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Beyond the fact that he’s died then come back to life, an important thing to know about Jason Todd is, he can cook a mean curry.
A damn good one. The kind the aging couple residing in the flat under his sings praises about. The kind Alfie approves of. Jason is, as a whole, a decent enough cook, but the curry is something else entirely.
So sue him, it’s a skill he’s proud of.
What’s more, the dish has history. The curry is one of the few remnants of his childhood he’s managed to hold onto. He’d found himself in the grocery store on a particularly bad day, absentmindedly pushing stuff in a bag, and by the time he’d shaken off whatever funk he’d been stuck into, the dish had been bubbling merrily on the stove, filling his safehouse with the sweet, sweet, scent of delicious food.
It’s become something of a habit, since then. The curry making appearances on every single one of his bad days. A comforting ritual of his, so to speak.
So, yes, Jason can cook an amazing curry. The best. People try to beg for the recipe. But he won’t budge. They can try to pry it out of his warm, undead, hands, if they only dare.
It’s just that good. He knows that.
Still.
That doesn’t explain why he’s woken up to find the Brat sitting on his kitchen counter at four in the morning, wolfing said curry down like Alfie hasn’t fed him vegetarian chili-dogs under Jason’s very own betrayed eyes not seven hours ago.
“Whu-?” He says, intelligently, when he spots Titus curled in a tight little ball on his kitchen floor.
Damian sniffs. Jason’s sure the sniff aims for somewhere in the disdainful range, but falls short, landing in pitiful depressed kitten territory instead.
“I weep for your situational awareness. You failed to notice our presence in your loft for a minute and thirty-four seconds.” Damian says, tone harsh, before biting viciously into a slice of eggplant. Jason’s never seen someone manage to convey quite that amount of angry disappointment while looking that much like a hamster before.
Or while depriving him of his food. He was planning on eating that later today, damnit.
Anyone else he’d probably shoot, or throw out on their ass at the very least, but, well-
“You and Bruce both.” Jason replies, squinting. “Are you okay.”
-this is Damian. And some sort of emergency, most likely.
No answer.
Damn. It.
“ ’Kay.” He fetches a spoon and gives it to the brat, tossing the fork he’d been using in the sink. “If you’re going to wake me up to eat my comfort food at 4 fucking AM, at least have the decency to do it right. You know where the blankets are. You leave to do some stupid shit before I’m up to supervise, I set your notebook on fire. ’Night.”
“Touch it and bleed.”
The little gremlin’s voice wavers. Jason turns around. A shine of tears appears under his horrified everything. Titus whines, scrambling up to put his head on Damian’s knees.
Abort.
Abort.
Abort.
Abort Mission. DEFCON 5. Blue on blue contact. Requesting Dustoff.
“Oh, shit. Shit, kid. You know I would never.”
“It matters little,” Says Damian, stiff as a board, shoulders squared. Jason represses the unholy urge to do something, anything, to help. “-as I have no intention of leaving.”
Jason steals a quick glance at Titus, then back at Damian, feeling jittery.
“…..tonight?”
Again, no answer.
Okay.
New roommate.
Not cool. Very much not cool.
What the flying morbid fuck has Bruce done?
He feels tiny pinpricks of pain climb up his right pant leg, and very nearly kicks whatever it is in self-defense before realizing that NO, Titus is here, it could be the Brat’s kitten and kicking it is bad, bad, bad, particularly when the little shit still looks about a good second away from either crying or stabbing something.
Good thing Jason’s gotten rid of that fork.
“Please tell me Batcow isn’t currently chilling in my bathtub.” He asks, at a loss, as the latest addition to the little brat’s zoo destroys his last comfy pair of sweats with its claws.
He doesn’t think he’d have slept through that but, really, you never know what Damian Wayne can be capable of given sufficient incentive.
“The city would be little suited for her. I have arranged for her transport to Smallville later this morning.”
“Riiight.” Jason drawls the word out, finally reaching down to pluck the kitten by the scruff of its neck before it continues its grand ascension up his torso and skins him alive. Jason has enough scars as it is, thanks so much. He debates on whether to put it back down on the ground, then decides to keep it close when it starts to purr at him like some sort of demented truck motor. Skin contact is good for kittens, right? Or is that only babies? “Any reason you’re moving out of the Manor?”
“Your recent stint with Sionis proved you require more supervision. What’s more, Drake had some concerns about the recent return of Grayson’s memories-”
“Cut the bullshit, Babybat. What’s up?”
This is new. It’s the first time Damian comes to him with a problem. It’s the first time Jason helps him solve said problem.
