concept. Jason hadn't even been sure quiet was a real thing that existed until he'd found it hiding in the halls of Wayne Manor. He thinks to ask if that's why Richard picked there of all places but decides against it. Instead he toes absently at the floor again.

". . . Listen, I-" Richard cuts himself off rather abruptly, audibly swallowing in the silence. If Jason had to pick a word to describe the expression on his face he might pick that of 'consternation'- one of those longer words that he'd picked up from long days spent hiding away in the library but never could seem to find time to use in conversation. He watches as Richard's mouth pinches and he sighs through his nose before trying the whole speaking thing again.

"I wish you hadn't heard all of that. Bruce, he- I've known him a long time. Most my life, even, I guess. He..." Jason has an idea where this is going.

"Means well?" He finishes, flinching internally at how sarcastic his words end up sounding. He hates how sad it seems to make Richard look all of a sudden.

"Yeah. That." Then, with another long suffering sigh and roll of his shoulders, he continues. "He's not always easy to get along with, but... He cares. A lot. Too much, sometimes. And I guess, what I mean to say, is that- If you ever need to talk. To, you know, someone who gets it... I have a landline back at my place."

"Oh," Oh.

"Just- Don't give Bruce my number, huh? Haven't even told him I have a phone." He laughs and manages one of those lopsided smiles of his, and Jason bites the inside of his lip to stop from saying something crazy or stupid or both. He just nods mutely and wrings his hands where they're hidden in his jacket sleeves.

Richard's gaze slides away and over the insides of his childhood bedroom slowly. After a second he turns and picks up a small stack of vinyls and casettes he had set aside atop the cabinet, tucking them under his arm. He stops then before speaking once more; His back remains to Jason.

"Was nice meeting ya, Jaybird." Then, after a beat, voice vulnerable. "Don't make me regret this, okay?"

"Never." Jason assures.

Alfred dabs a welling of blood off Jason's face with the methodical detachment he has grown accustomed to when dealing with those he cares about bleeding in front of him.

They're sequestered away in the portion of the cavern often used for post patrol non-life threatening medical situations and injuries. Apparently the split in his cheek and the resulting bruise covering half his face were from a training incident. Bruce was standing away somewhere else, watching, but wreathed in shadows. Jason winces again as Alfred passes the sanitized wipe across his wound with as much gentleness as can be mustered. He hasn't raised his eyes from the floor this whole while.

"It would do the both of you good to remember that facial bruising is not so easy to explain away as other forms." Bruce hums from where he's seated; Jason merely blinks.

"How did this come to pass, Young Master Todd?" Alfred keeps his tone conversational as he lifts the boy's chin up, tilting his head this way and that to get a better feel for if the split was going to need stitches or not.

"... Wasn't fast enough." Always next time, he almost says, before halting and really taking in the state of the boy. The split was an angry red not counting the blood still struggling to seep from it, the mottled bruising already starting to darken to purple and blue extended from chin to temple; The swelling made his right eye appear squinted. He gives a tight lipped smile and a nod.

"You'll get faster, Master Todd." The boy's nose scrunches briefly, a grimace bullying its way onto his face. There's a moisture gathered along his bottom lashes that makes Alfred's old heart ache.

"He needs to," Bruce says suddenly. He's standing much closer than Alfred recalls him being. It may have startled someone less used to Bruce Wayne's... theatrics, but all Alfred can muster is a mute sigh. "Robin would have dodged that easily."

"I'm afraid that Robin, did not, sir." He clears his throat to cover up the way Jason sniffles futilely. Bruce says nothing more on the matter- he merely sweeps away through the dark like a living shadow and is abruptly gone. Cocking an ear to make absolutely sure of the fact Bruce had taken his departure, Alfred proceeds to take a firm grip of Jason's knee and squeeze reassuringly.

"You'll be alright, ol' boy. The good news is I won't have to stitch you shut like a busted poppet- though I'm sure you'd wear the stitching quite well, hm?" Jason sniffles again, chin raising just enough that he can fix Alfred in a truly miserable stare. His lashes are appropriately wet now, the tear tracks on the right side of his face pulling watery blood out of his wound. Alfred squeezes his knee again.

"I should have dodged it. I don't... I don't know why I didn't. I saw it coming and I just- I just let him hit me." Oh, bother.

(Alfred suddenly wishes he had pestered Bruce to allow him to read what little the social workers had been able to compile on Jason, officially, before Wayne money had sped up the process of adoption.)

"And you took the hit very well, if you ask me. I do say, that I have seen Master Wayne knock grown men clear off their feet hitting them like such. Yet here you are, and lucid at that." It's a small miracle that his little pep talk seems to be suitable enough to lift Jason's spirits at least somewhat. Not entirely, but anything was better than nothing. The boy wipes with the back of his hand at his not-swollen eye and takes a long shuddering inhale.

"He's right though. I- Robin would have dodged that. I've seen him do it, I-" His mouth snaps shut again. Alfred keeps his expression neutral even though his brow fights to rise in inquiry.

(What exactly had Jason seen Robin do?)

"Jason, you are Robin. One little mistake isn't-"

"But it's not just one little mistake!" Alfred straightens instinctively at the sudden outburst. Jason's cheeks are flushed pink as he cringes and shrinks down into himself. Alfred carefully removes his hand from the boy's leg.

"You're learning. Do you think your predecessor was born knowing everything he needed to know? That the Batman was trained in one night?" He doesn't receive an answer immediately; He does not press for an answer immediately. Jason is scrubbing furtively at his eyes as more tears spill over. Eventually, seeming to get the idea that he was meant to answer, Jason gives a weak 'No'.

"Exactly. And what's more is that they both still make plenty of mistakes between them. You're willing and earnest, Master Todd. You'll be a fine Robin one day."

"One day..." Jason echoes hollowly. Alfred slowly leads him off the cot with a warm hand on the back, fighting down a sudden nausea upon realizing just how far off the floor his feet had been dangling.

"Now, how's about I put on the kettle, hm?"

They're sitting at the coffee table in a triad formation, each of them diagonal from another.

Jason can make more sense out of the woodgrain than he can his father's face. All he sees is short, dirty blond hair refusing to lie down flat against his father's skull and something like a stormcloud hanging perpetually over the man's features. He remembers his frown. Not the color of his eyes.

His Momma, though. He knew his Momma anywhere. The gentle wave of her strawberry blonde hair and her green-blue eyes. Like seaglass, he thinks to her saying once. That his father had once said she had eyes like seaglass. He never heard Willis Todd say so himself but he believed her, even if he'd also never seen seaglass himself. She smiles at him in that daydreamer way she did. Yeah, Jason remembers his mother's smile and his father's frown.

They just sit there and smile and frown at him, at each other, maybe at themselves.

He feels his Momma's hand in his hair and can practically hear her voice- How she loves his curls, just like his Daddy's, just like her Willy. How she's so happy he never caught the fleas like the other kids so they wouldn't need to cut his curls back. He wants to grab hold of her wrist and press his face into her palm and see if maybe he can catch the scent of that perfume she always layered too heavily. Hides the Gotham smell she'd joked sometime in the past.

His fingers slip through her like smoke.

There's the sensation of his mouth moving, of him saying something, but he can't hear himself. He can hear the peppering of distant gunfire, the sound of dogs barking and screaming, of tires squealing against asphalt, people chattering noisily. His Momma just smiles and smiles and smiles, seaglass eyes vacant. His father's hand comes down like a manacle on his opposite wrist and Jason swings around to try and make sense of the vague shapes that make him up. The impression of a man.

"You be good for your Momma, boy. Be good for her. You be good for your Momma. Be good for your Momma, boy." He nods along like a bobblehead, distantly aware of the force of his father's grip tightening until his hand is sticking out at an angle it shouldn't be and there's blood pooling on the table and trailing into the woodgrain. He just keeps frowning, a severe line, almost cartoonish in nature. Then his father is letting go of him and smearing blood over the table, and he never stops frowning.

It takes a few seconds to register that he's not in the dingy apartment on Park Row at all, but rather face down in his bed in Wayne Manor.

Jason blinks slowly in the darkness and lets the feeling return to his body before rolling over to lay on his back, how he'd fallen asleep. There's a lag between his waking up, processing what he had been dreaming about, and the raw clench of emotion that swells abruptly in his chest. All at once he misses that groddy old apartment, and his Momma, and even his father. God, God, does he miss his Momma. He'd been spending as little time as possible thinking about Cathrine "Trina" Todd since he'd been plucked rather unceremoniously from his old life and ushered into the new.

It had just been the two of them after his father got busted trying to run something for cash he'd insisted would "gettem outta this shithole once an' for all". He can still remember the exact way his father had said it too, accent thick, sounding so damn sure of himself. He hadn't told Jason any more than that, had just ruffled a big warm hand through his curls and given him one of those rare rare smiles. The one that showed off where he was missing half a tooth from a bar fight where "ya should'a seen tha otha guy!" Jason thinks he may have smiled back.

He hugs his arms around himself tightly and fights back tears.

He wanted his parents. He wanted the drone of electricity humming through exposed wires and the tap, tap, tap of water dripping from a faucet that refused to be fixed. He wanted his crappy, bumpy mattress on the floor next to his parents crappier, bumpier mattress on the floor and he wanted to crawl out of his and curl up against his Momma's side because she always slept closest to him. He wanted to know his father was the one sleeping on her other side, closest to the door so he could protect them if anything happened. He wanted, he wanted--

Jason chokes on one sob before biting his lip so hard he tastes blood.

He shouldn't want anything.

Here he was sleeping in the softest bed he'd ever known with fresh clean sheets, in a room all his own, in a big beautiful house like something out of the stories he liked to read. He had a fucking butler for God's sake. He was the son of Bruce Wayne now. He was Robin. Soon he was going to be able to start learning again, even if it would be a little different than going school like he remembers, and he was excited for that. He even had Richard Grayson's personal landline number. What more could a guy fucking ask for? Why did he want anything?

. . . He'd ask Bruce, come morning, about them. About both of them.

The man had said that he'd made sure his Momma was getting the help she needed, that she was somewhere she'd get better. Maybe if she was really going to get better he could visit her sometimes. Make sure she stayed better. Make sure she knew he missed her. Maybe they could go visit his father. He remembered that Cathrine used to visit him when he first got arrested, before she started to get real bad. Maybe if he knew they were waiting for him still he could get out earlier on good behavior or something.

Yeah.

Yeah.

When morning came, he'd ask.

Chapter Text

Breakfast that morning was freshly made waffles topped with chopped fruits and a simple syrup, served with a side of eggs fresh out the pan and beverages of choice. Bruce always took his eggs sunny side up, lightly salted, with fresh cracked black pepper; Jason is not as keen on them and has instead asked Alfred with a great hesitancy if he might have his scrambled. Despite the frown Bruce had donned at hearing such a request, Alfred had been glad to cook something outside the usual.

(Really, Bruce could be so very anal about the strangest of things. It was not a show of character how any one person took their eggs regardless of what he may have gotten into his head somehow.)

Jason took a glass of orange juice and two pieces of buttered toast; Bruce had his usual morning pot of English Breakfast over the daily paper. Alfred, personally, had already had his own breakfast and tea in the wee hours between when the Batman came to roost and Bruce Wayne emerged for the day. After breakfast was squared away and plans for lunch had been properly made, he would go and lay down for a good few hours before getting back to business. It's as Alfred is considering how very good his mid-morning rest is going to be today that Bruce speaks suddenly- albeit not to him.

"You enjoy reading, don't you?" Jason jolts in his seat. It wasn't often that Bruce spoke much during breakfast, when he could be bothered to actually seat himself properly for it. Alfred cocks an ear to the conversation from where he's cleaning up the countertops.

"Uh... Yeah, I mean. Yeah? I do."

"Mm. You have exceptional language aptitude considering your educational history." Jason doesn't respond to this at first. Rather his brow furrows as he stares at the newspaper that is currently obscuring Bruce from his vision. Alfred has half a mind to tell the man to lower the paper if he's going to be holding a conversation, but knowing Bruce he was actively reading while talking.

"Th... Thanks? I think."

"What manner of material do you enjoy the most? Reading material, that is." The sound of paper rustling as Bruce flips the page overlays the soft 'uhm' of awkward confusion that Jason gives as he shifts in his seat. Alfred could wince. Goodness, these two could practically be speaking different languages for how well they seemed to parse one another. No fault of their own, really, he supposed. Though perhaps Bruce could stand to talk to Jason more like a son than an estranged nephew.

(That was perhaps asking too much of the man. He's not sure Bruce has had a candid and natural conversation with anyone since he was six years of age. One of the many quirks that the lifestyle of the rich and famous possessed.)

"I don't really have a favorite, I guess. I just like reading. I, uh, used to spend a lot of time in the library- the one off St.Agatha's Street?..." Alfred wasn't sure he knew which library that was or where exactly it sat but Bruce nodded from behind the shroud of the newspaper as if he knew exactly where the boy was talking about. Perhaps he did, for he had been spending more time in that part of town since picking up the 'Dumpster Slasher' case.

(What a terrible name, really. He hoped, somewhere, that the killer was quite embarrassed about having acquired such a moniker.)

"Is the library in the manor to your liking?" Alfred silently mouths 'to your liking' as he continues to scrub down the dishes and cutlery used for breakfast prep. He can hear Jason's heel hitting the ground over and over as his leg jitters under the table.

"Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah, no, it's good. I like it. Lots of... educational stuff." Bruce turns to the next page and is silent for some time after. Jason's leg eventually stops bouncing. Alfred is sure that the conversation has come to a whimpering, uncomfortable end until after nearly ten minutes of silence it abruptly starts again.

"I was thinking about converting one of the spare rooms closest to yours. Perhaps another library, or a study. It would do you well to have a place of your own to attend to your school work. A good desk helps with productivity."

"Huh?" Jason asks, ever so eloquently might Alfred add. His mouth was only half full of scrambled egg.

