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Jason was hiding something from him—Bruce was sure of it.
Though, that fact alone was hardly news. At any given point in time, Jason was almost always hiding something from Bruce. This was true when he was Robin, and it’s been true since he came back as Red Hood. Bruce’s knife-sharp intuition itched whenever Jason was around, but he knew it wasn’t fair to treat the boy like a case to be solved. Especially not since he’d finally laid down the guns—“But not for you, old man, so don’t get any ideas. I still refuse to do things your way.”
Regardless, Bruce still softened at the thought. Despite everyone who had failed him—Bruce being the worst of them—Red Hood was forging his own path in this unforgiving life they’d chosen. That alone was enough to ease Bruce’s worries, immense as they were.
Bruce’s little hunch first sprung up earlier that day. Jason had stopped by for lunch; an unusual, but pleasant surprise. He claimed it was only because he’d missed Alfred’s cooking, but when Bruce gave him a gentle side-hug, he only grunted in response. An upgrade from trying to wriggle away, if Bruce dared to hope.
When they parted, Jason shrugged off his jacket and hung it neatly on the coat rack. He always made sure to do that before Alfred appeared—even as a child, he’d never liked anyone, not even a butler by profession, doing things for him. It was one of the many small habits that threw Bruce back in time, to that alley with the hungry boy clutching a tire iron in his small, bony hand. He was so small, back then—despite his best efforts to appear otherwise.
When Alfred arrived, Bruce blinked away the memories. Jason smiled wider and threw an arm around the butler, waxing poetic about his cooking. He always did get along with Alfred better; it never failed to leave a twinge in Bruce’s heart, hoping he’d reach that level of affection with him someday. He could at least dream, couldn’t he?
Bruce was just about to join them when he felt something slippery beneath his foot. He glanced down and saw a small white card, edges slightly worn but otherwise clean. Well-maintained. He picked it up and flipped it over.
Jason Peter Todd, it read, is entitled to draw books from the Gotham City Public Library.
Huh. A library card? Bruce looked up to ask Jason about it, but he’d already disappeared into the kitchen, Alfred in tow.
Jason had always loved to read; this, Bruce knew very well. The first time he’d laid eyes on the Wayne Manor library, little Jason had almost burst from excitement. He’d tugged eagerly at Bruce’s hand, asking if they could pause their house tour so he could pick out a book to read.
At that moment, Bruce had quietly decided to expand the library even further, if only to keep seeing that toothy grin.
So it wasn’t completely unexpected that grown-up, resurrected Jason still shared that joy. What was unexpected, however, was the kind of books Jason was presumably reading:
1. Literary Theory: An Introduction, Terry Eagleton
2. Critical Theory Today: A User-Friendly Guide, Lois Tyson
3. The Death of the Author, Roland Barthes
4. Culture and Imperialism, Edward Said
5. Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches, Audre Lorde
6. Margins of Philosophy, Jacques Derrida
7. Discipline and Punish, Michel Foucault
8. The Birth of the Clinic, Michel Foucault
9. Illness as Metaphor, Susan Sontag
10. Ecology Without Nature: Rethinking Environmental Aesthetics, Timothy Morton
A lot of these titles, Bruce recognized; which brought with it an understanding of why Jason had opted to open an account with Gotham’s public library rather than simply taking whatever he wanted from the Wayne Manor—Bruce didn’t even own most of these. They were much too specific, and his personal library was already teeming with books.
Bruce wondered if the boy was trying his hand at the Jason part of his life, rather than Red Hood. Going to the library, picking out a few books to read…maybe it brought him a sense of normalcy. Bruce knew the need for that all too well.
But, still. Everything about this list was too specific. Literary theory? Essay collections? It was almost as if—
“Really, old man?”
Bruce looked up, his train of thought slowing to a halt. Jason was standing in front of him with his arms crossed, indignation etched into his features. “Going through my things? So much for trust.”
Bruce felt a pang of hurt in his chest. “Jason, you know I wouldn’t. I found this on the floor.”
Jason huffed, swiping the library card away from Bruce’s hands. Despite his irritation, he made sure to tuck it carefully into his back pocket. “You still didn’t have to read it.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Jason’s scowl wavered at the apology, like he hadn’t expected it. A guilty look crept into his eyes.
“It’s-It’s whatever, it’s fine,” he said, the initial bite in his voice all but gone. “Just a stupid library card, anyway.”
Bruce raised a brow. “Oh, nothing about that card looked stupid to me. You seem to be reading high-level material.”
“Can’t always be taking down crime rings,” Jason shrugged, turning around. “Anyway, Alfred said to tell you that lunch is ready. Hurry up because I’m starving.”
Bruce sighed in surrender, as painfully obvious as that change of subject was. He wanted to try for a better conversation, but lunch wasn’t the right place for it—Jason wouldn’t have appreciated the audience, and he was much too busy bickering with Damian, anyway…a little too busy.
So, yes—it didn’t really take a detective’s intuition to know that Jason was hiding something. Neither did it take a detective’s intuition to guess what it was…but Bruce wasn’t about to push things. It wasn’t that long ago when they’d finally established some semblance of an amicable relationship with each other. The last thing Bruce wanted to do was push Jason away. Again.
So Bruce would wait, when and if his son was ever ready to tell him. It’s what a good father would do.
*
One day, Jason had decided he didn’t want to be dead anymore
Tim hadn’t understood it at first; being legally dead was Red Hood’s biggest advantage. His unorthodox vigilantism methods meant that he was always neck-deep in criminal affairs, and being a dead man behind the mask always gave him the upper hand—freedom to do what he saw fit without fear for his civilian persona, because there was no civilian to speak of. Not officially. And for a long time, that seemed to work just fine for Jason.
