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Jason was pushing every ounce of his self-restraint to the absolute limit just to stop himself from lobbing the batarang in his palm straight at Bruce’s face.
And let’s be real, ever since he clawed his way out of that damn Lazarus Pit, 'self-control' wasn't exactly Jason’s best-functioning muscle. I mean, there are hundreds of muscles out there—biceps brachii, iliopsoas, rectus femoris. Jason could afford to skip one.
But hey, if Bruce could chuck a batarang at his own son's throat without a second thought, Jason could damn well do the same, right? An eye for an eye. What did those pretentious pricks call it? Hammurabi's Code. Yeah, the Law of the Twelve Tables had been around for ages, but to hell with modernity. On this side of Gotham, the old rules still applied.
The fingers beneath his Kevlar gloves were tingling violently; his hand, cramping with the urge to throw, was practically crushing the metal. That sick Lazarus poison was pumping through his veins faster and thicker than actual blood.
It was an impossible, suffocating feeling to describe. Like hundreds of needles piercing his skin all at once, shooting pure epinephrine straight into his circulatory system. Every single nerve ending in his body burned alive, then shattered like microscopic glass shards, roaming through his system like loose cannons—until Jason couldn't register a single damn thing besides that burning, tearing sensation.
His breathing turned ragged.
His vision started glitching and bleeding green around the edges, like it got slapped with some cheap Snapchat filter. It was as if an invisible hand was taking watered-down, fluorescent green paint from a giant palette and splashing it directly onto Jason's corneas, swallowing up every real color in the world.
Bruce is yelling at him. He’s always yelling. Yelling again.
Honestly, lately, this was the only form of communication Bruce ever used with him. Where the hell was that 'effective communication' he was always bragging about?
That muffled, authoritative, echoing fucking tone rumbling from beneath the cowl kept bouncing and bouncing around inside Jason's skull like a goddamn basketball that just wouldn’t stop.
Jason had exactly zero tolerance left for it.
He wanted to hack his own ears off without batting an eye, just so he’d never have to hear that cursed voice again. His fingers twitched involuntarily toward the edges of his helmet. The muscles beneath his leather gloves were pulled taut as a bowstring.
Don't yell at me, he wanted to say.
Please don't yell at me, he wanted to say.
Don't. You're feeding the Pit. Stop.
You need to stop.
As that toxic green wave in his chest clawed its way up his throat, he wanted to scream with an acid-burning rage: Don't yell at me, you goddamn son of a bitch!
But the words lodged in his throat like bloody knots. Because Batman was threatening him. Again. And in a tone so mundane, so mechanical and emotionless, that these fucking ultimatums had become an absurd daily routine for Jason.
In his mind, Bruce’s voice twisted into a sick, warped parody. As if they were just having a casual Sunday morning father-son chat:
"How are you, son? Great, I’m doing fine too. Now, you’re either gonna stop killing people, or you’re coming with me to Arkham, that goddamn asylum. Oh, by the way, what are your thoughts on exports lately? The raw material shortage has really slowed things down, hasn't it?"
Bruce was advancing on Jason with heavy, measured steps. Fuck.
Jason was a massive guy now. He knew that damn well. He had been forced to look at that stranger in the mirror, at that warped and hulking body. He wished he hadn't. He wished he wasn't trapped inside this disgusting mound of flesh, bathed in green waters and littered with scars—but he was. He wasn't a little kid anymore; he had the broad shoulders, the dense muscle mass, and the lethal strength to go toe-to-toe with Batman. He could defend himself. He could. His logic and years of bloody training were screaming at him to puff out his chest and put his guard up. He could do this.
But the shivering little boy shoved into the darkest corners of his mind, with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, saw only one thing: an angry father marching toward him.
The dull, rhythmic thuds of Bruce's heavy tactical boots on the floor echoed and warped inside Jason's mind. For a split second, the massive Bat shadow on the wall shifted, morphing into the terrifying silhouette of Willis Todd backing a cornered kid against a wall. Triggered by a childhood reflex, Jason's battle-ready muscles instantly locked up. His breath hitched in his ribcage.
