Chapter Text
The first time Jason meets you, it's as Bruce Wayne's son.
***
Jason Todd loves Christmas.
Not in the syrupy, carols-around-the-fireplace way - because the Todds never had a fireplace, and carols were usually drowned out by the upstairs neighbours screaming at each other. But Christmas was always something. A tree someone had dumped on the curb that he’d drag back inside and stand in a bucket, leaning and balding, but his. A candy cane snagged from the bodega counter, red dye staining his lips. Lights taped to the window until the stickiness gave out and they slumped in defeat. Christmas had been messy, cheap, loud, half-stolen, but it had also been magic. A reminder that Gotham could glitter, if only for a night.
Standing in the lobby of City Hall, Jason is trying very hard not to look impressed.
The place looks nothing like the echoing marble mausoleum he trudged through on school field trips and missions alike. Tonight it’s dressed to the nines: garlands twined up the bannisters, fairy lights twinkling from the high balconies, a monstrous tree in the atrium dripping more gold than a dragon’s hoard. Even the air smells better - pine and sugar cookies instead of must and floor polish. Jason’s jaw wants to drop, but he clamps it shut. He’s twelve now. Too old for awe. Too old for wide eyes.
Not too old to be deeply, profoundly embarrassed.
Because here he is, trailing after Bruce Wayne in a brand-new blazer that still itches at the seams, like a new puppy with three legs and a muzzle that Bruce keeps just to prove that he houses strays too.
The portico had been a circus - press cameras flashing, ushers in green blazers bowing them through, and Bruce Wayne working the walkway like it was one of his black-tie galas. Jason had caught the whispers trailing behind them: Wayne’s kid ... must be adopted ... never seen him before. Some people had smiled at him with that forced, wary politeness adults use when they’re not sure what kind of trouble you’re capable of. Jason knows that look too well.
Now, he's surrounded by kids his age - and younger, and older - swarming the hall in shiny shoes and scratchy tights - and that might be worse. Jason spots at least three kids from school in the crowd, including Aaron Kessler, who once dunked his head in a toilet after gym. If Aaron Kessler so much as breathes in his direction, Jason is moving to Metropolis.
“Why are we here?” he mutters, tugging at his collar. He glances up at Bruce, who’s surveying the decorations with that calm, unreadable look that probably means he funded half of this event.
“You’re not even Christian,” Jason says, a little louder this time, just in case Bruce forgot. “You’re Jewish.”
Bruce’s mouth tics at the corner, but he doesn’t look down. “It’s a civic event, Jaylad. Gotham’s holiday concert is tradition.”
It's not even close to what Bruce had said to the press as they'd walked in: "Hey, I've got kids now!" he'd announced with a wink, like he’d just discovered parenthood at a department store and was trying it on for size. Jason had wanted to melt into the marble floor. Like anyone was supposed to believe he had begged to come.
Jason scowls, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, a tradition for people who don’t have Winter Break reading.”
Code for: Bruce's idea of off-school Robin training. A mix of tactical essays, self-assessments and reports on how to improve fieldwork. Jason’s latest assignment had been to pick one change to his training routine for winter conditions. He’d spent hours on it, diagramming stance shifts and writing about ice-skating as balance conditioning and a practical mode of transport for Freeze-related incidents.
“You’ve finished your readings.”
He had also handed it in to Bruce yesterday.
“That’s not the point.”
By the time they find their seats, Jason’s prickling with heat under his collar. He folds his arms, trying to ooze disinterest while a group of angel-costumed kids troop down the aisle. They giggle too loudly, wings knocking into each other, and one trips over their hem and nearly faceplants on the marble. Jason snorts before he can stop himself.
He wants to hate this whole thing. The choir robes, the poinsettias lined up like soldiers, the ridiculous holly wreaths. But it’s hard. The building looks like it’s been gift-wrapped, glittering with garlands and light, and the air buzzes with that particular electric anticipation - like everyone’s waiting for something good to happen.
And Christmas is supposed to be about something good happening. Even in Gotham.
Jason crunches into a peppermint candy like he hadn’t muttered, “I don’t need one,” before pocketing it when the usher in white gloves offered. The sharp cool spreads across his tongue, down his throat, and he slumps lower into the plush velvet seat as though he could sink through the cushion and vanish.
Bruce, of course, takes his seat perfectly upright beside him. Polished shoes, tailored coat folded over his arm, a picture of Gotham respectability. Jason hates him a little for it. Not for the money or the clothes - that’s just part of the deal - but for how Bruce makes sure they’re seen. Walking slow through the lobby so the press could snap photos, shaking hands with city officials like this was one of his fundraisers. Jason doesn’t want to be Wayne’s kid right now. Not when there are classmates in the audience who’ll roast him alive for the rest of the year.
He crunches down on another shard of candy and tells himself it’s fine. Because, actually, he’s got a job to do tonight.
Surveillance.
He casts his eyes over the audience, rows of coats and pearls and flushed cheeks glowing under chandeliers. Gotham’s upper crust, packed into City Hall like sardines in tinsel. Perfect pickings for anyone with a grudge and a gimmick. He wouldn’t mind seeing a couple of the jerks in the front row get whacked - he recognises a slumlord or two - but there are kids here. His peers, younger siblings dragged along, the whole children’s choir still whispering and fidgeting onstage as the conductor arranges them by height. Protecting them is priority.
And isn’t that the real reason he’s here? Bruce hadn’t said it out loud, but Jason can read between the lines. He didn’t get invited because Bruce wanted to spend some father-son holiday time. He got brought along because Batman needed an extra pair of eyes. A kid in the crowd doesn’t stand out, not the way a hulking shadow in a cape would. If something went down tonight, Bruce would be ready. And Jason would already be in position. Because his job - even in street clothes, even in a stupid velvet chair surrounded by Gotham’s elite - is to watch, to be ready, to fill the role Bruce carved out for him the night he took him in.
Jason shifts, eyes darting. Toyman, he thinks. Could be hiding bombs inside the giant gift boxes stacked on either side of the stage. He imagines himself spotting the blinking lights, leaping forward, tossing them into the fountain outside just in time for the splash and bang. Cheers. Headlines.
Maybe Scarecrow. Rigging the Christmas star at the top of the big tree with canisters of fear gas, waiting until the lights go down to blow the place into a screaming mess. Jason pictures himself pulling a mask from his blazer pocket, sprinting up the ladder, smashing the rig apart with his bare hands while everyone looks up in terrified wonder.
Or even Ivy. He could see her in the wreaths - plants twisting suddenly to life, thorny vines bursting through the floorboards, the massive tree ripping itself free of the stand to stomp through the aisles like something out of a kaiju flick. Jason would be there with a hatchet. Or maybe a flamethrower.
The candy dissolves on his tongue, sharp and sweet, and he can almost taste the victory. He wiggles down into his seat another inch, keeping his chin tucked.
Either way, people would remember the night Jason Todd saved Christmas.
***
By the time the choir files onto the risers, Jason’s already half-dozing in his chair.