Until it didn’t.
About a year ago, Jason had asked to meet Tim in confidence. Not as Red Hood and Red Robin, but as brothers. And somehow, that made Tim all the more nervous.
“Timbers,” Jason had started, sprawled on his back on some abandoned rooftop they’d claimed. He was trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing, but Tim could see it in the way he looked at everything but him—Jason was nervous. “What I’m about to tell you, you can’t tell anyone, okay?”
“...Okay.”
“I’m serious, okay? Not Steph, not Dick, especially not Bru—” Jason paused momentarily before shooting upwards, turning towards him. “Wait, what?”
“I said okay.”
Jason frowned a little, that signature scar of his stretching with the movement. “Just like that?”
“Come on, Jason. I’m no stranger to keeping secrets. What’s another one in the vault? Besides,” he gave Jason a curious glance. “Something tells me you really had to talk yourself into doing this.”
“Smartass,” Jason huffed, but even he couldn’t hide the trickle of relief in his voice. And then, without missing a beat, like he was ripping off a band-aid—
“I want to finish school.”
Jason told him everything, a lot of which Tim had already known: Jason never got to finish his secondary education on account of, obviously, being dead. And then he’d clawed his way out of his own grave, followed by the Lazarus Pit, followed by the darkest corners of his own mind—and everything about a semi-normal life seemed to fade to nothing. He couldn’t think of his existence in a way that was separate or beyond ‘Red Hood.’
But that was before, Jason insisted. Before making amends with Bruce, before apologizing to Tim—before allowing himself to have a family again. After that, it seemed like even the dreams he had as a child were possible.
“So that’s why you came to me,” Tim said. “You’re legally dead. You want to be declared alive again—to be Jason Todd again.”
“On the down low, if possible,” Jason added. “Look, I don’t want any fanfare. I don’t want my existence revealed to the public at one of Bruce’s fancy galas. I don’t want the tabloids, the pap, or whatever poking their noses in my business. I just…” His eyes were trained on the sky, like if he looked long enough, he could see himself in the life that was taken from him. “…I just want to go to school.”
Tim took a breath, already going through the motions in his head—the logistics he’d have to take care of, the trails he’d have to expunge, the new documents he needed to slip into various databases and systems…
“And you don’t want Bruce to know,” Tim concluded.
“I just don’t want it to be a big deal,” Jason said, almost defensively. “You know how sentimental the old man gets.”
“You don’t think the world’s greatest detective will notice his legally-undead son is back in school?”
“Second-greatest,” Jason corrected, giving Tim a knowing smile.
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Tim deflected, but something warm bloomed in his chest at the compliment. Sometimes it was hard, seeing past the disastrous way their relationship had started. But in moments like these, Tim could tell Jason was really trying.
“You know,” Tim said. “I still think you should tell Bruce. I’m sure he’d keep the whole thing quiet for you.”
Jason didn’t answer, but something in his expression changed. His gaze remained fixed on the sky, but Tim saw the way it wavered—Jason was ashamed.
“It’s not about that, is it?” He suddenly realized. “It’s not your privacy you’re worried about. You’re worried about…about what Bruce will think. Jason, you know he’d be—”
“Will you do it or not, Tim?” Jason interrupted. There was that familiar edge to his voice again—razor-sharp, but brittle. Tim knew it was mostly a defense mechanism. “Will you fix up my paperwork? Will I finally be able to finish school?”
“…Of course, Jason,” Tim replied. “I’ll get started first thing tomorrow. That okay?”
Jason took a sharp, shaky breath. “…Yeah. Yeah, that’s perfect. Thanks, Timberton.”
A long silence stretched between them, punctured only by the sounds of night traffic and the occasional cricket chirp. And then—
“I just don’t want to raise his expectations,” Jason said suddenly. His voice sounded far away. “If it works out, I’ll tell him eventually. And if not…then he’ll never know I disappointed him again.”
“...Jason—”
“I know what you’re going to say, Tim,” Jason interjected. “I’ve heard it all, and I’m sure I’ll hear it again. But that doesn’t make believing it any easier.”
Tim thought back to the last time he’d taken off the Robin mask. The last time he’d shed the cape. The last time he toed off the boots, putting them away with trembling fingers, never to be worn again. Not by him, anyway. And he understood.
The only appropriate answer to that was a shared, somber silence.
A year had passed since then. A year since Jason had taken that leap, a year since Tim had made good on his promise. Overnight, Jason Todd had re-entered the land of the living, unbeknownst to everyone else in the family—at least, for a while. Bruce realized it faster than Tim had hoped, but before he could ask Jason about it, all disbelief and fragile hope, Tim had told him to wait. To give him time.
You did this, Bruce had concluded, not unkindly. The pride in his voice was dampened only by the dismay in his eyes. Jason…he wanted to keep it from me that badly, didn’t he?
No, Tim had insisted, but he wasn’t fooling either of them. By the time he’d decided on what to say next, Bruce had already retreated to the Batcomputer, shoulders hunched over with a renewed heaviness.
A year since then. A year, but it still felt like yesterday. An entire year during which Tim, for the life of him, couldn’t figure out why Jason was still keeping mum about the whole thing—despite surely knowing his secret was barely that anymore. Not for lack of trying.
And if there was anything Tim hated, it was a mystery he couldn’t solve.
“How’s it looking, Timberly?”
Jason’s pointed question jolted Tim back to reality. He remembered the rhythmic knock on his bedroom door, followed by Jason sauntering in and slipping a thin stack of printed papers on Tim’s desk. He remembered the favor Jason had asked of him—to review an essay he’d written for one of his classes.
