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Jason Todd was fourteen the first time he met the Justice League.
He had expected… well, honestly, he hadn’t known what to expect. Batman didn’t really do “briefings with emotional preparation.” Jason had assumed it would be like most things in Gotham: loud, too big, and trying to kill him in some creative way.
Instead, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
The Watchtower felt less like a building and more like the idea of a building someone had decided to put in space. Everything was too clean, too bright, too *open*. Jason kept his shoulders squared anyway, chin lifted in the way Bruce liked, cape tucked just so.
He was Robin. He was fine.
He was absolutely not staring at the alien console on the wall like it was going to bite him.
“Try not to touch anything,” Bruce said flatly.
Jason immediately put his hands behind his back.
Which, of course, made it worse.
The Justice League filtered in one by one like mythology stepping into a room.
Jason tried not to stare at Superman, but it was genuinely difficult. The man looked like he had been carved out of optimism. Jason briefly wondered if you could punch him and what would happen to your hand.
Then there was Wonder Woman.
Jason stopped trying not to stare.
She noticed immediately, of course. People like her always did. Not in a hostile way—more like she was aware of everything in the room at once and had simply decided Jason was worth paying attention to.
“You’re Robin,” she said, like it was both a question and a fact she was confirming.
Jason straightened even more. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Diana,” she corrected gently.
He blinked. “Yes, Diana ma’am.”
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly, she smiled. “You read.”
It wasn’t a guess. It was an observation.
Jason hesitated. “Yeah. I mean—yeah. When I can.”
“What do you read?”
That threw him more than any villain ever had.
“Uh,” he said, suddenly aware that Superman was also listening. “Poetry. Mostly. And like… street stuff. Beat poets. Some classics. Bruce makes me do the classics.”
That earned a quiet huff from Bruce that might’ve been approval in his language.
Diana’s expression shifted—interest sharpening into something warmer. “Come with me.”
That was not a request.
Jason looked at Bruce.
Bruce gave the smallest nod imaginable.
So Jason followed.
They ended up in a quieter section of the Watchtower, where the lighting softened and the hum of machinery faded into something almost like silence. Diana picked up a slim, old-looking book from a shelf Jason hadn’t even noticed.
“Have you read Homer?” she asked.
Jason squinted at the book. “The car guy?”
That made her laugh—actually laugh, not the polite kind adults did when kids said something stupid.
“No,” she said. “Not that one.”
She handed it to him anyway.
“The Iliad,” she said. “It is not just a story of war. It is a story of men who cannot escape it. Of pride. Of grief. Of what remains when victory is not enough.”
Jason turned the pages carefully, like it might explode. “That sounds… depressing.”
“It is honest,” Diana corrected.
He looked up at her. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Because you already understand it,” she said simply. “You just don’t have the words for it yet.”
Jason didn’t know what to say to that, so he did the only thing he could manage.
He read.
---
Years passed the way they always did in Gotham: not gently, not kindly, and not in a straight line.
And then Jason Todd came back wrong.
Or, depending on who you asked, came back *right*.
Red Hood stood on the fractured edge of a collapsing battlefield, boots planted like he belonged there more than the world itself did.
He was taller now. Broader. Sharper in every way that mattered and a few that didn’t. The kind of presence that made enemies hesitate before they even decided whether they were afraid.
He didn’t hesitate.
Neither did Batman.
“League backup’s arriving,” Batman said into comms.
There was a pause.
Then, carefully: “And you’re bringing *him*?”
Batman didn’t answer immediately.
That alone said enough.
When the Justice League arrived, the shift in the air was immediate.
Superman’s posture changed first—subtle, but alert. Others followed. They weren’t just seeing Red Hood.
They were seeing Batman’s contingency made flesh.
He didn’t bring Red Hood when things were going well.
He brought him when things were going to break.
Jason rolled his shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he called out. “I’ll only shoot the ones you’re emotionally attached to.”
No one laughed.
Good. He preferred it that way.
Diana stepped forward first.
Of course she did.
Her eyes narrowed slightly—not in judgment, but in recognition trying to reconcile two impossible things at once.
“You,” she said.
Jason tilted his helmeted head. “Me.”
A beat.
Then she spoke, softer. “You are angry.”
“Wow,” Jason said. “Great detective work.”
“Not just angry,” she continued. “You are… carrying it. Like armour.”
Jason’s grip tightened on his weapon.
She took another step closer.
“You were a boy who read Homer,” she said quietly.
That landed differently.
Not like a hit.
Like a key turning.
Jason didn’t move for a moment.
Then, almost reflexively, he muttered, “Yeah. Well. Bruce ruined that hobby.”
That made something flicker in her expression.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Because she saw it then—not the mask, not the weapons, not the violence carefully organised into efficiency.
She saw the same thing she had seen years ago on the Watchtower: a kid trying to understand suffering by reading people who had already survived it.
The fight erupted again around them, but Diana stayed focused on him.
“So tell me,” she said, lifting her sword as she deflected debris without looking, “what does Homer say about men who cannot escape war?”
Jason hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then he answered.
“That it changes them,” he said. “And if they’re unlucky… they come home different than they left.”
Silence, for half a heartbeat.
Diana nodded once, like that was the only correct answer in the world.
“Then remember this,” she said. “Change is not the same as loss.”
Jason scoffed. “That’s easy for you to say.”
“Nothing about war is easy,” she replied. “But you are still here. Still choosing. That matters more than what was done to you.”
For a moment, the battlefield noise faded.
And Jason—Red Hood, weapon in hand, rage carefully structured into purpose—looked at her like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or break something.
Instead, he said quietly, “You always talk like that?”
“Yes,” Diana said.
“That must annoy people.”
“It only bothers those who want simple answers.”
A beat.