Not because he’s tired. Because this is painfully boring.
The conductor, whose stupid hat Jason has already zeroed in on, waves his baton like he’s duelling invisible ghosts, and the first notes rise up - thin, nasal, all in some language Jason doesn’t know. Latin, probably. The fancy, old-people kind of Christmas. Jason slumps lower, candy now nothing between his teeth, thinking grimly of all the songs that should have made the cut.
Jingle Bells. Frosty the Snowman. Literally anything with a beat.
But no. Apparently Gotham’s City Hall Holiday Concert has a vendetta against joy. So he finds something better to focus on.
At first, it’s just a flicker - one kid shifting their weight while the rest of the choir stands like statues. Jason’s eyes snag on you, almost out of boredom, and then the singing starts and, well.
Wow.
Because somehow - somehow - you’re phenomenally tanking it. Not a little stumble or a cracked note. No, you’re diving headfirst into a musical train wreck of historic proportions. Everyone else is standing there, prim and proper, hands tucked neatly at their sides, mouths forming perfect o’s as the Latin dribbles out in unison, like little Christmas robots. And then there’s you: completely defective.
Too fast one moment, dragging half a beat behind the next. Mumbling when the words vanish from your brain. And when you do commit? You commit loudly. A random syllable launched into the void, sharp enough to make Jason snort into his sleeve.
He stares, transfixed.
Do you not know the lyrics? Can’t read music? Are you tone deaf? Or maybe you just don’t care? Whatever it is, it’s spectacular. Like watching a magician botch a trick and then double down. Jason feels his grin twitching at the edges, biting the inside of his cheek to stop from bursting out laughing.
And suddenly the concert’s bearable. Better than bearable - it’s a sport. He locks in on you, tracking every verse. How badly will you miss this time? Too early? Too late? Or his personal favourite: blurting out a sound that isn't even close to a human language? Every miss is a point on the scoreboard. You’re a one-person blooper reel, the only spark in an otherwise soul-sucking parade of hymns.
Jason’s watching so closely that he notices the change in your face before he notices anything else. Your brows scrunch. Your eyes flit across the audience, scanning, uncertain, like you’re the only one aware something isn’t right.
Jason frowns. He glances past you, at the audience. Everyone’s gone ... still. Too still. Heads tilted, eyes glazed, the sound of their voices thinning out until he realises - no one’s talking. No polite coughs, no rustling programs, no shifting in seats. Just silence pressing down like a heavy blanket.
He straightens. That’s not right.
Jason elbows Bruce, grinning despite himself, ready to whisper, Look at that kid. Totally off-sync, it’s killin' me-
But when Bruce barely turns his head, there’s no automatic shush. No “Quiet, Jason.” His expression is carved from stone, eyes locked hard on the stage.
Jason’s grin falters.
Something’s wrong. Really wrong.
He elbows Bruce again. Harder this time. Nothing.
“Hey,” he hisses, leaning over. Bruce doesn’t even blink. His eyes are glassy, fixed straight ahead on the stage. Jason frowns, grabs Bruce’s sleeve, and shakes. “C’mon, old man, snap outta it.” Still nothing. Like shaking a mannequin.
A ripple of unease runs through Jason’s stomach. He leans closer, practically shouting over the droning choir, “Bruce. Bruce.”
For a split second, something flickers - Bruce’s jaw tenses, a muscle twitching like he’s trying to respond. But then the music swells, and he sinks back under, expression smoothing to blank.
Jason’s gut twists. He looks back at the stage, at the choir lined up in rows like little soldiers. Singing, chanting in lockstep. His head feels fuzzy now, heavy, like a warm blanket has been pulled over his thoughts. His eyelids droop. He swallows hard, panic sparking through him.
It’s the music. It has to be.
Jason grips the arms of his chair. Stay awake, Todd. Don’t fall under it. His brain scrabbles for an anchor, something sharp enough to keep him alert. He forces himself to look at you again.
And there it is - the lifeline.
You’re still off, still bungling verses like you’re in a competition with yourself. But now your face is pale, panicked. Your gaze jerks around the hall like you’re the only one awake in a room full of sleepwalkers. And then your eyes lock with his. Wide, searching.
Jason’s heart thumps. You must know. Or maybe you don’t, not fully, but you feel it too. And that makes two of you.
The haze creeps closer, a siren’s lull coaxing him to just ... let ... go. He digs his nails into his palms, keeps his eyes locked on you, on your mismatched rhythm, your cracked notes. Every wrong beat is a jolt of static that shocks him back to the surface.
And suddenly, the wild daydreams he’d spun earlier - the toy bombs, the Scare Gas, the Christmas-tree kaiju - don’t feel so ridiculous anymore.
He wanted to be the hero of the night?
Well, congratulations, Jason. Here it is. The test run. Only Batman isn’t coming to save the day this time.
Jason forces himself upright in his seat, nails biting crescents into the itchy fabric of his blazer sleeves. His brain is cotton-wool, heavy, threatening to sink, but he grits his teeth and shakes his head. Focus, Todd. Focus. Bruce isn’t moving. The crowd isn’t moving. Just him and you, standing there on stage, hopelessly off-beat and wide-eyed. And that restless, gnawing itch crawls up his spine. He knows this feeling. He knows what comes next.
The last time it happened, it was in Crime Alley, only a couple months after Bruce took him in. Bruce was off tracking Penguin’s smuggling routes and Jason had snuck out, because word on the street was some low-level goon was shaking down shopkeepers. Jason had thought: Easy. I can handle this. I know what Batman would do.
He’d waited in the shadows until the guy pulled a bat from under his coat and went after the old man who ran the bodega. Jason had come charging out, swinging a length of pipe he’d found in the alley. He’d landed a good hit, too, knocked the goon down. For half a second, adrenaline had made him feel like the hero he wanted to be.
And then the guy got up. Bigger, angrier. Jason remembered the smell of his breath, the spittle as he growled “little prick”, the way his fist had crashed against Jason’s jaw. He’d gone down hard, and the only reason he hadn’t woken up in a hospital was because Bruce had shown up just in time.
The lecture afterwards had burned worse than the bruise. Bruce’s voice - low, stern, not yelling but close enough to make Jason’s stomach twist.
"You don’t go in without backup. You don’t risk civilians by improvising. You don’t try to be Robin if you’re not ready."
But Jason hadn't tried to be Robin. He was trying to be Batman.
He'd shouted back - he was ready, he could’ve handled it if Bruce had given him the chance - but deep down, he’d heard the truth in it. He hadn’t been ready. He’d scared the shopkeeper half to death, nearly got himself killed, and worst of all, disappointed Bruce.
Jason sucks in a breath, lungs tight, blazer collar choking. He can’t mess this up again. Not in front of Bruce. Not with half the city’s elites and their kids sitting ducks in the pews. And if he proves he can handle this, maybe Bruce will stop seeing him as the reckless kid who needs a leash. Maybe he’ll finally see him as Robin.