But Tim just couldn’t focus. This was only the second time that Jason had asked anything school-related of him, and the abruptness of it all was…irritatingly confusing, to say the least.
“I don’t understand,” Tim said, finally.
“It’s not that advanced of a class,” Jason said, but the barely-hidden smile on his face suggested he was all too happy to do the explaining for once. “I’m analyzing concepts behind several literary so-called utopias. I already explained each one, so you don’t even have to read the books I referenced. As long as you can follow the—”
“No, I mean…” Tim interrupted, setting the papers aside. “I mean, this is a college class.”
“Um, yes?”
“Which means you finished all your high school credits.”
“Months ago, Timbering.”
“So…you did it. You got your high school diploma. And you’ve…applied to college since then. You got into college. You’re, like, doing a whole degree and everything.”
Jason tilted his head, the white tufts of his hair bouncing with the movement. His calm demeanor made Tim want to shake him by the shoulders. “Um, yes. That’s usually how these things go. Are you malfunctioning or something?”
“Jason!” Tim all but jumped from his seat, his mind going into overdrive. A year ago, Jason had asked him to help with high school enrollment. Tim had obliged, and that was the last they’d ever spoken of it. Until now, when Jason had barged into his bedroom with an essay draft in his hand and, apparently, a fucking high school diploma he didn’t bother telling anyone about. What?
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Jason replied, flipping through his discarded essay. “But seriously, I really need your feedback—”
“Why didn’t you say anything?!” Tim demanded. “That’s-That’s great! Jason, you did it! You fucking did it!” He wasn’t sure what to do with the hundreds of emotions running through him, so he elected to give Jason’s arm a playful but berating punch. Not the wisest choice he could’ve made, given the lingering sting in his knuckles.
“Okay, okay! Calm the fuck down, Timbelina.” Jason tried to wave it off, but the embarrassment on his face was plain to see. “Need an icepack for that hand?”
“Oh, fuck off,” Tim retorted, flexing his fingers. “And stop trying to change the subject. I know you didn’t want anyone to know about your legally-alive-again thing, or your high school thing, but why didn’t you…” His voice trailed off, suddenly hesitant. “...Why didn’t you at least tell me you did it?”
Tim felt stupid as soon as said it. It was presumptuous of him, to think that he would be Jason’s first choice to celebrate anything. Jason only came to him because he needed his skills—if there was anyone in the family he actually wanted to celebrate with, it would’ve been Alfred, or Dick. At the end of the day, despite everything, Tim and Jason would never be that close…would they?
In the midst of his quiet spiral, Tim felt a warm hand on his head, ruffling his hair. He looked up and found Jason smiling at him; something fond and playful. It took a moment for him to speak.
“Because I haven’t done it yet, Timmy,” Jason said softly. “Graduating high school was just a stepping stone. It wasn’t what I was really after. Not for the most part, anyway.” He gave Tim a playful pat on the cheek. “Besides, you’re telling me the world’s greatest detective didn’t notice a high school diploma to my name in the records?”
Tim crossed his arms childishly, but a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t look you up in the systems. Wanted to respect your privacy.”
Jason blinked at him for several moments. He seemed at a genuine loss for words.
“I…fuck, Timmy. You didn’t have to stick to your word that well,” he said, finally. “...Thank you.”
“Of course,” Tim said, glancing at the essay in Jason’s hand. Suddenly, it dawned on him. The mystery he couldn’t solve.
“That’s why,” he breathed, a sudden giddiness enveloping him. “Why you didn’t want to tell Bruce, or anyone else. A high school diploma wasn’t the expectation—a college diploma was.” He shook his head fondly. “God, Jason. You and your dramatics. I should’ve known you had some grand plan.”
“Come on, now,” Jason grinned. “When do I not? Congrats on cracking the case, Tim-Tam.”
Tim huffed with all the mighty indignation of a younger brother scorned. “You could’ve just told me. The whole thing kept nagging at me for a year.”
Jason’s eyes gleamed wickedly. “I know.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Tim snapped, swiping the papers out of Jason’s hand. “When I’m done with this, you’ll find it easier to just rewrite the whole thing.”
Jason laughed, taking the liberty of flopping down on Tim’s bed. From his pocket, he produced a miniature copy of Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower. “I expect nothing less, Timbo.”
*
Anyone who knew Damian Wayne in even the most minimal capacity knew not to interrupt him while he was in the art studio.
It was one of the few spaces he’d made to be his own, cluttered with half-finished canvases and hastily-sketched comic pages. At the outset, it seemed messy, but Damian always knew where everything was at all times. Each project occupied a separate corner, its respective supplies strewn somewhere nearby, and Damian hopped from project to project whenever inspiration struck him. Sometimes, after grueling patrol nights or arguments with his father—if not both—the art studio felt more like home than the manor itself. Everyone in the family knew how much Damian cherished the place as truly his own.
Which was why, when he heard the door swing open behind him, Damian knew exactly who the offending party was. Not Bruce, no—the footfalls were slightly heavier than his father’s. And not Alfred, either—the pace was not as steady. This left only one other person who was at the manor in the present moment.
“Todd,” Damian said, his tone accusing. He didn’t bother turning around, but he held the paintbrush in his hand much like he would a throwing bird. “You should know the consequences of such an intrusion.”
“Uh-huh,” Jason said dismissively. “Whatever you say, Bat-Brat. Got a minute?”
“Somebody better be dying.”
“Um, I died once. Does that count?”
Damian sighed, set his paintbrush aside, and finally turned to face his brother.
“Father gets upset when you make jokes like that.”
“Well I don’t do it when he’s around,” Jason said, defensive. “Not anymore, anyway.”
