Archive of Our Own

Jason knows it’s a good day when he wakes to the smell of huevos con chorizo cooking¹, his nose twitching from the rich spices, and consciousness catching the muffled sound of soft rock music from the kitchen. He turns around in his bed, breathing deeply as he mourns his sleep.

When he opens his eyes, it’s to his door cracked open, his dad’s old leather jacket resting at the foot of the bed. His heart speeds up as he reaches for it; it’s cool to the touch, but when he brings it up to his face, there’s the hint of gunpowder and nicotine.

His dad must’ve arrived home last night then. Usually, it’s warm when he gives it to Jason; the smell of musk and sweat is still strong from recent use. Instead, there’s the familiar smell of Dove mild soap and cheap vodka that he uses to clean it.

Jason rubs his eyes, blinks away eye crust, and gets out of bed with a big stretch. The apartment is chilly from the morning rain, and Jason shivers even with his oversized pajamas and fuzzy socks that Mrs. Soto from the library gifted him. She’s always impressed by how much Jason reads, and tells his dad that Jason has a gift for literature. He likes it when she calls him her ayudantito², pride warming his chest whenever he volunteers to help her organize the books.

He leaves his room and closes the door to the sound of the stove sizzling and his mom’s laughter. “Hey, mijo!"³ His dad greets Jason as he enters the kitchen, spatula in hand to stir the huevos and chorizo together. “I thought we would have more time to surprise you with breakfast.”

“I told you he’s sensitive with his nose.” His mom tugs Jason closer to kiss his forehead, and lowers the music down so their voices don’t have to compete with the volume. Not that this stops his dad from mouthing the lyrics to Maná, body swaying in time with the beat.

His mom is sitting on the counter, pajamas hanging loose from weight loss, but she’s smiling as she shakes her head at dad’s antics. “Don’t burn breakfast,” she teases as she flips tortillas⁴ on the comal.⁵ Unlike Jason or his dad, she still needs tongs or a spoon to touch them; every time she attempts to use her fingers, she hisses and shakes her hands.

“Sweetie, can you get the beans from the fridge?”

Jason squeezes between them to open the fridge, then rummages through random containers to find where the beans were moved for storage.

“Are we still going to the library?” He asks his dad as he closes the fridge door, moving to another cabinet for a microwaveable bowl. He scoops a good amount of beans for all of them, and his mom makes a grabbing motion with her hand. When he gives it to her, she plops the bowl in the microwave, inserting the time for them to heat up, then goes back to put the extra tortillas in the tortilla warmer.

“¿Tuviste buenas notas en este boletín?”⁶ He turns off the stove, and Jason grabs the paper plates. Jason watches as his parents work together: mom putting a tortilla down, dad serving and wrapping the burritos, and mom putting the beans on the side.

Jason's chest puffs out. “¡Obvio que sí!”⁷ He brags.

His mom chuckles, and his dad ruffles his hair as they guide Jason to the table. It’s a tight fit, crowded in their small kitchen. One side has paper folded under a leg so it doesn't wobble; patches of paint are scraping off the wood. Jason cracks open the window behind him, hoping to hear the morning birds but only hears the rush of cars and people running down the block to catch the city bus.

“¿Qué tal esto?”⁸ His dad says over the music, guitars and drums bringing more life to their kitchen. “Show me the, uh, the boleta⁹ after we eat, and maybe we’ll get a treat after the library as well.”

Jason gasps, leaning forward in his chair, and his mom pushes the food further away as if Jason is about to slip onto the plates. “What type of treat?” He doesn’t wait for his dad to answer. “Can we get paletas?”¹⁰

His parents exchange a look as Jason vibrates in his seat, and Jason puts on his best puppy face when they look back at him. It’s rare for them to buy treats, with the majority of the money going to rent, basic necessities, and towards his mom’s sickness.

Dad must have gotten paid then, or maybe it was a bonus. Whatever it was, Jason was taking full advantage of his dad’s promise. He’s been craving pineapple paletas with Tajín¹¹ for a month now, and he’ll do anything to get some—even if it means babysitting Xavier from downstairs again.

“I’ll get you all the paletas you want,” his dad promises. “Do you want anything too, mi amor?”¹²

His mom has a fond expression on her face as she watches them, the one that makes her seem younger and less stressed. It was one of Jason’s favorite expressions on her. “Just some of those pan dulces¹³ of yours.”

Despite how much Dick teases him, Jason would not describe himself as a theater kid. Jason doesn’t like drawing attention to himself, unlike a certain someone, and he has no urge to join the theater club and perform. Like any true bookworm, he simply enjoys reading plays and giving character voices, maybe even setting up props if Alfred or Bruce was going to linger.

This does not make him a theater kid!

But this is different when Tim Drake, a kid genius who skipped grades but still can’t comprehend themes in English, categorizes Jason as a theater kid. All Jason can do is stare at him, reluctantly agreeing rather than defending himself as he would with Dick. The thing about Tim is that he’s observant; his brain operates in categories and metaphorical files, organized by patterns and quantitative data. This is why he struggles with English, but excels in math and science classes.

So when Tim says he’s a theater kid, all Jason can do is sit back down and question what patterns point to this conclusion.

“Are you saying this to get out of tutoring?” Jason jokes, tapping the eraser end of his pencil on the school textbook, where Act One of Romeo and Juliet is open. It’s not Jason’s favorite Shakespeare play, finding Much Ado About Nothing more entertaining, but it’s the one freshmen have to cover as their first stage play. Jason wonders how much of Tim’s struggle to understand it has to do with his general lack of interest in reading and how much of it’s from his younger age.