His eyes flicking across the hall, trying to find something. Anything. If this were a movie, there’d be a glowing arrow pointing to the villain’s lair. If this were Dick, he’d already have spotted the trap, neutralised it, and be flashing a grin while people clapped.
Jason’s jaw clenches. He’s not Dick. He’s the kid who gets yelled at in training for not looking twice, who Bruce sighs at when he rushes in fists first.
But he’s all Gotham’s got right now.
So he looks. Really looks.
The choir drones on, syllables stretching like taffy, words repeating where they shouldn’t. Jason doesn’t know Latin, but he knows rhythm. He knows when a beat doesn’t land. They’re not singing songs; they’re chanting code. The conductor’s baton is moving too stiffly, ticking like a clock, and the kids’ mouths snap open and shut like gears. Except for you. You, flailing against the metronome. You’re the only piece out of sync, and you’re awake.
Jason’s stomach knots.
He glances at the audience again. Rows of tuxedos, slack jaws, glazed eyes. Judges, CEOs, maybe even half the city council. It’s like the world’s richest, sleepiest zombie convention. No pickpockets, no thugs looting handbags. Nobody moving at all. Not yet. That’s what makes his skin crawl. This isn’t the plan’s endgame. They're being loaded up, Jason realises. Like wind-up toys. Planting the suggestion now, saving the trigger for later. A phrase, a whisper, and this whole room of Gotham’s elite will march to the tune like marionettes.
Jason’s chest tightens. He should be clever enough to know the counter-phrase. Bruce or Dick would already be mapping it out in their heads, piecing the language together like codebreakers. Jason ... he just hears a bunch of droning nonsense.
He digs his palms into his knees. He's not them. He's never going to be them. But he can do something.
His eyes dart to the stage, to the neat rows of kids, to you. The room is all order, all symmetry. And order is the trap. That’s the trick. The music only works if everybody’s locked in step.
So what breaks it?
Jason already knows the answer.
He slumps back in his chair, chewing on the inside of his cheek, hating what he’s about to do. Hating that it’s the most Jason Todd solution imaginable. Bruce is going to be furious. Dick would’ve done it prettier, quieter, smarter. Robin would at least be able to justify it. Jason’s about to do it loud. He’s going to make a scene. The kind of scene that gets him glared at in class, muttered about in whispers, written off as the loudmouth screw-up. He can already imagine the newspaper headline: Wayne Ward Throws Tantrum, Ruins Christmas.
But if the choice is between being the brat who ruined Christmas and letting Gotham’s future get rewritten in some stupid rogue's storybook?
Jason Todd knows which part he’d rather play.
And he's gonna do it. He's actually going to do it.
He drags in a breath, shoving himself out of his chair. Every muscle screams to sit back down, to not make the kind of scene that’ll be whispered about in every Gotham prep school for the next decade. He’s halfway to bracing himself to shout - something, anything-
You move first.
One second you’re in the crooked little line of kids, the next you’re bolting forward, lace-ups squeaking against polished wood. Jason’s eyes widen, words dying in his throat. You snatch the main mic off its stand - tiny hands clutching something clearly not meant for you - and before anyone can stop you, the shriek of ear-splitting feedback tears through the concert hall, no worse than the yowl of your voice now amplified through the mic.
The sound ricochets through Jason’s skull, but - holy hell - it works. In the seats around him, he sees the first ripple. Blank stares twitch. Expressions crease. Some people flinch, some rub their temples. A murmur rolls through the audience like static. Dopey dreamland melts into confusion, annoyance. Jason stares, jaw slack. You're doing it. You're actually doing it.
For a split second, he feels pure, bone-deep relief. He doesn’t have to humiliate himself. He doesn’t have to torch his reputation. This kid - this disaster with a voice like a train wreck - you've already taken the grenade. All he has to do is sit back, keep quiet, and let you catch the fallout.
The thought is tempting. So tempting.
You’re clutching the mic like a weapon, yelling half-garbled verses into it, voice cracking but loud, gloriously loud.
You can't sing to save your life, but you might be saving everyone else's.
***
Oh, shitballs.
If your parents had shown up tonight like they'd promised, you'd be grounded until college.
But they didn't.
Which means you're free to completely ruin Christmas in front of Gotham's rich and shiny, and nobody at home will ever know.
And that's what this is, you think. You're ruining the whole event.
Your fists are slippery around the microphone, palms clammy, wondering if the sweat alone might short-circuit the thing. Feedback still rings faintly in your ears. You’re singing - sort of - if you can call belting out a mangled version of the Hallelujah chorus “singing.” Your voice skips and cracks, words dissolving into half-formed guesses. You sound like the world’s worst radio, tuned halfway between stations.
And it’s fine. It’s fine because this is temporary. It has to be. Any second now, the conductor will rip the mic out of your hands, the choir will carry on like nothing happened, and you’ll be the punchline of every whispered joke until Easter.
Because the thought that set you off - that ridiculous, hairbrained spark of panic that said hey, maybe the choir is brainwashing everyone with music - that was probably just your brain trying to distract you from the fact that you’ve been tanking it all night. The wrong notes, the half-mumbled words, the crowd's grimace. Much easier to believe in mass hypnosis than admit you’re just … bad.
You can feel the conductor’s rage sizzling from the corner of your vision. He’s going to yell later. That's guaranteed. He’ll say you’re disruptive. Immature. Acting out again. He’ll say your parents’ absence is no excuse for your behaviour, like that’s not the one thing everyone always assumes about you - that being left to your own devices makes you sloppy, unpredictable. A liability. You can already hear the lecture: "Some of us don’t have the luxury of treating things like a joke."
You hadn't even wanted to join the choir in the first place. That's the funny part. You aren’t one of those kids who dream about spotlights or solos. You don’t even like singing - not in front of people, anyway. The only time you really let your voice out is in the shower, where at least the acoustics make you sound halfway decent and nobody can laugh. But Mrs Hyseni from next door had leaned over the railing one afternoon while you were humming through the steam and declared you had “such a sweet little voice.” Which, fine, was a lie, but she said it loud enough for your mom to hear, and suddenly it was decided: you’d join the children’s choir. Keep you busy. Keep you out of trouble. Give you some “culture.”
Which was code for: stop making the neighbours nervous.
So, congratulations - you’ve just given them Exhibit A.
You risk a glance out into the crowd. Chandeliers sparkle over fur coats and black ties, all glittering and hollow as snow globes. A forest of faces, slack and still - except one.
That kid. Again.
About your age. Curls sticking up like he fought a comb and lost. He’s staring at you with an intensity that makes your throat catch.
And the thing is, you’d noticed him before. Right at the start, when the choir first shuffled into place and the organ wheezed awake, his gaze had been locked on you then, too. For a solid, dizzy second, you’d convinced yourself it was admiration - like maybe he thought you were pretty, or cool, or at least less ridiculous than the kids with tinsel halos slipping off their heads. Your stomach had done a weird, traitorous flip.