“Tt. Just be careful. He overhears you, sometimes.”
This was clearly not what Jason came to discuss. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eyes darting around the room. Damian couldn’t help but feel that maybe he shouldn’t have said that—but how would he know? He was never the best at this whole people thing, let alone the whole family thing. One would think it’d be easier than crime-fighting.
Damian gingerly cleared his throat, if only to fill in the sudden silence. It ticked him off that he was feeling awkward when Jason was the one who barged in.
“...Okay,” Jason said quietly, much to Damian’s surprise. “Thanks for the tip. Cool painting, by the way.” He nodded towards the still-wet canvas, genuine admiration in his eyes. Damian recalled how his father had once told him that Jason was a fan of the arts as well. Although Bruce was obviously trying to find some common ground for the two to bond over, the sincerity behind Jason’s compliment almost flustered the boy. He’s good at changing the subject, too.
“Thank you, I suppose,” Damian replied, glancing back at his work. It was still taking form, all outlines and faint swathes of color, but the outcome he had in mind was promising. As long as there were no further interruptions to account for. “But you didn’t come here just to look at my painting, did you?”
“Look at you, little detective.”
Now that the tense moments had passed, Jason’s shoulders relaxed a little. He paced the studio for a bit, careful not to knock anything over. Damian wouldn’t usually let anyone poke around this much, but Jason was being awful respectful about it. He even paused to give a couple of impressed nods. It annoyed Damian when he realized he didn’t mind the approval.
Finally, Jason took a seat on an empty art stool. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small but thick paperback, its deckled edges yellow with age. It seemed a dignified, distinguished little thing; Damian couldn’t resist going for a closer look.
“I’ve been reading this,” Jason started, flipping through the pages. Right to left? Damian spotted small sticky notes all over, hasty scrawls on each one. “But it’s kind of taking me forever, since—”
“It’s Arabic,” Damian interrupted, recognizing the script. He plucked the book from Jason’s hands, flipping through it at his own pace. “You’re reading Sīrat Dhāt al-Himma? I wasn’t aware you were this proficient, Todd.” Despite his best efforts, Damian could not stifle the slight awe in his voice.
“Your mom gave me a pretty well-rounded education,” Jason said. “She had this giant library…man, there were books in there that no one else knew existed.” His voice turned almost wistful—it was not usually how one recalled their time at the League of Assassins. But Damian understood what he meant.
“I know,” he said, his chest puffing out with pride. “Mother made sure I wielded the pen just as well as I did the blade. Father’s library cannot even compare.” He handed the book back to Jason. “If you’re reading this, then you must be dealing with a League-related case. Or is there a new masked fighter in Gotham that resembles a character in this epic?”
Jason puffed out a laugh. “God, no. Don’t give anyone any ideas. I’m reading this for a class.”
Damian paused. “A…class.”
“Yeah. A college class,” Jason said, as if he were sharing commonly-known information. Since when did Jason Todd do college? “They gave us a translated version, but I asked the professor for the original text. It’s pretty good stuff, but between patrols, crime-fighting, and my other classes—”
“Other classes,” Damian echoed.
“Yes, kid, keep up. College is like school, except we’re taller. You’ll get there someday. Anyway, I know I can’t realistically read the whole thing in time since it’s, like, twenty-thousand fucking pages, but I figured I’d start with fifty—”
“You’re in college?” Damian asked, still stuck on that note.
Jason threw his head back with a groan.
It wasn’t as if Damian expected to know everything about Jason’s life—or, okay, even most of it, given how often he went off the radar—but Damian expected to have at least heard about this from someone. If Jason decided to go to college, Damian was sure his father, for one, wouldn’t stop talking about it—
Hm. His father.
“You did not tell Father about this,” Damian realized. “And I am also aware that you do not possess a high school diploma, so unless you recently acquired one—wait, that’s exactly what you did, isn’t it?”
Jason was looking at him like he’s already had this conversation before. “Yes. Aren’t I just full of secrets and surprises? Now, are you going to help me or not?”
Damian considered his brother. Jason was trying to remain casual, but Damian wasn’t fooled—the unrhythmic bouncing of his knee, the rapid tapping of his fingers…Jason had found difficulty in coming here. Not just to ask for help, which he was notoriously bad at, but to reveal the reason for said help. It felt like a private thing, what he’d just shared, despite how dismissive he’d tried to be about it.
Oh God. This meant Damian had to use one of those people skills Alfred was always telling him about. You will find, the butler had said, that there is more to life than capes and knives. As much as you might wish otherwise.
Damian remained quiet for a moment, putting his words together. “...Alright. But only because someone has to make sure you graduate, Todd.” He swiped the book from Jason’s hands. “Although, I do commend your taste in literature.”
Was that the right thing to say? Damian wasn’t sure, but judging by the half-formed smile on Jason’s face, it wasn’t the worst he could’ve come up with. Alfred would be proud.
Damian hopped up to the window sill next to his brother, holding the book between them. “So what’s your question?”
“I marked the page…yeah, that one. Right here.” Jason pointed at a word near the top of the page, circled in pencil. “I don’t know what this means, and I couldn’t find it in a dictionary.”
Damian brows furrowed in bewilderment. He paused to stare at the text before speaking again. “Todd, I retract any compliment I may have advertently or inadvertently given you in my life.”
“Hey now, look here you little—”
“You cannot find this in the dictionary,” Damian continued sharply, “Because what you have circled is not a word.”
“Um. What.”
“You’ve circled the second half of one word, combined with the first two letters of the second word, thus creating a grammatical abomination that would make Sibawayh roll in his grave.”