But it’s the first time in a long list and Jason does not get it.
——————
“I don’t get it.” He rants, pacing a hole in the floor of his safehouse after the fourth time Damian’s come to him with a problem. On the phone, Roy makes a non-committal noise. “What about me screams big-brother?”
“Your overprotective tendencies?” Roy suggests. “Or maybe the way you tease them mercilessly. Or that time you stole his Red Hood toy. Really un-brother-like of you-”
“Alright.” Jason growls. “Shut up. I tried to shoot the kid, for fuck’s sake.”
“Which you haven’t done in years. And you were pit-mad, Jaybird. Do you really think your kid brothers don’t know that?”
“That doesn’t excuse shit. They should-”
“I think I’ll decide what I should and should not do for myself, thank you very much.” A voice behind Jason says.
He doesn’t jump. It’s a near thing. When he turns around, it’s to find Tim seated in one of Jason’s chairs, playing something on his phone.
“I’ll call you back.” He snaps, clapping the crappy old phone shut. “The hell are you doing here.”
“I need your brain. And by the way, I forgave you a long time ago.” Tim shrugs.
He smiles and goes back to his game
Jason stares.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m not.” Tim deadpans, dry as a desert. “All the things I've done to help you in the last few years were just me trying to lure you in a false sense of security so that I could freely use you when I need it.”
This isn’t going anywhere near the way Jason'd thought it would, and the uncertainty, the lack of control, is terrifying.
“I stabbed you. Beat the shit out of you. Tried to kill you.” He leans forward, violence seeping in his voice, trying to make him see. He keeps his face coldly amused. “What if I snap again, huh? The fuck will you do, then?”
Tim doesn’t even blink.
“You’ll notice that I'm still here.”
He slams a hand on the table.
“Take this seriously, damn you.”
“I am.” He replies, icy-blue eyes calmly drifting up to meet his. “But don’t insult me by implying that I'm not capable of making that decision for myself.”
He pensively leans back in his chair.
“Since we're talking about violence, what about Damian? Should I also hold his upbringing against him? Make him pay for the choices he made when he was ten?”
“It'd be your right.” Jason rasps, sounding like he'd chain-smoked two packs of cigarettes. “But his situation's different.”
“It would. And I did, for awhile. I was hurt and younger. But like you said, both your situations are different.”
“I wasn’t a kid.”
“I beg to differ. You were also traumatized. What’s more you were Pit-mad.”
“So? If you think part of me wasn’t enjoying it, didn’t want it, wasn’t fully aware of what I was doing even, then you’re deluding yourself Timmers.”
Tim frowns, almost disdainfully.
“Maybe then. Not anymore.”
“That’s not the kind of thing you should forgive.” Jason says, helplessly. “Violence- purposefully hurting you, is not something you should ever forgive family for.”
In his mind’s eye, he can see Tim the way he’d left him on that rooftop, way back then. Broken and bloody. Beaten within an inch of his life and left there to bleed out.
Can see what he’d done to Dick, to Bruce, to Damian.
What he’d have done to Cass, to Steph, to Duke, had he been given any opportunity to.
Why wouldn’t Tim just listen?
“It’s not.” He agrees. “But I don’t believe for a second you would do that again.”
Jason smirks, a sick smirk he hasn’t used in quite some. He clenches his fists, tries to make himself look even bigger, more threatening. Then, he leans forward until he was at eye level with his still seated brother, putting as much disdain in his expression as he can.
“Wanna bet?” Jason sneers, looming. “ ’Cause I guarantee you won't like the result.”
Tim leans forward. Smiles.
“Try me.”
Jason storms out.
——————————
He doesn’t start to believe what Tim had to audacity to spout at him immediately.
No. What really helps, is his conversation with Steph, the following night.
Jason is prowling the Manor’s corridors, hair in the most impressive case of bed-head the world had experienced since Roy Harper had decided to forego long hair to go with a buzzed hairstyle instead, and circles under his eyes about the size of baseballs.
Some nights, sleep can be an especially tricky little bastard. His environment really isn’t helping matters. Spending a few nights in the Manor after so long is disquieting.
(Managing entire civil conversations with Bruce is disquieting. Arguing with Tim is...)
He tightens his grip on the blanket he’d wrapped around himself, snorting as he passes a mirror in the corridor. He glances away from his reflection, mentally thanking the gods the criminal population of Gotham can’t see him now.
Fear the terrifying Red Rug. The cruel Crimson Comforter. The Bloody Blanket Burrito, scourge of Gotham’s underworld.