Tim looks up from his notebook, messy red ink circling important information, and the margins noting Jason’s comments to keep in consideration for their tests. Jason ignores the scribbles in the corner of the pages, marking whenever Tim got lost in thought.

There’s a Vero Mango¹⁴ in his mouth, one Jason gave him during science class earlier in the morning. The kid has been deprived of greatness, and Jason intends to save him from the bland white food he keeps bringing to lunch.

“What? No, I…” Tim pauses, tilting his head. His eyes squint as he re-analyzes the interaction. “I thought you were in theater.”

Jason sputters. “What gives that impression?!”

Tim gives him a blank stare, the type that screams I know more than you. “Well, for starters,” he begins as if he has a list, which, knowing Tim, there probably is. “You and Dick are always singing musicals whenever you drop me off. Out of all the Waynes, you're the only one genuinely excited to see a performance. You actually like reading Shakespeare with the class, and despair whenever someone reads their lines in a flat voice. Which reminds me, why are you doing character voices during this?”

Jason is surprised Tim didn’t start counting on his fingers, just to drive the point more home. “Fine.” Jason huffs. “Maybe I am a theater kid. Can you blame me though? The voices are fun.”

“The voices sound like torture.”

Jason rolls his eyes. The sass this kid has could run circles around Dick. “Equis.¹⁵ We’re getting off track.”

Tim kicks at Jason’s chair leg, lips pressed together into a pout. “I still think you should sign up for the theater club.” He’s arguing just to argue; Jason can tell because he doesn't look at Jason when he says it, instead looking back to the textbook.

Despite this, Jason can’t help but hum in thought.

He’s always considered signing up, but with keeping up with his studies and Robin, it’s never been something he seriously considered. The idea of joining sounds fun, but at the end of the day, Jason’s going to prioritize being Robin. Being Robin means being magic; it means being good and making a difference, making an impact on a city that has both looked out for him and taken from him. He wouldn’t trade Robin for the world, even if it means sacrificing some hobbies.

Jason taps at the last section they left off on. “Okay, how does Benvolio’s analogy of love differ from Romeo’s attitude of love in the previous scenes?”

Tim must’ve said something to Alfred, who informed Bruce, who offhandedly mentioned it to Dick; that’s the only explanation Jason can think of for Bruce making a “stage” in the movie theater room. There are even wood planks to elevate the upstage, the props set up on a nearby table.

Jason watches from the threshold as Dick plays with one of the plastic crowns, Alfred straightening white sheets, and Babs poking Dick’s side with a foam sword.

Without breaking stride, Bruce grabs the plastic skull and throws it to Jason. “What do you think?”

Jason blinks at the skull in his hand. “¿Qué…qué es esto?”¹⁶

“Some little birdie has been describing your interest in theater,” Bruce starts as he leads Jason to the table, putting a sack of papers into his hand. “But you're also hesitant to actually join any plays at school.”

“So we were talking,” Dick continued, gesturing between him, Barbara, and Bruce. “And thought, hey! We have plenty of room to make a small stage here. So why not have a play of our own?”

Jason could only stare at them, bewildered. Barbara was flipping through the script with quick, analytical eyes, Alfred lingering around the props to make sure they were perfect, and Dick watched Jason with hopeful eyes.

Jason brings his gaze back to Bruce, who has a fond smile, and curls the papers closer to his chest. “You guys would really do that? For, for me?”

“Oh, chum,” Bruce squats down, bringing his hands to Jason’s shoulders. He does that often, as if the physical touch will prevent any misunderstandings; as if Jason’s shoulders and his hands are separate pages in a book, and their connection is the spine binding them together. “If it makes you happy, then we’ll do it.”

There’s a familiar pang of grief in Jason’s chest at the words. His time with his dad and mom was short, and as much as Bruce tries, there’s no replacing those small traditions he had with them.

Jason misses their trips to the library and his dad’s efforts to get him a reward for earning good grades in his report cards. He misses waking to the smell of chorizo or charred chilli peppers in the morning, his dad whistling as Spanish music plays in their small kitchen, and his dad ruffling his hair before Jason leaves for school.

He misses the smell of nicotine clinging to his father’s coat, and his mom kissing his forehead as they dance to bolero¹⁷ and ranchera¹⁸, her limbs stiff even after years of being familiar with the rhythm. He misses Mrs. Soto calling him her little librarian, and the way his dad ruffled his hair in pride, and the warmth of his mom’s hugs.

He never got to show them his interest in stage plays; it wasn’t something he developed until he was already in Bruce’s care, with his in-home library that is bigger than the whole apartment Jason grew up in.

He walks over to Babs and Dick, and the world spins as he’s flipped over the couch arm and into Dick’s lap as the prick pulls him into a one-armed hug, trapping him into the cuddle monster Jason calls his brother.

Babs shakes her head and pokes Dick in the ribs. “Stop terrorizing him.”

Jason looks to Bruce for help as Dick rubs his cheek over his head, but like the traitor, he’s also chuckling, looking to Alfred with a parental look only they can understand. Jason hates them, just a little. “Get off, pendejo!¹⁹ You’re ruining my hair!”

Bruce tries to scold Jason with an exclamation of “Language!”, but Jason is more focused on pushing Dick away, and only succeeds in making the man cling tighter as they fall onto their sides. Jason is now trapped between an acrobat that will bend in half with his non-existent bones to chase him, and the couch cushions.

Jason huffs, surrendering to his fate, and Babs apologizes by bringing the script closer to him so they can look over it together as a family. But don’t say Jason isn’t petty—

“So, what parts are everyone stuck on?”

A collective groan is his response.