Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I'm sorry?"

Tim Drake is currently attending another biweekly lunch with his neighborhood crime lord, like any decent brother (…? are they on sibling terms now?) should. Tim can't quite recall what started the tradition, but it began sometime after they both got over the whole Repeated Threats of Murder situation. Nearly every other week for the past six or so months, Tim has met Jason Todd at a tiny bakery, situated just on the edge of Crime Alley. Since then, a routine of sorts has been set in place; they sit on opposite sides of the corner booth, enjoying the best pastries Gotham has to offer, while working quietly on their respective laptops. If Tim's… friend (would Tim get shot if he were to call Jason his brother?) is feeling particularly gregarious, they might chat about light subjects—the latest trafficking ring Jason's brought down, the newest security measures government agencies have implemented to try and keep Tim out, whatever shenanigans their assorted siblings and sibling-adjacent friends are getting into. But they've always avoided any conversation topics that might be considered heavier. Namely: feelings.

This is why Tim asks his associate (technically correct, even if it doesn't encapsulate the vast history and nuance of their relationship. Tim will workshop it.) to repeat himself. It's been a perfectly normal Tuesday morning so far. They haven't exchanged any words today, other than a dry greeting when Tim sat down half-an-hour ago. There's no way they're about to have this conversation right here, right now.

"Do you ever think about being a woman?"

Jason isn't looking at Tim. He's not even looking at his laptop. His eyes are fixed above Tim's head, where Tim knows for a fact there's a framed photo hanging. It's of Wonder Woman, in full costume, smiling at the camera and standing next to Jean, the bakery owner; a small, elderly woman. She beams up at Diana, whose hand rests on her shoulder. Tim is the one who recommended Jeanie's Bakery to Diana in the first place. He'd felt an odd swell of pride when he'd come in one morning to find the picture hanging above his usual booth. Jean had been all too delighted to fill him in on her encounter with her favorite hero.

Tim squints at Jason for a moment, assessing. He's long since suspected Jason of being some sort of genderqueer, he's just not sure what in particular has started to crack the egg. Or why he (?) is questioning Tim in such a strange manner. Sure, Tim is the 'Token Transgender Bat,' (thanks for that one, Steph), but like, in the opposite direction. Why would Jason be asking Tim for thoughts on being a woman, when womanhood was Tim's starting point rather than his finish line?

Jason shifts slightly in his seat. He might look causal to an outside observer, but Tim notes he's still not making eye contact. Embarrassed. Tim needs to say something, it's been too long and now Jason is clearly feeling judged. Shit.

"Not anymore, really." Tim finally answers, desperately hoping it's the right thing to say.

Jason finally looks at him, brow slightly furrowed. Elaborate.

"I mean. I used to, when I was younger, less secure in myself. I wondered what I would be like if things had been different—If I wasn't me, I guess? But I'm happy with where I'm at, now."

Jason blinks, cocks his head slightly, searching for something in Tim's face. "Because you came out?"

"Kinda? Like. I knew I was different when I was a kid. I was so uncomfortable all the time, I just wanted to be like everyone else. Normal. But then I found people who wanted me around, and I got the resources I needed, and things got better for me."

"That makes sense." Jason nods, slightly, looking back to the photo of Diana. He seems content to let the conversation die down. And yeah, no—Tim is not about to let that slide.

"Why do you ask?"

"I dunno. Just." Jason sighs, dramatically, "since I came back. It's like." His eyes dart around the little bakery. Only two other people are seated, engaged in conversation. Jean tops off their mugs of coffee with a smile. No one could be eavesdropping. Jason slumps down in the cracked leather booth, running a hand through his hair. It's a nervous habit he picked up from Dick. Tim should know, because he does the same thing.

"I was a kid, before, you know? I was shorter than you—five four, maybe five five? I didn't have a lot to eat growing up, and then suddenly I did, but still.. The damage was done, and I knew I was going to stay small, and I was okay with that. I was nimble, I guess. I could get away. Until I couldn't."

Tim keeps his face carefully blank and posture relaxed and open. He doesn't want to scare Jason away with anything the other might consider pity. Jason's arms are crossed now. He's leaning back, eyes fixed on the wall above Tim's head. He blinks a few times, in rapid succession.

"I was a good kid. I dunno what slander Bruce is spreading nowadays, but I was a damn good kid."

Inside, gears are whirring. It's always been a struggle to connect the dots of Jason Todd. Old case files and childhood artifacts can only get one so far in unraveling the mystery of who he was. It's the people left behind that are tasked with keeping a memory alive. Friends and family—loved ones. But three generations of loss and grief, guilt and blame—not to mention a healthy dose of good-old-fashioned British repression—have twisted Jason's old life into a convoluted mess. It's been an impossible task, making sense of it all. The Jason spoken of by Dick and Bruce and Alfred has never quite matched the silhouette of the hole he left behind.

Jason was angry and he was reckless. His last report card showed he was passing every class with flying colors. In one of the few articles Bruce permitted to be published about his son's death, Jason's Honors English teacher told Vicky Vale that he was, "a joy to have in class, and will be deeply missed." He was better than Tim could ever hope to achieve, and he still got himself killed. He was a loose cannon—a cautionary tale. And he was so incredibly loved.

Tim has heard it all from the people who were left behind, but he's never heard Jason himself talk about The Before like this. Not calmly. Tim is itching with the thrill of it all. A firsthand account from a dead kid. A red thread, linking the past to the present. Perhaps, if Tim is lucky, a final piece of the puzzle that is Jason Todd.

Willing away any physical indication of the adrenaline coursing through him, Tim nods. An invitation.

"I did what I had to in a desperate place, like anyone would. But once I got the opportunity, man, I loved school." Jason points an accusing finger at Tim. "And I'm still pissed at you for dropping out, by the way. I wish I could have graduated. Hell—I'd kill to go to college."

Tim opens his mouth, and closes it when Jason shoots him a withering glare.

"Don't you even try to tell me I still can, you know damn well it ain't that easy."

Tim rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his soda. Jason scoffs, softly shaking his head. Agree to disagree, for now. Gather as much information as possible while he's willing to talk. Postpone the fight about college until later, preferably when they're not in a public space.

"Anyway, I was what, fifteen before? Jump forward a few years until I'm a fully conscious, semi-functional human being again. And look at this! It's genuinely ridiculous. Who knew I'd be built like Clark goddamned Kent if my folks had managed to actually feed me as a kid." Jason takes a breath, slowing his rambling. "I'm taller than Bruce, you know that? A whole entire inch taller. And I look in the mirror and it's not my face. But obviously, it is my face, I just missed the part where my face turned into this face. I can grow a beard now. It's awful."

Tim nods sympathetically, eyes a little bit wide and struggling to keep up with Jason's leaping thought process. He recognizes the sentiment, though. That distinct feeling of this is not my body is one he knows intimately. He clears his throat.

"I get the disconnect between your conscious age and how old your body physically is, but I'm think I'm missing the jump to your whole 'wishing I was a woman' thing."

Jason scowls, "I don't wish I was a woman."

"Did you not literally just ask me if I ever think about being a woman?" Tim says, raising an eyebrow.

A shrug, "yeah, as in wondering about it. Not wishing you actually were one." Jason smiles an awkward, confused little smile—as though an absurd joke has just been made and he has yet to understand it. "I'm not. I don't. I'm. I-"

Jason actually stutters. Tim doesn't think he's ever seen Jason fully stutter before. He's looking a bit pale. Tim smirks, internally. He can almost hear the cracking of eggshells. Something is about to hatch.

Jason gazes, eyes wide, up at Wonder Woman again. She smiles down at him from the wall. His expression is soft, now. Tender. For a moment there is a glimmer of light in Jason's eye that Tim hasn't seen before. In a flicker, it's gone. Jason steels himself, meeting Tim's stare.

"You said after you came out, that you didn't feel uncomfortable anymore. But I'm already out? It's not like a secret or anything. Everybody knows I'm not straight."

A record scratches in Tim's brain.

Hold up.

"Are we talking about a sexuality crisis right now? Because I definitely thought this whole conversation was a gender thing."

Jason looks equally confused now.

"What's the difference?"

Holy fucking shit, Batman. That explains a lot. This girl is living under a fucking rock, apparently.

"Oh. My god."

"What! What's the difference? You look like you're realizing something huge and I don't know it, and I hate that smug look on your stupid face!"

"Jason. Jay. My dearest brother in crime. Please tell me you know the difference between gender and sexuality."

Jason blinks at Tim. Tim reaches across the table to grab Jason's hand.

"Oh, honey."

Jason snatches his hand back, "Don't patronize me, asshole."

"Okay, okay, so you know how I'm bi? And Steph is bi? And like. Harley and Ivy are lesbians?"

"Jesus Christ, yes, I know what being gay is."

"So those are sexualities. Like, gay and bi and lesbian and straight and shit."

Jason rolls his eyes.

"But there's also gender. Which is an entirely different thing for the most part. Like—you can be something other than a man or a woman, or you can swap them."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. I understand what transgender means, jackass."

Tim raises an eyebrow, "Do you?"

Jason's arms are crossed again. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"

Defensive. Back off a touch. Ease them (?) into it.

"So I wasn't talking about coming out as bi earlier."

"Okay?"

"I was talking about when I came out as trans. And how that made me feel. Because I'm trans."

"Oh, go to hell." Jason scowls.

There's no fucking way. There is actually no fucking way Tim's own (sort-of) brother doesn't know.

"I'm not kidding."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Look at Jason, he doesn't understand his own damn feelings! Let's all make fun of—"

"Jay."