Okay, that is absolutely terrible. Thank fuck the bats aren’t the ones with the mind-reading abilities. He’d never hear the end of it. Plus, interacting with them is complicated enough as it is and a mind-reading Batman would just be an overwhelming pain in his metaphorical ass.
Also an excuse for Bruce to forego talking altogether for the rest of his life. Which would in turn shorten Dick’s considerably.
No one wants that. Not even Jason. Not anymore.
He enters the kitchen, intent on making himself a glass of water, maybe even steal a muffin from Alfred’s reserves and blame it on Tim.
“Jason Todd.” Steph says, as soon as he enters the kitchen. “Just the man I wanted to see.”
“Blondie.” He greets back, walking towards the pantry. “Can’t say I was expecting to see you.”
“I am here.” She says, and it’s grandiose in a way only she can pull off. “To help your dumb ass.”
“Thanks?”
“You’re welcome.” She replies sweetly. “But first, let’s make something very clear. You ever hurt Tim or Damian again, I cut your balls off with nothing but a pen and sheer spite.”
Short, to the point, no attempt at deception. Jason can respect that.
“Noted.” He opens the pantry, snooping around until he finds the muffins. “You are aware that I was a crime-lord, right?”
“Am I supposed to care?”
“Good point. Muffin?” He opens the metallic box, and tilts it towards her.
“Thank you.” She accepts politely, taking, then biting, in one. “When Tim told me the prodigal son had returned home, I didn’t believe him at first. Kinda hypocritical of you, after all you’ve said and done, don’t you think?”
“Well, yes, didn’t anybody warn you? I’m a special little snowflake.” He snarks, biting in his own muffin.
“You’re a jerk is what you are.” She snorts. “Though from what he told me, you weren’t the only one.”
“Thanks. I get it from Bruce.”
She puts her elbow on the table and rests her left cheek in her palm, pensive. The temperature of the room drops along with its somewhat easy atmosphere. He tenses.
“See, I care about you.” The fingers of her other hand drum at a steady pace on the table, having left her half-eaten muffin besides it. “The others do, too. They love you, even. I admired you a lot when you were Robin.” She smiles. “Admire you more now. We get along well.”
He crosses his arms.
“I feel like this is going to take an abrupt turn soon.”
Her voice becomes very even. Her eyes burn with cold determination.
“But all that doesn’t matter in the slightest. Because, Jason, I swear on everything I hold dear. You ever hurt them like you did back then again, I’ll intervene. And I’m not Bruce. Or Dick.”
She’s deathly serious.
“Good.” He replies, just as seriously. “If it ever happens, I hope you do.”
She studies him for a moment, then nods.
He laughs. It’s a harsh sound. “Though I’d like to point out that I’m not the only one to blame for what happened when I came back.”
“Trust me, we’re all painfully aware of that. Seriously, though. You okay?”
“Yeah, close enough.”
“Good. I’m glad.” She says sincerely, as far as he can tell.
They eat the rest of their muffins in companionable silence. At some point, Jason gets up and makes them hot chocolate. They sip at their respective mugs slowly, until he breaks the silence.
“Maybe I should go.”
“Go where?”
He shrugs.
“I mean- We try. Every time we try and in the end, every time somebody gets hurt worse. Me, Bruce, Tim, Damian. Someone always ends up broken. I’ve hurt them enough, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I do think.” She agrees bluntly. He flinches. “What I don’t get is how you can be dumb enough to think running away from them isn’t going to hurt them more.”
“I’m fucked up, Steph. And I’m not sure that’s entirely due to the pit.”
“Jason Peter Todd, don’t you fucking dare.” She snarls. “I am not dealing with your mopey family because you’re all too chicken to acknowledge the fact that every single one of you is just as damaged as the others.” Her tone takes on a harder edge. “You want to talk about hurting? You’ve never had to pick up the pieces your absence left them in. Try talking with Tim about that, sometimes."
He has nothing to say to that.
“Bruce can be a right bastard. Yet, he has this way of making you care, too much, when you know you shouldn’t. You hurt them. They hurt you. But you wanna know what you are without each other? Way worse. And that’s not something that can be said of every family. That’s why you should try, and not run to the hills.”
“I don’t know how. I don’t know how to make it better.” Is the only thing he manages to blurt.
“Then I guess you’ll all have to pull your head out of your ass and try smarter, won’t you?”
He nods.
“Good. This was by far the dumbest idea you’ve ever had.” She informed him. “And that’s counting the time you tried to blow up the Batmobile. Now. Want to go beat the shit out of some zombies?”
He finds his voice again, after clearing his throat once or twice.
“I’m firmly against any kind of self-harm.”