"Of course there would need to be books to fill it in either case. We could make a small day trip of it. There are plenty of decent bookstores in Gotham, though traveling will be no issue. I know a man in Birmingham who deals in rare and unique texts-"

"Like, Alabama?" The boy cuts in and does an excellent job at sounding utterly floored by the idea of making a 'day trip' of going cross country. This is what finally gets Bruce to lower the edge of the newspaper down; He has one eyebrow cocked up.

"No. England."

"Is your schedule cleared for such a trip, Master Wayne?" Alfred inquires incredulously as Jason stares at Bruce like he had sprouted an extra set of arms off the back of his head.

"It's been taken care of, Alfred." Jason looks between the two men like he's trying to figure out if he's being punked or not. Whatever conclusion he comes to is a mystery; He merely sag into his chair eventually in something suspiciously akin to utter disbelief.

(Well, there were worse things to happen last minute than a visit back to the Old Country.)

Bruce had actually been serious. One Hundred Percent, genuinely, really, actually serious. It almost makes Jason a little sick if he thinks about it, which he hasn't exactly been able to stop doing since his whatever-Bruce-was-to-him had instructed Alfred to make sure he was 'Flosentable'- whatever the Hell that meant- and then proceeded to stuff him in the back of a Benz to go to a goddamn bookstore.

Oh, Jason was in so way over his head.

'Flosentable' as it turned out just means that Alfred takes it upon himself to pick out an outfit for Jason from a wardrobe he hadn't even known he was in possession of and styling his hair. He felt like a doll in all the worst possible ways during the whole process but tried not to take it out on the old man; He had made Jason look, maybe for the first time in his whole damn life, actually pretty good. Good enough that Jason nearly worked up the nerve to ask him what the fuck 'Flosentable' meant. Nearly. Not quite though.

So there he is sitting in the back of Bruce's towncar, or one of them, chewing on the inside of his already chewed up lip trying to keep from crying like an idiot because he can't understand any of this.

Sure, he's really really excited about the prospect of getting new books of his own. Back in what he was coming to term as his Old Life there was never anything new. Maybe new to him, sure, but never new new. Not unless it was something really special. Like when his father had gotten Momma that pretty sparkly necklace for their anniversary. Sure, she'd had to sell it off to a pawn shop not even a few months later for quick cash but it had been the real kind of new that things weren't usually in the Todd household. It was funny, because Jason was almost positive that the money she'd gotten from that which hadn't gone to rent, food, or drugs had actually been used to get him some lightly-worn-but-otherwise-new shoes for school that year. Those had been nice shoes; He'd wore them until the bottoms fell out.

Jason is expecting something big and shiny and hypnotically monocultural when Bruce finally pulls the car into a parking space. Something like, hell, Fox Books maybe? He was pretty sure one of those hulking behemoths of a store had opened up a new location recently. He heard they even had a cafe in the store. A cafe with scones! But, no, the bookstore they step out to from the bougie ass Benz that looks like its still fresh off the lot is... It's...

Damn, it's small.

Jason blinks in surprise before craning his neck to eye up Bruce in questioning. The man doesn't even spare him a glance, merely inhaling slowly and deeply before exhaling in the same manner and going to walk in.

He can't help that he lags behind. The shop is... cute. Its size is still throwing Jason off because he really had expected Bruce to take him somewhere that would feel completely out of his element, but here they are at- the sign plastered on the front reads Shop Around the Corner which is apt if not a bit too on the nose. It sure is a shop on the corner, huh? It's now that Jason finally follows Bruce inside, noting the cheery little bell that jingles as he steps inside. The entrance is cramped but the shop is actually bigger than it looks from the outside.

"--really, it's so good to see you again, Mr.Wayne, your patronage here is always so appreciated, and-"

"Please, Miss Kelly, it's not unwarranted. I'm very serious about where I do my business and your establishment has more than met- and exceeded -all of my standards." Bruce is talking to a spritely looking younger woman with feathery blonde hair cut around her chin, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling as she fights not to grin. Jason cocks his head slightly as the woman, Miss Kelly, laughs and runs her hands down over her apron a few times.

"Oh, please, we've been over this- just Kathleen is fine!" Then, as if realizing the two aren't alone, she turns to Jason yet loses none of her apparent excitement. "Well, my my... Who's this?"

Bruce claps a hand on Jason's shoulder warmly and gives him a small little shake.

"This, is my son. Jason. Jason, this is Kathleen Kelly. She's the owner of this fine shop." He has to swallow down something strange and alarming at Bruce actually calling him his son. And to another person. An actual separate human being who Jason has never met before.

Kathleen stoops slightly and extends a cordial hand for a shake and after a moment of dumbly staring at her breathlessly Jason abruptly remembers how to function and clasps her hand in his own. She doesn't seem deterred by his lack of social decorum at least.

"It's nice to meet you, Jason. You like books, huh?"

"Well, yeah. Yeah, I guess I do. A lot, actually. There's- There's a lot of 'em in here. More than I thought there'd be." His eyes drift over to a precariously arranged display crowded by decorations and seemingly close to toppling if not for how carefully the books have been stacked together. Kathleen snickers as they just keep shaking hands.

"Looks can be very deceiving, Jason." She offers cryptically. When Jason spares another glance at Bruce he's only slightly startled to see that the man is smiling. Shit, he hadn't known Bruce could do that. It's fond and not nearly as subtle as most of his expressions are, and Jason get's self conscious all at once and yanks his hand back from Kathleen's as he becomes aware they've been shaking hands for at least a solid minute.

"You'll have to excuse him, Kathleen, he's shy." Was not!

"That's alright, most readers are, Mr.Wayne. But enough of the pleasantries- Let's talk brass tacks!" Kathleen claps her hands, fingers interlocking, as she straightens up.

Brass tacks turns out to just be what books Jason likes, what he's read before, what he doesn't like. All the while he and Kathleen meander their way around the store. Every so often she yanks a book from a shelf or display or a teetering tower, never missing a beat as she does so. Jason eyes the pile as it grows and grows until the poor woman is huffing a bit from the load and effort to keep adding yet more books. When he asks if she wants him to carry any of them, Kathleen just laughs before conspiratorially saying that 'his dad' will get them in a second. True to her words, Bruce has made his way over and wordlessly plucked the assortment from the shopkeep's arms.

Somehow, for some reason, she just goes back to grabbing more books.

"I, uh. What're you doing, exactly?" Jason eventually asks. Because now she's dumped two stacks of books in Bruce's arms and was still going as they talked literature and about books-turned-to-movies and the inverse of movies-turned-to-books. Jason thinks the latter is sort of silly but then Kathleen had gone on to talk about how there wasn't much of a difference in the transfer either way and that really a good adaptation of a movie-into-a-book could bring all new depth in the same way the vice versa could.

"I'm picking out books for you- wasn't it obvious?" It had been but Jason has not wanted to acknowledge that all of those were supposed to be for him. Bruce hasn't raised a single complaint as the mound just keeps growing either. Another of the shop attendants has slipped behind the register and been watching the scene for a while now.

"I just- That's, a lot. Iunno if I'm going to be able to read all of those." And that was the truth. Jason was an avid reader, yes, but he was a bit on the slow side. He'd seen Bruce and Alfred both just glance over something and finish reading it before he can make it through the first paragraph. It wasn't something he was necessarily embarrassed about- he'd been the fastest reader in 2nd grade actually -but he was a bit envious and very aware of his limitations.

"Think of it this way, Jason- Would you rather have too many books to read or not enough? Ah! Here, this one's my favorite!" Kathleen snatches a book off the shelf and all but throws it Jason's way. He catches it and only fumbles a little bit before turning to look at the cover.

It's a vibrant shade of dark blue, cloth covering adorned with very little embellishments aside from the gold gilded lettering of the title and author. He doesn't quite know what the title means but he can for a fact read it.

"Pride and Prejudice?" He mutters, running a thumb over where the name 'Jane Austen' sits. The gilding is smooth under his touch in contrast with the gentle graininess of the cloth.

"A classic," Bruce supplies as he presses his chin firmly into the top of his stack of books to keep it from wobbling. Kathleen beams.

"I can't help myself but to recommend it when I have the chance. If it were my say, I'd think everyone should read it." Jason cracks it open curiously only to be floored at how immediately he finds himself incapable of following the narration. Something about men with money and marriage and...? He clears his throat and snaps it shut. Kathleen is looking at him expectantly.

"Seems really interesting!" And it's only partially a lie, because Jason was curious, but he wasn't sure he was too thrilled about what he had read. Ah, but, Kathleen is really beaming now and seems genuinely pleased. She points at the book in his hands with one hand crooked awkwardly from its hold on the hoard in her arms.

"Then it's settled. That one can be on the house."

Bruce snorts back laugh.

The loud brrrring! of an incoming call startles Dick awake from his fitful rest. He all but falls off the couch, tangled in his blanket as he is, only narrowingly avoiding smacking his head against the coffee table on the way down. That’s what he got for not going and sleeping in bed like a normal person, he guessed.

Running a hand over his face and clumsily trying to extricate himself from the inadvertent cocoon he’d apparently created from spinning around on the couch like a gas station hotdog, Dick listens to the phone continue to ring. He’s honestly really tempted to let it go to the answering machine- but it may have been important. Very few people had his personal number and fewer still were people that would be calling him without good reason.

(If it was Isaac and he didn’t pick up… Well, Dick wasn’t sure he’d forgive himself for that one.)

He manages to catch it right before it goes to the machine, having clamored over on hand and knee before smacking the handset off the hook and managing to wrestle it to his ear.

”Mmm’ello?”

There’s a long pause on the other side of the line; Dick can hear someone breathing into the receiver, and after a second too long spent in silence he wonders if his number got leaked somehow. But then-

”R… Richard?”

Dick hauls himself up a little straighter, brow furrowing. Okay. So that was unexpected. Who the hell did he know who called him that that would be calling him at this hour? Scrubbing the sleep from his eyes he looks to see if he can make out the calling number in the dark. No such luck.

”Who’s speaking?” He asks, trying to not sound as irritated as he feels.

”... It’s uh. It’s Jason? I- I’m sorry. It’s really late, I’ll uh-” Oh. That’s who, huh.

(The other blonde that he’d somehow accidentally become pseudo-responsible for. Go figure.)

”Mmno, no, you’re- It’s fine. Just, didn’t realize it was you.” Then after a moment of considering it. “You know you can just call me Dick, right?”

There’s the sound of shuffling on the other end of the line and Dick absently begins to toy with the spiral cord as he slumps his weight against the wall the phone is plugged into. He’s pretty sure he just heard Jason make some sort of incredulous noise.

”What, like, really? Actually?” Despite the fact Jason can’t see him, Dick still cracks a sharp grin at the question.

”Yeah, really? What’s so hard to believe about that? It’s my name, man. Like the late’n’great Dick Van Dyke or whatever.”

”Dick Van Dyke isn’t dead.” He doesn’t bother hiding his laugh at the monotone that Jason manages to deliver that line in.

”Alright, yeah, but the punctual’n’great Dick Van Dyke doesn’t flow as well. Whatever, dude, it’s like- Hell, iunno- early o’clock? Cut me some slack. What’re you calling for anyways? Not to lecture me on not knowing which old dudes are dead or alive, I hope.”

”I…” While Jason struggles to get words out, Dick tries and fails to not yawn into the transmitter. “I don’t know, this was- Sorry for waking you up.”

”If not you, someone else. Such is the price of popularity. Now, are you actually going to tell me what’s up or not?” The fact Jason hadn’t hung up yet, was still sitting on the line, told Dick that there had to be some reason and not just because the kid had decided it’d be hilarious.

”I don’t know,” Jason repeats, sounding somewhere between frustrated and slightly panicked. He’s back to silent for a moment before a sigh eases out of the receiver. “I… Guess I just wanted to see if you would really pick up...”

Dick sniffs once and stares into the darkness of his rented out bachelor pad at the admission.

(And to think he almost hadn’t, huh?)

”Now you know.” It’s said neutrally. There’s more sounds of movement and faint breathing on Jason’s end before the boy clears his throat.

”Yeah… Yeah. I really am sorry. For waking you up. And, uh. Thanks- y’know. For picking up.” Dick is already nodding off again, cheek in his palm and eyelids drooping. He grunts in a way he hopes is affirmative and acknowledging but probably just sounds like a caveman.

(Unga bunga, me Dick Grayson, me want sleep now.)

”G’night, Richar-” A jilted pause. “Dick.”

”Night, Jason.”

Chapter Text

If you'd given Jason a hundred tries he would have never guessed what it was Alfred had led him down to the Cave for. Not for lack of trying, either. When the old butler had cryptically asked Jason to follow him down he had immediately launched into asking questions. Bruce has told him that asking questions was the only way to get answers after all. Of course that didn't mean he actually got many answers from the old guy but judging from the way a small smile had snuck its way on Alfred's face Jason could at least presume this was a good surprise and not a bad one.

Finding Bruce already down in the Cave does make a small trill of anxiety creep up his spine- but only for lack of knowing what was going on and why the man looked almost excited about something. At least he wasn't suited up; He was still in his day clothes.

"I thought it might be of some help if you were to wear something more fitting of yourself, Young Master Todd. I took the task upon myself, though I do hope it is to your liking." Jason shifts his weight from foot to foot as he looks at the newly installed glass case along the uniform wall. It's currently covered by a large white sheet. When Alfred motions for him to approach it, he can't help but to cast a searching look back to Bruce; The man nods with a small quirked smile.

Okay. Okay. Breathe in...

He steps forward slowly, past Alfred, and lets his fingers curl into the sheet.

Breathe out.

He yanks, hard, and steps backwards to pull the sheet off and away from the case. What he sees makes his heart stutter in his chest.