Jason looks at Tim. Tim looks back. Jason's eyes widen, scowl melting away into wonder.

"Damn. You're serious?"

Tim nods.

"Since when?"

Tim chuckles, feeling a little delirious,

"Since like, before you.." Tim stumbles over his words. Don't say 'died.' "left."

Something like horror crosses Jason's face.

"And nobody told me?"

"It's not like I was hiding it! I'm pretty open about it?"

"So.. Is there like, another name I should call you? Are you a girl now?"

Ah. Tim laughs, a full cackle ringing out in the quiet dining area. Jean glances at the pair of them from behind the counter, smiling as she transfers a fresh batch of croissants to the display case.

Jason looks rather offended. "Hey, I'm new to this! I'm trying to be supportive, or whatever!"

"No, no, you're fine." He chokes out through peals of laughter, "It's the other way around. I'm still a guy. I just wasn't born one."

Jason opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "Oh. That… makes a lot more sense."

Tim reels in his laughter, taking a few deep breaths.

"Am I the only one who doesn't know?"

"Probably? I honestly thought everyone knew, but apparently not—so who knows? I mean, like, Bruce, Dick, and Alfie have known me since before I medically transitioned, so they better know. And I make references to it somewhat regularly, so I'm pretty sure everyone else's figured it out. Nosy-ass family or whatever."

Jason nods slightly, as if in a daze, then shakes his head suddenly, eyes focusing on Tim's face.

"No, there's no way everyone knows and it just never came up."

"I mean, Alfred definitely knows because he helped me figure my shit out. Then, Dick used to yell at me for binding on the job, and Damian covered my shift while I was recovering from top surgery. Speaking of—you've seen my scars. What did you think was happening there?"

Jason shrugs defensively, "I dunno, man! We all get into some bad fights! Maybe Killer Croc had oddly specific, precise aim one night! Who knows!"

Tim snorts with laughter, "Shit, maybe I should have gotten him to do my surgery. Would have been a hell of a lot cheaper."

"Oh piss off, rich boy."

"Says you!"

"I'm no nepo baby! I earn my copious amounts of drug money fair and square, thank you very much."

Tim snickers and changes the subject, eager to keep the talk of Jason's occupation to a minimum while in a public forum. "Aaaanyway, circling back your gender crisis."

"I resent your word choice."

"Resentment noted." Tim leans forward—elbows planted firmly on the table, resting his chin on his hands. He blinks owlishly up at Jason. "Do you think your body dysmorphia is based more so in your mental age being younger than your physical body, or is it founded in a desire to be more feminine?"

Jason runs a hand across his face, sighing. "That's a loaded question."

"Mmmhm!"

"Man, I don't even know. Both, I guess? I was pretty, as a kid. I know that, it's how I didn't freeze to death in the winter." Jason frowns.

Woah there! Don't physically react to that one, Tim. Don't have time to unpack those implications right now. Stay calm, mentally file that in the 'Jason Backstory' folder for future consideration.

Jason rests a hand on the table, tapping his fingers in a constant rhythm, one after the other.

"I never really thought about gender as a little kid, I don't think. I was kinda effeminate, maybe? I cared about people. I used to braid my mom's hair." Jason's voice is quiet. The moment feels fragile, fleeing, as if it might startle and dart away should Tim move too quickly. Tap, tap, tap, tap, go Jason's fingers. Tap, tap, tap, tap.

"And then shit hit the fan and I was too focused on getting through what I was going through. You can't afford to be girly when you're sleeping on the street. You gotta toughen up." Jason takes a breath. "And then after B, I was focused on cases and school and actually being a normal kid." Jason scoffs at himself. "Normal. Normal kids don't get their faces bashed in by clowns." A grimace.

From the back of Tim's mind, a call to attention. Pick apart Jason's body language—there is more here than meets the eye.

It's a habit that isn't always conscious anymore—this dissection of those in his vicinity. A constant analysis running in the background, bringing up important information on his current surroundings—it's necessary in his line of work. So, most of the time, Tim is content to let his mind passively detect as it pleases. Around his loved ones, however, he tries to suppress the desire to dig. He reins in his instincts and keeps the psychoanalyzing to a minimum—he trusts his friends and family enough to allow them their privacy.

In this particular circumstance, though? Tim's curiosity is far outweighing any consideration for Jason's feelings. He wants to know.

In his head, he starts a new file.

Tim Drake's Notes on Jason Todd's Behavior in Regards to a Discussion on Gender Identity:

- A distinct lack of eye contact (though that's not unusual for Jason)—instead directing focus to, note this for future consideration, an image of Diana.

- Self-soothing via tactile stimulation (tap, tap, tap)

- Uncharacteristically vulnerable in the discussion today. Initiated the conversation, but was quick to become defensive at light ribbing. Projects an air of insecurity and uncertainty about him. Deduction One: this is evidently a sensitive topic.

- Discussed feelings of body dysmorphia related to pre- and post-Lazarus body. Similar symptoms to gender dysphoria—possible overlap?

- Upon being informed that a loved one (yours truly) was transgender, Jason assumed he was being mocked for his own feelings of uncertainty surrounding his gender identity. (!!!)

- Exhibited immediate support for said loved one after realizing he was not being mocked (The big softie). Was upset that he was previously unaware of this information.

- Discussion of childhood indicators was convoluted at best. Deduction Two: Jason's history of housing instability and probable sexual abuse (Further research necessary. B's restricted files may contain more information? Wish this was known about sooner!!!) seem to have impacted his perception of self.

- Jason is generally unwilling to discuss the happier years of his childhood, instead electing to fall back onto blame. He brings up traumatic experiences for shock value—his preferred deflection tactic. Deduction Three: Jason seems unable to find security in himself now that he is no longer in constant danger. He doesn't know who he is after so much of his identity has been based in trauma. He is safe, and he does not know how to feel safe anymore.

Conclusion: Jason is experiencing some sort of gender incongruency, and is unsure of how to handle this due to a lifetime of complex traumatic circumstances. Offer support if he will accept it. Continue analysis at a later time.

Tim blinks, reining in his thoughts. Jason is still speaking, but Tim doesn't seem to have missed very much.

"Anyhow, I skipped out on a lot, developmentally, so maybe this is just some weird psychological phenomenon and I'm finally dealing with the shit I had to repress as a kid,"

No shit. Are we finally getting a breakthrough?

"..and I'm actually just a regular guy who's into guys, or whatever."

Damn it, he's still in denial. Tim blinks at him, blankly. He doesn't want to force it and cause a scene, but it felt like they were making progress. Keep pushing, maybe? But gently. Push too far and he'll break.

Tim schools his expression into something soft, folding his hands in his lap.

"Does it feel like that?"

Jason breathes in, eyes darting up to Wonder Woman. The tapping stops.

An exhale, and then, quietly, "no."

Finally.

Tim allows himself a sigh of relief. His hand finds Jason's. He squeezes it, tight. Jason allows it, still looking up. After a short while, Jason sighs, extracting his hand and closing his laptop to pack it away in his bag. He stacks their used dishes into a neat pile and sets them at the edge of the table for Jean's easy access. Tim watches him.

"Thank you for trusting me."

"Yeah, whatever. I can always just shoot you, if need should arise. I'm a wanted criminal y'know, I will do what I must." Jason stands, gathering his things.

The last sentence echoes, like a song stuck in his head. He smirks. Knowing Jason's pretentious ass, there's no way that wording was on purpose—but Tim has never been one to miss an opportunity to annoy his siblings.

"You will try."

Jason squints at him, then his face contorts—aghast. "Was that a fuckin' Revenge of the Sith reference?"

"Hey, you made the reference first! 'I will do what I must!' I just finished the quote!" Tim mocks through a shit-eating grin.

"That wasn't intentional, dude. I just talk like that! You absolute nerd."

"Yeah, whatever, cause you're a dramatic bastard, we get it. You still recognized the movie though."

Jason, slams three twenty dollar bills down on the table, flipping Tim the bird (hah) and strutting out of the bakery.

He gets about three steps down the sidewalk before stopping dead (is Tim allowed to make that joke?) in his tracks, backtracking, and popping his head in the door for a quick, "hey, you have a good one, Jeanie!"

Then he's off again.

Tim snickers, exchanging a look with Jean, who is smiling and shaking her head. And that, there. Maybe that's the piece Tim has been missing this whole time.

Jason Todd is a lot of things. Robin. Red Hood. A rapist's worst nightmare. A vengeful ghost. Angry? Reckless? Absolutely. Extraordinarily intelligent? Obviously, that's a bat prerequisite. Witty and sarcastic and deeply infuriating. Stubborn as hell. Frequently violent. A pain in the ass. And a pillar of his community. So incredibly loved—even now?

Without a doubt.

Jason Todd is all of this, yes—but above it all, Jason Todd is kind. He always has been. It just took Tim a while to notice.

On the other hand, is Jason a man? Jury's still out on that one.

Tim shoots a text to Duke before heading out.

Tim: you're abt to owe me $20. you will know what for soon enough.

Duke: ominous but ok

Chapter Text

Jason Todd thinks he is handling his current situation well, all things considered. No one is dead and no one is bleeding. So far so good.

After his regular every-other-Tuesday brunch with Tim (God, when did that become a thing?), Jason elected to ignore any revelations he might or might not have experienced. Instead, he promptly returned to his nearest safe house; a tiny, two-story rowhouse—all crumbling red brick and branching ivy—on the corner of Chestnut Street and Park Avenue, right in the beating heart of Crime Alley. It's not a safe house he uses often—being in the midst of his territory, it's often easier to crash at one of his gang's various bases. It's nice to have, though. It's close to where he grew up. Reminds him of home.

