Jason Todd | Red Hood

Jason hated this mansion.

Not the house itself—the brick, the wood, the tall windows, the smell of old wood and the lemon polish Alfred used to polish the railings with a stubbornness worthy of the royal guard. No, the house had nothing to do with it. The house remembered him as a child—a skinny, hungry, angry boy who'd tried to steal tires from the Batmobile and somehow ended up in this place with clean sheets and hot food three times a day.

The house remembered him as Robin.

But he no longer remembered himself as Robin. Or rather, he remembered it, but as someone else's life. Like a book he'd read as a child, which had once seemed beloved, but now seemed naive, absurd, full of foolish hopes.

He'd only stopped by because Bruce had texted again. Short and dry, like everything Bruce did when it came to feelings: "Alfred asked about you. Drop by when you have time." Alfred, of course. Of course. Not "I want to see you," not "we need to talk," not "I screwed up, Jason, and I want to try again." Alfred was just bored.

Jason came anyway. Because Alfred really did miss him, and the old man was the only one in this house who never lied. And also because Bruce had tried. Clumsily, awkwardly, through those stupid excuses—but he had tried.

He hadn't planned to linger. Just stop by, have some tea with Alfred in the kitchen, maybe exchange a few barbs with Bruce if he came out of his cave, and then head back to the city, where the air didn't smell of the past.

But Alfred had wandered off somewhere, Bruce was nowhere to be seen, and Jason, before he knew it, had carried him to the library. Old, dusty, with tall bookcases and heavy curtains that he once drew to read by the light of a desk lamp. It was quiet. Too quiet. And it smelled the same as it had back then—of paper, time, and something else he couldn't name, but which caused a dull ache somewhere beneath his ribs.

He hadn't expected to see you.

You were standing by the far bookcase, your back to him, and Jason froze in the doorway, feeling his heart skip a beat and then catch up, pounding somewhere in his throat.

Fuck.

He avoided you. Diligently, stubbornly, almost professionally. After his resurrection—after he'd re-learned how to breathe, walk, talk, kill—he'd seen you only a few times. Briefly. At the funeral of an old acquaintance. In the crowd at a charity event where he'd been called on business. Every time, he looked away. Every time, he left before you even had a chance to notice him.

Because you were Bruce's child. Because he and Bruce had fought a war—cold, hot, whatever, but a war—and you weren't on his side. Because he had changed, become who he is, and that boy who once promised to marry you—he was dead. He died for real, in that warehouse, under the Joker's crowbar, and what had been resurrected had no right to even look in your direction.

But most of all, he avoided you because he was afraid. Afraid you'd look at him and not see the Jason you once knew. That in your eyes, all you'd see would be the Red Hood—cruel, broken, dangerous. Or worse—pity. Or worse—indifference.

So now, as you slowly turned at the sound of his footsteps—or perhaps sensed his presence, as you had when you two were kids playing hide-and-seek throughout the mansion—and your eyes met, Jason realized he wasn't ready. Utterly, utterly unready.

The library had grown very quiet. Only a clock somewhere in the hallway ticked away the seconds.

He stood in the doorway, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket, feeling like a fifteen-year-old idiot who didn't know what to do with his limbs. You'd changed. Grew up. Became... different. But something in the set of your eyes, the way you tilted your head slightly to one side—remained the same. That same one. From childhood.

"Hello," he finally managed, his voice hoarse, muffled, not at all like the one he'd rehearsed in his head a hundred times for this hypothetical moment. "Long time no see."

He fell silent, feeling the words stick in his throat, his thoughts darting between "say something normal" and "just leave before it gets worse." He didn't move.

"I... uh," he cleared his throat, looked away, and stared at the spines of the books over your shoulder. "Alfred said tea was ready. Well, he didn't say, but he usually... well, you know. Tea. At four. Or something like that."

Idiot. You're talking nonsense about tea.

He looked at you again—longer this time, more intently—and something in his face twitched. Something like that old, puppyish look, hidden beneath the scars and the years.

"How are you? Well... in general. In general. Life and all that."

And as he stood there, in the doorway of the old library, memories washed over him—vivid, prickly, like shards of glass. You were the first person to look at him without fear or pity. When he first arrived in this house—wild, nervous, still expecting a blow from any outstretched hand—you simply walked up to him on the very first evening and asked what book he was reading. Not "Are you okay?" not "I'm so sorry," not the empty words with which the well-fed console the hungry. You asked about the book. And he, flustered, answered honestly—that he didn't read, that there weren't any proper books at the orphanage, only some tattered reference books. And you took him by the hand and led him right here, to this very library, and told him he could borrow any.

From then on, you became his only thing. An island of warmth in the echoing, cold mansion where Bruce was always lost, and Alfred, though kind, kept his distance. You were the one who brought him cookies from the kitchen in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep. The one who sat next to him on the couch while he recounted the latest book he'd read, listening as if it were the most important thing in the world. The one who bandaged his bruised knuckles after his first training sessions—clumsily, awkwardly, but so carefully. The one who found him on the roof of the mansion that evening when he first argued with Bruce and simply sat next to him, dangling his legs over the abyss. "I'm on your side, Jay," you said then. And he believed you. He trusted you more than anyone.

And he was in love. Childishly, desperately, with all his heart. Before that stupid promise of marriage you made somewhere in the backyard, hidden behind a hedge so no one would hear. Before he donned a cloak and headed into the night, thinking the whole world was at his feet. Before the Joker shattered that world into pieces.

And now, looking at you across the chasm of years, he thought about what he hadn't allowed himself to think about for years. Were you thinking about him? Did you remember that promise—or was it just a childish foolishness, forgotten the next day? Were you waiting for him—or did you move on, as you should have? Was there someone for you? Someone who could be there without all that baggage, without blood on their hands, without scars—visible and invisible? Someone you could love peacefully, not through pain?

The thought burned him more than he expected. Because it's one thing to consciously avoid you, telling yourself he doesn't deserve you, and quite another to imagine you with someone else. Someone who doesn't know what you were like at ten, when you believed in fairy tales, or what you were like at thirteen, when you were already arguing with Bruce over dinner. Someone who doesn't remember.

And he remembered everything.

"I'm just... passing through, actually," he added, mentally slapping himself for how stupid that sounded. "But, uh... good to see you. Really."