“Would it kill you not to be a little shit for two minutes?” Jason grumbled.
“Yes,” Damian said, reaching over to grab a pencil from a nearby desk. He erased Jason’s offending circle and underlined each word separately. “These are actual words. ‘Ajab and inbihar. They mean—”
“I know what they mean!” Jason swiped the book from Damian’s hands, but Damian quickly leapt for it again.
“Give that back, Todd, you are clearly in need of dire help if you’re making such silly mistakes. We’ll go over this together.”
“Bat-Brat, this thing is so thick that if you dropped it on someone’s head you may as well be dropping an anvil. We are not going over all this, not in one sitting.”
“Then we will cover whatever we can,” Damian decided, flipping to the first page. “What else am I supposed to do? Let you dishonor my mother’s mentoring? Now listen.”
Damian glanced at his brother. Jason was sporting a wider smile now, with just a tad more cheekiness than usual.
“...What?”
“Nothing,” Jason said. “Thanks, kid.”
Damian looked away, carding a hand through his hair. “You can thank me when you graduate. And then you will tell Father how I was vital to your achievement. Because I will be.”
“Never mind, I regret this already—”
“Sit down, Todd!”
*
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like that.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Dick, you have the eyes of a fucking tarsier right now.”
Dick blinked at him from the opposite end of the table, which did nothing to diminish the effect. “What’s a tarsier?”
Jason sighed, slumping back in his chair. He reached for his half-finished cup of tea and took a loud, angry sip, glaring at Dick over the rim.
Dick fought with everything in him to swallow his laughter. He couldn’t help it; he knew he was pushing Jason’s buttons, but his brother’s childish reactions were too entertaining.
“Okay, okay,” Dick acquiesced. “I’ll stop looking at you—completely normally, by the way. I’m just…I’m just so proud of you, Jaybird.”
Jason averted his gaze, like he always did when flustered. “Thanks. I figured I’d try my hand at something normal.”
“What do you mean?” Dick grinned. “Wearing a jumpsuit and beating the shit out of mobsters is totally normal.”
“Keep this up, and the whole damn café will know who we are.” Jason set his teacup down, sitting upright again. He drummed his fingers against the edge of the table, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Dick was reminded of pre-teen Jason, much smaller but filled with the same restless energy. He’d always look exactly like this before venturing towards a more personal topic.
Dick smiled sadly at the distant memory, and waited.
“...Funny,” Jason said, finally. “When I started down the whole legally-alive-again-to-college pipeline, I never thought I’d actually end up anywhere near the end, let alone reach it.”
“Why not?” Dick asked. “You’re more than capable.”
“It’s not about ability, it’s just…” Jason shrugged, “Things tend to not work out for me. I thought college would be one of those things.”
Dick leaned forward, crossing his arms over the table. His heart sank at his brother’s despondence—but it wasn’t anything new. This, too, was something Jason carried over from his days as Robin: the idea that he was undeserving. That even if something good happened to him, he couldn’t be happy, or even at ease. That something was always lurking behind a corner, waiting to snatch it all away.
“Jason,” Dick said quietly. “You need to stop thinking of yourself that way.”
Jason looked at him. Not as Red Hood or resurrected Jason or even Robin, but as the Jason he’d met when they first became brothers. The Jason that looked up to him in all rose-tinted wonder, but only received a fraction of that admiration in return. It was one of Dick’s biggest regrets; he would not repeat it.
“You can have good things,” Dick continued, his voice firm. “You can do the things you’ve always dreamed of, even before you…before this life. You can go to school, go to college—and you did! Hell, if one day you decided to ditch this whole vigilante thing and become an author of cheesy romance novels, fucking go for it. I’d be behind you. The whole family would be behind you. That includes Bruce.” He regarded Jason carefully, and posed his next question as delicately as he could: “This is about Bruce, isn’t it?”
Jason fidgeted with the handle of his teacup. “...Pretty much, yeah.”
The clamor around them seemed to dull to a muted buzz. Dick wrestled with what he could say, but Jason beat him to it.
“I didn’t tell him anything,” he said. “I mean, I’m sure he knows—me being legally alive again, getting a high school diploma…hell, he’s definitely figured out the college thing, too. I dropped my library card right by his feet.”
“Then why not just talk to him about it?” Dick asked gently.
Jason scoffed. “Because Bruce and I don’t ‘just’ do anything. It’s never that simple for us. Everyone in this family’s had problems with him, sure, but with me, it’s different. I’m the one he tiptoes around. The one he can’t look in the eye. Sometimes, I can’t look him in the eye, either.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. His next words came out shaky, defeated: “Maybe it’s too late for us.”
“Jason!” Dick chastised.
“What, Dick?” Jason challenged. “You’re gonna tell me that I’m wrong?”
Dick thought about it for several moments. Jason was asking for a fight, but not because he wanted one; fighting was simply all he’d known. The fight for survival, for recognition, for love, for a father. Jason was asking for a fight because, for him, that was the easy choice.
Well, Dick wasn’t about to give it to him. The anger in him dissipated, leaving only a melancholic resignation in its wake.
“No,” Dick said. “There’s no point in that. You and Bruce are too alike in that way.”
Jason’s gaze turned razor-sharp. The temperature around them dropped several degrees. “…Are we?”
Dick wasn’t intimidated.
“Yes. In more than one way, actually,” he continued. “You’re both stubborn in your methods. You’ll fight anyone who tries to stop you from doing what you think is right. You both try to carry this burden on your own, because you don’t want someone else to.”
As he spoke, Dick reached across the table for his brother’s hand. It was shaking, just a little bit, and cold like death. Dick tried not to flinch.