But then you remembered. You can’t sing. Not a little bit. Not even enough to fake it. And as the verses tripped you up one after the other, as you stumbled and mumbled and invented entirely new syllables to patch the holes, the truth settled in heavy: he wasn’t watching because you were impressive. He was watching because you were a disaster. The kind of car wreck you can’t look away from. So you’d avoided his eyes after that, cheeks hot, trying to shrink behind the kid in front of you and praying he’d get bored. But now he’s staring again. Only it doesn’t feel like mockery. Not anymore. It feels sharp. Urgent. Like he’s hanging on every wrong note you sing, like maybe he needs you to keep going.
Your eyes cast over the crowd once more, and for a second, your stomach swoops like the auditorium floor just dropped out.
They’re moving.
Not much - just a shift here, a blink there - but it’s enough. The statues are thawing. And every face that comes back to life does so with a twitch, a wrinkle, a curl of the lip that makes your pulse skitter. It’s not gratitude you see when the daze lifts. It’s annoyance. Irritation. Disgust, even. Like you’ve just wrenched them out of the best nap of their lives with the sound of a dying kettle.
Your throat goes dry. Your palms more slick. You want to stop singing, crawl into the floorboards, let the choir drown you out. But the boy’s eyes snag on yours again, burning with that same strange urgency, and you keep croaking out the next line because - what the heck else are you supposed to do?
You’ve never been good at this part. The “what next” part. Acting? Easy. You’re a natural at that. You jump first, deal with the consequences later. Whilst not the most advisable way to deal with Gotham, it's got you this far.
Like that time you saw a guy in Crime Alley swipe an old lady’s purse and you lobbed your backpack at his head without thinking. Direct hit, total victory. Except then you had to sprint half a mile down backstreets with him chasing you and screaming about what he’d do when he caught you. (Spoiler: you tripped over a trash can and got away only because the cops showed up.)
Or when you “borrowed” your downstairs neighbour’s Rottweiler to scare off the kids who kept tagging your building. Brilliant plan - until the dog slipped the leash and caught one of Mrs Hyseni's birds and you'd had to promise to care for the others for her three-month trip to visit family in Albania to make it up to her.
Or when-
The boy stands up.
You stop singing. Just stop. The sound dies in your throat like somebody hit pause.
Because he looks like he’s about to throw himself into traffic.
And then - oh god, he does something even worse.
He cups his hands around his mouth, pulls in a lungful of air, and bellows:
“YEAH!”
The word rips across the hall like a gunshot. Heads swivel like owls, snapping toward him. Even the choir kids onstage, voices trailing into off-key mush, falter at the sudden noise.
He throws his arms in the air and starts clapping. Loud. Sarcastic. Obnoxious.
“FINALLY! SOMEBODY WITH TALENT!”
Your jaw drops. Your brain short-circuits. Is he mocking you? Saving you? Both?
And then he doubles down. A shrill whistle through his teeth, stomping his foot against the marble floor like he’s front row at a rock concert. He looks completely unhinged, and maybe he is, but the crowd ripples, daze fraying at the edges, people blinking, confused. He doesn’t stop. He waves his arms around like a lunatic, whole-body flailing, his hands sketching frantic shapes in the air. For a horrible second you think he’s trying to dance. But then you catch it, a pattern. He keeps pointing at the conductor’s stand.
The sheets.
You blink. He jabs his finger so hard you’re afraid he’ll stab a hole in the air. The sheets. The conductor’s stand. The music.
And because hesitation has never once been your brand, you launch forward. No plan, no grace. Just pure momentum.
You rip the pages free with all the ceremony of tearing toilet paper off a roll.
The score shreds in your hands, a blizzard of black ink and cream cardstock, fluttering through the air like the first snow of the season. It catches the stage lights, turns each scrap into a glinting flake. Notes and measures spiral down in delicate arcs, drifting over patent leather shoes and jewelled collars.
For a second, just one second, there’s wonder. Breathless, stupid wonder. You made it snow inside City Hall. You did that.
Then - pain.
A squeak bursts out of you, high-pitched and humiliating, the kind of sound small kids make when they’re caught yanking the tablecloth off the dining room table. Because the conductor’s hand juts out, sudden and wrong, faster than a man in tails ought to be. His fingers clamp around your jaw, bone and cartilage grinding under his grip, and yanks you forward so hard your teeth clack.
The wonder vanishes. The world shrinks down to the shock of skin on skin, his hot breath close, his knuckles digging into the soft place under your chin.
For a moment, you’re nothing but helpless. Your body locks, every instinct frozen under the iron weight of his hand.
And then-
Oh.
Oh, no.
The realisation hits. This guy - this pompous bow-tied creep - just put his hands on you.
And something in you snaps.
The fear curdles into fury, hot and bright in your chest. Your thoughts don’t line up right - you’re too busy feeling the blood roar in your ears, your pulse pounding against his fingers - but you know one thing clear as day:
Nobody lays hands on you like that and gets away with it.
Your eyes narrow. Your jaw flexes against his grip. The first scrap of anger in your chest tastes like iron and asphalt, like every Gotham kid who’s had to claw back their space just to breathe. You lash out instantly, pure muscle memory from a hundred living-room brawls with your siblings. Windmilling your fists in the general direction of his chest, his arm, anything you can reach. He’s taller, stronger, his grip unyielding around your jaw, but you don’t need to land a good hit. You just need to make a scene.
“GET Y'HANDS OFF ME!” you shriek, voice cracking through the mic still dangling close. “What are ya, some kinda creep?!”
You see three society matrons flinch awake on the spot.
The words burst out high and jagged, weaponised whining. You know how this works. You’ve been here before - pinned under your brother’s knees, screeching bloody murder until your mom thundered into the room. You never had to win the fight. You just had to complain loud enough that the adults couldn’t ignore it. Mom, in this case, is a whole audience of Gotham’s richest idiots. The type who’ll cheerfully pretend not to see hunger in the Narrows but will absolutely lose their minds if you shove child abuse under their noses in the middle of a Christmas concert.
The conductor’s face dips closer, and for the first time you get a good look at him.
And your stomach turns.
His smile isn’t normal. It’s too wide, stretched across his face like a crack in porcelain. His eyes glint feverishly, a little too bright, like something hungry peering out from a mask. He smells like mothballs and chalk dust, old paper pressed too long in a damp box. His grip tightens, fingers digging into your jaw, tilting your face up like you’re some broken puppet.
“Naughty little dormouse,” he hisses, the words curled around a sing-song rhythm. “Spoiling the tea. Spilling crumbs all over the tablecloth. How very rude.”
Your stomach flips, ice and bile at once. It’s not just the words - it’s how he says them, like a rhyme you should remember but can’t, like he’s leaning closer to stuff them in your head where they’ll stick forever.
“HE’S A FREAK!” you wail, panic cutting through, shrill enough to make the microphone squeal, fists still flying uselessly against his chest. "HE'S A PEDOPHILE?!"
That does it.
The trance shatters like glass under a hammer.