This was exactly what Willis used to do.
And the most sickening part was... Bruce used to be the one who pulled him out of those nightmares. His mind betrayed him, dragging up that old, warm memory so vividly it made the bridge of his nose sting: Bruce wrapping him in those safe, giant arms... His warm, ungloved fingers gently carding through Jason's hair... And that deep, fatherly voice whispering: "What that man did to you was so wrong, Jay. You mean so much to me, and you never deserved any of this."
It felt like broken shards of glass were piling up in Jason's throat. He couldn't swallow. His jaw trembled with rage and betrayal beneath the helmet, and his shoulders slumped involuntarily under an invisible, crushing weight.
How the hell had he fallen for those tender touches, those sweet lies? He felt like an absolute fool for believing Bruce back then, for actually thinking the man was a real 'father'. A pathetic, miserable fool.
That was Jason Todd for you.
A PATHETIC FOOL.
Jason had absolutely zero clue what he was doing in that moment, or how he had completely lost control of his own body.
Within the ruined, toxic green waters of his mind, a very, very old memory breached the surface, settling over reality like a thick fog. It was a promise Bruce had made to him. Years ago, under the dim lights of the massive Batcave, Bruce had dropped to one knee to meet him at eye level, staring directly into his ocean-blue eyes.
It was a vow that if Jason ever used that safeword... if Jason said 'red', Batman would instantly stop everything.
The second that word spilled from his lips, the war on crime would end, the op would be aborted, patrol was over. The whole damn world would stop spinning if it had to. Batman would cast aside that terrifying cape, just scoop his son up into his arms, hold him tight, and tell him in that deep, soothing voice that it was all over:
"I gotcha, Jaylad. You're safe, sweetheart."
A pained, ragged breath escaped Jason's throat. This rule... this sacred vow was only meant for Robin. It was for that innocent kid with the yellow cape and the bright smile who actually believed he could save the world. It was meant for the kid whose eyes were still a bright, clear sky-blue. Not for this monster hiding behind a red helmet, with blood-stained hands and a shattered soul. Bruce wouldn't call him 'sweetheart' anymore. Bruce wouldn't hold him anymore.
But Jason... Jason just wanted it to stop.
That terrified little kid inside of him took the wheel completely.
His lips trembled. His voice sounded less like the rage of a grown man and more like the sob of a child lost in the dark. A cracked, desperate, breathless whisper tumbled from his lips:
"Red... Red, B. Stop, please... Red."
""Jason?"
The word hung in the air.
The first thing Jason registered through the haze of panic and poison suffocating his mind was that Bruce wasn't yelling anymore. That sharp, booming, echoing authoritative voice was gone. His voice had come out so soft, so incredibly fragile... It felt just like coming back to the Manor after a freezing, bloody patrol to find warm, homemade cookies waiting for him in the kitchen. Or like a gentle spring rain tapping rhythmically against the windowpane on a sleepless night. It was tender. And most importantly... it sounded like he was asking for permission.
The second thing Jason noticed between his trembling breaths was that the massive, dark silhouette was no longer advancing on him.
The nightmarish, echoing thuds of those heavy boots had cut off like a knife. Completely discarding the terrifying majesty of the Bat cape and years of accumulated pride, Bruce raised his gloved hands in the air in total surrender—palms open and visible. Without breaking eye contact with Jason for even a split second, he dropped to one knee right there on the cold floor in a swift but gentle motion. Just like he used to. He hadn't lowered himself to the massive frame of the Red Hood, but to the eye level of the small, terrified kid trapped inside that helmet.
"Jason... Jason, Jaylad."
His voice cracked. Jason realized how much he had missed Bruce calling his name like that... no, he realized he had completely forgotten it.