“Most of all,” he whispered, “You’re both sensitive at heart, but have a terrible way of showing it.”
Jason went silent, his gaze fixed somewhere on his now-empty teacup. His mind seemed far, far away.
“I know Bruce has wronged you,” Dick said. “I know he’s failed you. But damn it, Jason—he loves you. He always has.”
Jason’s hand tightened in his brother’s hold.
“You got this degree because you wanted it, Jaybird. And if you decide to celebrate that with us? We’d be over the fucking moon. Bruce would be, too. He might even show it!”
A soft, shaky laugh escaped Jason’s lips. He looked at Dick again, and while the bitterness was still there in his eyes, it seemed faint. No longer simmering beneath the surface of everything.
“You know what, Dick?” Jason said, his voice a touch lighter. “I’m kind of pissed Blüdhaven gets to have you most of the time.”
“Says the one who shows up at the manor, like, twice a year,” Dick countered. “Anyway, I am swinging by for a visit soon. I think Bruce needs help with a case, but he’d rather chew glass than ask for it. Reminds me of someone else I know.” He gave Jason a pointed look.
“Point fucking taken, dickwad. I’ll have you know, I asked for help two—no, three times since I started this whole thing.”
Dick gasped with as much drama as he could muster, which—even for a circus boy—was a lot. “No, really? So this was the fourth time, right?” He grinned. “How was my brotherly pep talk?”
“You could do without the theatrics, actually,” Jason said, standing up. Dick followed suit, throwing an arm around his brother’s shoulders.
“Usually I wouldn’t take that from our resident drama queen, but I’ll let it slide this time,” Dick said airily, ruffling his hair. “Anything else you need, little bird?”
“I’m literally bigger than you.”
Dick opened his mouth to banter some more, but stopped short when something caught his eye—something fluttering in the wind, dark but swift. He looked up, senses on high alert. And judging from the sudden tension in his muscles, Jason must have sensed it, too.
Their eyes were sharp, but despite all the years of training under their belts, the brothers couldn’t pinpoint what exactly had caught them off guard.
But it didn’t take a detective to guess—let alone two. They shared a long, knowing look, sighed, and simply decided to finish their walk.
*
A year ago, if someone had asked Jason to imagine the most nerve-wracking moment of his life, he would have rattled off some throwaway answers and laced them with an extra dose of sarcasm for good measure. Mostly because, after all the shit Jason’s been through, he wasn’t sure there was anything else that could stress him out so much.
Turns out, there was.
As Jason stood there, staring at the Wayne Manor front door, pristine envelope clutched in hand—he wondered if he should go through with this at all. Maybe he should just give it to Alfred, and have him pass it along to Bruce. Or slip it under the door and run. Better yet, maybe he should come back another day—
Jason shook his head. No. He said he would do this. He promised himself. Another chance.
For his own sake. For Bruce’s. Maybe Dick was right; maybe it was okay to hope.
After another minute of silent deliberation, Jason finally brought himself to ring the doorbell. He knew he could just enter, but a childish part of him wanted to buy a few extra moments of time.
The door swung open.
“Hey, Alf–”
Jason stopped himself when he realized the figure in front of him was not Alfred at all, but Bruce himself. That was…odd, to say the least. Didn’t Bruce have a million other things he had to do besides answer the door?
“Oh,” Jason said lamely. “I thought, um…I thought it’d be Alfred at the door.”
“I saw you coming through the security cameras,” Bruce said. “I thought I’d greet you.”
Fuck. That means he definitely watched me freak out for, like, a solid ten minutes, Jason fought the urge to bite his fist. At least he waited until I was ready.
“Um, thanks,” he replied. His fingers tightened, and the envelope in his hands crinkled a little. Bruce definitely noticed the movement, but where Jason expected a question, he got none. Instead, Bruce took a step towards him and put an arm around his shoulders.
“Welcome home,” he said, tentative relief in his voice. “Come in.”
He must have meant it as an invite, but it came out more like a plea. As if Bruce were scared Jason would change his mind and just bolt.
“Okay,” Jason said, stepping inside. He pretended not to hear the quiet sigh of relief behind him.
-
It was still much too early for lunch, so Alfred insisted on providing them with snacks and tea. Jason tried to get him to just sit down, but the butler absolutely refused.
“If you want me to stop fussing, you should drop by more often,” Alfred said, a knowing look in his eyes. Jason sighed and decided to accept his fate.
Bruce sat across from him, looking utterly lost in thought. Whether it was about the case Dick had mentioned, or Jason’s sudden visit—he couldn’t be too sure. The shadows under his eyes were darker than normal, and the creases on his forehead more prominent. To the surprise of absolutely no one, Bruce Wayne was once again overworking himself.
“You look like you have a lot on your mind,” Jason started. “If you don’t have time, you don’t have to sit with me. We can…we can talk tonight, or—”
Bruce shook his head firmly. “No. No, Jason. I’ll always have time for you. Besides, as Alfred so cleverly put it, you aren’t always around.” A look of realization passed on his face, and he quickly added, “That is—I don’t mean that backhandedly. I just mean that I don’t want to miss out on spending time with you.”
The rest of it went unsaid, but Jason heard it loud and clear: Not after all the time we’ve already lost.
He nodded slowly, staring at the letter in his hand. Should he just blurt it out? Start from the beginning? Why is this so fucking hard?!
“Lad,” Bruce said softly. “It’s okay. Whatever you have to say, you can say it.”
It was the voice that did him in. It was that exact same voice Bruce used when Jason was still a kid, still Robin. When he couldn’t sleep at night, or when he retreated into himself after a bad patrol round. So Jason couldn’t help it—he started speaking, and suddenly he couldn’t stop.
