Work Text:
Jason Todd sat on the small balcony of his apartment, his phone in his left hand, while he tried to imagine the stars that could be seen so clearly from Nanda Parbat. The same stars that were impossible to see inside the Gotham City limits, due to light pollution.
His phone vibrated and a text alert came through. It was from Bruce Wayne. There is a fundraiser for the Gotham Orphanage this Friday at 8:00 p.m. Black Tie. Attendance Mandatory.
The message was sent to himself, Timothy Drake, Damian Wayne, and Dick Grayson. Well, that was all of them. He knew Damian and Tim wouldn't be able to weasel their way out of the event, but could he and Dick? Certainly not both at the same time. But one of them? Probably.
A new alert from Dick came through. Don't even think about it, Jay. You're going and so am I.
He huffed in annoyance. "Are we sure he’s not a mind reader?"
It wasn't that Jason didn't support the Orphanage. To be blunt, he funneled a fair amount of the cut he made from the Gotham drug trade back into various charities in the city. He donated more to the Orphanage than Bruce did. And Bruce donated a lot. It wasn't even the orphans themselves. He didn't care if they got snot on his tux (that's what dry cleaners were for) or touched his face with sticky hands. Or, alternately, glared at him and watched him mistrustfully.
What Jason hated was being forced on display. He hated all the stuck-up socialites who — months after his legal return from the dead — still stared at him as if he were something that belonged on display in a museum with a plaque that read: Resurrected Heir to a Billionaire.
They had barely treated him like he was sentient when Bruce first brought him home. Now? Well, now he was nothing more than a miraculous curiosity they wanted to gawk at. In a classy manner, of course; they would never be so gauche as to drop their jaws or speak of him above a gossiping whisper.
"Almost makes a man wish he were still legally dead."
With a heavy sigh he texted an RSVP, just as his other three brothers did. He'd figure out some reason to sneak off. That would be easy enough and probably even expected from him. Bruce wouldn't approve, but Jason didn’t care. He couldn't let Bruce control every aspect of their lives.
With that thought in mind, he went back inside his apartment to make some dinner and get ready for the night's patrol. Beating up people who deserved it always helped him feel better.
Jason sneered at himself in the mirror. He knew he looked good in a tux, but then, what man didn't? Suits were designed the way they were for a reason. As long as the color wasn't extreme, the shape made most men appear genteel and handsome.
His phone buzzed. I'm here, let's go!
Just a minute, Dickhead! Jason texted back.
He stared at the gun on his bedside table longingly. If only he could bring it along and shoot anyone who got on his nerves.... Hmm, that was something to consider. Gotham General would surely see an upswing in funding and donations if its surgeons had to save the lives of a vast majority of Gotham's Elite.
He almost flinched at what he saw in the mirror, unable to deny it any longer. The ring of green around his irises had him swallowing down bile.
"I don't have time for this crap tonight!" he hissed.
He thumbed open the group chat and typed Code Green before slowly deleting it one letter at a time. Even though he knew without a doubt that doing so would get him out of the fundraiser, he couldn't bring himself to admit to such a weakness.
"Besides, if I bail without showing after B publicly announced we would all attend, the tabloids are going to have a field day," Jason spat as he left the gun, stormed out of the apartment, and shoved his keys in his pocket after locking the door and setting the alarm.
He wasn't going to sign himself up for media stalkers. Not when they had finally stopped tailing him almost 24/7.
He got into the passenger seat of Dick's sleek blue Porsche, but slid on some shades as he did so. Dick might have a reputation outside the Wayne Family for being some kind of bubble-brained ditz, but in reality, he was sharp and perceptive. If the green in Jason’s irises remained, Dick would notice and then march him back upstairs or worse, drag him to some panic room or safe house.
"Ready?" Dick asked, smiling pleasantly. Too pleasantly. Especially for a fundraising event that would have all the press there to badger and harass him.
Jason might not like the attention he got, but he knew for a fact Dick had it the worst. His open and friendly demeanor drew the flies in like honey.
"What the hell are you so happy about?"
"How can I not be happy?" Dick asked, practically vibrating with excitement in his seat. "We haven't all been together in months! Not since —"
"Not since you blackmailed all of us, threatening to give our personal phone numbers to Vicki Vale, if we didn't show up at Baby Bat's school play. I remember, Dickhead," Jason snapped.
He would never, ever tell anyone ... but he would have gone anyway. How could he possibly resist the urge to see Damian wearing horns as he played Puck from A Midsummer Night's Dream? It was the perfect opportunity to get photographic evidence that Damian was, in fact, a Demon Brat — horns and all. And begrudgingly, to himself, he'd admit that Damian had managed to not botch any of his lines. He hadn't shamed the Bard.