The uniform is brand spankin' new and vibrant in the way only a Robin's uniform is. The red tunic is now more of a shirt and dons short sleeves of the same color and a high, turtleneck collar; The fastenings that had adorned the original Robin costume have been replaced as the ensemble now appears to just get pulled on. The black belt remains cinched at the waist though appears to be sturdier, having small pockets and a larger buckle. Under are either high waisted green half-tights or a something akin to a wrestling singlet. Knee and elbow pads of the same shade of green sit where joints would be, and there are black shinguards further down over a pair of dark green and black boots that Jason can recognize are steel-toed. Framing the whole oufit with its almost blinding brightness is the pop of the long yellow cape, scalloped as opposed to the straight edge of its predecessor.

"Holy shit," Jason chokes.

"Language, son." Bruce chides lightly. Alfred stands up a little straighter and doesn't bother hiding his pleased smile.

"I take it it's to your liking then?" He asks, sounding just the least bit smug. Jason can only stare and stare and stare at where black domino sits supsended in the case as he struggles to find words that aren't vulgar expletives.

"This is really for me?" Jason manages to croak after several long moments spent in stunned silence. He only startles slightly when Bruce's hand lands on his shoulder from behind and squeezes. Alfred nods once.

"Really." He says simply.

"Would you... like to try it on?" Bruce inquires when Jason simply continues to sit there with his mouth hanging ajar. He can only nod, dumbly, and watch as Alfred goes to unlatch the case to retrieve the uniform. Fuck, his uniform. Holy fuckin' delayed realization, Batman- He was really Robin now, wasn't he?

Putting it on is a cinch and it turns out that it is a singlet that the shirt is slipped on over. The cape is sewn into the shoulders of the shirt, bringing some of its bright yellow in around the front of his neck. The boots are his size, the gloves are his size, the shirt fits without being too tight or too loose. This was really his. This was meant for him. It's almost too much at once because Jason can feel pressure welling at the back of his eyes but he refuses, refuses to cry because that'd be stupid.

When he sticks on the domino and looks at himself for the first time in full costume, his costume, it feels like nothing has ever felt before.

Alfred is smiling warm and fond, eyes crinkled at the corners, and Bruce looks- fuck, he looks proud and Jason can't remember the last time anyone had looked at him that way. Last time he had felt proud of himself. But standing there? Looking not at Jason Todd, the no good elementary school drop out, but instead at Robin, kick ass crime fighter protector of Gotham? He feels Goddamn untouchable. He feels invincible. He feels good.

He can't wait for Dick to see him now.

Strange things happened in Gotham all the time and this was a well known fact. Hell, ever since a demigod had suddenly stepped into the world and the so-called Age of Heroes had began it felt like the whole world only continued to get stranger and stranger. Though of all the strange things to happen, Barbara Gordon would not have put any money on seeing a miraculously de-aged Robin running rooftops clumsy as a foal with the Batman tutting at him to keep up.

She had been keeping her distance from the Bat for reasons. Only for a little while, granted! She had planned to come to him sooner rather than later- Once she had a bit of experience under her makeshift utility belt and knew she wasn't just going to slow him down or get them both killed. The less than inconspicuous prolonged absences and eventual disappearance of Robin had started to worry people and, well, Barbara had maybe thought that if some kid in a leotard and pixie boots could pull it off then surely she, a grown adult woman, had a chance at being the kind of person that Gotham needed.

Seeing a Robin, because that couldn't be the Robin, right, that was crazy even for Gotham- well, seeing a Robin beside the Bat again was both comforting and also a little infuriating.

Barbara watches as Batman goes gliding easily over a gap between two buildings only for Robin to skid to a clumsy halt and nearly topple into the space between, overcompensating on the pull back and landing square on his butt. She can't help the small wince of secondhand embarrassment. Shifting where she's crouched in the shadows of a building a bit a ways away, Barbara watches as Batman doubles back slowly to where the new guy is still seated with his head in his hands.

It's while the Bat seems busy talking to Robin Numero Dos that Barbara decides it may as well be a good time to go ahead and introduce herself.

She only fumbles her landing a little bit, hoping that her little hop-and-a-skip looks more intentional than it really was.

"Gentlemen," She says, in her best approximation of a suave and composed vigilante. It was one thing to plan to team up with the Batman and another to actually be talking to the guy.

Robin is on his feet now and looking a little pink under the edges of his domino. The Bat is as cool and composed as ever and merely regarding her from beneath the cowl in silence. Unsure what to do with said silence being served to her, Barbara puts her fists on her hips and hopes it comes across as heroic posing. She clears her throat after a bit and starts to wonder if this is how it's usually supposed to go.

"Who are you suppose'ta be?" Robin asks bluntly. Batman makes some sort of disapproving noise in the back of his throat but does nothing more to admonish the rude question. Barbara stands up a little straighter and gives a quick glare to the boy a bit for good measures.

"I'm..." Well she hadn't actually decided on a permanent name yet but- "Batwoman, obviously."

They stare at her.

She stares at them.

Batman makes a derisive noise, and Robin's mouth quirks into an unimpressed slant. Barabara can feel her face heating up with righteous indignation at the cooler-than-lukewarm reception. Her arms fold across her chest and she shakes her head with a click of her tongue. It's about then that Batman says something that leaves her completely reeling.

"Miss Gordon, while it is said that imitation is the sincerest form of flatter, such a thing won't be getting you very far. I suggest you go home." Robin perks up and looks between the two of them while Barbara's mouth flaps uselessly. How in the hell...

"I've known your father a long time, Miss Gordon." He adds, as if that explains how he could just look at her for a few minutes and be able to tell exactly who she was. She had heard her father speak highly of the Batman and his deductive reasonings, his analytical prowess, his uncanny ability to piece things together- but seriously, this was next level. Robin's head cocks as he really looks at Barbara's face now. It's mostly covered by her own version of the iconic cowl but she can't help feeling practically barefaced.

"Gordon... Like, the police commissioner, Gordon?"

"Quiet! That's- Look, I had this planned out better in my head." She had, she really had. There'd been less pipsqueak Robins and more Batwoman impressing Batman with her skills and resources. She'd even been planning to try and help him with that 'Dumpster Slasher' case that was giving her dad a hard time back at the station. She was certain that the Bat was working it too but she had a lead. One that she couldn't exactly share with her father since he wasn't aware of what she'd been getting up to for the past half a year.

"Your planning needs further work then. I'll repeat myself more clearly this time, Miss Gordon. Go home."

Well that wasn't happening.

Leveling Batman in a stare she hopes conveys at least some of her grit and determination, Barbara lets her arms fall back to her side and raises her chin. He's honestly just as intimidating as her father always made him out to be. If it weren't for his surprisingly even, almost soft, manner of speaking she may have found herself almost inclined to listen to his order. Ah, but, she never had considered herself much of a pushover.

"Make no mistake, Batman. I intend to continue pursuing my current leads and finish out my patrol. Whatever you intend to do, knowing my secret identity, know it won't stop me." It's a little exhilarating! She watches as Batman's jaw tightens before his nostrils flare and- Did he just laugh? Robin is staring at the man like he's crazy, so that must mean he definitely just laughed. Barbara isn't sure how to react to that.

"You sure are your father's daughter," Then with a swish of his cape. "Come along, Robin. Let's leave Batgirl to her business."

It's only as the two are descending down off the building to another down below that she gets her wits about her and has the wherewithall to run to the roofedge and shout after the duo.

"My name is not Batgirl!"

Dick was in Gotham. Again.

God damn it.

What had it been, a few months? More than a couple but not quite several. He'd just been getting into a routine back in Bludhaven too. Work at the cannery was boring but it was steady and it let him establish himself as just another working class citizen in the tight knit town. He really hoped this visit wasn't going to take long. The letter Bruce had sent this time had at least been a lot less cryptic than the last. Something about needing his expertise in relation to a training issue with Jason.

(Go figure it had to do with Jason, because why else would Bruce bother to write anymore?)

The training issue turned out to be a bit more serious than Bruce had bothered to let on- namely being that Jason was backpedaling on jumps, hesitating on drops, and struggling with the grapple. All of which... were pretty important when you were a vigilante that spent most of your time making the spires and skyscrapers of Gotham your own personal jungle gym. Dick could see why Bruce had called him in to deal with this.

(Nobody knew how to fly better than a Grayson.)

He finds Jason in a newly renovated room nearby his own bedroom, curled up in a chair with his nose shoved so far in a book he apparently doesn't notice Dick standing in the doorway. He lingers there a long moment to see if any of Bruce's spatial awareness training has actually sunk in yet; Apparently it hasn't. All the better since it gives Dick a fun little idea! Lips curling, he slips into the room silently.

Dick ends up standing directly behind Jason with the boy truly none the wiser. This close he can see smatterings of freckles along the back of his neck and the jarring gold-blonde of his roots growing back in against the black hair dye. It looks pretty silly actually; Dick has to wonder if the kid is really going to maintain the color or not.

(Did he think he had been subtle, dyeing his hair black? It wasn't as cute a gesture as he probably thought it was.)

"What'cha reading?" He asks cheerily. The startled half-scream Jason lets out as he drops his book on the floor is worth it.

"Fuckin' Hell," The boy's face has gone bright pink in seconds as he hops from his seat to pick his book up- only for him to turn and throw it straight at Dick's head in apparent retaliation for his misdeeds. No worries, seeing as Dick catches it easily.

"Ooo, careful, don't let Alfred hear you talking like that! He'll make you wash your mouth out with soap." He chirps, turning the book over in his hand to peer at the title. Jason seems a mixture of violently embarrassed, ticked off, and somehow pleased to see him all at once.

"Huh, 'The Princess Bride'? Didn't know there was a book." As peace offering, Dick extends the book back to Jason who snatches it away to clutch it close to his chest. The pink of his blush was starting to edge into red on the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

"What're you doing here?" Dick waves a hand at the question.

"Sheesh, no need to act so happy to see me!" Jason isn't successful in dodging away from him as he reaches out and musses up his curls. The boy shakes his head and gives a scowl that quickly fades away.

"Didn't mean it like that, just... You were in a pretty big rush to get outta here before." That much hadn't really changed. He wasn't exactly looking forward to this. You would think that a fear of heights, or whatever it was that had Jason fumbling out there in training, would have been a pretty clear deal breaker for being Robin. The boy had said Dick wouldn't come to regret passing him the name but- well, who had heard of a robin who couldn't fly?

"Bruce said you needed a little help getting off the ground." If anymore of the blood in Jason's body went to his face the poor kid might pass out. As it is the realization that Dick was being summoned to play teacher has the kid ducking his head down, suddenly very interested in the floor. He's really white knuckling that book. Briefly, Dick ponders if he's seen the movie or not.

"Right... So, what, you're here to make me practice my monkey bars or something?" Dick clicks his tongue before blowing out a laugh between clenched teeth.

"Or something," He answers noncommittally. Jason looks at him curiously from beneath his eyelashs, frowning.

"Sweet Mother Theresa, Dick." Bruce chokes.

He had asked Dick if he needed a spare change of suit for tonight and been given a very emphatic 'No'; It was not often has was caught off guard for more than a few seconds at most but this was- This was-

"Can I help you, B?" Dick asks meanly. He has a blue domino affixed to his face, the custom piece sporting the signature white lenses from his Robin days. They helped to obfuscate his otherwise unique eyes. Crucial in maintaining his secret identity. The blue was new.

"What. Are you wearing." When Dick moves to face him, arms crossing over his exposed chest, the fabric of his suit. It shimmers. Shimmers. Bruce can feel a headache coming on from how hard his jaw clenches.

"My suit, Bruce. What else?"

"Okay, 'm ready-" Robin chooses then to emerge from where he had been changing into his own costume to the frankly absurd sight that Dick was painting. His jaw slacks and Bruce watches as his eyes flitter up and down, bug, and then abruptly swing up to stare into the vaulted ceiling of the Batcave. His face is nearly the same shade of scarlet as his tunic.

"Richard John Grayson," Bruce starts. "You are not going out in that."

Dick scowls so fiercely that Bruce knows if he were a lesser man he would have flinched. It did well that he was not a lesser man.

"Oh, wow, busting out the full name huh? I don't remember asking your opinion or permission, B."

"You look like you're going to the disco, Dick, not out to-"

"Nightwing." What.

"What?"

Jason lets out a small, weak 'uhm' from where he's still standing with his hands fisted into his cape. Even with the lens caps on his domino, Bruce is aware that Dick is glowering at him.

"My name? It's Nightwing. Try not to forget it, Bats." Deep breath in for four. Slow breath out for eight. He was not going to argue with Dick in front of Robin. He was not. Even if there were gold sequins currently refracting little rainbows onto the floor of the Batcave. Even if the plunge of the neckline was completely and utterly, irresponsibly-- Breathe.

"We're discussing this further. Later." He growls. Dick just flips his hair, seemingly hellbent on being as impossible as humanly possible. Setting a terrible, terrible example for Robin. He should absolutely know better. This kind of behavior was inexcusable.

"Whatever. C'mon then, Jaybird, let's blow this joint."

Chapter Text

Jason had expected some of the magic to be lost, what with him now knowing Nightwing-formerly-Robin personally and being the new Robin. It was kind of stupid in hindsight. He ends up feeling just as swept away as he did five years ago watching Robin fly through the sky as he does now, watching Nightwing effortlessly grapple upwards.

It doesn't even look like he's grappling- he doesn't push off the ground like Bruce does, like he's fighting gravity to lift off. He's just on the ground one second and the next he isn't. His toes fall into a point as he ascends through the fog that clings ever faintly to the nightclad streets of Gotham and up towards the dimly twinkling stars struggling to be seen through smog and light pollution. Jason knows he looks stupid. He's just standing there with his mouth open, head tipped all the way back, like a total idiot... but Goddamn. That was never going to get old, was it? Watching Dick Grayson fly?

He's still too clumsy with the grapple, doesn't trust himself, and neither does Bruce; That's why Jason takes the longer albeit more familiar route to the rooftops via scrambling up the various industrial outcroppings and piping that litter every building in lower Gotham. This he can do. Easily. Climbing and swinging and hauling himself up and around. He'd probably spent more time climbing on the sides of buildings than he ever did jungle gyms on playgrounds.

With the harsh crunch of his boots on whatever it was that lined the tops of Gotham's roofs, Jason joins Dick at last.