Kicking off his boots in the entryway, Jason texted his second-in-command to inform her he wouldn't be coming in, and collapsed onto the bed for a fourteen-hour nap. It was blissful while it lasted.

Now, he finds himself waking—well rested for once—at a bright and early two am. It's not unlike him to be up at this hour, what with his usual patrol schedule keeping him mostly nocturnal, so he opts to cook up a late breakfast. Jason's Gender Crisis, as Timothy so aptly named it (much to Jason's chagrin), can wait until he is properly nourished. Alfred didn't raise no bitch, after all.

Jason quickly discovers his Chestnut Street safe house to be woefully understocked (food-wise at least, the armory is perfectly acceptable) after a raid on the fridge produces jack shit. The freezer is only marginally better, yielding three exceptionally freezer-burned Eggo waffles. Jason pries away the worst of the ice and gets them started in the toaster before he sets his sights on the cupboards. He's relieved to find a jar of crunchy peanut butter and some honey that's only partially crystallized, and he salvages a banana that is just this side of edible. Once the waffles have popped up from the toaster, he sets to work creating his monstrosity of a breakfast. Altogether, it's not the worst thing he's eaten—not by a long shot.

After he has washed the dishes, it's still only two-fifteen. He'd usually be on patrol right now. It's an odd, discomforting sort of feeling—being awake so late, but not out in the Gotham night. A bit like being stuck home sick from school while all your classmates are still learning. Knowing where you should be, and watching the world go on without you—a seat left empty, hoping you'll be back tomorrow.

It's rare Jason takes an actual night off. He knows his second in command will have everything under control—after all, Amy kept things held together just fine while Jason was roaming around with Roy and Kory—but that never stops him from worrying. He hums to himself, snapping his fingers in a rhythmic pattern. Amy deserves another raise for putting up with all of his bullshit. Sure, she'd refused the last one, claiming she already made double what she used to with her last boss, but surely another try can't hurt. Plus, her kid is about to start high school, and Amy needs to start seriously building up that college fund. He'll bring it up next time they're both on shift.

A check of his phones—work, then personal—reveals a few messages, though none seem particularly urgent. The world is not currently ending, no one is dead, his organization is being run perfectly well, and everything is fine.

So, what the hell is Jason supposed to be doing right now?

He's at his best when things are going horribly wrong, but he's uneasy in the calm and quiet—he takes up too much space. Jason has always been someone who requires a task to work on. To keep him occupied, lest his mind wander and the dread build up in his gut. Yes, it's better to stay busy and keep some things unthought. So, he needs to find something to do before the Looming Crisis sets in and he has to actually acknowledge what happened yesterday. Jason frowns at his phone and scrolls through his messaging app. He opens his chat with Steph first.

Stephinator: yo jay are u free like this friday mayb???

What is it, Wednesday? He'll have patrol Thursday evening into Friday morning, but Friday to Saturday is his obligatory night off. He typically uses it to check on his safe houses, restock supplies, clean his gear, and maybe read if he has the time. He picked up a used copy of Crime and Punishment a few weeks back, and was really hoping to get through a good chunk of it.

Then again, it's been a minute since he saw Steph outside of masked activities. Hm.

Jay: Why?

Stephinator: girls night at the manor w babs cass n duke

Stephinator: b will be out, alfie is already planning his snacks, and we r watching little women 2019

He reads the messages once, twice, three times. Tim wouldn't have told anyone about their conversation, surely. The kid is annoying, yes, and a nosy jackass who doesn't know how to mind his own business, but he's not the type to out someone. ('What would he be outing you as?' Asks a small, traitorous voice from the back of his mind.)

Plus, Jason doubts the rest of their associates are even aware that Tim and Jason hang out—'hang out' being a generous term here—regularly. Nobody else could know about the events of yesterday's brunch. And yet, he's just been invited to Girls' Night. Something deep in Jason's chest aches. Goddamnit. He takes a deep breath and wills away the Impending Crisis.

Jay: Why is Duke invited to girls night?

Jay: Why am I invited to girls night?

Stephinator: ur an honorary girl

If his face heats up a little at being called an honorary girl, that's between him and God.

Stephinator: and duke is a very respectful young gentleman

Jason chuckles. Duke is a lot of things, but a respectful young gentleman isn't what Jason would call the bats' newest foster brother. He focuses on that instead of the previous message.

Jay: Am I not a respectful young gentleman?

Stephinator: lmao u wish

Jason squints at his phone for just a moment, his thumbs fidgeting over the keyboard, before he makes his decision. Dostoyevsky can wait.

Jay: I can be there at 8

Stephinator: HELL YEHA!!!!!

Jason rolls his eyes and switches to his messages with Tim. He wrinkles his nose.

Timbuktu: sooooo

Timbuktu: how's the gender going?

Timbuktu: *wiggles eyebrows at you*

Timbuktu: but like. in all seriousness ik this stuff can be rough so if you ever need advice or somebody to talk to i gotchu

Jason hovers over his keyboard for a long moment. That ache in his chest is growing again. Another little voice in the back of his mind pipes up to tell him: 'hey, maybe you'll have a heart attack and won't ever have to address whatever is going on!'

Jay: Please never use asterisks to denote an action ever again. I feel like I'm watching Damian roleplay warrior cats on Robux.

Timbuktu: STOP

Timbuktu: DOES HE ACTUALLY DO THAT??????

Timbuktu: THAT IS SOME GOLDEN FUCKING BLACKMAIL

Timbuktu: also btw it's called roblox you fucking fossil

Huh. Okay. Whoops.

Jay: You can never let him know I told you that, both of our lives depend on it, but yes.

Jay: Also, no phones on patrol. Piss off.

Timbuktu: kys

Jason mentally thanks Duke once again for the debrief on modern texting lingo that he gave Jason a while back. It takes Jason a moment to recall what this particular acronym means, but he gets there eventually.

Ah. Okay. Lovely. Tim is such a caring and considerate little brother.

Jay: You first.

Timbuktu: HEY

Jason sighs, switching out of his message app. It's not even two-thirty yet, and he's already getting bored. Boredom doesn't sit well with Jason Todd. This is why he never actually takes days off.

He briefly considers going in to work anyway, but a check of his messages with Amy quells that notion. She's damn good at her job, and it's a damn pain in Jason's damn ass.

Big A: Enjoy your day off, boss. If you come into work for anything bar a life-threatening scenario I will personally shoot you in the dick. Have fun!

So here it is. Jason has found himself alone with a question and nothing better to do. He's always been too curious for his own good.

He wasn't actually intending to ask Tim about this shit yesterday. It was a spur of the moment sort of thing—unable to shut his own brain off. A nagging possibility that he couldn't get rid of. That damn photo of Wonder Woman kept looking down at him as if to ask 'What if?'

Like seeing the Batmobile parked, unattended in that dark alley. A tire iron in his hands. An opportunity just waiting for him to reach out and grab it. 'What if?'

Maybe it's because of the gay thing. Jason knew Tim was bi, so maybe he thought Tim would have had the same thoughts. It's just his luck Tim happens to be trans and definitely figured out Jason is questioning some shit. God, Jason still can't believe he's the only one who didn't know.

Or maybe it's because it's Tim, and Jason doesn't actually give a shit about what he thinks of him—lower stakes than talking to Roy or, god forbid, Dick.

Whatever his reason for asking, it's all started unraveling. Jason needs to get to get to the bottom of this—to get a handle on this… predicament before the rug is pulled out from under him and he's left scrambling for his footing.

He situates himself at the kitchen counter with a laptop and a six-pack of beer, because he is not about to do this sober. He purses his lips as he double-clicks into his browser. Barbara is definitely going to see anything he searches for, no matter what protections he attempts to put in place. It's fine. Everything is fine. Everyone knows about Tim, apparently, and everyone loves Tim. It's absolutely fine.

An empty google search bar blinks at him.

He types, slow and heavy, 'How do you know if you are a woman?' and clicks the first result without really looking at it.

He skims the article shakily, unable to bring himself to read it in full. He watches words he doesn't comprehend as they fly by—

he sees transfeminine, sees childhood, sees indicators, sees sexualization,

sees hormones, sees diagnosis, sees nonconformity,

sees euphoria, sees violence rates,

sees identity, sees history,

sees joy.

Jason reaches for another sip, and is surprised to find a third beer is already gone. Jason fetches a new bottle of something a little (lot) stronger and clicks the next link. Time slips away while the bottle empties.

At three forty-two am, Jason is halfway through a fifth article, and more than halfway to wasted.

A subheader hits Jason like a blunt object to the ribs. Breathing becomes an impossibility.

Consider That If You Want To Be A Girl, Then You Are Already A Girl.

Jason's fingers find their clumsy, desperate, stumbling way to the laptop's power button. In the soft glow of the Chestnut Street safe house, Jason stares into that black, shining mirror and sees herself staring back.

"Fuck."

She inhales, and it's a choked, gasping thing. Her ears are ringing. Her cuticles are bleeding, though she doesn't recall picking at them.

The dwindling, rational part of her brain screams at her—muffled, as though coming from the next room over: you cannot be alone right now.

She grapples for her personal phone, managing to swipe it open and fumbling her way through her contacts. She blinks again and again.