She laughs, bright and loud. Jason grins, head feeling a little lighter than it had been at the start of the night.
“This is why no one likes us.” She informs him, tone still brimming with mirth.
“Please. If anything, they clearly need to shit out the stick that’s up their asses. But okay, I’m game. Want to see how red Tim turns when we beat his high score?”
“Boy, do I ever.”
“Loser has to-” He pauses to think it over. What would they both be comfortable with, while still being an acceptably embarrassing wager? Her expression is equally thoughtful.
“Stay in the manor and act like Bruce 24/7 for a week. As a bonus, it will freak him out.”
“You’re definitely on.”
————————
It gets…easier, after that, to act like their brother. Or at least to act like their brother and accept that it’s what he’s doing.The next time Damian comes to him with a problem, no, not even a problem really, an philosophy essay he’s been assigned on Superman and finds disgraceful, Jason takes it in stride.
Essays he’s good at. Essays he’s fucking amazing at.
So, yeah, it gets easier. Even if Harper is snickering at him from the other side of the kitchen table. Harper can shut up.
“I was not aware you respected Superman.” Damian quirks a brow, after he’s ranted for twenty minutes about the American school system, and after they’ve gone over the bare-bones of the essay together.
“I mean, even if you disagree with his principles, you've got to have a healthy amount of respect for a dude who fights intergalactic warlords while draped in his baby blanket.”
“Please, Jaybird.” Roy snorts. “Like you haven’t done just that in your birthday suit.”
Damian makes a disgusted face.
“We are-” Jason grits his teeth, as he knows his kitchen’s bugged. He’s agreed to it. There are things Bruce is so better off not knowing. “-very much not talking about that right now.”
——————
The fact of the matter is, Jason’s not Dick. Jason is, has been, a pretty shitty brother overall, and no amount of trying to catch up now will make up for that-
“Kid.” He says gently, crouching down in front of him, putting a hand on Damian's shoulder. The kid’s torturing himself with another problem, and Jason can’t stand that. Enough of his childhood has been stolen away to let the rest of it go to waste. “Remember what I said about us adults being able to make our own decisions without any of them being your fault?”
Damian nods.
“It applies.”
He can try, though. He’s invested. He loves those assholes.
“Plus, do I strike you as the type to sulk silently when I have a problem with anyone?”
He clenches his hand around a fistful of shirt. The kid tenses, but too late. Jason’s already thrown him into the pool before he has any opportunity to react.
He shrieks death threats all the way down then hits the water with a mightily satisfying splash.
Jason listens to the sound of sweet, sweet revenge as Damian breaks the surface.
Revenge sounds a lot like spluttering.
And mutters of indignant rage.
Revenge is music to his ears.
Bruce comes back out of the house, brow furrowed, having heard the shriek, most likely.
“Spying, old man?” Jason asks. “You know we aren’t going to let anything slip when you're even remotely close, right?”
“Where's Damian?” Bruce looks somewhat irritated, but unrepentant.
“Sleeping with the fishes.” He replies, keeping a perfectly straight face. “The kid loves animals too much for his own health.”
The noises from the pool get louder.
Bruce carefully looks at the sky like it can grant him strength. He looks back at Jason, but only after a moment.
“What have you done to your brother?” He asks.
“Nothing much. He was sad, I fixed it.”
“Jason.”
“Some hydrotherapy. Little bit of cognitive recalibration. Just doing my part looking after his mental health.”
Damian comes clambering up the side of the pool behind Bruce's back, in a startlingly admirable imitation of the girl from 'The Ring'. He raises his head up. Fury blazes in his green eyes. Blood-lust does, too.
“Gotta go.” Jason says, still admirably calm. “The cognitive recalibration worked a little too well. Good news, though. He’s fine, now.” He walks backwards until his back hits the wall then starts to climb, shooting up until he catches a ledge and lets himself through Dick's open window.
“Hi.” He says, running through the room. “Damian needs you. Bye.”
Nah, Jason’s not as good a brother as Dick Grayson is.
He’s starting to believe that that's alright.
———————
Plus, if there’s one thing Jason hates, it’s kids. And Roy Harper.
“You’re a disgrace to this family.” Damian proclaims, face twisted into something disgusted as he listens to where Superman is laughing at Roy-fucking-Haper’s story. The one Jason specifically asked him not to tell anyone.
Bruce’s not laughing.
The sun is high in the sky. Tim has turned into a sun-burnt lobster two whole hours ago, and they’re having a picnic with the Kents.
If you’d told the Jason of three years ago that he’d ever have this again, he’d have sneered in your face.