"Not too bad. A lot faster with the grapple gun though." Dick is leaning against the bulk of a big aircon unit with his arms folded over his chest. The sight of him in costume is still jarring. Out in the bright-dark of Gotham's night the shimmer of the material of his suit is borderline hypnotic as he moves.

"Don't got one'a those." Jason huffs. He's not out of breath but he is breathing harder. Dick inclines his head in a little jerking movement and flashes a momentarily cryptic smile.

"Noticed. What's up with that?" What was up with that? Jason wished he knew the answer. Instead he presses his mouth tightly and shrugs. The movement makes his cape jostle against his calves; It tickles a bit.

"Hm... Right. Listen, buddy. Bats must really see something in you, because I'll say this only once and only now: A Robin who can't fly is a joke. So let's try that again. What's holding you back?" Somehow it stings worse hearing it from Dick than it ever did when Bruce grilled him over the same issue. It didn't mean he suddenly knew what to say that made any of it make sense. He wanted to do this, wanted to be able to move through the air as easily as they did- God knew he did- but he'd spent his whole life dolefully grounded. Something about being airborne just made his brain light up that he was in danger, that he needed to find his footing immediately.

"I... I'm just, not good at it. I'm trying. I just need more practice-" Dick cuts him off with a raise of one hand.

"You're not going to have the luxury of time to practice, pal. Batman wants you out there sooner, not later, and that means you have to be up to par. Fast." Then, with a little laugh and a quirk of the lips. "Lucky you, that's where I come in!"

Yeah. Lucky him.

When the man before him begins to slowly stalk forward towards him, Jason feels every muscle in his body slowly coil at once. This wasn't Richie Grayson with his million watt movie star smile, it wasn't Robin with a smear of blood on his glove asking 'You okay?', and it sure as Hell wasn't Dick Grayson. This was someone Jason hadn't met yet. It isn't until they're practically standing toe to toe and Jason is fighting his own body to keep from trembling in apprehension that he catches a peek of something familiar through a crack in Nightwing's exterior, a soft snort of a laugh.

"Jeez, kid, lighten up." Then there's a hand clapping on his bicep and Nightwing cartwheels away.

Christ.

"Lesson Number One of Flight School!" Dick starts from where he's walking backwards in a handstand. "Don't fear the fall."

Jason follows slowly, perhaps a little besotted with how easy Dick makes what he's doing look. If Jason tried to do that he'd probably look jerky and uncoordinated- granted, because he would be, but- No, Dick made it look as natural as walking forwards on two feet.

"The second you start to fear the fall, it's all you're going to think about. A bird doesn't fear the ground anymore than it fears the worm it plucks from it."

"That feels like it's easier said..." Jason murmurs as he watched Dick do a handspring into another handstand.

"Everything is easier said. Except maybe onomatopoeia, or benzodiazepine. Actually those were kind of easy... Worcestershire! Now that's a hard word to say." He can't help that his mouth quirks into a small smile at the nonsense that Dick is talking up casually.

"You just said it wrong. It's WOOS-ter-sher."

"See what I mean? Anyways, example A." Then, before Jason can fully process that Dick has walked the both of them all the way to the ledge of the roof, he's doing a backflip clear over the edge to plummet to the streets below. It takes everything in him not to shout out Dick's name as panic lances through him and he rushes to the edge to look down. Right as he makes it, something sparkly and blue goes soaring right back up into the sky.

For one sublime moment, high overhead, he floats there suspended looking like someone's guardian angel that's decided to start moonlighting for the 'Village People'.

Then he's falling again- No, not falling, diving. Like some sort of fucked up, fruity osprey. Diving and laughing, that dumb smile brilliant as a sunbeam as he spreads his arms wide and lets himself lean backwards into his descent. It makes Jason's heart leap into his throat all over again- but there he goes, flipping right side up again in time to shoot off another grappling shot. Within seconds he's standing back on the rooftop by Jason's side as if he wasn't just freefalling for fun. His hair is wild with the wind but somehow still manages to look effortlessly nice.

"Need another example?"

"No," He gasps before recollecting his wits. "No, I think I get it."

"Do you though?"

"Do I?" What was there to get? What did Jason learn from watching Dick play 'Chicken' with the pavement? The man clicks his tongue and sighs, shaking his head. His hair seems to effortlessly fall back into place with the motion.

"Right, all aboard the Nightwing Express then! Next stop, Wayne Tower!"

The 'Nightwing Express' as it turns out is just Jason clinging onto Dick for dear fucking life as the guy moves through the cityscape. It's uniquely humiliating in a way Jason hadn't really been expecting but once he gets over that aspect, it's a little exciting. So long as he keeps a firm grip around Dick's shoulders and hips he doesn't need to worry- least of all with one of Nightwing's arms curled around his back to hold him in place. They're standing atop the sky piercing peak of Wayne Tower soon enough; Jason is quick to detangle himself from Dick despite how unsteady the shredding winds up here make him feel on his feet.

The city is a miniature galaxy below them from this high up.

It's... strangely beautiful. Jason just stares for a while as Nightwing fiddles with the grapple for a bit. He'd had to let the hook off the line after getting up here and was in the process of replacing it; Jason really didn't want to know where he had pulled the spare hook from.

"Tallest building in Gotham, second tallest in the world! Pretty impressive view, huh?"

"Yeah," Jason agrees breathlessly. It feels like Dick may not have heard him answer with how the wind whips the words off his lips.

"You trust me?" What?

Stopping to stare at Nightwing, eyes watering slightly, Jason really has to think about the answer. Trust was... It was hard. He'd trusted people in the past and it hadn't always ended well. He'd trust his father and been burned. He'd trust his Momma and got his heart broken. He'd trusted in the goodness of strangers and been proven wrong over and over. But he trusted the Batman and he'd trust Robin once upon a time. He'd certainly trusted Dick enough to get him up here hadn't he?

When Nightwing extends a gloved hand out to him, Jason only hesitates for a second before taking it.

"I want to show you something," He starts. "but you have to trust me, completely. You think you can manage that?"

Completely?

"Yeah," Then with more confidence. "Yeah."

They're standing on the ledge now. The front of Wayne Towers is a terrifying, glassy plane that plunges to the world below. Jason feels his heart leap into his throat, then feels where Dick is squeezing his hand tight. It takes a concentrated show of will to rip his gaze from the drop and back up to the man next to him. He suddenly feels faint. Like the air is too thin.

"Last chance. We're about to do something pretty crazy. You can back out, I take you home, we just agree not to tell B about this." No. No, Jason wanted to see. He wanted to see what it was Nightwing was about to show him, what it was that made Dick ask him if he trust him. He shakes his head. He wanted to see.

"... Ready?" Dick has one foot off the edge now as if he means to just step off; Despite himself, Jason mimics the movement. He can't bring himself to look forward but Nightwing isn't looking either. They hold each other's stare.

Then they step off in unison.

The terror is immediate, violent, all consuming. They're falling, they're falling, they're falling- Dick has killed him, killed them both, in some fucked up sadistic suicide pact to spite Bruce or spite him or spite God. Jason thinks he may have started screaming but his throat is so tight with fear that it feels like he's choking. He's falling faster than Dick somehow which shouldn't be right, because he's lighter and smaller than the guy. Nightwing still has a death grip on his hand, the other quickly reaching out to grasp at Jason's own and fuck, fuck, fuck he's going to die all because he trusted a boy too pretty for his own good to jump off a fucking building with!

"Jay! Jason! Look at me!" His gaze snaps onto Dick immediately rather than wildly swinging around everywhere, rather than locking on the ground that feels so far away yet all too close. That the guy manages to smile at him makes Jason want to strangle him a bit.

"Hey, little bird! Come on- Spread your wings! Let's dance!" He didn't have fucking wings! But then Nightwing tilts his body up and spreads his limbs and all at once the wind resistance yanks him upwards as his descent slows. Jason feels his shoulders twang in protest of the jerk, now staring up at Dick's smiling face as they continue to plummet. He tries, he does, to follow the example. His legs kick out uselessly in the air as he struggles to find his center of balance when there's simply nothing to balance on. Eventually he does something right because suddenly Dick and him are face to face- at some point Jason had clawed his grip up Nightwing's forearms to cling there. Dick holds him back just as tight.

"There you go, there you go! Relax, I got you! I got you!" Holy shit, Jason is so glad he took a leak before coming out tonight.

Dick lifts him, effortlessly, and now Jason is the one above him and looking down- and fuck there's the ground- but then Nightwing is shouting at him and all he can do to focus past the image of his own body being reduce to a red smear on the ground is to stare at his smile and try to listen to the man's voice over the scream of the wind against his ears.

"You're alright, I got you- We're just dancing! Don't let go, okay? I got you- Dance with me!" They're tumbling now, doing midair somersaults that steal what little breath Jason had managed to get back into his body as his whole world narrows down to just Nightwing in front of him and the open air around them both. When they level back into their face-to-face position from before Jason deliriously thinks it is a genuine miracle he hasn't vomited all over the both of them.

"Talk to me, Jaybird, talk to me."

"You're fucking insane!" He shrieks, finding his voice for the first time since they jumped. Nightwing howls with laughter and pulls Jason closer in a way that has them spinning like a top now. Around and around one another like they're two planets circling the same sun. All at once, Jason can feel something crack and give within himself as he stares at the person he'd just handed his life over to.

"Yeah, that's it- That's the look- You feel it right?"

He feels something alright.

When Jason looks down this time, he doesn't feel the fear. His gaze rises easily back to Nightwing's face and then higher still as he stares up at the distance they've already dropped. They're about midway down the tower. When Nightwing moves, Robin moves with him. They tip over, backwards for Jason, and fall head first for a while before turning right side up again. There's no compulsive search for solid ground beneath his feet, no fear of the drop, no terror of the pain of landing. There's just him, Nightwing, and the flight they're sharing.

"Bring it in, littlewing, this is going to be a hell of a landing!" That Jason actually manages to laugh at the horrible understatement is probably proof he's completely lost it. Regardless, he pulls himself tight against Dick and wraps his limbs around him shamelessly.

There's no arms around him this time; Nightwing has both hands tight on the grapple gun as he fires it off to a nearby building. They continue dropping for a while before the hook catches and they're yanked into a wide swing. Dick grunts loudly at the tension put on his shoulders and Jason distantly thinks that it's another fucking miracle he didn't dislocate both his arms. He laughs again where his face is pressed into the exposed skin of Nightwing's chest, feeling high as a kite.

The landing is Hell but Dick takes the brunt of it as he brings down one arm to push Jason tighter against him before they make impact.

"Ha... Ha! Woo!" It feels like the hand of God could not have peeled Jason off of where he's plastered against Dick, but somehow the boy manages it himself however Herculean the action is. He's panting and drenched in a cold sweat. His limbs quake from the amount of adrenaline still pumping through him. Yet when Dick grins down at him with another laugh, he can't help but grin back.

"That... was..." Words escape him. He nearly just collapses back against Dick where they've landed in the garbage and shadows of a dark alley.

"Pretty fuckin' great, yeah? Thank you for attending Gotham's premiere flight school, we hope you are very satisfied with your education!" Jason has absolutely nothing more to say to Dick in that moment and merely devolves into deranged giggling. He, under no circumstances, could ever tell Bruce about this.

Chapter Text

"Wait, so you're just letting her help?" Bruce has already taken a heavy seat at the Bat-Computer, not even bothering to remove his cowl or gloves as he gets straight to work recording everything that he had learned that night from Barbara. Jason is over his shoulder and Bruce doesn't need to look to know the displeasure he'll find on the boy's face.

"It isn't a matter of letting her do anything, Jason. The women of Crime Alley are almost as skittish of the Batman as they are the police. Attempting to force them into giving up information would be futile. They trusted her, she got the information we need. You should be thankful."

"I- Well, 'm just saying that I could have gone and talked to them too." He sounds petulant; They've already been over this.

"You're not cleared for field duty yet." Bruce keeps his voice neutral despite the creeping annoyance that threads through his chest. It would have certainly been easier if he could have sent Robin in the talk on behalf of the Batman. Perhaps the women would have been more amenable to a boy than a man.

"It's not like it's hard! I'd just be going and chattin' with hookers, not fighting with armed robbers!" Well, now Jason is whining. Bruce doesn't like when people whine.

"Don't make me repeat myself," He warns lowly. Jason immediately lets out an aggravated groan and tries to get in his field of vision in a bid to make the man look at him; Bruce merely leans slightly and continues to type.

"That's not fair! You would've let Dick do it, wouldn't you?"

Bruce's hands still in their wild flight over the keyboard. It wasn't incorrect, which was exactly what made it hard to refute. When Dick had been Jason's age he had already been seasoned in his cape with four whole years tucked into his belt. At thirteen he had been allowed the freedom to split from Bruce's side when they were on patrols, to answer pleas for help if he heard them, to pursue his own hunches and leads. Certainly it had led to some sticky situations that could have been avoided if Bruce kept him on a tighter leash- it had also led to them solving cases faster and helping more people that needed them.

That was Dick. This was Jason.

"Dick wouldn't have been so insistent on talking to prostitutes." He settles on saying, fingers slowly picking up their pace again as he regains his train of thought. Jason doesn't grace him with an answer. He hears the boy stomp away and sighs to himself in the ensuing silence. He'd talk to him, later, once he had calmed down.

He's staring at him again.

Isaac Lovelace isn't much older than Jason- a whopping fourteen years of age compared to Jason's thirteen. Despite that fact, he also happens to work in his father's cannery with Dick. Despite that fact, he sports a tattoo of a lamb along his chest and neck that makes Dick frown whenever he catches sight of it. The kid's sweet in a way a lot of things in Bludhaven just aren't. Sometimes it almost makes him feel guilty.

"Ricky?" Dick lets a smile quirk his mouth despite the urge to sneer.

(He hates that nickname. He hates it.)

"Yeah?" The boy shifts, legs swinging slightly where they hang over the dock. The water is dark and undulating below.