He told him about re-entering the legal world of the living, his decision to finish high school, and his leap into college. About studying during the day so he could patrol at night—sometimes studying while on patrol, during which he mastered the art of flinging hardcovers at just the right angle to knock someone out.
He told him about reaching out to Tim, Damian, and Dick. Asking for help when it had always been so hard for him. Wondering whether he would ever see this through to the end, and finding out he could. That he could have the things he missed out on, that it wasn’t too late.
For as long as Jason spoke, Bruce barely moved a muscle. He looked at Jason so intently, like if he blinked too long, he’d disappear. Some days, Jason felt that way about his life, too.
“...But I’m not fooling anyone here, am I?” Jason said at the end, pillowing his cheek in his hand. “You must have found out over the past year. Did you ask Timmy about it? Hope he didn’t get a lecture. I was the one who told him to keep it quiet.”
Jason tried to steer the conversation into more familiar, banter-y territory, but Bruce was still silent, still looking at him. He was usually hard to read, and this time even more so. It made Jason want to scream.
Stay calm, he told himself. You made it this far. Once you give the envelope, you’ll have done your part. Whether the old man malfunctioned or fell asleep with his eyes open is not your fault.
Jason gingerly cleared his throat, raising the envelope in his hand towards Bruce. His eyes followed the movement, so at least that meant he was awake. He accepted the envelope.
“It’s, um…you don’t have to come,” Jason said, as Bruce began to open it. “I just, you know, figured…they gave us this, so I might as well use it. I did this for me, for my life, but I still can’t help wanting to show you.” Can’t help chasing after you, like a boy searching for his father’s hand in a crowd.
Bruce pulled out the paper. Read it once. Read it again. Then again. Jason could see the typed writing from the back; he’d read it several times over himself.
You are cordially invited to the
COMMENCEMENT CEREMONY
at Gotham State University
Class 20XX
It was quiet for a long time. At least, it felt like it. Alfred was peeking in from behind the doorway.
“You don’t have to come,” Jason blurted out. “I get it, you’re busy, it’s not—it won’t even be a big thing—”
All of a sudden, in a blur of color, Bruce rose from his seat. He crossed the short distance between them, wrapped his arms around Jason, and held him tight. It would’ve knocked the wind out of the boy, if the shock hadn’t done it first.
“B-Bruce—” Jason said, his voice muffled. “What—?”
“...My boy,” Bruce whispered. “My son. Jay, lad—I’m so proud of you.”
And there they were. Those words that always made Jason want to tear himself apart and put the pieces back together again, only correctly, this time. Those words he’d chased as a boy, had yearned for as a man. The words he couldn’t bear to hear. The words he craved to hear. The words that killed him and brought him back.
It’s never that simple for us, Jason had said. And maybe that would always be true.
But this, too, was true—Bruce’s firm but gentle hold, the sincerity in his voice. The man behind the cowl, the man who was not Batman, or even Bruce Wayne. The man who was just Bruce.
Jason held him back, gripping his shirt. He felt twelve all over again.
“I will be there,” Bruce promised him. “If it’s the last thing I do, I will be there.”
As he hovered near the doorway, Alfred smiled at them.
*
When he first started upon his crusade, Bruce could have never imagined doing this.
Taking a night off? From Batman? In Gotham?
It was unthinkable; Bruce wouldn’t have even entertained the thought. There were too many risks. Too much at stake. It was always one night that made the biggest difference.
But that was before, when he was one man on a lone mission that felt larger than life itself. When the manor was emptier still and echoed with faded memories of a once-happy child. Things have changed so much since then.
Tonight, Bruce was fully booked for the attendance of his son’s graduation ceremony. In the last few days, the family had closed up their most urgent cases and left the rest on hold. Dick had arrived from Blüdhaven the other night. Batwoman and Batwing were scheduled to keep watch over Gotham in the family’s absence. Everything was taken care of. Bruce didn’t dare leave anything to chance; this was something he absolutely could not screw up.
The venue was absolutely packed. Bruce sure as hell wasn’t helping by bringing, like, eight other people with him, but he’d Wayne himself through any complaints if he had to. That was how they'd gotten front row seats, anyway.
Jason had said he’d meet them when they arrived, but so far, Bruce couldn’t see him. Behind him, Damian and Duke were bickering about who’d stepped on whose shoes, and Tim was desperately trying to stop them from making a scene. Then, when they deemed him too annoying, they tried to step on Tim’s shoes, after which Dick tried to intervene and was met with similar shoe-stomping threats. Even further behind them, Alfred sighed deeply. Stephanie, Cass and Barbara had separated themselves from the clamor and were busy taking pictures.
So, yes. This was really the most ordinary it would ever get for the family.
After much struggle with his adult children—minus Damian—Bruce managed to herd them towards their assigned seats. At least they didn’t fight over who got to sit where.
“Wasn’t Jason supposed to greet us?” Dick said. “I wanna give him his gift!” He raised the nighthawk plushie he’d brought with him, giving it a gentle pet on its miniature graduation cap.
Damian tutted. “You got him a toy?”
“It’s Gotham U’s mascot! You can put it on your shoulder!”
“I think it’s cute,” Cass interjected.
“Maybe, if you’re three.”
“Just wait until you graduate, baby bird,” Dick grinned wickedly. “I’m getting you a mascot plushie twice your size. And I’ll make sure someone photographs us when I give it to you.”
“You would not dare!”
On Bruce’s right, Alfred chuckled.
“Nice to see the children so full of energy,” he whispered. “And that includes you, Master Bruce.”
Bruce patted his oldest friend on the shoulder. “You know none of this would have been remotely possible without you, right?”