A lady shrieks, clutching her pearls as though they’ll ward him off. A man in a velvet suit bellows, “Unhand the child!” in a tone so pompous you'd laugh if the man's hand hadn't clamped down onto your windpipe just now. Chairs clatter backward, scraping and toppling as Gotham’s finest stumble upright, shouting over each other. The choir falters mid-hymn, voices breaking into stutters and coughs.
It’s chaos. Beautiful, ugly chaos. Like someone kicked over an anthill of designer coats and cologne. The air fizzes with noise - outrage, confusion, fear - drowning out the lingering haze.
And when you look back to where the boy should be standing, he's gone.
Your eyes dart to the row where he stood, stomach plunging. Empty chair. Just the ripple of movement in the aisle as people surge to their feet. A hand dips into that chair, fingertips brushing the velvet armrest like he’s confirming absence.
You follow the hand up.
It belongs to ... Bruce Wayne?
He's looking down at the empty seat with a furrowed brow, concern etched across his perfect, slightly clueless face.
You know Mr Wayne the way all Gotham kids do: secondhand, sideways. Through your parents’ grumbling about “that useless playboy.” Through headlines you only half skim in the corner store. Through the way your older brothers cackled for weeks over a blurry video of Mr Wayne tripping over a paparazzo, then - somehow - taking down three muggers in an alley with moves clumsy as a bar brawl. They rewound the part where he bashed a guy with a trash can lid about fifty times.
And that's good enough for you.
Your throat burns. You twist in the conductor’s grip and croak into the mic, desperate:
"Mister Bruce Wayne, sir! He’s hurting me!”
***
Jason slips into the wings with his heart still rattling in his ribs, ducking behind the curtain just as another shout echoes through the hall.
He can’t believe he let this happen.
Can’t believe you are the one holding the line out there. And yet it worked. People woke up. Chaos took root.
And all Jason did was sit there too long, staring like a dope.
His pulse skips, remembering the way you lunged, the way you yelled like a cornered alley-cat with a megaphone. Maybe the coolest thing he’s ever seen in his life.
He scrubs a hand down his face, annoyed at himself. He should’ve known the second the music felt wrong. He should’ve known the second the conductor started speaking like that.
The Mad Hatter.
His stomach curdles.
The last time he tangled with Jervis Tetch, he almost didn’t walk away.
It had been Bruce’s big play - the campaign announcement, the gala. Bruce Wayne with his perfect smile, shaking hands with Gotham’s “finest” under a chandelier big enough to squash the lot of them if it fell. The whole thing a lure. Jason remembers the weight of his suit jacket, scratchy and suffocating, not unlike this one, as he lingered at Bruce’s side pretending to be a kid with manners instead of a lookout in leather shoes.
And then the hats came.
Whirring, gliding, biting - steel brims sharp enough to draw blood as they zipped through the crowd. Women screamed, men tripped over their tuxedo tails, and Jason had been right there with Bruce, tearing off the suit, running into the storm as Robin.
They’d destroyed as many of the things as they could, smashing them underfoot, slashing circuits with batarangs, while Hatter’s goons swarmed. Jason still remembers the smell of ozone and champagne, the screech of metal cutting air. Remembers the chase - the roof, the wind cold enough to burn his throat as they pursued Hatter to his ridiculous rocket shaped like a top hat. Jason had thought it was funny until the bullets started.
One had grazed his shoulder. Another had slammed into his thigh, hot, blinding pain that dropped him to the gravel. He’d clutched at it, teeth sinking into his glove, the world dimming around the edges as Batman kept fighting.
Bruce had stopped the rocket - of course he had. Used Hatter’s own signal against him, fried the circuits, sent the thing spiralling. Saved the city, saved the night.
And Jason? He’d lain there in his cape, bleeding into tar paper, furious at himself for not being faster, better, sharper. Furious because Bruce hadn’t looked proud - he’d looked scared. That was worse.
Jason exhales hard, rubbing the scar hidden under his slacks. He should have learned. He should have put it together tonight, the second he saw the glassy eyes in the audience, the second the Latin hymns turned wrong. If he were Robin, he’d know exactly what to do. He can see it in his head - spring off the balcony, boot the guy square in the hat, grab you and roll into a perfect landing like Dick used to do in those training vids Bruce made him watch. He wants that so badly his legs twitch with it. But he’s not Robin right now. He’s Jason Todd. No mask. No gear. Just scrappy fists and a sharp tongue. And if he tries to play hero the wrong way, he’s not saving you - he’s screwing both of you over.
He crouches low in the wings, breath shallow, eyes darting between the stage and the mess of cables and props piled around him. His mind races. He needs a plan. Something smart. Something Batman would do.
Think. Signal. Control. Interference.
Bruce would already be halfway there - rewiring the mic system, looping feedback through the speakers, short-circuiting Hatter’s tech with precision. Something elegant, something that would leave the cops baffled and the press fawning.
Jason stares at the soundboard across the stage, but it’s too far, too exposed. He'd gone the wrong direction by coming behind the stage and now he doesn’t have the time to get over there. He glances at the rigging above, the nest of lights and wires - maybe if he pulled something loose, crashed it down. But no, that could crush half the choir.
His fingers clench around his thigh, nails biting through fabric as frustration gnaws at him. He can hear Bruce in his head: Assess. Identify. Neutralise. That calm, infuriating cadence that always sounded like Jason was already failing just for not being quiet enough while thinking.
The clock is ticking.
The choir’s still in chaos, half of them shaking off the influence, the other half swaying under Hatter’s spell. And you - right there, still holding your ground even though your hands tremble. Hatter’s shadow looms over you, grotesque in the spotlight, his laugh bubbling like something rotted.
Jason’s chest squeezes.
He knows what Bruce would say.
But Jason isn’t Bruce.
So he acts.
One heartbeat he’s crouched in the wings. The next he’s tearing across the boards, brogues hammering wood loud enough to startle the nearest sopranos. He barrels onto the stage with zero finesse, a raw tackle born of street instincts and fury. His shoulder slams into Hatter’s ribs with a sick crack, driving the small man back and ripping him bodily away from you. Hatter yelps like a cornered rat, arms flailing as Jason drags him down in a tangle of coats and limbs. They hit the stage hard, boards rattling beneath the impact. Jason’s knuckles find fabric, bone, whatever they can, and he pins Hatter with all the weight he’s got, teeth bared.
For a second it feels good. Right.
And then Jason glances up.
Bruce is already there - just at the edge of the stage, shadow cutting sharp under the spotlight. No mask this time, no cowl - just Bruce, and that expression Jason knows too well. Calm. Controlled. And under it all, that knife-sharp disappointment.
Jason’s stomach knots, hotter than the fight.
He wanted clever. He wanted to prove he could think the way Bruce thinks, move the way Bruce moves. But when it came down to it, all he did was the thing he always does - hit first, figure the rest out later.
And he's not sure it matters that it worked.
***
The hall’s a wreck. Velvet chairs overturned, garlands ripped down, glass crunching under boots as uniforms pour in. The last of the choir kids are being herded toward the exits, voices rising and falling like the leftover echo of a hymn. The Gotham elite stumble past in clumps, shaken out of their trance, more concerned about their coats and jewellery than the fact they nearly became puppets for a madman.