"D'ya like it here? In Blud?" It wasn't the first time Isaac had asked the question and it probably wouldn't be the last. Isaac was... anxious. Always, constantly on edge. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dick was fairly certain he was the only person in town that was nice to him for the sheer sake of being a decent person and not because of who his father was; Nevermind his father being the kind of man he was.

"You asked me that last week too, Zack. Aaand the week before that... Aaand..." He pokes jokingly.

(It's their little thing. Nobody else calls them these names.)

"Well," Isaac flounders. "You've just been comin' and goin' a lot lately... I figured, or I guess I mean that, I'd be kinda bummed if it was because you're thinkin' of movin' away."

Dick watches the way one of the boy's hands comes up to rub across his neck where the head of the lamb is concealed by his turtleneck. He lets his smile widen, shakes his head and laughs.

"I told you and the guys already, I've just been dealing with some stuff back home. I'm not bailing out on you... Not yet, anyways." The way the boy flinches slightly when Dick reaches out to gently brush his knuckles against his arm is hard to miss, even if he tries to play it off. Discomfort taints the shy smile he offers Dick in turn.

"I wanna believe you..." Something changes in Isaac's expression then as he folds his hands together in his lap, leaning forward to stare into the waters below. A long silence stretches between them.

"Then do." Dick says simply.

(It makes everything a lot easier if he trusts him, completely.)

"I guess I will." Isaac laughs abruptly, cheery and bell-like. Laughs as if placing all his faith in 'Ricky Grayson' is the simplest thing in the world.

Nausea begins to climb up the back of Dick's throat as he watches the boy's expression suddenly switch to a grim dread; He clamors to his feet so fast he nearly slips off the dock and into the sea. Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, Isaac nods up the docks. When Dick looks back he can see Abraham Lovelace- He's just standing there, cutting an imposing figure in his dark trenchcoat with the brim of his mariner's cap pulled low. It's shudder-inducing to even consider how long the man has been standing there watching them.

"I'll, uhm... Sorry- I'll see you around, Ricky. Sorry. Bye."

"Isaac," Dick isn't sure what he means to say but it doesn't end up mattering. Isaac wastes no time in practically running to his father's side and very pointedly does not spare a backwards glance to where he leaves Dick still sitting. It takes a monumental effort not to grimace and glower at Abraham when the man grabs his son by the neck and yanks him along, leveling Dick in an icy stare as he does so. It's not unusual or even particularly new, this reception, this treatment; It doesn't stop Dick from clenching his jaw so hard that his molars grind. It's only once the Lovelace's are gone that he turns back to the open ocean.

Maybe it was for the best he put off going to Gotham for a while...

Having actual structure in his day has not ceased being strange, and part of Jason wonders if this is really how most the world operates or if it's one of those funny lies that everyone claims is truth.

Monday through Friday are the busiest, go figure. No less than seven hours spent with his various tutors, another two hours minimum spent doing any homework he's assigned that day. Thirty minutes for breakfast and lunch; If he's smart about it he can get away with a smoke break without drawing any attention. Bathroom breaks whenever so long as he doesn't take forever, which thank God for that. Jason still has dim recollections of sitting curled in an uncomfortable desk waving his hand at an annoyed teacher while trying not to completely humiliating himself in front of the whole class.

His afternoons and evenings are dominated by mandatory exercise and the brunt of his training- and that isn't restricted to the work week. Jason wishes it was sometimes, but he understands that being Robin means he needs to be ready for anything both physically and mentally and at all times. There's no weekends when you're working with the Batman.

At least come Saturday and Sunday he only needs to worry about the latter half of the day.

The weekend was for the closest that Jason could handle getting to relaxation. If he wasn't busying himself with the still frankly bonkers amount of books that Miss Kelly had unloaded upon him via Bruce's credit card, he usually took the time to help around the house. Jason liked to think that he was getting better at the whole not being completely underfoot thing. At the very least when he would tail Alfred around the manor he no longer got chastised so much, redirected, or been cause of any long suffering sighs. He'd even discovered that, no, Alfred didn't just take care of the whole house on his own; He'd always sort of wondered how that worked.

The Headmaid turns out to be a woman named Dory Dawes, a plump old lady who Jason accidentally startles their first time meeting; She'd cursed so strongly it made him blush. Luckily, once she was done introducing him to new and fascinating words he could never repeat within earshot of polite company, she had been kind enough to show him how to wash his own laundry and linens.

Aside from Miss Dory were a few other housekeepers who answered to both her and Alfred- a woman named Penny, another named Rochelle, and some man named Harold that apparently handled any housing maintenance that involved wrenches and caulking. There was even a dedicated grocer who helped Alfred with keeping the kitchen stocked too, which sort of blew Jason's mind; Who knew that was a job that even existed? Professional grocery shopper.

Learn something new every day.

There was no dedicated groundskeepers for Wayne Estate but there may as well have been. According to Alfred, the same family business was employed bi-monthly to help maintain the grounds and had been for the last several generations. This didn't mean Jason ever really saw the groundskeepers, but he had once caught sight of the poolboy that came around once a week to tend to the gigantic in-ground pool that Jason never went near, on account of not knowing how to swim and not being very interested in drowning. He was apparently the teenage grandson of the man who currently was in charge of the groundskeeping business.

The guy seemed nice enough. He'd at least given Jason a quick smile and a nod when they'd crossed paths the once, his thick black hair pushed back and kept pushed at bay with a chunky army green sweatband. He'd been in the middle of handling the skimmer, a white ribbed tank top half stuck to his bronze skin with sweat and water, listening to music playing tinnily from a nearby portable radio. Jason may have stood by and watched him work for a bit. Not too long. Just long enough to take stock of the scene, how there was a pitcher of lemonade on a tray with a single chilled glass on one of the poolside tables nearby. Likely supplied by Alfred; He was thoughtful like that.

Hm, maybe he should be learning how to swim? Would that be a skill necessary for being Robin? Something to bring up with Bruce when he isn't so pissed with him.

God, and speaking of Bruce... It was taking a lot not to call up Dick every time Bruce did something that agitated Jason, just to double check and see if it was a Bruce thing or something wrong with Jason on a fundamental level that seemed to make Bruce thing he wasn't enough. Usually he'd chicken out at the last second and just slap the handset back in the cradle and go push his face into a pillow. Either until he had to come up for air or until he didn't feel like crying. Either or.

It just bugged him. He was doing really well with all the dumb brain games and puzzles, he was finally starting to get a good grip of the grapple, he could fight hand-to-hand now with Bruce without immediately folding and being used as a mop for the Cave floor...

So what was the hold up?

Why was Batman willing to let some total rando who he knew didn't even have proper training help him with a case that Jason had already started helping him with? What was she capale of doing that he wasn't anyways? Was it just because she was a lady? If so- Well first of all, ew. Second of all, ew. Eugh he hoped that wasn't the reason. Bruce didn't really seem like the type of guy to be like that but Jason had been wrong in the past. Too many times even.

How long had it taken for Dick to finish his training?

God, ugh, fuck, he should just- He should just call him! Dick gave him his number for a reason!

But...

No, if he went calling him about every little thing then he was going to look stupid and desperate.

He wasn't stupid, and he sure as Hell wasn't desperate. No way. No how. Nuh uh. Next time Dick showed up at the manor- of his own volition or Bruce's summoning -then Jason could ask him all the dumb little questions that were slowly building up in the back of his head. Like who that girl was on his wall, or what kind of music he liked listening to, or what was up with his Nightwing costume and how did he get it to sparkle like that anyways. Only the important stuff. Obviously.

Ugh. His head hurt.

Chapter Text

The day had finally arrived. The day that Jason Todd was required to make his first appearance as a proper Wayne to the public.

(Oh, Alfred had been dreading the day.)

"Do I really gotta wear this?" The poor boy looked supremely awkward.

"For the time being, yes, Master Todd. Though I wouldn't get too comfortable if I were you. It is likely that Miss Delgado will want to change your clothes several times through this afternoon." Alfred straightened the lapels of Jason's blazer before smoothing the fabric down. He was perhaps fussing, but considering that the Florence Delgado herself was going to present- well, the boy needed to be presentable for his own sake. Jason did not have much ego to begin with and hardly needed it being stamped upon by her eccentricity.

"Delgado is, uh, that lady who takes Bruce's picture, right? For magazines and stuff?"

"Miss Delgado, Jason, not merely Delgado. Remember your manners." The boy gives a muttered 'sorry' as Alfred begins to fuss at his hair. They had recently redyed the roots finally and given it a small trim, but the real struggle was figuring out how to style it. Alfred couldn't say he was much familiar with curls. In the end he merely settles on parting it and making sure the curls are not too bedraggled looking; It creates quite the charming little heart-shape where the boy's bangs land against his forehead.

(Perhaps Florence will know what to do with his curls? He should really speak to a professional stylist some time about the matter.)

"Miss Delgado is a very prestigious photographer and a good friend of your father's." He continues. "She was quite instrumental in cementing Master Wayne's civilian persona upon his returning to the public eye following his long recess from Gotham."

Jason squirms under the scrunity that Alfred directs towards the start of what looks to be a blemish on his chin. Oh, the woes of teenage acne. Perhaps he should look into a spot correcting cream for the boy. Much to think of, much to do, so little time until-

"Alfred? Jason? Are you done in there? Florence has called me five times now; She's getting impatient." Ah, yes, speak of the devil.

"Does she know? About us?" Alfred shakes his head even if he's not actually entirely certain. What Bruce and Florence discussed between them was not exactly his business and as such he was not privy to all their shared secrets. He was merely fairly certain she did not, if only because Bruce was Bruce. He kept who did and didn't know about the Batman an extremely exclusive circle. Though Florence was not a stupid woman; Perhaps in all the years she had been taking artistically undressed photos of Bruce Wayne she may have put two and two together.

"Off you go, now. Remember to mind yourself and don't you heed a word any strangers may shout at you. Just focus on your father and Miss Delgado and you'll do fine." Jason doesn't seem to completely believe him, but nods slowly despite the fact. Alfred watches him exit the room to join Bruce on the other side and takes a deep breath to center himself.

It felt like he'd just thrown a little piglet to the wolves. He sincerely hoped that Bruce would only take the boy on a short circuit of Gotham's more public areas. Dick had very little trouble adjusting from the literal circus to the media circus, but Jason was such a private young man. The last couple months had hardly given him any idea of the kind of spotlight waiting for him beyond the privacy of Wayne Manor's walls. News of Bruce Wayne adopting a son had not gone completely uncirculated, even if there were no photographs for proof at the time. It was smart to control this, to bring Florence in on this, to make sure that whatever found its way to the press was already approved by Bruce himself.

Alfred can't help but still feel sorry despite it all.

Florence Delgado. Florence Delgado.

Jesus Christ, if Jason never heard the name again it'd probably still be too soon.

He hadn't even met the woman yet and she was already making his life a bit of a nightmare. At least he now knew what the fuck Flosentable meant. Bruce really thought he was funny, huh? He casts a glance to the man in question from where he's sitting further forward in the limousine because apparently that was the kind of day this was going to be. Bruce seems perfectly fine and at home, settled in as if he owns the place. Which... okay, he probably did own this limo now that Jason thought about it. He pointedly stares back down at his shoes.

What had Alfred called them? Oxfords? They kinda hurt, in that brand new shoe way that Jason wasn't wholly familiar with.

"Chin up, sport." Bruce says suddenly. Jason tries to smile but he's pretty sure he only grimaced. The tired sigh that Bruce lets out, eyes flickering to the soundproofed partition between them and the driver's cabin, says it all.

"This was inevitable... but better to make the most of it. You'll only have a little more time to figure out what angle you want to go for, publically." Yeah, because that was what Jason was worried about right now. "I advise against the one Dick took."

Right. Richie Grayson, the coquettish flamboyant ward of Bruce Wayne. Jason almost can't believe he really used to buy into all of that. The real Dick Grayson was much better than the one that existed in tabloids and teen magazines. And yeah, it probably wouldn't look good on Bruce if his adoptive son followed in the same gigolo-shaped footsteps, would it? Jason wasn't sure he could pull that off anyways; He was nowhere near pretty enough.

"I can't just be Jason?" It's meant to be a joke but comes out sounding a little too earnest. Bruce's lips purse slightly. That was probably a 'No' then, huh?

It's about then that the limo slows to a stop. Jason is fairly certain that the chauffeur has gotten out to go open the door for someone, but the someone in question has yanked the door open and let themselves in all on their lonesome. It's the smell of perfume that hits first before Jason can even get a good look- something strange that's between floral and musky and woodsy, and wow it's strong in this small of a space.

Holy shit, Florence Delgado.

"Brucie, honey, it's been too long since I last laid eye on that face of yours."

Florence is tall, model tall, Jason thinks. Her dark brown hair is in Hollywood waves that reach past her shoulders, parted deep on one side, and obscures half her face. Her eyes are brown and covered in bombastic eye makeup that Jason momentarily cannot help but to compare to the black kohl that Bruce covers his own eyes with under the Batman cowl. Her lips, full and quirked into a teasing smirk, are wine dark. Her pants suit is crisply pressed and a deep plum purple with faint floral patterning stitched in subtle gold. She looks intimidating, Jason realizes all at once.

"Florence, you really should let the chauffeur get the door for you." Bruce arches one brow at her as she takes a seat across from him.

"Baby, if I had my way, I'd be the one driving- you know that." Then, turning to Jason and gesturing over at Bruce. "He knows that!"

Jason just blinks. There's the sound of the limo trunk opening and then closing, and then it starts to move again.

"Florence, this is Jason. Jason, Florence Delgado." Florence's gaze on him feels strange to say the least. He's not used to being looked at, much less so intently. She turns her head this way and that and makes some sort of considering noise as she does so, and it makes him feel a bit like a dog being shown. Or what he figures a dog being shown would feel like.

"Heard about you, kiddo. S'it true Bruce found you in a trash can on 24th street?"