Alfred shook his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a gentle smile. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, my boy.”
After a few more minutes, Jason emerged from the crowd, clad in his graduation gown. The school’s logo gleamed on his chest, and the tassel swung as he walked. He was trying to be casual about the whole thing, but the smile on his face was unmistakable. Bruce softened at the sight.
The whole thing felt surreal. How they managed to get here, Bruce could barely understand. There was a time when Jason seemed so far away, pushed to the brink of every limit possible. There was a time when Bruce thought that the boy was better off on his own, cut off from the darkness Batman had tainted him with—he had made so many mistakes. But Jason had risen bright and daring despite it all.
What more could Bruce possibly ask for?
“Do you guys have any idea how loud you are?” Jason said by way of greeting. The family swarmed him in an instant, congratulating him and slapping his back.
“Tt. You are late,” Damian accused.
“Sorry, kid,” Jason said airily, ruffling his hair. “Had to take of something.”
That sent alarms ringing in Bruce’s head. “Everything okay?” Is it Red Hood trouble? He suddenly had the very alarming image of Jason in his bright red helmet and graduation gown dropkicking a mobster behind the school.
“Relax, old man,” Jason said, waving off the concern. “It’s not what you think. It was just some paperwork—um, Dick, what the fuck are you doing?”
Dick paused like a deer caught in headlights, having failed to discreetly fix the mascot plushie on Jason’s shoulder.
“Uhm. Giving you finishing touches?”
Jason gave him a bemused look, but surprisingly didn’t stop him. “Whatever, man. I’m in a glorified sleeping gown with a square hat on my head. I might as well add a fake bird to the mix.”
Dick celebrated with a drawn-out yes as he positioned the plushie on Jason’s shoulder. Behind him, Tim was busy adjusting the cap’s tassel.
“It should be on the right side, Jason,” he insisted. “And then when you get your diploma, you move it to the left. It symbolizes a transition in your life—”
“Shut up, nerd,” Jason said, but again, he didn’t stop him. In Jasonspeak, all of this was a show of gratitude. He was happy they’d made it.
“You look positively distinguished, dear boy,” Alfred assured him, plucking invisible specks of dust from the boy’s gown. The pride in his voice was impossible to miss. “Will you be considering further education after this?”
Jason laughed. “We’ll see, Alfie. Just stop me before I try to get a PhD, or with Gotham’s track record, you might have another supervillain on your hands.”
Bruce stepped forward to adjust the gown around Jason’s shoulders. “Regardless. You might find it easier to do your research, this time, given that I’ve since updated the manor’s library.”
“Of course you did.” Jason tried to be flippant about it, but his voice was a tad thicker than usual. “...Thanks for coming, old man.”
“I promised, didn’t I?” Bruce smiled, giving Jason’s arms a firm pat. The family stepped back to admire the finished look.
“He looks ridiculous,” Damian announced happily.
“Yes,” Tim said, whipping out his phone.
“So, what’s the plan?” Barbara asked, a sly smile on her lips. “We cheer as loud as humanely possible when he gets called?”
Jason’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. God, no. Please just cheer like normal people.”
“Not a chance, Jaybird,” Dick grinned. “Nice try, though.”
“I’m never inviting you guys to anything ever again.”
Soon enough, the venue lights dimmed, and both graduates and guests were called to return to their respective seats. Jason gave a small wave as he returned to his section, careful not to jostle his cap or the bird on his shoulder. It was always the small things with him; Bruce never failed to notice.
Up on stage, deans and department heads came and went. Speeches—boring speeches—were delivered. From the corner of his eye, Bruce saw Stephanie playfully smack Tim awake. But when the host began to call the names of the graduates, the entire family sat upright. It was a while before the list neared the letter T, but the kids entertained themselves by taking pictures of Jason from afar and editing them to their heart’s content. Bruce had to give them the Look after the 57th picture of Jason with edited-in cat whiskers.
“Blaire Tackett.”
“Shaimaa Thabet.”
“Edith Tobey.”
The names went on, each one followed by a beaming student approaching the stage. And then—
“Jason Todd-Wayne.”
It was hard to tell what was louder—the roar that erupted next to Bruce, or the almost-painful beating of his own heart. Jason Todd-Wayne. The name rang, over and over, in his head. That…wasn’t possible. Bruce had seen Jason’s renewed documents, he would have definitely noticed—
Relax, old man. It’s not what you think.
Oh.
It was just some paperwork.
…Oh.
Bruce blinked away the sudden wetness in his eyes. After everything, everything—Jason was sticking by him. Reconnecting to his once-severed legacy. They were not anyone’s ideal father-son duo, nor would they ever be, but when have they ever cared about the ideal?
Bruce stood up, clapping. The world blurred around him like a dream. Somewhere on his left, his family was thundering with applause. Barbara was filming the whole thing. Bruce wasn’t sure when, but at some point, Dick had scooped up Damian and put him on his shoulders.
Jason took the stage. His ears were red from all the attention, but his smile was wide and proud. It was a smile Bruce had last seen many years ago, unmarred by the ugliest part of their double lives. A smile that was still painfully earnest in a way only a child’s could be. Traces of that smile were etched into Jason’s features, like a resurfacing memory.
The department head was handing Jason his diploma, and the two paused for the routine photograph. Jason’s eyes searched the crowd and found Bruce’s. His father gave him a grateful nod, passing along sentiments he would make sure to voice.
Thank you for letting me be a part of this. Thank you for trusting me.
Jason nodded back, lifting his diploma just a tad higher. From that short distance, Bruce saw the careful lettering on the creamy paper: Jason Todd-Wayne.
In his mind, Bruce was already picturing how he would have it framed.