Who is she looking for? Steph, was it? Roy? Tim? She's been staring at her screen long enough that it turns off, and she doesn't unlock it again. She finds the emergency call button, and dials a number she's known by heart since long before she died. She hasn't called it in years, or maybe ever? In her current state, Jason's not even sure who it belongs to. All she knows—through the sting in her eyes, the fog of the alcohol, and the weight on her chest that crushes her lungs with despair—is it's somebody safe.

Halfway through the second ring, the call is picked up.

"..Jay?"

The first sob arrives at the sound of Dick Grayson's voice. She inhales, loud enough to hear on the other side, she's sure. Relief floods through her, and it doesn't hurt to breathe as much anymore. She can't remember how long it's been since they last talked.

"Dickiebiird." She slurs. "Heyy. Hi.. youubusy like. Now?"

"Where are you, are you hurt?"

She sniffles, blinking down at her hands, the cuticle of her left thumb has smeared blood onto her phone case. Another sob wracks through her.

"Umm. I dunnno? I'm atta safe house, the one close to Jeannie's, you knowwit? Chhessnut. I'm not dying againn, I don' think."

"Okay, okay. Breathe. I can be there in ten. Are you bleeding?"

"Ehhh.. littlebit."

"..Jay, are you drunk right now?"

She chuckles wetly, "wha' gave me away?"

Dick talks to someone, but it's muffled. The wind whips around his microphone, sending a crackle that rattles around in Jason's head. She sniffles again, wiping at her eyes with bleeding fingers.

"Dickie arreyou on patrol?"

"No, it's alright, I was just with Barbie. I'll be there soon as I can, okay?"

"Mmkay."

"Are you alone? You're safe?"

"'S far's I know."

"Okay, okay. What's going on, little wing?"

His voice is so, so soft. Jason wants to curl up in it like a blanket. Another round of sobs washes over her. She sinks from her chair to the floor with a thump. Distantly, she is aware that she hasn't cried like this since she was fifteen years old—in a warehouse, her mother looming tall over her, smoking while she wailed.

Jason hasn't smoked in years, but God, could she use a cigarette right about now.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. I'm almost there, Jay, I'm almost there."

"Mkay."

It's quiet for a while—the only sounds are the crunch of air through a phone mic, and the occasional sniffle. The window to Jason's safe house slides open just five minutes after she pressed the call button. She pulls herself to action from the unmoving heap she's currently slumped in, and finds her phone to hang up. She looks her guest over, wearily—He's dressed in his civvies, wearing socks and sandals, of all things.

"Jason?" Dick calls, so gently.

"Hey Birdie."

He puts his hands on his hips, tilting his head to the side. His face is fond, if sad. He kicks off his sandals and closes the window, quickly redoing the locks, traps, and alarms he's disabled. By the time he turns back around, Jason has managed to fully sit up straight and stop the worst of the tears.

"What happened, kid?"

"What'd Barb tellya?"

Dick's brow furrows, he pouts slightly, "She wouldn't tell me everything. She said you were probably safe, but needed someone there for you, and that you would tell me what's going on."

Jason purses her lips, considering. She sighs, "yeahh. Barbie's always right."

Dick smirks, coming to crouch at Jason's side, not-at-all-subtly assessing her condition. "That she is. Now come on, let's get you to the couch."

Before she knows it, Jason is situated on the couch with a blanket tucked around her, being handed a glass of water. She drinks it, glaring at Dick, who rolls his eyes. When she's finished, Dick whisks the empty glass away and appears back at her side, sitting next to her on the couch with a pack of antibacterial wipes, a tube of Neosporin, and a box of Band-Aids. She lets him take her hands, and he wipes every finger clean, one at a time, before applying the ointment and a bandage to each.

When he's finished, he wipes his own hands clean with another wipe and tosses the supplies onto the floor like the slob he is, laughing when Jason glares at him. He leans on her shoulder and worms his way under the blanket. Finally content, he begins his investigation.

"Spill."

"Mmmphbpiss off."

"Nuh-uh. You called, so you're stuck with me. What's up?"

"Sky."

An exaggerated groan. "Should have seen that one coming, really."

"Mhm."

"But actually. What's got you so rattled?"

Jason looks at him, and Dick meets her eyes. His are wide and blue and God, she's missed him. Why doesn't she talk to him again? She can feel the tears starting to come back, and her jaw is quivering. Jesus, she really hopes she's drunk enough to forget this, cause this is damn embarrassing.

"Hey, it's okay. It's just me."

Jason shifts, curling up so that she can lean on Dick's shoulder instead. She squeezes her eyes shut. She can feel her brother watching her, but it's easier if she doesn't have to see his reaction.

"I think I wanna be a girl." She whispers, barely audible. It's the first time she's said it out loud, and that makes it real.

Dick tenses, just for a moment. She waits for a blow.

"Okay. That's cool." Dick whispers back.

Arms wrap around her, squeezing her close. Dick pulls her into his lap—a frankly impressive feat—so that he can cradle her in his arms. Jason's brother rocks her back and forth slowly as the floodgates open again. She buries her face into his collar and holds on for dear life. And damn it, she's getting tears all over his nice shirt.

"Hey, that's okay, I don't care. You can cry all you want."

Ah. Said that one out loud, then.

Dick gently holds the back of her head—like Bruce used to do, or, even further back; like Mom, before it all went wrong—while she cries and cries until she's all cried out. No one has done this for her in a long, long time.

In the morning (actual morning, for once—ten am), Jason finds herself tucked into the safe house bed, lying on her side. She's still dressed in the clothes she was wearing last night. A glass of water and two Tylenol sit on the nightstand, next to her phone, which has been plugged in. Her fingers have been wrapped in Band-Aids. She swallows the medicine with a grimace. Her mouth tastes like stomach acid. Dick was here, she recalls, and Jason was a weepy mess. Gross. What has her life come to?

Jason emerges from the bathroom (mouth now tasting like mint toothpaste instead of puke), to find Dick Grayson in her kitchen, sorting through a paper bag full of groceries. Why does this dickhead never leave.

"Step away from the stove, you know damn well you're not allowed in my kitchen."

"I swear I wasn't cooking! Just putting things away!" He raises his hands as if under arrest. Fucking cop.

Dick withers under Jason's glare. It's a poor impression of Alfred's, but it seemingly does the trick, and Dick vaults over the counter.

"Dramatic bastard."

"I heard that."

"You were supposed to, dickwad."

Dick pouts. Is she being meaner than normal? Ah, who knows? It's fine. She's got to save face. He'll get over it.

Jason browses through the ingredients Dick has selected—it's the good shit; real bread and fancy butter and fresh fruit—running through recipes in her head. She glances up at him, and he's got that hopeful expression of his on. Jason resigns herself to her fate. "Will you eat French toast?"

Dick is all smiles. "Works for me!"

At ten forty-five am, Jason sets a plate in front of Dick, loaded high with French toast (sprinkled with powdered sugar), bacon, and sliced strawberries.

"Bon Apétit." She says in a truly horrendous French accent, just to annoy Dick. It doesn't even faze him. Jesus, she must have been a real mess last night.

She fixes a similar plate for herself, pours two glasses of chocolate milk, and sits down beside him. She waits until Dick has started eating to speak.

"Thanks. For showing up. And making sure I didn't choke to death on my own vomit, I guess."

Dick kicks her in the shin, but he still swallows his mouthful before speaking. All is well in the world.

"Gross! I'm eating, c'mon, dude! But you're welcome."

Jason nods, taking a bite of toast.

"So, how much of last night do you actually remember?" Dick says carefully.

"Hnh." Jason pushes a piece of strawberry around her plate with her fork. "I can recall coming out while drunk off my ass and crying all over you, but it pretty much drops off after that."

Dick huffs a laugh, "Yeah okay, you didn't miss much, then."

"Unfortunately."

"So."

Jason sighs. Here we go. "So."

"I've got two sisters in the family, now?"

Jason blinks, unable to stop a small smile from forming on her face. The ache in her chest is still there, but it feels softer now—almost fluttery? She coughs quietly.

"I guess so, yeah."

"Was last night when you figured it out?"

Goddamned detectives. She swallows around the lump that's trying to form in her throat. She takes a bite of bacon and washes it down with chocolate milk.

"Yeah. I, uh. Had a talk with Timbit and had some…realizations, and then took the day off to do some soul searching, or something, I guess." Jason coughs up a short, dry laugh. She pokes at her food some more. "Did some research, and yeah. You got to deal with the fallout. Sorry about that."

"Hey. Look at me."

Jason rolls her eyes, sighing loudly as she looks at her brother. He's the perfect picture of sincerity. It's ridiculous, really. Comical. And it's too much to bear, so she takes another bite of toast. Her throat feels dry.

"It's no problem. I'll always be there. Always. I'm just a call away." Dick tells her as he punches her bicep playfully.

The fluttering in her chest is building. Jason is suddenly struck by the odd sensation that she's going to spontaneously combust. She clears her throat. She spears another strawberry on her fork with a little too much force.

"Yeah, whatever. I couldn't get rid of you, even if I wanted to. And you know I've tried."

Dick chuckles, clapping her firmly on the shoulder. He drains his glass of chocolate milk at a frankly alarming pace, and slams it down on the counter with gusto.

"So! Are we using girl words now?"

Jason raises an incredulous eyebrow, glancing up at him,"...girl...words?"

"Yeah, y'know. She, lady, miss, sister, whatever? Girl words."

Huh. Girl words. She hadn't really thought about it—not consciously at least, but she's not.. opposed to it. It was nice, when Dick called her his sister. She felt, glowy? But inside. Warm.

"Sure, why the hell not. Girl words."

Dick grins, ruffling her hair. And for a moment, it's like nothing has changed at all.