"You say 'blackmail,' I say 'family time.' Potato, potato, Jay!" Dick said.
Well, at least that explained that. Dick wouldn't lie about being excited about the family being together. Still, though, it wasn't a family function. It was a socialite event. At least the school Damian attended had strict rules about badgering the parents and children that attended their school. The journalists were only allowed to attend, write a review, interview the stars and the teachers, and that was it.
No photos. No harassing the parents that came to watch their children's performance.
"Blackmail is still a form of extortion. Shouldn't you know that, Officer Grayson?" Jason teased.
"True, but your crimes are far more egregious. Consider tonight part of your sentence," Dick said with his stupidly bright grin.
Before Jason had a chance to retort, Dick sped off like the death-defying acrobat he was. Speaking of breaking more laws! Jason gripped the door and was grateful he'd managed to buckle his seat belt. "You had better not be driving like this with Damian or Tim in this deathtrap!"
"Who do you think taught Tim how to drive?" Dick replied, laughing loudly. "You don't seriously think B found time to do that?"
"That explains so much about Tim!" Jason replied.
It was no secret to anyone in Gotham that Red Robin drove like a maniac, whether he was in the Redbird or on one of his bikes. He made professional race car drivers seem like total pansies when compared to him.
"Dick!" Jason would deny until the universe imploded how high his voice went as Dick tore around a corner so fast that two wheels left the pavement.
"Don't worry, Little Wing! You're safe with me!" Dick promised, turning to beam at Jason.
"Eyes on the road, you psycho!" Jason yelled back.
Dick pouted and turned to face forwards again. "Don't you trust me to keep you safe, Little Wing?" he asked.
The slight wobble in Dick's voice made Jason bite back his instinctive reply before it spilled from his lips. He closed his eyes, counted slowly to ten, and then forced himself to relax in the passenger seat.
"With my life," he whispered, and pretended not to see how Dick swallowed hard enough that it was audible.
Even with all that trust in Dick, Jason couldn't deny how quickly he jumped out of the vehicle once they stopped. He didn't even wait for the valet to open his door for him. Dick was laughing at him, Jason could hear it, but he chose to ignore it.
Maybe Jason was just as reckless a driver. He didn't know because he rarely had passengers, but there was a huge difference when you were the one behind the wheel. Everything felt more intense from the side seat: faster, sharper, jerkier.
"Baby," Dick whispered as he walked around his car to Jason, his eyes alight with mischief.
"Don't make me kill you," Jason threatened with only a small smile.
They made their way inside, ignoring the flashes of camera light and the shouted questions. It was all par for the course, after all. Jason immediately saw Tim and Damian, but Bruce didn’t appear to be present. At least, not within view.
"He wouldn't," Dick said with a frown.
Jason looked to his older, shorter brother. "Who wouldn't what?"
"Look at Damian's face, Jason," Dick said without pointing to their youngest brother.
"Oh man. That's his 'I've been abandoned' face."
Jason grimaced. He would admit freely, at any time, even in public if asked, that he hated Brucie Wayne. There were dickbags in Crime Alley that Jason hated less than he hated Brucie Wayne. Brucie was the kind of person Jason wanted to punch in the face simply for existing. And even though they all knew the Brucie mask served a very vital purpose — operational security, protecting their identities, etc. — it burned to be abandoned by him at a gala.
Jason would never forget the first time he had attended a Wayne Gala after being adopted by Bruce. Alfred had stuffed him into a tiny tux that, despite its cost, was uncomfortable. Even the shoes, freshly bought, somehow managed to pinch his toes. But those minor discomforts didn't even hold a candle to having Bruce wander off almost immediately after they arrived, abandoning him to the high society vultures. And even though Bruce explained his reasoning on the way home from it, in the car, nothing cut quite as sharp as Brucie's laughter had upon some bleach-blonde socialite calling Jason a "charity project," which he hadn't refuted.
For Damian, who had even less socialization than Jason had at his age, this had to be absolute hell.
"I've got him," Jason stated determinedly, before pushing his way through the crowd.
Damian, who was normally stubborn and proud, moved to Jason's side immediately upon his arrival. Jason knew better than to point out such an obvious "weakness" by asking if he was alright. So, instead, he looked down and played it cool.
"Hey, Brat," Jason said with a smile. The bond he and Damian had forged in the League of Assassins wasn’t something easily broken. He couldn’t stand to see the kid in pain.