Jason lingers, eyes sweeping the space. He tells himself it’s about control - about making sure no stragglers get left behind, no kid wanders out into the December dark with nobody watching their back. He knows how fast “safe” places get ugly once the cops decide they’re done. And then he spots you. Jason stands a minute, watching. Nobody else is coming, he thinks. No frantic parents fighting through the crowd. No choir director counting heads. Just you, left like the world decided you were optional. He exhales through his nose and crosses the floor. His shoes crunch on glass, and you look up at the sound.
Your scowl - thick and sour, a kid's face mid-grumble - flips in an instant. You break into this wide, almost manic grin, teeth flashing. Eyes bright, alight with something way too wild to be sane.
Jason blinks. He'd braced for tears, for another kid he'd have to crouch down to reassure, maybe offer the clumsiest “you’re okay” of his life. But this? This twisted spark of glee?
It's disconcerting. Like you just found the whole thing - chaos, terror, the scrape of violence - funny.
“Hey, good news!" you chirp, voice still a little raw. "I think I found out why Gotham doesn’t let music teachers near kids unsupervised."
Jason nearly trips on his own feet. “Jesus,” he mutters.
You're slouched low on a chair like it’s a throne, arms crossed tight, legs stretched out. Your shoe taps double-time against the floor with every twitch of your heel, the split soles clacking like a cheap percussion section. The cheap laces hang loose, frayed at the ends. Jason slows, watching you with the same prickly fascination he gets on patrol when he stumbles into Gotham kids right after they’ve seen something ugly - blood in the street, cops roughing someone up, a body under a tarp. Some of them cry. Most of them laugh, or crack wise.
You swing your legs. Clack, clack. “What? He grabbed m'face like he was gonna shove me in a oven. Tell me that weren’t some Hansel-and-Gretel-ass move.”
Jason snorts before he can stop himself.
“Yeah, well,” he says, dragging his hands from his pockets and lowering himself onto the chair beside you, “you sure rattled him. I reckon he didn’t think anyone would fight back like that.”
The seat groans under his weight, glass crunching faintly beneath his boots. The smell of pine garlands and burnt wiring still lingers in the air, sharp enough to sting the nose. Police radio chatter buzzes faintly from down the hall, but no one’s come looking for you yet. Just you and him, tucked away in the churned-up aftermath.
You squint at him, sharp as a pin. “You’re not with the pigs, are ya? You talk too normal for that.”
“Relax. I wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those uniforms.”
That earns him a quick, foxlike grin from you, teeth flashing bright against your still-blotchy face. Jason tilts his head, his eyes snagging on the angry marks on your jaw - red splotches blooming like some cruel artist’s brushwork, already deepening to bruise. “He got y'pretty good, though.”
Immediately, you stiffen, hand darting up to cover the worst of it. “Nah. Don’t even hurt. My face just ... does that sometimes.”
Deflection. He knows it when he hears it. He’s given that exact line more times than he can count.
“Mine too. Gets redder in the winter. Cold air, hot air, don’t matter. Always looks like I lost a fight with a radiator.”
That draws a startled laugh from you, sharp and barking. Too loud for the hush of the empty hall. You reel it back quick, muttering, “Yeah, well, I didn’t lose.”
Jason grins, can’t help it. “No,” he says, steady, “you didn’t.”
He glances down, scanning quick the way Bruce taught him - checking hands, knees, ankles, looking for breaks, sprains, blood. Nothing obvious. Just worn clothes, a split sole, a kid trying to play at being tougher than they are. He knows that act. He’s been that act. He also knows what comes next. Bruce would say it’s protocol: find the kid’s parents, hand them off, make sure they're safe, don’t get attached. Easy on paper. Harder when the kid’s sitting here looking like they clawed their way through the fire and came out laughing.
He clears his throat. “So, uh - are your-”
“Did I actually do the right thing?” you cut in, quick and sharp. No hesitation. Your eyes are fixed on him, wide and unblinking, like you’re braced for him to laugh, to tell you you’re an idiot.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher than he means it to be. “You did.”
You study him, sceptical, like you want to pick that apart. “You’re not just sayin' that? I mean-”
Jason shifts, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees. “You know who that guy was, right? The conductor? That was Jervis Tetch. Mad Hatter. He does this kind of thing - feeds people tea that makes ‘em stupid, hypnotises whole crowds with hats...?"
Your face stays blank.
Jason snorts softly. “Okay, picture this: he once built mind-control hats that he unleashed at this party my d-, - Bruce - hosted. Little propeller things, swoopin' down and brainwashin' people mid-toast. Whole room of socialites doing the cha-cha like they’d been wired into a jukebox.” He shakes his head. “And then? Tried to escape in a giant rocket shaped like a top hat. I’m not kidding. Full-on cartoon supervillain.”
Your lips twitch, but you’re still searching his face, like you need more than jokes. Like you want permission to believe you weren’t insane for grabbing that mic.
“Point is - you did good. Screwed up his plan, got people movin'. That’s more than any grown-ups managed tonight. You probably saved the whole room.”
He doesn’t add: you saved me too. He doesn’t think he has to.
You finally exhale, slumping back in the chair. The double-clack of your loose sole starts up again, steady as a metronome. “Guess that makes me a hero.”
Jason watches, chewing the inside of his cheek. He should get up, go find Bruce, let the cops sort you out. He should ask your name, ask your address, figure out how to get you home. That’s the rule. That’s the job. But he doesn't want to. Doesn’t want to end the conversation yet. So he grins, wide and toothy. "Makes you somethin' other than a godawful singer, that's for sure."
You gasp, clutching your chest like he just ran over your dog. “'Scuse you? My voice is angelic.”
“Yeah, if angels gargled gravel before choir practice.”
“Take that back, freckles.”
“Nope.” He leans back, smug, the grin spreading wider when your eyes narrow.
You swing your shoe out, clack-clack, aiming for his shin. He yelps and jerks his leg back just in time. “Hey!”
“That’s what y'get,” you shoot back, chin tipped high. “Next time, I’ll actually land it.”
“You try, I’ll put you in a headlock so fast you’ll be beggin' the Mad Hatter to take you back.”
“Oh, really?” You hop up from the chair, squaring off with him, all pint-sized bravado and clenched fists.
Jason mirrors you before he even thinks. It’s instinct - like back in Crime Alley, roughhousing with kids who fought as easily as they breathed. You shoved your friends into brick walls, tripped them in the dust, bit down hard when you wanted to win. It wasn’t cruelty, not really - it was how you proved you belonged. How you blew off steam. How you reminded yourself you were still alive. So when your knuckles graze his sleeve and your shoe scuffs against his, Jason doesn’t hesitate. He grins wide, shoves your shoulder with just enough force to see you stumble a step. You come right back, baring your teeth in mock outrage, pushing him harder.
“Ha!” Jason laughs, bracing his feet. “That all you got?”