"Huh?" Florence's dark lips split into a grin; There's something weirdly comforting about the snaggle of her left lateral incisor and the way her teeth aren't a perfect shade of white. She winks at him and clicks her tongue.

"I'm fuckin' wit'cha, kid, don't sweat it."

"Florence." Bruce snips, seemingly aghast at her cursing in front of him. She waves a hand his way dismissively and laughs loudly. It comes straight from her stomach it seems and Jason is quickly changing his opinion of Florence Delgado.

"Baby, please, the kid's a teenager, he knows the fuck word. Don'cha, kid?"

"I mean, yeah, duh." Jason snorts, fighting not to smile too hard at Bruce's expense. The man is frowning tightly. The face of someone who was not getting their way. Eventually he concedes to Florence's shenanigans with a sigh through his nose and a disapproving shake of his head.

"So, what's your story? Not another orphan, hopefully?"

"Uh, no. Nah, my parents are alive." Or he's pretty sure anyways. If his father died in prison, or if his Momma croaked, would he even know? Best not to think about at that exact second.

"Mm-hm," Florence hums and nods, the curtain of her hair playing peek-a-boo with the covered half of her face. "So, how'd Mister Tall-an'-Broody get a hold of you? Run away from the circus?"

"How many circus orphans do think the world has in supply, Florence, really?" Bruce asks deadpan. She snaps her fingers at him like a misbehaving dog before pointing for Jason to speak.

"No, I didn't run away from no circus. My dad's in the pen and my Mom-" He just barely catches himself from calling her 'Momma' aloud. "She's, not right."

He leaves it at that and Florence doesn't press for an explanation. She just nods again and cradles her chin in one hand thoughtfully. They ride in silence for a bit, during which Jason ponders asking her what her story is. She was hardly the kind of person that he would have thought Bruce would associate with beyond what was strictly necessary and professional; Alfred had said that they were good friends though, and Jason wasn't stupid enough to miss the way Florence talked to Bruce- or that she had gotten away with basically telling him to shut the hell up.

"You wear your thoughts, kid, I like that. I can work with that. You wondering about Brucie and I?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, actually, I was. How'd you two...?"

"She cornered me at a charity ball I was attending and told me if I didn't let her take my photograph that she would ensure my bloodline would never prosper. Supposedly through occult means." Bruce supplies blandly, adjusting his wristwatch while looking at the time. Jason looks to Florence to call his bluff; She's just grinning.

"It had been a long time since I had a proper muse. When I saw little Brucie moping around in the shadows of the room, it was like lightning. He was perfect. And I'm known to be very convincing."

"You agreed to let her take pictures of you because she threatened to put a blood curse on you?" Jason can't help that he sounds completely incredulous. Bruce laughs through his nose once before rolling his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug.

"It helped that her reputation as a top-notch photographer preceded her."

"All artists are eccentrics, kid. Can't be creative if ya aren't a lil' crazy. Ain't that right, baby?"

"Whatever you say, Florence." Huh. Sure. Okay. He supposed he could believe this. Florence is laughing now, probably at him, but it's hard to tell why exactly. Luckily Jason can't find it in himself to be particularly insulted by the fact.

"So, Bruce, what's on our schedule today? Coffee? I'm feeling peckish, I could go for brunch. You hungry, kid? Down for mimosas? Virgin, obviously." She's cracking another sharp smile at him before chortling at her own joke, extending a leg across the limousine to nudge Bruce in the leg with the toe of her pumps. Bruce manages to look unimpressed by her shenanigans for only a moment.

"Brunch can be arranged. We do need to appear at the Tower sometime before 2 PM. How does Madelaine's sound?"

"Madelaine's, Madelaine's... Is that the rooftop place or the one over by the bay? You know I can't hardly stand Delaware Bay Smell."

"Bay smell?" Jason mutters, mostly to himself. Florence and Bruce continue their conversation and let him stew in his questioning state.

"You're thinking of Café de la Rose, which specializes in pastries not brunch- and that was the River Seine, not Delaware Bay. Madelaine's is here in Gotham." Jason is starting to think he needs to invest in some kind of pocket atlas. Where was the River Seine? It sounded French, the way Bruce had said it. Did Bruce and Florence usually go all the way to France for fancy cookies and little cakes? God this was almost as bad as Bruce casually talking about flying to England for books. What the Hell was up with rich people?

"Was it really? Smelled like Delaware." Jason really wants to know what Florence means by that but can only shake his head slowly. Whatever Delaware smelled like, apparently France also smelled like it. Good to know.

Bruce leans over to pull the partition away enough that the driver can hear him direct them to Madelaine's before promptly shutting it again. Florence is back to looking at Jason now, licking her teeth as she inspects him anew. He cocks his head and stares at her right back. Maybe he was starting to see how Bruce and her were good friends, actually. There was something about her that felt pretty genuine in a way Jason hadn't often known the richer citizens of Gotham to possess.

"What're your hobbies, kid? You into sports? You an egghead? Like math?"

"Sports, not really... Math's okay but I prefer to read."

"Reading, huh? Bruce keepin' you entertained with his business mogul how-to's and old medical textbooks? Kiddin', I kid, quit looking at me like that, baby, you know I kid. I didn't forget you gushin' about getting him his own library." Jason watches as Bruce's lips thin in an attempt to school his expression. He's not entirely sure what to do with the information of the man 'gushing' over him to Florence. He's tempted to call her bullshit. No way Bruce 'gushed' about anything. He not the 'gushing' type of man. Florence apparently reads his mind.

"He gushed, by the way."

"Uh-huh. Right." She snorts and kicks Bruce in the leg again.

"I like this kid. I like you, kid. I think today's gonna get along just fine." Despite himself, Jason begins to smile.

Sometime Barbara really wished that she lived in some other major city. Ocean City was apparently pretty nice what with the whole beautiful tourist trap beach nearby and all. New York City was chaotic but manageable, lots of historical sites. Washington D.C. maybe? Working at the Library of Congress sounded like a pretty good gig once she got her degree in library sciences squared away. Ah, but who was she kidding? She was born in Gotham and she was probably going to die here too. May as well make the most of that, right?

She suppresses the urge to jump when she finally notices the Bat is standing nearby in the shadows. Better to not show how deeply she had been lost in thought waiting for him to make his appearance.

"The killer is moving out of the Alley."

"I know." Batman says simply. Barbara stares intently at his face. He must have already been at the crime scene earlier then. The haunted look on her own father's face was still fresh in her mind's eye. She wondered if such things even affected the Bat.

"That's the second victim to break the pattern," No doubt he was also aware of that as well. "Any idea what it could mean?"

"You said yourself that there were discrepancies in the accounts you gathered. It's entirely plausible we're either dealing with a copycat..."

"Or there's more than one killer." Barabara finishes grimly. Because why would it only be one guy going around carving women up into fillets? This was Gotham. Go big or go home, right? Maybe she should look into moving to Boston; She'd always preferred the Sox over the Yankees.

Batman does that weird glide thing he does where he moves without looking like he's moving. He stops a few feet away.

"What have you found out regarding the vehicle?"

"Nothing new. Still keeping an eye out for an unmarked blue van, plates removed, superficial damage on both fenders. There's a lot of vehicles matching that description though." In fact, there were several of which that had been impounded by the GCPD within the last month or so. Barbara had already broken into the impound lot to snoop through them. Most of them were tied to the various gangs in the area and due to the dates of their seizure couldn't be connected to the case at hand. Which was annoying.

"There must be something we're not seeing..." Batman says this more to himself than to Barbara, but she feels inclined to agree.

"At the rate he's killing, there will be another victim. Soon. The only hope we had of possibly catching him in the act goes up in smoke if he, or they, are expanding beyond the usual haunt." Barbara had been skipping out on any full night's sleep since the murder of Linda Beyers, a banking intern and victim before last. Mostly in part to the dreamy idea that maybe if she just patrolled Park Row all night that maybe, just maybe, nobody would have to die. She'd catch the scumbag before he could slice up another innocent woman to pieces and maybe everyone could sleep a little better knowing there was one less lunatic running the streets.

". . . I need to speak to your father--"

"To Commissioner Gordon, you mean?" The Bat pauses then to stare at Barbara wordlessly. Then he grunts.

"Try to be a bit more professional, Batman." Seriously, she may as well just yank her mask off and whip out the megaphone to let all the nearby miscreants and ruffians know 'Hey, lookie loo! Daughter of Police Commissioner James Gordon right here!' with the way Batman talks. Did the guy not take her seriously or something? Was she only allowed to 'tag along' because of her father? Eugh. She could probably try just asking but the idea of getting into a personal spat with the Dark Knight really did not sit well with her already frayed nerves.

Metropolis was a nice place. Really lovely parks and an efficient public transportation system. Superman would probably be a better coworker too. Probably. Barbara didn't know the guy, maybe he was a real dickhead in his professional life? Maybe that was why he didn't have a sidekick?

"Stay vigilant. This doesn't end until justice is served. As you were, Batgirl." Barbara opens her mouth to berate him for calling her Batgirl again, but damn it the guy has already taken a dive off the roof and zipped away. Next time she sees the man she is so going to call him Batboy. See how he likes it. Jackass.

Chapter Text

The stiff, liquid resistant material of the cot in the Cave's medbay squeaks as Jason shifts his weight. Bruce had told him to come down here but hadn't actually hinted at the why yet. There are vague memories of sitting in doctor's offices surfacing as he watches Bruce's back.

"Did you already finish your homework?" It's the first thing either of them has said since they got down here. He breathes in, out, and shifts again.

"Yeah, I did. It wasn't too hard, so..." Bruce is getting something out of the refrigerated medical cabinet, the clinking of glass vials strangely loud. Jason swallows and grips the edge of the cot tightly.

"If you don't feel adequately challenged by your school work, it may be time to talk to your tutors about more advanced curriculum." That wasn't really what Jason wanted to hear when telling Bruce he wasn't struggling with his school work; He just hums in lieu of a proper response. The sound of sterile packaging being ripped open makes a small shiver wrack his shoulders.

"What're you doing?" He's holding something up to eye level, though with his back still to Jason it's hard to tell what exactly he's holding. Jason is starting to get a bit of an idea but last he checked Bruce wasn't a doctor and wasn't exactly licensed to be giving kids their yearly flu shots. Besides the fact that Jason had already gotten all his shots updated when he was adopted. Bruce doesn't answer him at first, apparently too engrossed in his current task. The soft click of a nail against a syringe can be heard over the gentle hum of electricity and the distant drum of the Cave's waterfall.

"Standard inoculation. It will be routine once you start working in the field. This round is for one of Isley's phero-toxins." Isley, Isley... Right, Pamela Isley. Poison Ivy, on the streets. Jason had sort of thought that her whole 'controlling people through spores' thing was some kind of over exaggeration, but Bruce had sounded pretty serious when he had been explaining the exact dangers posed by her, uh, well... He'd used the word pheromones but God did that sound icky. Jason was not a fan. Of the word pheromones or of how quick Bruce was coming at him with that needle.

"Uh-" He doesn't mean to grab Bruce by the wrist, stopping him from just sticking him and depressing the plunger. It's just that, well, Jason had never been super fond of needles. For reasons.

". . ." Bruce is just staring at him, gaze flickering subtly between where Jason's shaking grasp is clamped around his wrist and his face.

"Wha'ts it- What's it do? I mean, is it just like a regular shot or?..." Play it cool.

"Unless you have an abnormally adverse reaction, you should only experience mild symptoms. Dizziness, fever, photophobia, excessive drooling and subsequent dryness of the mouth..." That sounds bad. Wait, those were the mild symptoms? What was an 'abnormal adverse reaction' then? Jason must look as freaked out as he feels; Bruce frowns slightly before easily peeling Jason's fingers off of his wrist.

"If you need to be restrained for the injection-"

"What?! No! I mean- No, no, 'm fine you don't... You don't have to do that. I just, don't like..." He's starting to breath harder. God, this was pathetic. He can feel his face starting to heat up, pressure at the back of his eyes, fighting to avoid looking at the unwavering point of the needle. Bruce makes a low, considering noise in his throat. He rather abruptly pinches Jason's chin between thumb and forefinger.

"You have an aversion to needles as a result of your mother's drug abuse. Not baseless, and not unexpected." Jason can only blink blankly at Bruce's concentrated expression before his gaze is yanked back to the needle still looming at hand. When it moves even an incremental distance closer, he almost moves to grab Bruce's arm again. It's then that his head is forcibly turned away from the sight.

"Aichmophobia is incredibly common, actually. It's thought to have a logical evolutionary basis for its prominent development. A human being averse to residing in the vicinity of sharp objects is often a human being safe from being stabbed or impaled, after all." Bruce doesn't miss a beat as he slides the needle home in Jason's upper arm; He can feel every millimeter of it as it sinks in. The noise that Jason makes is going to have to stay between him and Bruce if he ever wants to maintain any dignity.

The actual carrier liquid being injected is probably just some normal oil, but only a few seconds after it enters his body Jason can feel it like fire beneath his skin. His whole arm immediately tenses and Bruce makes a soft chiding noise as he slowly removes the offending object. A thumb is pressed tightly over the injection site.

"It's already done. I'll stay to monitor your initial reaction, but after that it's best you go to your room and stay there. Alfred will bring you food and water." What?

"Wha...?" Oh, Bruce had drugged him hadn't he? That's what this feeling was? Jason can feel his eyes blinking slightly out of sync as the burning sensation pressed under the man's thumb spreads outwards and starts to lick away at half his body. The other half is ice cold and he's faintly aware that the hands opposite of the arm that had been jabbed is shaking slightly.

"Normally this is administered as either an inhalant or a liquid injested orally. Occasionally, absorbed steadily through the dermal layers." A penlight is suddenly being flashed in Jason's eyes. He feels his response of flinching away from the sudden brightness is well within reasoning but Bruce's mouth pinches. "It's fast acting but it may still take a moment for your whole body to begin experiencing the effects. Do you feel any sudden numbness or nausea?"