Relief shone in Damian’s bright green eyes. "Tt. Todd," Damian replied, as if incredibly put upon to be talking.
"Seen Brucie anywhere?" Jason asked.
Damian sighed. "He's not here yet. Alfred dropped myself and Drake off and then went back to get Father from the office."
Jason's eyebrow twitched as he struggled to control his anger. So Bruce demanded their presence and couldn't even be bothered to show up at the time he specified for their arrival, which was an hour after the actual start of the fundraiser.
"I'm going to punch him in his perfect teeth," Jason muttered.
When Damian didn't instantly jump to Bruce's defense, Jason figured that Damian hadn't enjoyed being isolated at a fundraiser like this.
Tim was across the room, surrounded by the fawning masses who thought they had a chance in hell of getting in his bed. Jason briefly wondered if outing Tim as a virgin would get them to back off or cause them to swarm like sharks on chum.
"Why are you wearing sunglasses indoors? The word you used to describe people who do such was ... crude."
"Someone got in a lucky hit last night," he lied with a smirk. “I made him regret it.”
They had all had the unfortunate experience of being in the limelight with vibrant bruises on their faces that they needed to creatively explain away. Damian on the other hand wasn't so easily swayed or tricked for that matter. The youngest of the Wayne Family stared up at Jason's face speculatively.
"Go rescue Tim from all the gold-diggers and don't worry about it," Jason insisted with a little more heat than he meant.
Damian's left brow rose archly as his eyes narrowed. "I see what you're about, Todd," he said angrily. Though to be fair, Damian always sounded angry when he thought about the Pit’s influence on Jason. "You will inform me if anything progresses beyond your control."
And like the prince his little bratty brother knew himself to be, he walked off toward Tim with his head held high.
Jason took a deep breath and swiped a petit four off the tray of a passing server. He shoved the entire thing in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed, all without tasting it. That was too close.
Damian was young. He shouldn't have to worry about if his second eldest brother was going to suddenly lose control and go on a homicidal rampage. Well ... violent rampage. Technically, Jason hadn't killed anyone in seven months. He was waiting for one of the Bats to flick him a custom-made coin one night on patrol as a reminder to stay sober.
"What was that about?" Dick asked as he appeared at Jason's side from behind. "Why does Dami look worried?"
"He doesn't," Jason replied. "Demon Brat doesn't have feelings."
One of these days, he and Damian would clue the family into their shared history and closeness. But for now, they just enjoyed play-fighting and name-calling and fooling the supposed greatest detectives in the world. Though, Jason thought as he eyed Tim’s there-and-then-gone smirk from across the room, perhaps someone had them figured out already.
"Jason!"
Jason flinched. He hated when Dick called him by his full first name in that tone of voice. It usually meant he had really screwed up. He cleared his throat and gruffly said, "Sorry."
Dick sighed. “Why can’t you two just get along?”
Deciding to redirect some of that disappointment and anger from himself to a different target, Jason sneered and said, “Apparently Bruce is still at the office.”
Of course, Dick just couldn't let Bruce be the bad guy and started defending and justifying his actions. Jason hated when he did that. Dick deserved so much better than to be the person who was endlessly expected to clean up after Bruce’s messes.
"Jason, you aren't a child anymore. You know how important B's job is. He can't be everywhere at once and there are more pressing matters than fundraising."
"Then why the hell do I have to be here?"
Apparently his voice was just a bit louder than he'd meant it to be, as several dozen pairs of eyes focused intently on him and Dick. He felt anger of course, but it was mostly smothered by embarrassment. The last thing he wanted to do was throw a punch at a fundraiser and give those rich jerks another thing to gossip about.
Jason ducked his head and went outside for a breath of fresh air. Sometimes, that was enough to fight back the Pit-Rage. Sometimes … it wasn’t.
Dick would have to follow him if he wanted to continue his lecture.
It didn't surprise Jason that Dick didn't follow. Because, really, when had Dick ever chosen him first? When had Dick ever left Tim or Damian to fend for themselves so that he could check in on Jason? "Why would he?" Jason asked bitterly. "I'm the defective one."
The feeling of worthlessness welled up, compounded by anger, and the embarrassment of arguing in front of the rich bastards who ruled Gotham, proving they were right all those years ago when they said he was "uncultured" and "unsalvageable" and "really, what was Bruce thinking?"
He grabbed the ornate metal railing of the balcony hard enough that his hands ached. It was so cold it almost burned against his skin, but he didn't let it go. The inside of his lenses mirrored sickly green back at him. If he let go of the railing, he had no idea what he'd do.
"Jason?"