The kids who came after have never felt like real family—they feel more like actors playing the parts of siblings. Friends, maybe. Cousins, if she's feeling generous. Yeah, they're her brothers and sister in every sense that matters—Jason would kill for them, Jason would die for them—but the Batman that is their father isn't the same Bruce that raised Dick and Jason. Bruce used to be their Dad.

Dick has always been Bruce's son in the ways that count. He's the only other person who knows what that used to mean. And maybe Dick wasn't always around, but he was (and is) Jason's brother—because he grew up in that big, empty, house too. He's proof that Jason didn't imagine it—that there really were good times.

When Jason returned to Gotham, it didn't take long to realize Bruce wasn't her Dad anymore. Jason Todd—Bruce's son—was dead. Bruce grieved and buried him. And in that grave, beside that dead boy, Bruce laid down a part of himself. When Jason Todd died, so did his Dad. Whatever is left, raising those new kids, is not the Bruce Wayne that Jason knew.

Jason assumed that Dick had done the same. That the brother she knew died alongside her childhood.

But right now? Jason has an older brother who talks and teases and eats breakfast with his little sister. This man, this unstoppable force—one of the last people alive who knew and loved the fifteen-year-old boy from The Before—knows her as she is now, and he still cares. Everything she's done to him, to everybody, and he still cares.

Could it have always been like this? Can it still?

Dick is looking at Jason—one hand on her shoulder—with those big, clear, blue eyes of his. You can see through a person, with eyes like that. And for the first time, Jason realizes there is nothing she could ever do that would stop her brother from loving her. It's a terrifying thought.

"I'm so happy for you, little wing. You look good. Aside from the glaring hangover, obviously. But you look like.. something in you has shifted. You seem lighter."

She doesn't bother trying to stop the shaky smile that forms on her face. Goddamnit, trust Dick Grayson to be able to practically read her soul like that.

She cannot cry again right now. Last night was a one time thing. This will not become a trend.

"Yeah, whatever," she manages to croak out, "if you say so."

Chapter Text

It takes until half past noon to get Dick Grayson the hell out of the Chestnut Street safe house. It really wouldn't have taken so long, but the man insisted upon doing the dishes, putting away the rest of the groceries, and taking out the trash—all the while, loudly complaining about it like the attention-seeking asshole he is.

Jason should have expected it, honestly. Her older brother does this every time he visits another person's living space. It wouldn't be so surprising, if not for the state of Dick's shithole of an apartment. Seriously, somebody needs to get the man some actual furniture, and Jason refuses to be the one to do it.

Once Dick finally leaves—socks, sandals, and all—Jason gets to work. She has a social call to make, and she hasn't spoken to the woman in years. She's not even sure where she currently lives, but all it takes is a few messages to some trusted contacts from the alley, and Jason's got an address. Not two hours later, she's standing outside an unfamiliar townhouse door with a tupperware full of freshly-made strawberry tartlets.

Miss Rosemary has been a part of Crime Alley for as long as Jason can remember. If the rumors are true, she's been a respected and beloved member of the community since it was still called Park Row. She's tough—she has to be to have survived so long—but she's got a soft side, too. Any criminal worth their salt knows to leave Miss Rosemary alone, lest the entire Alley turn against them. When Jason found herself living on the streets, Miss Rosemary was the first person who was genuinely kind and lacking ulterior motives. She treats street kids like people, not charity cases, and she's never laid an untoward hand on anybody. Miss Rosemary has never been the sort to stay in one spot for too long, but if she's got a roof over her head this month, you can bet the Alley kids know they're welcome under it.

Jason can recall spending many a cold night huddled with a handful of other street kids wherever Miss Rosemary was staying at the time, watching the aging woman work with steady hands. Usually, she was mending clothes, or twisting kids' hair into protective styles, or fixing up the various scrapes and scratches that children seem to accumulate. She could never stand to work in silence.

Some nights she told stories about her days as a lounge singer during the height of Gotham's organized crime. She talked of parties and police raids and people who weren't around anymore. Occasionally, if she got her hands on a book, Miss Rosemary would have one of the older kids read aloud, helping them along as they stumbled across their pronunciation. The best nights (in Jason's opinion, at least) were those when she sang while she worked—her voice a smooth, low melancholy. It was the closest thing to home Jason felt during those years.

Miss Rosemary also happens to be the first trans person Jason ever met.

Jason swallows down her nostalgia and forces herself to knock on the door. From inside the house, a call: "Just one minute, honey. I'll be right there!"

Miss Rosemary's voice is still as lovely and mellow as ever, and for a moment Jason is overcome with worry that the old woman won't remember her. Jason is far from the same kid she was when Miss Rosemary knew her.

The door swings open.

She opens her mouth to speak, but every word Jason planned to say leaves her head, and all she can think of is how short Miss Rosemary looks. She's the same woman, of course, the same smooth, brown skin and wide, dark eyes sparkling with that clever twinkle Jason remembers so fondly. Her hair is styled in the same short waves that frame her face—though there's more silver-white shot through the black than the last time she saw her.

It's just that as a kid, she always seemed so tall and unyielding. Elegant. Statuesque. It's almost startling to realize Jason has outgrown her, height-wise. Miss Rosemary looks up at Jason, wonder in her eyes and a bright, shining grin spreading across her face.

"Well, I'll be damned. Little Jay Todd, is that you?"

Something warm floods through Jason at the recognition. She can only nod before she's being enveloped in a bear hug. "Hi, Miss Rosemary." She manages.

After a long moment, the other woman backs up enough to cradle Jason's face in her hands. Her eyes dart over every inch of her face, unflinching even as she catches sight of her scars.

Her smile doesn't fade. She pinches Jason's cheek playfully. "Look at you, all grown up n' stuff. Who let you get so big, huh?"

Jason grins, shrugging as Miss Rosemary ushers her in. Jason's eyes flit about the townhouse. Significantly better conditions than the kind she frequented when Jason was a kid, she notes. More permanent. Has Miss Rosemary finally settled down, after all these years?

The furniture is sturdy and well-loved. Assorted crayon drawings adorn the fridge. Two kids—preteens, a boy and a girl—are seated on the floor in the corner, snacking on slices of apple. Papers are scattered across the floor between them. Jason thinks she recognizes the kids—she's seen them around as Hood, but she doesn't know their names. The girl is small and skittish and usually runs away when Jason passes by on patrol. The bigger of the two is less so, but they've never spoken to each other. The boy examines their new guest. He nods at Jason, acknowledging, then turns back to what he's working on—helping the smaller one with homework, it looks like.

A house full of homeless kids. Some things never change.

Miss Rosemary finishes locking up the deadbolts behind Jason. She hands the older woman the Tupperware (miraculously not crushed from the hug). Miss Rosemary receives it with a delighted gasp. After introductions have been made (The kids are called Tony and Bailey. Jason mentally files the information away with her knowledge of other Alley residents.) and the baked goods have been properly distributed and consumed—mostly by the kids, which is what Jason had hoped for—Miss Rosemary sends the children away, making sure they thank Jason before they go.

Miss Rosemary settles into a battered old armchair while Jason sits down on the couch. The aging woman assesses Jason, crossing her legs at the ankle and interlacing her fingers. She raises an eyebrow at Jason, not unkindly.

"Now, I bet you get this a lot, so excuse me if I'm coming off impolite, but I gotta know. Where the hell you been? I ain't seen you since before that Mr. Wayne snatched you up, and last I heard you was dead." She cocks her head to the side, almost playfully, "and happy as I am that you ain't dead, you don't survive long as I have in this city by giving folks the benefit of the doubt."

Jason smiles, a little tense. "I understand, Ma'am. It's uh, a long story, but I can give you the rundown if you've got the time."

"I've got all day, honey."

Shit. Okay. Jason definitely forgot that she would need to explain that. Thank God (read: Alfred) for improv lessons.

"Yeah, alright. Where to start." Jason taps her foot against the ground. The best lies are partial truths. Sticking close to the real story is her best shot here. Miss Rosemary knows her. "Uh, a few years after Bruce took me in, we got into a fight. Things had been tense between us for a little while, then he accused me of some shit I didn't do, and you know that doesn't fly around here."

Miss Rosemary nods, listening intently. Jason takes a breath and continues.

"So I was already pissed. Then, I uh. I found out Catherine wasn't my bio mom, and that my bio mom was still alive." Jason frowns. "So I'm like, 'what the hell, why don't I ditch Bruce and go find my bio mom,' you know? And so there I was, this angry fifteen-year-old with an unlimited credit card linked to this rich asshole's bank account—I don't feel bad spending his money—so I book a flight across the Atlantic and don't tell anyone."

Jason glances at Miss Rosemary, and pauses, seeing her expression—lips pursed, worried. Jason cocks an eyebrow.

Miss Rosemary's words are slow and enunciated. Careful. "When you say rich asshole..?"

Jason sighs, shaking her head."Yeah, no. Believe me, I know what kinda shit the tabloids say, but no." Bruce really didn't think the whole 'confirmed bachelor keeps adopting children that look exactly the same' thing through, so Jason's always had to pick up the slack and defend his honor—as much as she hates to do it. "Bruce Wayne is a lotta things, but a pedophile ain't one of 'em. On God."

Miss Rosemary nods, clearly relieved, and Jason continues. "So there's a few candidates for who my mom coulda been, but eventually I narrow it down to this one woman, Shiela, who's helping out with some humanitarian shit in Ethiopia."

Miss Rosemary raises her eyebrows. "Oh, that's nice!"

If only.