"Hot-" Is his eloquent answer, pawing at his own chest with shaking hands. He was only wearing a thin long sleeve lounge shirt but he may as well been bundled up in a parka for how he felt. Oh, God, what did Bruce do to him? What was in that shot? There was no way- No way in Hell that wasn't something that was going to kill him. He sure felt like he was dying.

"Jason. Numbness or nausea." Bruce's fingers snap in front of his face and Jason grunts and flinches away anew, squinting.

"Wh'd'you..." His mouth isn't responding how he wants to. Thinking feels impossible, like trying to walk against the wind or move through setting concrete. Bruce's face is closer suddenly and Jason can't stop himself from sagging forward and into the man, groaning at the pressure of bodily contact.

"Perhaps-- high of a dose-- first time--" Uh oh.

The whole world flickers between blinding light and darkness as Jason's eyes roll in their sockets, lashes fluttering as he goes completely boneless all at once. A thin, reedy whine trembles out of him and he's utterly powerless to stop it. The dizziness Bruce had mentioned makes itself abruptly known but may have more to do with the fact Jason is fairly certain he has just been picked up. His head falls back limply and he can faintly hear something panting loudly over pounding of his own pulse in his ears. Christ, was that him? He sounded like a dog. Woof.

It takes a Herculean effort to tip his head back forward, cheek finding someplace warm and solid to rest as he proceeds to then drool all over himself and- Oh, no, Bruce- He was drooling on Bruce right now, God help him.

The world around him is a blur of motion, color, and too-bright lights for a while. Bruce is talking but it sounds like it's coming from the next room over even though Jason knows that the solid warm thing he's currently uncontrollably salivating all over is the man himself. He thinks Alfred may be speaking too at some point. He doesn't sound very happy and part of Jason's hindbrain cringes that he may be the cause of that fact. He needed to, to get it together. He needed to stop drooling all over himself and quit with the bitchy whining. Fuck.

When he's suddenly- rudely, really -deposited from Bruce's arms and onto the cold sheets of what might be his own bed, Jason is pretty certain he screeches in protest. Sure he may have been sweating up a storm where he was pressed against the warmth of Bruce's body but this was like being dumped into an ice bath.

His limbs flail blindly and he lurches back towards Bruce only to end up sliding headlong to the floor with a weak sob.

"--wait it-- only-- few hours--"

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no..." All the hours of exercise Jason had been doing seem to amount to nothing; His arms feel like gelatin when he tries to push himself up from where he's landed face down on the floor. He just barely manages to register that he's watching Bruce walk away before the door closes and a lock slides into place. The sound pierces through the haze in Jason's brain long enough for him to have one clear, tangible thought that he latches onto with all the gusto that can be mustered in his current state.

He needs to call Dick.

It seems as if it takes hours for Jason to crawl his way over to his bedside where the phone is plugged in. His whole body is prickling and stinging- like he's rolled in fiberglass or something; He's dimly aware of the fact he's started to sweat through his clothes. It's a strangely clean sweat, smelling only of salt at the moment.

No, it was okay. It was okay. Dick would help. He'd know what to do.

A fresh wave of tears, dizziness, and sweat all hit at once as Jason tries and fails to summon up the strength to reach for the phone. He just needs to sit up, or pull himself up, or something. Anything. He ends up face planting into the nightstand, cheek sliding against it easily with the amount of moisture that's accumulated there between the drool, sweat, and tears. Fuck, did he remember Dick's number? Nevermind, it didn't matter- Not like he called anyone else since they last spoke.

There's the sound of someone wailing that Jason cannot immediately place as coming from himself as he finally gets a good grip on the nightstand and hauls himself up it far enough to knock the handset off the hook and punch in *69.

Time moves strangely again as Jason fumbles with getting the phone actually to his ear. His breathing is heavy from exertion. When Dick picks up, Jason can't help the sob of relief.

"... Hello?"

"Dick!" He doesn't mean to shout, but he does anyways.

"--son? What -- Why're you-- this time?"

"Bruce is trying to kill me." He spits, breathing ragged into the transmitter. There's a long bout of silence on the other side of the line and for a scary second, Jason thinks maybe Dick has hung up on him.

"What?" How much clearer could he get? With a frustrated groan that tapers off into a whine, Jason presses his sweat slicked forehead against the nightstand harder. The pressure is grounding; Gulping down several lungfuls of air, he tries to speak again. His voice sounds totally shot even to his ears.

"Put something, in me- locked me in here-" Dick suddenly snorts, and then laughs. Jason grits his teeth and thinks he may have yelled something at him? Maybe 'What's so funny!?' but he's not entirely sure.

"First time? --coherent for --ear Toxin-- Ivy's pollen?" It feels a lot like betrayal, but that doesn't make sense, because Dick hasn't done anything wrong except maybe laugh at him when he's dying. Something that makes even more tears dribble weakly down Jason's face as he struggles to try and swallow down his own spit rather than letting it run all over the handset. No, it was a good thing that Dick wasn't concerned right? Maybe this wasn't what it looked like? Why would Bruce adopt him if he was just going to kill him anyways? That was crazy. Sure, so was dressing as a bat to fight crime but those were different kinds of crazy.

"Help," He doesn't know what else to ask for. Dick hums tunelessly on the other end of the line before sighing.

"--nder the--ore than one--less clothes the--lenty of wat--kay?" Jason can really only process bits and pieces of what's being said to him at a time, though he's not sure how to ask Dick to stop talking in full sentences given he can't hardly form one himself.

Seconds turn out to be several minutes a piece.

Jason blinks back to awareness to find himself wedged... under the mattress? When the Hell did he?... Well, okay, he's under the mattress apparently. Pressed between its weight and the boxspring beneath. It feels- Good? It feels good. The pressure puts some sense back into his fried brain; The trapped heat of his own feverish body is a strange balm despite the fact he feels like he should probably be seeking out something cool, not more warmth. He's lucid enough in the moment to hear the door knob jiggle, then unlock, and register Alfred's voice muttering something under breath.

"Young Master?..."

"Here," He croaks. He does not want to move. And not just because he's fairly certainly he may have stripped into the nude at some point before climbing in here. He listens and watches as Alfred's legs come into his line of sight. Reaching out, he waves his hand weakly in greeting.

"Good heavens, Jason, what are you doing under there?"

"Tryin' no'ta die." There's an uncomfortable puddle of wetness all along the side of his face that has long since cooled, but Jason can't exactly lift his head up to move out of it. Honestly? A problem for Future Todd. Present Todd is content to just sit in what is probably a big ol' puddle of drool.

"Oh, dear boy..." There's the sound of something being set down. "I've brought you an electrolyte solution. Will you be needing a straw?"

The offer almost makes Jason start crying anew. What had he done in life to deserve Alfred, huh? Good ol' Alfred. Ol' Al. Fredman. Jason had never had a butler before but he's willing to bet all the money that isn't actually his that Alfred was the best. Best Butler ever. He'd come all this way, got Jason a special juice, and he was even going to get him a straw? Who had ever gone out of their way to get him a straw before? Nobody. Nobody but good ol' Pennyworth. They should canonize this man. Saint Alfred had a nice ring to it.

"Yeah. Thanks, Al." He sniffles out piteously.

Alfred lingers a while longer, probably straightening out the mess Jason had likely made earlier- the damn angel he was. When he departs he says something about not straying far but by then Jason isn't really listening as he slips into a state of semi-consciousness.

The come down takes approximately thirty-seven minutes and fourteen seconds longer than it should have. Bruce would say he is above hand wringing and pacing like a fraught mother but the truth of the matter is he spent every last moment of those thirty-seven minutes and fourteen seconds wringing his hands and pacing.

Had he made a mistake with the formula?
Did each inoculatory dose need to be synthesized and adjusted per person?
Was it simply that he had overestimated how well Jason would be able to process the concoction?

Oh.

Did he have an inherent sensitivity to Pamela's secretions? That would prove problematic. She'd been playing nice in Arkham last he checked, but if she were to have an inclination to break herself out and it became an issue then Robin would become a liability. Hm.

Perhaps it was a fluke. It was Jason's first time being exposed. Dick had experienced a much worse reaction his first time being exposed; That had also been an uncontrolled dosage straight from the mean, green source...

"Master Bruce," Alfred starts.

Impatient. Frustrated. Bruce frowns.

"Alfred? How is he?"

"May I inquire as to why you locked the boy in his room?" He blinks twice. Then three times. Was it a trick question? No, Alfred didn't usually ask trick questions. At times he asked facetious ones but he wasn't using the tone of voice he normally did when joking.

"It seemed irresponsible to risk him attempting to traverse the house while inebriated." He supplies, slowly, unsure of why this is supposedly an issue. Alfred pinches the bridge of his nose in a rare show of exasperation as he exhales measuredly through his mouth.

"Once he was in his right mind, it would have been incredibly simple for him to unlock the door from the inside. They're not particularly difficult to maneuver. He's shown great proficiency with lockpicking and the related arts."

"Bruce..." That was his scolding voice. He was being scolded. What did he do wrong?

"Alfred..." He says in turn, neutrally.

"I will have to request that you avoid doing that again. Sir. If you require a hand watching after the Young Master then, please, do flag me."

"But," Bruce's brow furrows as focuses on the lapel of Alfred's jacket rather than his face. "You were busy...?"

"I can make myself not busy if it pertains to the boy, sir." His voice is calm and controlled again; The man's body language is still wound tight with dissatisfaction. Bruce nods, once, after a moment of silent consideration. At his acquiscence, Alfred's shoulders finally relax somewhat.

"He's alright? I, didn't forsee the effects lasting this long..." That was his main concern in all of this. It helped no one to linger over if Bruce had misstepped in confining Jason to his room. He just needed to know that the boy was okay now.

"The Young Master is as well as he can be at the moment; He's lucid and in the process of being rehydrated. I'm sure you recall that such can be quite a shaking experience when you have not a clue what it is that's happening to you." That doesn't make sense. Bruce had told Jason what to expect. They had even gone over Pamela and the variety of symptoms exposure to her phero-toxins produced before when Bruce was debriefing Jason on the Gallery. Surely he had been paying attention? He was a quick study.

"Of course," Bruce murmurs.

He does that instead of arguing that, really, Jason will need to work on keeping his head screwed on straight in the face of extreme circumstances. It's something that they can begin focusing on now that its made itself known as an issue. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that this had happened with Isley's 'pollen' and not one of the Gallery's more insiduous characters. He would need to make sure Jason was restrained for his own health and safety when it came time to begin dosage rounds with Crane's brand of toxins.

"I would advise you to go see him sooner rather than later, Master Bruce. He's quite mortified and some reassurance would do his nerves well."

"Yes, of course, Alfred. What's for dinner?" The old butler just barely suppresses a sigh.

"Chicken piccata, sir."

"Do you suppose you'll have time to make a batch of shortbread cookies?" For Jason, went unsaid. Bruce could tell from the way Alfred's expression softened and the last of the tension bled from his shoulders that he knew why he was asking.

"It would be no trouble. Shall I prepare Jammie Dodgers, sir?"

"Strawberry, if you would, Alfred." Then, after a short pause. "Thank you."

"Of course, sir."

When Jason finally comes down stairs to join Bruce for dinner, Alfred can't help but note just how haggard the boy still looks. He had bathed and redressed himself, had the worst of his dehydration dealt with, and even had a talk with Bruce that Alfred only hoped had actually done the job of assuaging the situation some. It didn't stop him from looking absolutely exhausted. Hopefully a good meal and a sweet treat would perk him back up again.

(Ideally, Bruce would not request the boy to see to his nightly exercises after such a taxing experience. Ideally.)

Dinner is quiet as it usually is. Bruce had been raised not to talk whilest eating and Jason was busy fighting not to fall asleep at the table. It was rather unfortunate to watch, actually- even Bruce had begun to chew slower and frown over his meal as Jason's fork slipped from his waned grasp for the fifth time since sitting down. The boy was really fighting it though. He seemed wholly intent on muscling through the meal despite the fact at some point he manages to doze off mid-chew.

"Jason," Bruce has set down his utensils and moved his napkin from his lap.

"Mm'uh?..." Jason's head jerks up, eyelids seemingly incapable of pulling up past half mast. He looks around as if unsure who had said his name before actually looking at Bruce. Alfred shuffles where he's standing closer to the dining room entrance and frowns.

"You are dismissed." Tension immediately snaps the boy's spine straight as he sits up.

(Alfred was starting to wonder how in the world Dick had come out so conversationally capable when this was the man who had been responsible for him during his formative years.)

"What Master Bruce means," He starts as he steps in. "is that you've had quite the day and an early retirement would do you well."

"But-" That Jason has it within himself to try and talk back is really very admirable. Alfred doesn't want to hear it though and he doubts neither does Bruce. Actually, he can see the man's eyes narrowing as he opens his mouth and prepares to say something he really doesn't need to. Setting one firm hand on Jason's shoulder from behind, Alfred pulls his chair out for him so as to avoid the entire conversation. The last thing any of them needed was some sort of argument.

"Come along now, Young Master. A long night's rest is hardly something to pass up in your line of work." Jason blinks up at him blearily, eyes watering slightly from the sheer depths of his tiredness. His gaze flits back to Bruce with a worried pout before he slowly stands from his seat.

"Goodnight, Jason. Rest well." Bruce's voice is tight; Alfred has known him long enough to identify that he's worried and not feeling cross. Jason, poor boy, doesn't seem to be able to parse the exact difference and grimaces faintly to himself.

(There should really be a manual that one is given when dealing with Bruce Wayne. Perhaps Alfred should pen that himself, for the future generations.)

"G'night, Bruce..." He gives them a moment longer to stew in their own strange miscommunications before placing a hand between Jason's shoulderblades and applying firm pressure there. The sooner he was tucked into bed the better. As much as it pained him to say, the Jammie Dodgers could wait until morning.

"Come, come. Before you fall asleep on your feet."

Chapter Text

"Is it true your dad is super rich?"

"No," Dick replies curtly. "My dad is dead."