And shot you. Probably.
With this grand proclamation, Damian walks away, chin held high, an air of self-importance plastered all over him.
“You’re not angry.” Jon observes, floating a little off the ground a few feet away from Jason. At eye level, somewhat.
He seems to catch himself and lands again.
Huh?
“Why would I be?”
“You help him and he calls you a disgrace.” Is pointed out.
Jason chuckles.
“Oh, please. 'You're a disgrace to this family' 's basically how Damian says 'I love you’, nowadays.”
He pauses.
“Don’t tell him I said that.” Jason waits until the kid has nodded before continuing. “Now coming from Dick, though, that would hurt like a m-.”
Jon shrugs.
“But those are still the same words.”
“Ah.” Jason snorts. “But the timeline's not the same. In Damian's case, plenty of people are already a disgrace. The important thing to notice is that if you're a disgrace to his family, you're part of it. In Dick's case, you were part of the family, but you've just become a disgrace.”
Jon frowns. Jason smirks at him. The kid has good instincts, he knows that what Jason just said was wrong. Damian doesn't consider everyone a disgrace, he's just a kid that's been hurt, one too many times. A kid that's trying to protect himself under a veneer of disdain. But Damian would not appreciate Jason calling him that. Or knowing that even. So he sticks to his guns, metaphorically speaking.
“I don’t think Mr. Drake sees it that way. Or that it's really better to consider everyone a disgrace.”
“I'll give you fifty bucks if you call him that to his face.”
Kids these days apparently either have a lot of pocket money or a very strong moral backbone. He sighs.
“Tim can see it. But he and Damian had a... rocky first few months. They’re figuring things out.”
If by figuring things out, one means the long-standing Batfamily tradition of joyfully ignoring the emotional problem until you have no choice but to address it.
Eh, it works. Sometimes.
Jason quirks an eyebrow.
“But you already knew all that, or you wouldn’t be his friend. So what’s up, squirt?”
“Nothing.” Jon smiles, embarrassed, rubbing a hand behind his neck, eyes closed behind his glasses.
The cute and harmless act is not going to work. Nope. He isn’t going to let it. He is the Red Hood. He is not about to be defeated by a pacifist toddler. Even if said pacifist toddler is a half-alien with an entire array of superpowers that make him basically invulnerable to any human trying to fight him. Out of the question. He refuses.
He sets his face in a mask of stone, using a mild glare as a shield.
“Spill.”
The kid wilts like a dying flower.
“Damian’s been talking a lot more about you, recently.”
Jason blinks.
So.
This is-
“And, well, I mean no offense, but you're the Red Hood, and I have super-invulnerability-”
He is being. He’s being shovel-talked at by Superman’s son.
“-to bullets, too; while no matter what he thinks, Damian really doesn’t. Sure, I-”
Well. Tested, really.
“-don’t know exactly what’s been going on between you and Mr Wayne but, I mean-”
For the Demon Brat's well-being.
“-I know a lot of it was bad, since you're officially a villain and all that. I know Damian can be difficult to understand a lot of the time. He told me a lot about his mom’s side of the family, too, to be honest, they don’t sound all that great.-”
The kid had seen someone he thinks of as a villain/murderer hanging around his socially stunted best friend and had thought 'Oh no, that won’t do. What about his mental health? Better politely tell them off.’
And then actually had the balls to do it.
“-It sounds like he doesn’t have a lot of people that get him, apart from Mr Grayson. So I had to make sure you understood? I can see that you obviously do, now, which is great. Anyone could use a good big brother.”
...
...Fuck.
He feels the top of his ears start burning.
“Mr Todd? Could you please stop glaring at me, now? It is kinda uncomfortable and I didn’t want to cause any trouble between you and Damian. Or between you and Mr Wayne on such a nice trip.”
The flash of a camera blinds him as he continues staring incredulously down at Jon. Trying to keep his mouth from dropping open at how easily he's been played.
(At least Damian and Tim would have the decency to rub it in his face afterwards.)
“Shoot.” Regretful. Regretful. “I really didn’t want to fight you.”
At the sheer audacity of the kid.
“Jay? Jaybird?”
A dark hand waves in front of his face, once. Twice.
“Little Wing?”
Three times.
“Okay, how on earth did you manage to break Jason?” Dick asks Jon, chuckling. Behind him, camera strapped around his neck, stands a smirking Tim. When Jason eye's drift up to meet his, he mouths 'Told you so'. Smugly, even, the utter sun-burnt shit.
“I don’t know.” Comes the answer, distressed. “I didn’t mean to.”
Jason hates kids.
Really, he does.