You jab your elbow at his ribs, quick as a dart. He catches your wrist and twists, not enough to hurt, just enough to throw you off balance. Suddenly you’re in a tangle of limbs, the kind of scrappy wrestling that’s all about momentum and nerve. Your shoes scrape against the floorboards. His shirt's riding up. You mutter threats under your breath, and Jason matches them word for word, both of you grinning too hard to keep your faces straight.
It’s stupid. It’s reckless. Jason hasn’t felt this light in ages. For a moment, it doesn’t matter that he’s Robin now, that he’s supposed to know better than to get caught up in scraps. Doesn’t matter that he’s twelve and too old to be playfighting with someone who fights like it’s still recess. Doesn’t matter that every bruise has a consequence, that Bruce is somewhere nearby with rules and lectures lined up.
It’s just fun.
“Say my singing’s good or I’ll bite you!” you bark, feral, knocking him back into the chair.
Jason yelps out a laugh, twisting to dodge. “Bite me an' I’m tellin' everybody you got beat by a boy in a blazer!”
“Liar! I’d never lose-”
“Jason.”
The name lands like a weight, low and stern, pulling him up short. Both of you freeze mid-scuffle.
Jason looks up and finds Bruce standing there in the wreckage of City Hall, coat over his arm, eyes narrowed like he’s been watching for longer than Jason would like to admit. His eyes flick from Jason’s flushed face to your wild grin to the faint red marks still blooming on your jaw.
Busted.
He can already hear it - the lecture about discipline, about situational awareness, about how Robin isn’t supposed to “roughhouse” with civilians like some dumb schoolyard punk. About how every second counts in a fight and every mistake is a liability. It’ll come cold, not loud. Bruce doesn’t need volume; the weight in his voice is enough. Still, Jason’s gut clenches like it used to when his dad staggered in, voice thick with liquor, already hunting for something Jason did wrong. Same lead weight of anticipation. Same certainty the hammer’s about to fall. He opens his mouth, fumbling for some kind of excuse, but, for the second time tonight, you beat him to it.
“Mr Wayne, Sir!” you chirp, straightening up like a soldier at roll call, wild grin snapping into a look so earnest it almost sells itself. The kind of wide-eyed deference every street kid learns, the act that makes cops or caseworkers pause, maybe go easy, maybe not look too close.
“Sir, your boy saved my life,” you go on, layering it thick. “I mean, I was-” You gesture vaguely to your bruised face, your throat. “-pretty much done for. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be flat on that stage with a funny hat on and no idea what day it was.”
Jason blinks. That’s backwards. You’re the one who stopped Hatter’s song, who cracked the whole thing open with your awful singing. He was just the muscle. He’s halfway to protesting when your voice kicks up another notch, breathless, rehearsed, perfectly pitiful.
“I didn’t know what to do. I- I just panicked. But he knew. He jumped right in and saved me. I don’t even wanna think what woulda happened if he hadn’t been there.”
Bruce’s mouth doesn’t move, not much, but Jason knows that look: not approval, not exactly. More like amusement. And Jason, for all his instincts screaming that you’re selling him credit that isn’t his, keeps his mouth shut. Because if it turns Bruce’s disappointment into something lighter, if it buys him a little room to breathe, then maybe it’s the best gift anyone’s handed him all week.
He doesn’t say thank you, but he doesn’t have to. He thinks you’ll get it.
“And the brawl afterwards,” Bruce says, one brow just barely ticking up, “was that your way of saying thank you?”
Your shoulders hitch up like you’ve been caught sneaking candy before dinner, and for half a second you look genuinely bashful. Impressive, Jason thinks - because he can feel the sharp sting of your fingers pinching his side, tucked out of Bruce’s view.
“Uh … sorry about that, sir,” you mumble, eyes dropping, voice small. You sell the embarrassment hard, even throwing in a nervous shuffle of your shoes. If Jason didn’t know better, he’d buy it.
Bruce studies you, the corner of his mouth threatening to curve. “You held your own. And you were quick. That was good thinking on the stage. I must say, I was rather shocked when you called out for me."
Jason must have missed that part. And now Bruce is fishing. Testing the waters. He wants to know if you were just screaming for the nearest adult with money, or if you caught even a whiff of who he really is.
“Thank you, sir.” You dip your chin, meek as anything - then immediately undercut it with a sly grin. “’Cause, I mean, I had seen you before," you say, like you’re confiding some great secret. “On that video - y'know, the one where you, uh...” You mime lifting something over your head, like a shield. “...fought off those muggers with a trash can lid? Classic. Half the kids on my block still quote that one.”
Jason nearly chokes on his own laugh, burying it in the crook of his elbow. Because Bruce, who can face down psychos in clown paint and alien warlords without flinching, visibly twitches at the mention. Just the tiniest jerk of his mouth, gone in a blink. Jason stores that image away, tucking it somewhere deep, safe, where he can drag it out the next time Bruce’s lectures get too heavy. Bruce exhales through his nose, slow, like he’s resetting himself.
“Well,” he says, tone dry as dust, “there are certainly worse videos of me online.”
Jason can't stop the snort this time. Oh, there sure are. He doesn’t even need to imagine: last week, Dick had gleefully shoved his phone under Jason’s nose, showing him a clip of Bruce Wayne, billionaire, philanthropist, Gotham’s most eligible bachelor, in nothing but boxers and a bowtie, doing something halfway between a shimmy and a seizure on top of an ice-sculpture penguin at the Iceberg Lounge. Jason had nightmares. Actual, honest-to-God nightmares. And now that the memory’s back, he’s probably not sleeping again tonight.
“My brother’s a huge fan of yours,” you continue, like you’re confessing some dirty secret. “He went on this school field trip to Wayne Enterprises, saw all the fancy desks and swivel chairs, and decided he actually wants an office job now. He’s gonna let Mr Maroni know he’s quittin'.”
Jason’s head jerks up. “...What?”
For the first time tonight, Bruce's mask cracks - not into amusement, not into annoyance, but into something real. Concern. His hand comes down, steady, resting at your shoulder, and he gently angles you forward, away from the wrecked hall.
“Let's get you home safely,” he says, voice even but firm, already guiding you with an authority Jason recognises from nights on patrol. “And your brother’s name?” A pause, a look down at you. “In case an application crosses my desk.”
Jason trails a few paces behind, boots crunching over broken glass and damp wood. Bruce drapes his coat around your shoulders, big enough to swallow you whole, and you burrow down into it like a cat into a blanket. Your head barely reaches his ribs, but you walk tucked close, snug in the wool folds, warm in a way Jason hadn’t even thought about until now.
Idiot, he scolds himself, looking down at his own coat swinging uselessly off one arm. He hadn’t clocked the goosebumps on your arms, hadn’t noticed how thin the stupid choir uniform was in the drafty hall. That kid's standing there freezing and you’re too busy worrying about Bruce twerking on a penguin.
Your voice bobs up ahead, spilling fast and bright as you talk about your siblings - one who thinks they can cook and sets off the fire alarm weekly, one who hides under the bed whenever the landlord comes by. Bruce listens, tilting his head, asking small, gentle questions like he’s interviewing you for a job instead of steering you through the wreckage of a crime scene.