Jason snorts, "Yeah, for now it is. Just wait—so, on my way to Ethiopia, Bruce tracks me down and we make up for the most part, and he helps me find Shiela. And I meet her, and she knows who I am, and it's great, yknow? I hugged her and I got to help out with the humanitarian shit for a while."

Jason crosses her arms, leaning back into the couch. Now comes the fun part. "Then some terrorists show up and Bruce and I get separated in the chaos. Shiela gets kidnapped by the head terrorist, or so I think. So I try and help her, only to walk in and find.. who'd have guessed; the head terrorist. Turns out Shiela and the guy used to be buddies, and this bitch has been embezzling funds from the damn humanitarian effort!" All this time, it still makes her angry, just thinking about it.

"And Miss Rosemary, I'm telling you, it was bad out there. I know we get used to shit in Gotham, but it was like nothing I'd ever seen. I mean, there were so many people in that camp. Just dying out there. All those kids starving, and she just-" She takes a breath, unclenches her fists, smoothing her palms along her legs. Clears her throat. "I've seen a lot of evil, but that? That was something else entirely. Stealing from vulnerable people like that—having the means to ease their suffering, and being so cruel? Jesus, I don't know how she could stand to live with herself."

Miss Rosemary meets her eye. There's an angry sort of grief in the old woman's expression that Jason knows well. It's a familiar burning in her soul. A fury that's almost childlike in nature—a cry of 'that's not fair.' That same innate understanding that it doesn't have to be like this.

They sit in it for a moment. A battle as old as time—hopeless, and still refusing to surrender. The heat of it, when shared between them, isn't so scorching. It's good to know someone else is feeling it.

It's oddly reminiscent of the All Blades, Jason realizes. Righteous anger, persevering in the face of unfathomable darkness.

"You got a lot of fire. Don't you lose that." Says Miss Rosemary, her soft voice made loud by the enveloping silence.

Jason nods. "I won't."

"Good." Miss Rosemary leans back, taking a deep breath and sighing. "Now, finish your story."

Jason blinks, trying to recall where she left off.

"Shiela knew the terrorists?" The older woman prompts.

Right. That.

Jason steels herself. "So, the head terrorist knows Shiela's been embezzling, and he's blackmailing her or some shit. Saying she'll never find work again or something, I don't know, but she's trying to get back in his good graces. And what does she do? She hands him Bruce Wayne's kid on a silver platter."

Jason exhales, hard. It's a wound that's never fully healed, if she's being honest with herself. Rosemary reaches out a hand to Jason, resting it on her arm. "Oh, baby."

"Turns out the woman who birthed me was a real piece of work. God, she. She didn't even leave the room, during the torture—she just. She just stood there, smoking a goddamn cigarette while he-" Jason's voice breaks. She's never told anyone the whole story like this. She takes a shuddering breath. Get it together, Todd. Goddamnit, this is not what she came here for. Miss Rosemary doesn't need to hear all the grizzly details.

She blinks at the ceiling until tears are no longer threatening to fall. Once she trusts her voice not to waver, she begins again. "Yeah. Um. Mother Dearest watched while I. Um. Got beaten nearly to death and. Some other shit, and yeah. The terrorist still betrayed her in the end. Tied her up and rigged the whole place to blow. I managed to get her untied. I was sure I was dying, but I thought maybe she could make it out. But, the doors were locked from the outside, so. Karma's a bitch, I guess." Jason laughs, bitterly. "This whole time Bruce has been desperately trying to find me, and he finally gets to the warehouse where they're torturing me.. just in time to watch the place turn to rubble."

Jason presses her lips together, swallowing hard, working up the nerve to look at the other woman. Miss Rosemary's eyes are wide and teary. Damn it, now Jason feels guilty. The hand on her arm is gently moving back and forth in a soothing motion. Jason looks at her shoes.

"Yeah. Shiela died in the explosion, and I'm only alive 'cause of a miracle." There. She didn't even have to lie, except by omission. All done.

"I'm so sorry, baby. You didn't deserve all that."

Aaand she's crying. Shit. She really didn't wanna cry. At least it's quiet tears this time, not the sobbing mess of last night.

"Yeah, I'm sorry too."

She exhales. Miss Rosemary is silent for a long moment until they've both collected themselves. "So, why did the papers say you were dead, if you survived the explosion, hon?"

Aw hell. She forgot about that part. Quick. Cover story.

"Yeah, uh. I was taken to a hospital by some bystanders before the first responders got there, and Bruce just barely missed me, so when they couldn't find my body, they thought I was dead. I was in a coma for a long time and nobody was able to identify me 'til I woke up asking for Bruce." Technically true. Kinda. Some of it, at least.

It's a bad lie—she knows it is even as she says it.

Miss Rosemary frowns. She looks disappointed, and damn does that hurt. "Don't you lie to me now, Jason Todd, you never have before."

"It's just, uh. I can't. Um." Shit, she's fumbling this. Come on. Jason is better than this.

Miss Rosemary crosses her arms and right away, Jason misses her soothing hand. She shoots Jason an incredulous look. "Is it some Batman bullshit?"

Jason chokes, descending into a coughing fit. It takes far longer than it should for her to recover her breath. "Excuse me?"

"Jay, honey. Y'all ain't slick."

Jason blinks at Miss Rosemary.

"You really think we don't know who's running 'round in those little costumes?"

There's no way.

"Sure, I doubt everybody knows, but anybody with half a damn brain can put it together. Mr. Wayne and his gaggle of kids are a pretty unique looking bunch."

Hooooooly shit. Jason's entire worldview is melting before her very eyes.

"So. Why don't. How. But. The villains don't know?"

"Yeah, and we ain't just gonna give y'all up like that, we ain't stupid. Anybody with half a brain also knows how to keep they mouth shut." Miss Rosemary shrugs, casual, like the ground isn't shifting under Jason. "It's just one of those things you don't talk about, y'know? Y'all take care of us, and we look the other way."

Damn.

Hold up. Jason backtracks. That means-

"You thought Batman was touching kids?"

Miss Rosemary shrugs. "I never met the man, but I wasn't gonna trust him without reason to. You never know with those types."

Jason jerks her head to the side—half a shrug. Fair enough.

She sighs, resigned to her fate. "Yeah, it was some Batman bullshit."

"I thought so. So, tell me what happened." Miss Rosemary's hand is back to its soothing rhythm on Jason's arm.

She swallows, takes a deep breath. Her voice cracks.

"I died."

Miss Rosemary's eyebrows raise. "Fuck."

It sounds wrong, coming out of the old woman's mouth. Miss Rosemary never minded swearing usually, but The 'F'-Word was one of the few words that were off-limits under her roof. She used to threaten to wash kids' mouths out with soap for using that word—though she never followed through with the threat, as far as Jason knows.

Jason laughs a real laugh. "Fuck is right." She sighs. "I got blown up, Bruce changed my dead body into civilian clothes like the maniac he is, and came up with a cover story. There was a funeral, I got buried, and six months later I woke up in my coffin, and dug myself out."

"Damn, Jay."

Jason nods. "We still don't know what caused it. I dunno, Bruce gets into some magic shit sometimes—maybe that. I don't really care. But long story short, I got kidnapped by assassins, dunked into a magic healing pool that made me go crazy, then did some. Um. Shit I regret. But I'm better now. Mostly."

Miss Rosemary stands up from her armchair, pulls Jason up from the couch, and gives her another crushing hug.

"I'm glad you're back. I missed you, baby." She leans the side of her face against Jason's collarbone, and Jason rests her cheek on top of Miss Rosemary's head. "You're doing good things now, though. Shit's getting better 'round here."

Jason snickers, not even surprised anymore, "Of course you know about that too."

"I mean, the duffle bag was a bit much."

She shudders a bit, "Yeah, I know. I get that a lot."

"But I'm proud of you. And you should be too."

Her heart feels like it's going to burst with how grateful she is for this woman. Jason pulls away, and Miss Rosemary lets her.

"Thank you, Miss Rosemary. For everything."

Miss Rosemary rolls her eyes this time, smacking Jason playfully, "quit with that 'Miss Rosemary' bullshit. You're grown. Call me Rosie like everybody else."

"Whatever you say, Miss Rosie." Jason says, the picture of innocence.

She rolls her eyes. "Ah, close enough."

Rosie sits on the couch, pulling Jason down to sit next to her. She links an arm with Jason's and rests her head on her shoulder.

"So. Now that I'm caught up, what brings you home? I know damn well you ain't here just to bring me treats, though I am very grateful for them."

"I need some advice."

"Good. You look like you need some."

Jason smiles at that, leaning her head on Rosie's. She prepares herself. Blinks once, twice. Rosie waits patiently. When she's ready, her voice isn't quite a whisper, but it's not spoken with her chest.

"I'm pretty sure I'm a woman, and I'm scared of what that means."

Rosie nods, once.

She lifts her head, looking Jason in the eye, gathering her thoughts. Jason can't count all the things she's seeing on her face. Love, mostly, but bittersweet. Sad, almost stern, and yet somehow still hopeful.

"I wish I could tell you there's nothing to be afraid of." Rosemary's voice is quiet. "But I always told you the truth, and I'm not gonna stop now."

She takes a deep breath, so Jason does too.

"I been here a long time—and I don't plan on going any time soon, so don't you worry—but I seen a lot in my time, yeah?" She takes Jason's hand, squeezing it. "I seen how cruel a man can be, and I know you have too. I seen regular folks turn a blind eye while my friends died young and sick around me. I seen way too many beautiful girls dying horrible, violent deaths. And I seen women waste away to old age, too afraid to live." Miss Rosemary nods, slowly, her eyes sparkling, "And I also seen a lot of joy. A whole damn lot."