He had forgotten how rich, how deep Bruce's voice actually was when he wasn't snarling in anger or wearing that cold, dictatorial mask. The man's voice was as reassuring as a soft, heavy blanket draped over his shoulders when he fell asleep by the fire in the dead of winter.
It didn't feel like trying to gasp for air on the rusted, blood-stained streets of Gotham years later; it felt like an old, familiar breeze blowing in from the safe, warm days of his childhood, brushing softly against his face.
Jason looked at Bruce, who was down on one knee. Bruce didn't look small like this; he just looked like home. Like something Jason thought he would never see again.
Those sentences that had been lodged in his throat like bloody knots just moments ago, the ones he had tried to swallow back down, were now slipping from his lips uncontrollably, like water spilling through a broken dam.
"Don't yell at me."
His voice came through the helmet's comms muffled, cracked, and barely more than a whisper, slicing through that heavy silence like a shard of glass.
In that moment, he couldn't care less how Bruce was looking at him. He didn't have the strength to weigh the pity, the horror, or that devastating tenderness in his eyes; besides, his vision behind the helmet was already blurring from his quickening breaths and welling tears. The green was giving way to an empty void, to absolute nothingness.
"Don't..." he mumbled helplessly, his massive shoulders shaking with a sob he couldn't hold back. His voice grew even smaller. "Please don't... I'm trying. I really am trying."
His breath hitched. His ribcage contracted as if rejecting the air he took in, because Jason was telling the truth. For so damn long, Jason had been doing nothing but trying.
"Don't yell at me."
In that moment, a sound ripped from Bruce's throat—a sound so ruined and shattered it couldn't possibly belong to a human. This sound didn't belong to Batman, to a hero, or to a billionaire; it was the agonizing groan of a severely wounded father who realized he had pushed his own son into hell with his bare hands and kept him there. A pitiful howl blended with pure self-loathing, and bitter, suffocating regret.
That single, devastating sound tearing from Bruce's lips brushed against those invisible, rusted, and broken strings in Jason's chest cavity. An agonizing, familiar melody echoed again, and again, and again beneath Jason's ribs, plucking those broken strings once more.
"I'm sorry."
When the word spilled from Bruce's lips, it didn't sound like a simple apology offered after some mundane mistake. It sounded like something heavy enough to carry the weight of years, the cold engraving on a tombstone, unshed tears, and irreplaceable losses—something so dense it could crush you.
"I'm sorry, Jaylad," Bruce whispered, his voice trembling. "You're doing good... You're doing so good."
And God... beneath all of his bloody war, his endless rage, and his desperate thrashing, this was the exact, singular thing Jason had been dying to hear.
All that warrior's tension in his body, that toxic adrenaline, gave way to a total, bankrupt exhaustion. Jason stumbled forward a step, his knees practically giving out. His trembling hands found the lower latches of his helmet, forced the mechanism open, and pulled the heavy red helmet off his head, tossing it carelessly to the floor. While the dull echo of the helmet hitting the concrete still rang out, Jason threw himself directly into Bruce's neck, against those familiar broad shoulders, and clung to him tightly like someone drowning in a storm.
Bruce's arms instantly—and with unwavering speed—wrapped around Jason's back. He embraced him as if he were the most fragile, irreplaceable treasure in the world, as if swearing a vow to never, ever let him go again. While his wide, calloused hands gently stroked the nape of Jason's neck, he rested his chin in his son's hair.
"You're doing good," he murmured again, his voice thick with tenderness and held-back tears. "You're doing so good, sweetheart."
Bruce pulled him in a little closer, as if he wanted to tuck Jason right back inside his own ribcage, into the safest place of all.
"I love you, Jaylad," the man whispered, his breath tangling in Jason's hair. "I've always loved you. I love you. And I always, always will."
Jason squeezed his eyes shut against his father's shoulder. Letting his hot tears seep into Bruce's armor, he clung to this sweet lie with all his might, defying the dark, skeptical voices whispering in his mind. He held on as tightly as a man gripping a lifeline with bleeding fingers.
Because... maybe, just maybe, it was real.