Jason zones in and out. Not because he doesn’t care - he does, almost too much - but because there’s a knot in his chest he can’t quite untangle. He knows how this ends. Bruce will walk you out to the cops. They’ll make a few calls, track down your parents. You’ll go home, and that’ll be it. He’ll never see you again.
It hits him harder than he expects. Not just because you’re funny, not just because you roughhoused with him like it was the most natural thing in the world - but because you feel like home. Not Wayne Manor, not the school Bruce dumped him in. Crime Alley. The place he swore he’d never miss, the cracked sidewalks and rooftop tag games and kids who fought because fighting was how you showed affection. You’re like a slice of that world walking around in scuffed lace-ups and a second-hand dress shirt.
Jason swallows, throat dry. He hadn’t even known how badly he missed it until now.
The front doors of City Hall swing open, spilling cold air and flashing red-blue from the cruisers outside. Reporters still hover at the barricades, microphones thrust like bayonets, but the cops are wrapping up, herding stragglers into cars, shouting clipped orders. Bruce doesn’t pause. He steers you straight through, his coat still around you, until you’re standing in front of an officer Jason knows well.
“Sergeant Alvarez,” Bruce says, voice carrying that particular mix of gratitude and command that only he can pull off.
Jason’s shoulders loosen the tiniest bit. Alvarez. One of the rare ones. She’s been on the GCPD for almost a decade, worked Narrows beat back when most cops wouldn’t set foot past the Bowery. Batman and Robin trust her - hell, Jason remembers one night when Alvarez pretended not to see them cuffing Maroni’s guy behind a dumpster, then came back five minutes later with intel she’d “overheard” that cracked the whole case open.
Bruce angles you forward, his arm still steady at your back. “This one needs a ride home.”
Jason hangs back, shoulders hitched high in his jacket, watching the handoff.
You tilt your face up at Bruce, chin still blotchy red, and beam at him like he just saved Christmas. “Thanks, Mister Wayne,” you chirp, voice bright. “For everything. Even the coat.”
And then you look back at Jason. Not a glance, not a flicker - you look, like you’ve been waiting for him to notice. Your grin curls sharper, and Jason feels something shift low in his stomach, the kind of swoop that feels stupid to admit even to himself.
You shrug out of Bruce’s heavy coat, holding it up by the shoulders. It’s so big it looks like you’re peeling yourself out of a tent. You shove it toward Bruce like it’s a dangerous object. “I can’t wear this round my 'hood,” you say with that matter-of-fact Gotham bluntness. “Too nice. I’d get jumped before I hit the corner.”
Bruce frowns, mouth twitching like he wants to argue, but Jason’s already moving. Too fast, probably. His hands fumble with his own jacket, thrusting it forward before he even thinks it through.
“You can - uh-” Jason clears his throat, tries again, less cracked, less desperate. “You can take mine. Just until you get home.”
Your brows lift, and for a second Jason wants to swallow the words back down, until you smile. The kind that looks smug and sweet all at once. You take the jacket like it’s a prize. “Guess I’ll allow it, freckles,” you tease, tugging it over your arms. It hangs awkwardly on you, sleeves just too long, but your grin only grows. “Fits better than Mister Wayne’s, anyway.”
Jason tries to roll his eyes, but the heat in his ears betrays him. He shoves his hands in his pockets, muttering, “Yeah, don’t get used to it.”
Snow has started to fall, lazy flakes drifting down through the glow of the streetlamps. The city hums with sirens and exhaust, but for one fragile moment, it almost looks like Christmas - the way the lights blur gold and red in the snow-mist, the way the flurries catch in your hair, the way you hug his too-big jacket close like it’s the warmest thing you’ve ever owned.
Jason tells himself it’s just duty. Just fixing the mistake he made earlier, when he didn’t notice how cold you were. That’s all. But when you glance at him from beneath the hood, smug little grin pulling at your mouth, he isn’t sure he believes it.
He stands on the curb, boots half-buried in dirty slush, watching the squad car pull away. The taillights glow red through the falling snow, twin beacons shrinking down Gotham’s crowded street until they vanish into the tangle of traffic. He tells himself he’s just making sure the car turns the corner safely, that Sergeant Alvarez actually takes you where you’re supposed to go. But his eyes linger longer than they should. Long enough that his breath fogs out in little clouds, that the snow sticks to his lashes.
“Jason.”
Bruce’s voice rumbles at his side, steady as a bell toll. Jason flinches, dragged back from the street. Bruce’s mouth is carved into its usual line of stone, but his tone has a quirk in it. Something suspiciously close to amusement.
“We need to get going."
Jason swallows, shoves his hands deep into his pockets. He knows what that means. Patrol. Christmas Eve patrol. The thought sparks through him like a live wire - restless, impossible to ground out. He’d been waiting all day for it, jittery in his seat at dinner, bouncing his heels against the manor’s marble floors, thinking of rooftops iced slick and alleyways that glow like molten steel beneath the orange sodium lights.
The city doesn’t take holidays; if anything, Christmas brings out the worst - the desperate, the lonely, the ones with nothing to lose. And Jason is ready. His blood sings for it, the anticipation sharp enough to cut on. He’ll pull the mask on, feel the snap of the cape at his shoulders, and there it’ll be again: proof that he belongs out there, with Bruce, in the dark.
Still, his gaze flicks one more time to the fading red glow of the taillights before he pivots sharply, boots crunching in rhythm with Bruce’s long stride.
There’s a pause, heavy and quiet, filled only by the brittle sound of snow collapsing beneath their weight.
Then: “Must be a Christmas miracle.”
Jason scowls, glancing up. “What?”
“It's good to see you making friends, Jaylad.” Bruce's tone is even, but there’s a thread of humour under it, frayed at the edges like it doesn’t get used often. “Even with someone so ... unconventional.”
Jason bristles, heat prickling the back of his neck despite the cold. “Yeah, big talk from you, old man.” He hunches his shoulders and drops his voice into a gravelly parody: “‘Unconventional.’ That’s rich.”
Bruce makes a low noise - half scoff, half chuckle - and shakes his head.
Jason scuffs his boot through the slush, jaw tight, fighting to keep the grin from showing. Bruce thinks he doesn’t notice, but Jason sees the way the corner of his mouth almost twitches, the same way it almost did when you told that story. And it hits Jason - hard, in the chest - that for once, Bruce isn’t disappointed in him. Not angry, not cold, not silently tallying up the mistakes. Just … here. Walking beside him. Sharing the night.
The city hums around them, alive with noise and smoke, with danger waiting in every shadow. Gotham is a beast that never sleeps, and usually Jason feels like it’s going to swallow him whole, chew him down to the bone.
But not tonight.
Tonight the snow makes the lights look softer. The air stings and crackles, but it’s clean in his lungs. And for the first time in longer than he can name, Jason doesn’t feel smaller than the city.
And if Christmas is supposed to be about something good happening?
Jason thinks maybe something good already has.