Then Jason exhaled, sharp and almost amused.
“…yeah. That tracks.”
Diana raised her sword again, turning back toward the fight.
But before she moved away, she added, softer:
“You still care about the people on the streets.”
Jason didn’t answer immediately.
Because that part—he couldn’t deny.
So instead, he said, “Someone has to.”
Diana’s expression softened—not pity, never pity. Something steadier.
“Then you have not become lost,” she said. “Only… complicated.”
Jason gave a short, humourless laugh. “Understatement of the century.”
She looked at him one last time before rejoining the battle.
And there it was again—that same look from years ago.
Not seeing Red Hood.
Seeing Jason.
Still there.
Still stubborn.
Still reading the world like it was a tragedy he refused to accept without arguing with it first.
.............
It started, as most ridiculous Justice League discussions did, with absolutely no warning and far too much confidence.
They were between missions. That was the problem.
Idle heroes had opinions.
“I’m just saying,” Barry Allen said, spinning a pen between his fingers like it owed him money, “if we’re talking best Gotham vigilante, it’s obviously Nightwing. He’s acrobatic, he’s nice, he actually smiles—”
“Disqualified,” Bruce cut in immediately.
“That’s not how voting works,” Barry said.
“It is in Gotham.”
Across the room, Clark Kent looked mildly distressed, like he had walked into a debate club run entirely by owls. “Do we… have to rank them?”
“Yes,” Barry said. “It’s important.”
“No it isn’t,” Bruce said.
“It is emotionally,” Barry insisted.
That’s how it escalated into a full Justice League argument about Gotham vigilantes.
Somehow.
---
“Nightwing is the most well-adjusted,” Clark tried carefully. “That has value.”
“Disqualified,” Bruce repeated.
“Again,” Barry muttered, “not how—”
“I’m going to say Batgirl,” someone added from the side—Victor Stone, already regretting being in the room. “Because she’s the only one who seems like she sleeps.”
“That is also a strong metric,” Clark said earnestly.
Bruce said nothing, which somehow made it worse.
Then Barry leaned forward. “Okay but we’re ignoring the chaos factor. We need chaos factor.”
“Why do we need chaos factor,” Victor asked.
“Because Gotham runs on it.”
“That is not a measurement,” Victor said.
“It is in my heart,” Barry replied.
---
That was when someone—Clark, trying to be diplomatic—said:
“And Jason?”
The room went quiet in a very specific way.
Not respectful.
More like everyone suddenly remembered they had other places to be.
“Red Hood,” Bruce said flatly.
“Yes,” Clark said gently. “Him.”
Barry made a noise like he was trying not to laugh and failing. “Oh, this is going to be bad.”
Victor immediately shook his head. “Absolutely not. No. He shoots people. That’s disqualifying.”
“He has a point,” Clark said cautiously.
Bruce didn’t respond.
Which, again, was its own answer.
Then Diana Prince spoke.
“Jason Todd.”
Everyone looked at her.
Barry blinked. “Wait—*Red Hood* Jason Todd?”
“Yes,” Diana said simply.
Victor frowned. “He’s literally the ‘I solve problems with bullets’ one.”
Diana’s expression didn’t change. “He is also the one who arrives first when someone is trapped in a collapsing building.”
“That feels like Gotham propaganda,” Barry said.
“It is observation,” Diana replied.
Clark tilted his head. “Diana, he has… a reputation.”
“So did many warriors I have known,” she said calmly.
Bruce finally looked at her.
That alone made the room tense.
“He’s unstable,” Bruce said.
Diana nodded. “Yes.”
A pause.
Then she added, “So is Gotham.”
Barry made a strangled sound. “That is not reassuring!”
“It is context,” Diana corrected.
---
Victor tried again. “Okay but Nightwing is objectively—”
“Competent,” Diana agreed.
“Thank you,” Victor said.
“But Jason is the one who notices the boy hiding in the fire escape before the building collapses,” she continued.
That shut Barry up for half a second.
Clark softened slightly. “That’s… very specific.”
Diana nodded. “It is consistent.”
Bruce crossed his arms. “He crosses lines.”
Diana didn’t look at him when she answered.
“Yes,” she said. “And then he goes back and makes sure the people he crossed them for are still alive.”
Silence.
Barry whispered, “That is… complicated.”
“Yes,” Diana said again, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Gotham is complicated.”
Bruce exhaled through his nose.
Which might’ve been agreement. Might’ve been pain. Hard to tell.
---
Barry tried one last time. “Okay but like—fun factor? Nightwing has fun factor. Jason is… like… intense factor.”
Diana finally smiled.
Just slightly.
“He is very funny,” she said.
The room stopped.
Clark blinked. “He is?”
Bruce said nothing again, which somehow felt like a threat.
Victor slowly turned his head. “Red Hood is funny?”
Diana nodded. “He makes jokes when he is trying not to be afraid.”
Barry stared. “That is not funny, that is—”
“That is Gotham,” Diana said simply.
---
There was a long pause.
Then Clark said carefully, “So… your answer is Jason.”
“Yes,” Diana said.
Barry threw his hands up. “But why though?? Nightwing is literally right there being competent and smiling and not emotionally terrifying!”
Diana looked at him for a moment.
Then she said, gently but firmly:
“Competence is not the same as care.”
That quieted the room more than anything Bruce had said all day.
Even Bruce didn’t interrupt.
---
Later, Barry would still argue Nightwing.
Victor would still vote Batgirl.
Clark would still try to be diplomatic about all of it.
But Diana would not change her answer.
Because she had seen the fourteen-year-old boy in a cape asking about poetry like it mattered more than survival.
And she had seen the man in the red helmet still stopping to make sure the people on the street corners were alive before he ever cared about being understood.
And in her mind, there wasn’t really a debate at all.