Jason maps the wrinkles across her face. The hard, carved lines between her brows, the crows feet surrounding her eyes, the smile lines that frame her mouth.

"If you could go back," Jason begins, "knowing everything that would happen should you live openly as a woman," her voice quivers, "would you still make the same choice?"

Rosemary doesn't hesitate. "Absolutely."

Jason nods sharply once, and pulls her into a hug, shaking. Rosie waits until the shaking has stopped to speak again.

"Now you said you wanted my advice, so I'm gonna give you some. Take it or leave it."

Jason nods again.

"We lost a lot of beautiful souls, when I was your age. Girls like us were dying young and pretty everywhere. I'm one of the lucky ones who didn't get sick." She shakes Jason's shoulders gently. "But you? Your generation? You get to live. Getting sick ain't a death sentence no more. So go out there and live for all the queens that didn't get a chance."

Jason inhales. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah." She exhales.

"Good. Now listen to me." She pushes Jason back, gently, she she can look her in the eye. "Womanhood is a wonderful, sacred thing, and you're doing great already."

Jason thinks she surely must be glowing from the warmth in her chest. Dick was right. Sitting here, she feels lighter than she has in years. Maybe ever. She wants this feeling to last.

"Hey, Miss Rosie?"

"Yeah, honey?"

How does she phrase this. "Can you uh. Help me. Look more.. feminine? I guess? Like. I know I'm not built like a woman, but I'd like to try?"

Miss Rosie's eyes light up. "We're gonna have a chat about that self esteem later, but hell yes I can. Are you asking for a makeover?"

"Maybe not like, a full on makeover, but I dunno. Work your magic."

Chapter Text

By four pm, Jason's makeover is complete.

Miss Rosemary refused to let her see a mirror after whisking her into the bathroom to do makeup, so she's not quite sure what she's expecting, to be honest. Rosie asked her questions while she fussed over Jason's face, trying to deduce her style preferences. Jason's answers consisted almost exclusively of 'yes,' 'hell no,' and 'uh, maybe?'

Once the makeup was deemed acceptable by Rosie, she locked Jason out of the bedroom while she rifled through her clothes for a good ten minutes. When she finally emerged, she handed Jason a handful of fabric, accompanied by a, "try this on and tuck and tuck in the shirt."

Jason changed in the closet, and hadn't looked at the clothes a whole lot, other than to figure out how to put them on. She'd been given a bra, to her surprise. She'd hesitated—suddenly self conscious—but ultimately decided to trust Rosie and try it on. It seemed to fit fine, though Jason wasn't quite sure what it was actually doing for her. The other clothing item had been a shirt; simple enough that Jason hadn't paid it much mind. After rejoining Rosemary in the bathroom, the older woman had fiddled with Jason's hair for a moment and decided she was ready.

Now Jason finds herself looking into a mirror. She almost doesn't recognize herself.

Rosemary has worked some sort of witchcraft with her face, softening her features and drawing out her eyes. Her lashes are long and dark; the unfamiliar texture of mascara feels heavy. Something shimmery has been applied to her eyelids. Her lips are tinted red, but not unnaturally so. Like she's been eating cherries and the juice has stained her skin.

The shirt is a dark maroon shade, made up of a thin, linen-like material that shines red when the light hits it just right. It's form-fitting around her torso, but the sleeves are loose and flowing. The neckline is wide, curving into a v shape at the center. The straps of the bra peek out near the edge of the collar. She's still wearing the black cargo pants she wore here, pulled up high onto her hips with a belt, yet somehow, it all works.

That glowing feeling in her chest is back in full force. This must be that euphoria shit all the websites were talking about.

"So… What do you think?" Miss Rosemary's voice shocks Jason out of a sort of haze. She'd almost forgotten she was there. "I didn't have a whole lot in your size, but I tried my best. Everything fit okay?"

Jason can't look away from her reflection, even as she speaks, voice choked. She watches her lips form the words. "Miss Rosemary, you are an angel. I swear to God, you've performed a miracle here today."

"I'm glad you like it, hon." Rosie beams, wrapping an arm around Jason's shoulders. "You're beautiful. And if anyone says otherwise, I'll happily kick their ass."

Jason can only nod, not trusting herself to speak coherently at the moment.

Rosie considers their reflections for a moment, head tilted, lips pursed. "You thought about if you're you're changin' your name or not?"

Oh. Right. That's something she can do. Huh. That might be nice.

"Um. Maybe. I just don't know what to change it to."

Rosie pats Jason on the arm. "That's alright, there's no rush. And if you stick with Jason, that's fine too."

Jason nods again, finally facing Rosie. "Thank you. Again. I feel." She swallows, gathering herself. "God, I feel good. I don't think I've ever felt like this before."

Rosie's eyes are a little misty. "I'm proud of you, kid. You're going to be so wonderful." The old woman cocks her hip with an amused sort of pride. "And you're free to keep those, by the way. They look better on you."

Jason beams. She really needs to get out of here before she has another all out cry-fest. She'd hate to ruin all of Rosie's hard work with tears.

She says her goodbyes to Miss Rosemary, gathers her old clothes in a bag that Rosie offers, and starts out the door; utterly unsure of where she's going. She can't go to work looking like this, but she'd sooner die than take it off right now. She fishes her work phone out of her pocket and calls Amy.

"Boss? Everything alright?"

"Yeah, everything's fine. No emergencies or nothing." She starts down the crumbling sidewalk with no particular destination in mind, holding her phone to her ear.

"I'm just wondering if it would be a problem if I took tonight off, too. Would that mess up the schedule too bad? I don't wanna cause problems for anyone."

A passerby on the street leers at Jason. She straightens her shoulders, drawing herself to her full height, and makes the most of her resting bitch face. The man flushes, finding himself caught, and pretends to look busy on his phone. Jason scoffs, refusing to let some asshole ruin her good humor, and continues on her way.

"..Boss, are you okay? Have you been kidnapped?" Amy half whispers into the speaker.

"What?" Jason shakes her head, just slightly, tuning back into the conversation. "No, we have code words for that. I'm fine. Look, I can come in if it's that big of a deal."

"No, no! Don't come in! Take the night off. Hell, take the week off!" She's speaking quickly now. "You just don't take days off, so we were gettin' a little worried 'round here."

"I take days off!" Jason objects. "I have every Friday night off!"

"Yeah, cause I force you to have a day off! You don't willingly miss work."

Jason can't argue with that, actually. "Yeah, whatever. There's just been a few.. developments." Hearing Amy's quick intake of breath, she elaborates. "Nothing bad! Just schedule a meeting with upper management, say.. tomorrow evening? Is tomorrow Thursday?"

"Yep, tomorrow's Thursday, boss." A sound of rustling papers filters through the speaker. "Does 7:30 work?"

"Yeah, yeah, sounds good. See you then."

Jason hangs up her phone, and notices where her feet have been taking her. She's on the way to Tim's place. Over halfway there. Sure, that works. She calls Tim next. It runs through to voicemail, so she calls him again, and he picks up on the first ring.

"Timothy. Tim. Timbo. Timber. Timbit. Timbuktu. Timbird. ..Timbourine? I'm running out of names."

Tim's voice is groggy. "Hello to you, too. You're.. in a mood."

"I sure am." She chirps. "Did I wake you up?"

"What do you think?" His scowl is audible.

Jason grins. "Aww, someone's grumpy."

"What do you want?"

"You're home, right? Obviously you are; you were sleeping. Unless you were sleeping at someone else's house—in which case I don't actually want to know. That would be gross. Please say you're home. Are you home?"

Tim sighs. "Yes, Jason. I'm home."

Jason stops in front of Tim's window, shoving the phone between her shoulder and ear so she can disable the alarm with two hands. "Cool. Me too."

"..Hold up. What?"

Jason hangs up the call and climbs through the window into Tim's living room. Not ten seconds later, Tim emerges from his bedroom—hair ruffled from sleep, rubbing at his eyes. "I have a door for a reason."

Jason rolls her eyes. "Where's the fun in that?"

"What do you want?" He repeats blearily. She waits.

Tim finally processes what's in front of him, looking Jason up and down, waking up fully. Jason grins.

"I'm a woman."

Tim doesn't even blink. "I know."

Of course he did. God, he's so annoying.

"The hell you mean 'I know?' I didn't even know until, like, yesterday!"

Tim smirks, popping his hip and crossing his arms. "'I know' as in Duke owes me money."

This damn kid and his damn audacity. Sure, she might have expected this kind of thing from Tim, but he roped Duke into it, too? The absolute betrayal.

"You put money on me being a woman." She doesn't say it like a question, because it's not one. She really should have seen this coming.

Tim looks like the definition of smug. "I sure did. Anyway, did you wake me up just to come out, or are you actually here for a reason?"

Like coming out isn't enough of a reason for the high-and-mighty Timothy Drake. And yeah, fine, Jason does have stuff to talk about, but there's something she needs to know first.

"How much money?"

Tim shrugs. "Twenty bucks."

..She doesn't actually know whether or not she should be offended.

"You're a real piece of work, Timothy Wayne, you know that?"

"I sure do." He doesn't comment on the 'Wayne.' Interesting.

Jason sighs, flopping down onto Tim's couch. "How did you choose your name? Your first one—I know you stole the last one."

Tim snickers when she says 'stole,' but he doesn't object. Jason suddenly realizes she isn't sure of Tim's legal last name. The kid could have genuinely changed it, for all she knows.