Isaac stares at him in put-out bewilderment for several long seconds before directing his gaze to the ground.

"Oh. Sorry."

(It wasn't fair to do, but hey- life was hardly fair.)

Dick shrugs, as if it didn't really matter one way or another. As if he hadn't officially lived more life without his parents than he had with them. As if he didn't still dream of his mother and father's smiles and their warm, calloused hands. He lifts his cup to his lips and blows away the steam curling off of it.

"How'd you find out about Bruce?" Isaac takes a moment to meet his gaze again, eyes slightly fearful. Dick wished he would get it through his head that he wasn't interested in flagellating him over ever little misstep he made.

"I, uh... I was just curious, 'n got to lookin' at some stuff I guess." It prompts him to snort back a derisive laugh. He supposes it was only a matter of time before some snoopy little small towner stuck their nose into his business and figured out he was supposedly some big deal back in the big city. He just hadn't really expected it to be Isaac of all people. Maybe Debbie or Claire. Definitely Abraham. Actually, Dick was willing to put money down that Abraham already knew and had just been gracious enough to not bother approaching Dick about it. The man was a bastard but he was a courteous bastard, if nothing else.

"Don't get too excited. I don't have access to Wayne money anymore. Not since I turned eighteen." Isaac's curiosity seems to win out over his fear of reprimand or retaliation; He cocks his head in questioning.

"How come?"

"Not a Wayne." He never had been either. Sure, Bruce had been his legal guardian since John and Mary Grayson's untimely passing but that had been about the extent. Dick hadn't really minded much when he was younger. Angrier. Still hurting from watching his real parents plummet to their death right before his eyes. Sometimes, back then, he'd even resented Bruce for taking him from the circus. He'd wanted Mister Haly to take him back so he wouldn't have to leave. Hell, sometimes he'd even wondered why Waldo hadn't taken him in. Anyone but this stranger who had just so happened to be there the worst night of his life.

(Of course then Bruce had offered him something neither Haly nor Waldo could. Justice. Vengeance.)

"Huh," Is the thoughtful reply Isaac gives him before he turns back to his hot chocolate. There's a few piddly little marshmallows floating in it, mostly dissolved; He's hardly touched it.

"You stop talking to me now you know I'm not loaded it's gonna hurt my feelings, Zack." Dick sighs dramatically. Propping his cheek on his knuckles, he fans his eyelashes dolefully at Isaac- who almost immediately turns pink and gives a warped nervous grin and a barked out laugh of surprise.

"What? No! I don't care if ya got money- You're, well, you're my friend, Ricky. I just wanted to know more about ya s'all..."

"Took a pretty cavalier approach to that. Next time you could just ask. Not like I'm trying to hide anything."

(Hiding things in Bludhaven was nigh impossible anyways. There were no secrets, merely things left unsaid.)

Isaac squirms in his seat and finally grabs his mug of hot chocolate in hand, downing most of it in one go in lieu of answering. Dick can't help that he rolls his eyes a bit; A fond smile forces its way onto his face. For all the hundred little ways that the younger teen managed to nag on his last nerves it couldn't be said that he wasn't endearing in his own ways.

" 'm sorry about your dad. I didn't mean'ta- Well, I just mean that-" Aaaand there he goes again. If it weren't basically a one way ticket to the Seabed Motel then Dick would have gotten Isaac in a chokehold and noogied him until he shut up.

"It's fine. He and my mom died when I was little. It's not fresh or anything." Isaac's eyes go wide again, but it's not from fear this time. It was no secret that Isaac's mother was dead. Murdered, though nobody wanted to speak it aloud for fear of being heard by the man who did it. What Dick had been able to gather from hushed gossip surrounding the Lovelace boys, Sarah Lovelace née Branson had been a young and timid thing that Abraham picked up from out of town. Wife number six of a list of women who had all been fished out of or washed up from the Atlantic Ocean. She'd gone missing when Isaac was two.

"I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have my dad..." Isaac says very seriously. Dick busies his mouth with the rim of his mug to hide the sneering grimace he can't suppress.

(It was probably inappropriate to tell someone that they'd be better off an orphan, right? Probably.)

"Everyone loses their parents eventually, I'm sure you'll figure it out when the time comes." He says instead. It's still a little brash, probably not the most emotionally sensitive thing he could have said. Sue him. Isaac swallows visibly, gaze searching. He must not find whatever it is he had been hoping to find. He frowns tightly shortly thereafter; Their conversation withers into an awkward silence that Dick can't say he minds very much. He was content to leave the topic of parents- dead or alive- behind.

Jason had only stirred after a solid fourteen hours of being completely knocked out prone. He probably could have slept longer, but at a certain point his bladder had started threatening the nuclear option and he was way too fucking old to be wetting the bed. Eventually it managed to wake him enough that he could waddle hastily to the bathroom to relieve himself, giving him the time needed to actually wake up enough to face the day. Or, well, what was left of the day. He'd missed a good chunk of his dianural studies.

It's as he's taking himself downstairs to the kitchen to see if he can find anything to eat that Jason tries to put together what he can remember of yesterday. Everything up until about a minute after he was jabbed in the arm by Bruce is crystal clear; It's only after that is mostly a jumble of half remembered stimuli interspersed with slightly more lucid recollections.

God, that had sucked.

He could remember Bruce coming and talking to him after the worst of it all had passed, after he had been able to crawl out from under his mattress without feeling like he was going to die. Most of the conversation was mind numbingly embarrassing and almost entirely one sided. Bruce had been so clearly uncomfortable and upset; Jason couldn't say he was any better off himself.

Apparently everything that had happened to him was par for the course for that variant of Poison Ivy's cocktail. It wasn't really all that comforting, but at least that meant Jason knew what to expect when the Big Bad Begonia herself got tired of kicking it in Arkham and took to the streets again.

Jason really hoped that whatever spores she decided to float his way would do literally anything else than what that shot had done. Christ.

It's while he's absent mindedly muching from a container of cookies left out with his name on them that the memory of calling Dick rushes back to mind. He immediately swallows cookie crumbs wrong and is left bent over the countertop coughing and hacking. Ooooh, fuuuck. What had he been thinking!? Shit, okay, he hadn't really been thinking much of anything had he? The actual details of the conversation are blurry but he's pretty certain he told Dick that Bruce was killing him- embarrrassing- and that Dick had laughed at him about it- really embarrassing.

He sticks his head into the sink and yanks the faucet on, guzzling down water in an attempt to soothe his agitated throat.

Should he call back to let Dick know he wasn't dead? No, Dick probably knew he hadn't died. He'd dealt with Ivy before and in person no less. Eugh, Jason could never talk to him again. Never ever ever. He needed to throw away the little piece of paper with his number on it from where he'd hidden it in his copy of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' and maybe hit his head on a wall until he forgot it.

Okay, that was dramatic, he was being dramatic, but it was- He had- Whatever!

Jason needed to put this behind him. Bruce had said it was the intended reaction. That it was meant to disorientate and drive its victims to seek bodily contact. Something about it being a means of getting people out of her way, of using those exposed to it as distractions and meatshields. Apparently that was why Jason had been seeking pressure and warmth despite his own feverish state.

"Jason?"

Ah, shit.

"Hey- Alfred." He'd been sitting with his head in the kitchen sink for a few minutes now. When Jason pulls back he immediately drips water all over the front of himself and onto the floor, bangs hanging in his eyes as he tries to give a casual smile. When did the indignities end? If Alfred has anything to say about finding Jason trying to drown himself in the kitchen, he doesn't say it. He merely quirks one questioning brow and goes to retrieve a handtowel. It's handed to Jason with no grand flair.

"I see you found the cookies on your own." He wrings the towel in his hands a moment before actually using it to mop himself up. Alfred reaches past him to turn off the sink.

"Yeah! They're really good- Did'ya make them?" There's still a funny feeling in his throat, but Jason merely gives as subtle a cough as possible and talks through it. The old man seems happy to hear that the cookies were enjoyed.

"That I did. Compliments of Master Bruce. Have you eaten anything proper, or just the sweets?" That was right, he'd missed breakfast and lunch while he'd been passed the Hell out. Yeesh. No wonder he'd been hungry enough to eat half the tin of cookies in one go.

"Uh," Jason replies intelligently. Alfred rolls his eyes a bit but the quirk of his lips beneath his mustache betray him. It prompts Jason to give a sheepish laugh and shrug his shoulders.

"Shall I prepare you something to eat then? It won't do to let you eat only cookies until supper. That is, if you haven't ruined your appetite." It's not the first time Alfred has offered to cook something specifically for Jason to eat, but he doesn't think he'll ever be quite used to it. It already felt like a wild luxury to even just, have food available, whenever he wanted. That he had to sometimes remind himself he could just go eat and didn't have to sit there ignoring the hunger pangs was laughable in a weird, sad way. Probably only funny to him, actually.

"I could eat, yeah. What've we got?"

"Have you no preference?" Jason shakes his head slightly.

"Nope, whatever you wanna put in front of me, I'll eat it." Alfred seems to consider this for a moment, expression thoughtful, before nodding shortly.

"In that case, there is a recipe I have been wanting to try. Perhaps you might be my taste tester? Master Bruce is rather hesitant in trying new foods, but if you were to vouch on its merits..." He has to hold back a snort of a laugh. Jason had noticed that Bruce seemed to have a pretty strict rotation of foods he preferred to eat... and that whenever Alfred tried to put something new in front of him he poked at it suspiciously and seemed loathe to actually try it until he had asked Alfred a sufficient amount of questions about it. He'd heard of the fabled picky eater before but had never actually met one until Bruce.

"Sounds good to me!" Jason says as he snaps the handtowel back over his shoulder. Alfred gives him a pleased smile in turn, eyes twinkling.

Bruce barely looks at Jason as he sweeps into the house, shedding his coat and passing it off to Alfred as he tugs at his tie to loosen it. He'd thought once to tell the boy that he didn't need to greet him at the door when he came home from work, but there was something quaint in knowing that a person other than Alfred was eagerly awaiting his return.

It reminded him of when Dick had been younger... Though, Dick hadn't so much waited by the door as he had come running whenever he heard the door open. Often to the chagrin of Alfred as the boy kicked creases in the hallway rugs.

"Welcome home, Master Bruce." "Hey, Bruce."

The greetings are overlaid. He nods in acknowledgement to them with a low hum, wrapping his now loose tie over his fingers before stuffed it into his front shirt pocket. It had been a long and tiresome day. Most of it had been spent in meetings with various other heads of business, shareholders, a few contracting firms. He would need to treat his secretary to something nice for having to sit through all of that with him. She was a real life saver given his mind had only been half on business the whole time. The other half had been dedicated to thoughts regarding his nightjob.

Bruce takes a seat on the entrance hall bench to swap from his monk-straps to a pair of house slippers. Alfred lingers for a moment, watching him, before retreating to put his coat away. Jason on the other hand stands there and watches Bruce as he inspects his day-wear shoes for any scuffing or damage; He'd had an unfortunate little incident where he'd ended up catching the toe of his right foot against the edge of a stair when rushing from one meeting room to the next...

"H... How was work?" Ah. The boy wanted to talk.

"Fine." Bruce did not. He'd talked all day and especially when he had not felt particularly inclined to. Forcing even the one word out of his mouth felt grating on his brain. Jason shuffles and rubs one hand over the opposite wrist. Nervous? Why for? Alfred comes back at that time, stopping and inspecting the both of them carefully.

"Long day in the office, Master Bruce?" Yes, Alfred. Like you wouldn't believe, Alfred. Bruce nods once as he stands from the bench and sighs through his nose.

"Shall I prepare a pot of chamomile tea, Master Bruce?" Yes, Alfred. If you could, Alfred. He gives one short affirmative hum as he starts to unbuckle his belt. It was a touch too wide and had been digging into him every time he sat down. He'd definitely be getting rid of this one.

"As you wish. Young Master, would you care for a cup?" Jason's gaze yanks from where he was watching Bruce's actions in bewilderment to Alfred.

"Huh? Oh, uh, mmno, I'm good. Thanks. Maybe later." Alfred gives a quiet 'so be it' before turning tightly on his heel and making his way the direction of the kitchen. Jason's back to staring at Bruce intently the second the old butler is out of sight.

Scrutinizing. Unsure. Fearful? Not quite. Nearly, but not quite.

Bruce wordlessly lifts one eyebrow at the boy as he slowly moves around him. He needed to deposit this belt into the bin of things to be donated and go change into a different set of clothes. He disliked wearing his work into the house- and that went for either work, day or night. Jason moves with him but still is staring like he's trying to figure something out. Bruce's mouth presses and he fights the urge to sigh again. At least when Dick had stared there hadn't been any level of expectation that rolled off of him as it did with Jason.

"What." He asks plainly. It comes out a little curt, a little snappy, and Jason flinches slightly. Just slightly. Subtle enough that one could think he had merely blinked a little harder than normal.

"Nothing. Nothing," then after a tense pause. "Did something happen at work?"

"No." Each further word feels like dragging sandpaper the wrong away across his skin. Jason's mouth tilts into a tight frown and his brow knits. He's maintaining such intense eye contact that Bruce's noise wrinkles slightly. He focuses instead on the freckles on the boy's cheeks.

"Okay..." Skepticism. Disbelief. He thought Bruce was lying? Why? The idea makes his hackles rise despite himself and he clenches his jaw until his teeth hurt slightly to force the indignation away.

"Go find something to do, Jason." Something other than making him talk right this second. The way Jason's expression grows more severe before resetting to something forcibly neutral, body tense, gives Bruce a moment of pause. Sadness? Disappointment? This was going to give him a headache. Which was the last thing he needed before going out on patrol.

"Okay," then "Sorry."

Bruce watches silently as Jason turns and retreats further into the manor. He can hear him taking the stairs nearly two at a time in the haste of his retreat. The path he takes on the second floor is audible the whole way to the boy's room; He makes a mental note to make sure Robin puts in extra training towards stealth stepping before continuing on his own way to finally go change his clothes.