He flops down next to her. "It was the first 'boy name' that popped into my head when Dick asked me what my name was. I was just glad it didn't start with a 'J.'"

Jason lifts her head to stare at her brother. "You're shitting me."

"I'm dead serious." Tim pauses. "Can I make that joke, by the way? I've been wondering." His eyes seem to glaze over, "I haven't actually died and come back to life, but a concerning amount of my friends and family have, and I get so many good opportunities that I'd hate to miss out on."

A valid concern. Jason would hate for a good death joke to go unmade.

"As long as it's actually funny, I don't care." Jason rolls her eyes at Tim's thoughtful nod. "Anyhow, circling back: names. I don't want this one, it sucks. Never really liked it too much to begin with. So. How do people choose new names? Because you are not normal in any sense of the word."

Tim squints, ignoring the jab. "I dunno. Some people ask their loved ones to choose it, some people name themselves after another person or a character, some people just choose something that sounds similar to the old one but aligns better with how they want to present." He cocks his head. "Who did your makeup, by the way? It looks good."

"Your mom." Jason replies, a knee-jerk reaction.

Tim snorts. "Right, right. Make a lot of friends in the afterlife, did you?"

Goddamnit. Why does everyone have to be an orphan? Can't make 'your mom' jokes with anyone these days.

"But for real." Tim presses.

Jason smirks. "Crime Alley's fiercest crook."

Tim squints at her, as if trying to figure out if she's lying or not, before muttering, "Alright, keep your secrets. See if I care."

She chuckles. Man, she loves Miss Rosemary.

"So, you got any name ideas? I have given it absolutely zero thought so far." And speaking of giving things zero thought—that reminds her. "Also I have no clue how this is going to impact my crime empire, but my hopes aren't particularly high and I'm a little bit scared out of my mind, to be frank."

Tim's eyes widen a bit. "Oh. Fuck." He says, emphatically. "Yeah. That's gonna change some things. Uh, we'll come back to that."

Tim points a finger at Jason. "Names. Are you seriously asking me to give you name suggestions? I willfully changed my legal name to Timothy."

"Yeah, I didn't fully think that one through, did I?" She cycles through people in her head. "Can't ask Dick either, cause he willingly goes by. Well. Dick."

Tim snickers. "Who else have you come out to so far?"

"An old friend from the Alley, you, Dick, and Barbara," she wrinkles her nose, "though that one was just her stalking me."

"Barbara might help. She's okay at names. Oracle is sick as hell."

"Yeah, but we're not close like that, you know?"

Tim considers Jason, who suddenly feels like a bug under a magnifying glass. "Who are you close with?"

Good question. Hell if she knows. "Roy." She offers. "Uh. Steph. Damian, sorta? Duke?" She frowns. "Some of my goons?"

"You cannot ask your goons for name ideas." Tim scoffs.

"Excuse you, my goons are lovely people."

"Lovely people who you want to help you choose a name that you will use outside of the mask?"

"Okay, you make a fair point." Jason concedes.

Tim nods, grinning, then lights up, "Hey, what about Alfie?"

Jason pauses for a moment. Alfred Pennyworth is dear to her heart, but she's still working out her feelings there. He's tied to Bruce in such an inextricable manner, and it's getting harder to ignore the older she gets. She looks at Damian some days—at how small he is—and can't fathom how Alfred can stomach washing the blood from his clothing.

And yet, if he hadn't been there all these years, would things have turned out exponentially better or exponentially worse?

Regardless, Alfie isn't going to be the one to name her.

"Nah, probably not. I don't want some old lady name." The joke is halfhearted—she watches Tim's eyes flicking over her face as he notes it, but mercifully doesn't mention it.

"Okay, if loved ones are off the table, what about naming yourself after someone else? Anyone important to you?"

Catherine comes to mind. Shiela was the one who named Jason. Having a name to connect her to the mother that raised her—her real mom—might be nice. She doesn't want to be a Catherine Jr, but potentially…

"Something derived from Catherine, maybe?" Jason's voice is quiet.

Tim nods. "Too bad there's already a Kate in the family. Hm. And you don't seem like a Cathie either."

Jason snorts, "I better not. I swear the pit didn't turn me old, no matter what lies The Brat is telling."

Tim rolls his eyes. "Okay, so not a derivative, but maybe something of sentimental value? Any music artists or books she liked?"

Even before she died, Jason didn't remember much of her young childhood (Her favorite perk of complex trauma; memory loss!)—before Catherine died and things got bad. Now, after the Pit has messed with her head? Jason's memories of Catherine, the good ones especially, are down to precious few. There is one thing she can recall, though.

"She wasn't a big reader, but she liked Stevie Nicks."

Tim hums. Considering. Tilting his head as though trying to fit the name to Jason's face. "Stevie?"

It might be cute if she was born a girl. As she stands though (at a firm six foot four), she's afraid it'll just be taken as a regular masculine name.

"Was hoping for something a little more feminine, I think."

Tim purses his lips. "I'm pretty sure Stevie Nicks' middle name is Lynn?"

"Again. With the old lady names."

Tim huffs. "Fine, screw you and your sentimental value, I guess."

"Okay, Timothy."

Tim scoffs. Pivots. "Onto things you like. Shakespeare! What about Juliet?"

How thematically appropriate. Absolutely not.

"What, because I kicked it before adulthood?"

"Fucking." Tim shakes his head, just barely, mouth half open as he fumbles for a different character. "Ophelia, then."

Jason almost laughs in his face.

"Once again—died because of rich, entitled men."

"Jesus Christ!"

"You're the one pulling from tragedies, birdbrain."

Tim mutters something along the lines of 'your face is a tragedy,' but he's not looking at Jason anymore. He's got that stupid look on his face—the one he gets when he's solving a particularly difficult puzzle; eyes slightly unfocused, barely squinting, chewing on the inside of his lip. Then, in a split second, he's back—those big, freakish owl eyes pinned on Jason once again.

"Fuck Shakespeare. Jane. As in Austen."

Jason pauses. She doesn't hate it. She pulls out her Notes app, swipes away from her half-finished grocery list, and creates a new note titled 'Potential Names Because I'm Apparently A Girl Now.' She carefully types out 'Jane' on the first line.

She looks back to Tim. "A list has been started."

He groans, throwing himself back against the couch. "Why do we need a list? Just pick one!"

"I want it to mean something." Jason insists. "I'm not just gonna pick the first 'girl name' that pops onto my head, I'm not a freak like you are."

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet; So Jason Todd would, were she not Jason Todd called, retain that asshole temper which she owes." Tim recites with a sneer.

Jason feels her eye twitch. Only Timothy could improvise in iambic goddamn pentameter just to piss her off.

"You did not just use Shakespeare against me like that, you motherfucker."

Tim ignores this. "This is going to take forever. What am I supposed to call you until you make up your mind?"

A fair question.

She snickers. "Henceforth I never will be Jason Todd."

It gets a laugh out of Tim, too, so she counts it as a success.

What else do people call her? Jay? She's always liked it when people call her Jay, and Shiela didn't choose that one. It should be fine.

"Jay still works for now."

"Okay, cool." Tim crosses his arms, turning to face Jay fully. "So. What are you going to do about Hood, since we're getting nowhere with names?"

A sinking dread fills her gut, replacing the fluttery almost-high she's been riding on since leaving Rosie's place.

She doesn't want to even think about what people will say if the Red Hood, renowned Macho Crime Lord, comes out as a trans woman. Not only is she going to lose a ton of respect and healthy paranoia from other criminals and rival gangs—not to mention what regular civilians (or, god forbid, government officials) think of her—she's also going to become a target to whatever neo-nazi fascist douchebags take offense with her existence. Usually, she'd have no problem taking out a few (dozen) nazis, but the spotlight won't stop with Hood, and she's very aware that a significant amount of her employees are disabled, queer, and/or people of color. She's willing to put herself at risk, sure, but she draws the line at putting her people and their families in danger.

And that's not even getting her started on what would happen if the fascist assholes running this shit show of a country caught wind that a trans woman was a violent criminal. God, why did she have to have this realization after committing to the whole mass murderer thing.

Tim and his bug eyes are still watching her intently. Yeah, Jay's got nothing.

"Dude, I don't even know, kill myself?" She tells him, deadpan.

Tim, to Jay's horror, looks like he's considering it.

"Joke. That was a joke. I'm not killing myself." Fucccckkkkk. She should know better than to make suicide jokes around the kids. "I am fine. I am okay mentally. Well. Okay might be a bit far, but I'm not about to blow my—"

"No, hear me out—"

"Tim!"

"No, no! Listen! What if we faked your death?"

Okay, she can work with that.

"..I'm listening."

"Obviously, the Red Hood being publicly trans isn't going to go over well with everybody. We don't want to put you in unnecessary danger, and we don't want to fuel any agendas." Tim quirks an eyebrow, a maniacal sort of gleam in his eyes, "So, what if we kill Hood and replace him with a new leader who's only ever been known to publicly be a woman? New costume and new mantle and everything, another hostile takeover to establish updated rules—you get an excuse to take out anyone you've been having problems with, and you get to keep all of your beloved goons in the end. Let the important people know what's going on, and nobody else has to know."

And that. That just might be the beginnings of a decent plan.

Jay grins. "Tim, did you just recommend we orchestrate a gang war so that I can publicly transition?"

Tim winces, but his heart isn't fully in it. The kid is definitely excited about this. "I mean. It sounds bad when you put it that way."

Jay claps him on the shoulder. "This is why you're my favorite brother."