He kept his grip on the rail. His eyes squeezed shut as he tried not to lose control — not to hurt himself or anyone around him — especially the man who'd helped to bring about at least half the ire that was burning through him.
"Son, are you alright?" the deep, concerned voice of Bruce asked from right beside him.
Through gritted teeth, Jason growled, "Please ... Bruce. Just go away."
"No."
Jason spun around, ready to deck those pearly whites, just as he'd threatened earlier, but that didn't happen. Instead, Bruce was ready for him. He moved into Jason's space and pulled him into a tight embrace.
"Come up to the roof with me," Bruce ordered.
Jason wanted to argue. Hell, he was going to argue, but then Bruce gave him the fatherly I'm not asking look. It was so tempting to give into the anger coursing through his veins, to just rant and shout, but that wasn't Jason Todd. That was the Lazarus Pit talking. They both knew it.
"Son, please," Bruce asked and, for some reason, rephrasing and making it a request calmed the Pit-Rage.
He couldn’t even remember the last time he had heard Bruce use the word “please.”
Jason followed.
He stared at the toes of his socks, having left his dress shoes on the balcony behind a potted plant. The soles of dress shoes weren't made for climbing, and were more liable to send him plummeting to his death if he attempted such a foolish venture.
"What do you want, B? I'm here, aren't I? Like you demanded," Jason said, hands shoved in his pockets so he wouldn't be tempted to punch Bruce off the roof.
"What triggered it?"
Jason absolutely hated how calm and toneless Bruce's voice was, as if they were strangers making petty small talk because society demanded it. The Pit-Rage flared. Is that what Bruce thought of him? Did Bruce look at Jason and see a stranger where his dead son should have been?
"I don't know what you're talking about," Jason spat, falling back on a childhood that taught him he needed to deny and lie to survive.
"Don't play stupid, Jaylad. That's the last thing you are."
"Don't act like you know anything about me! Like now you finally give a crap!" Jason snarled.
Jason wanted to yell at himself. Throwing down with Batman in the form of angry tirades wouldn't unsettle the Bat. It wouldn't even unsettle the real Bruce Wayne. The man who had saved him from Crime Alley and taken him in was as stoic as ever, even in the face of Jason's wrath. That probably pissed him off more than anything else at the moment. Why was Bruce so inflexible? So determined to hide and smother every feeling he had?
"Jason, I have never stopped caring about or loving you," Bruce stated as if he were repeating facts Jason should already know. "You are my son. How can you think I would abandon my children?"
Sickly green ate at Jason as he remembered lying broken in a warehouse, clawing his way out of a coffin, learning to kill in the League … and Batman never swooping in to save him. He had to have known Jason was alive, right? Bruce was the World’s Greatest Detective. So … he had to have known. And that meant he left Jason in Talia al Ghul’s and the League’s hands because he didn’t want a Robin who couldn’t even save himself.
"Oh, you mean like you've been doing our entire lives!"
Bruce was silent for several heart beats, and the silence almost had a stunned quality to it. "Abandonment implies purposeful and knowing intent. I have made mistakes, Jason — I don’t deny that — but I have never willingly abandoned you."
"Neglected, then," Jason countered.
"I—"
Jason pressed his fingertips into the roof until they hurt, hoping the pain would ground him as the Pit raged inside him. "I'm not in the mood for your excuses, B," Jason spat, more tiredness in his voice than he would like to admit to, though it was definitely overwhelmed by accusation.
"I offer—"
"Every one of us knows who our real dad is, who really loves us, and it isn't you." Jason didn't even try to hold in the words that he had bitten back more times in his life than he could count. "I might not be his favorite son, and Tim and Damian might get preference, but let's be real for a minute, okay? Let's take off the masks for once in our lives!"
Bruce was as silent and still as the gargoyles on Gotham's rooftops.
"Dick's our dad. He's the one who checks in on us and makes sure we don’t overwork ourselves. He will drag us out to eat if he thinks we aren’t feeding ourselves enough, and takes us to ballgames and the zoo. Dick's the one who bandages our wounds and asks us about our day and covers us with blankets when we fall asleep in weird places. Dick's the one who hugs us and tells us he's proud of us and that he loves us. Dick's our dad." Jason yanked off his sunglasses and threw them off the roof as he scrubbed at his eyes. "So watch yourself, B. You're just the Father that shows up when he remembers he's supposed to have a family and throws money at it so he doesn't look like a total piece of trash."
Jason was sure he'd gotten to Bruce. It felt, for one fleeting moment, like heaven. Like he'd finally won something between the two of them. But Jason wasn't heartless. And seeing that flicker of hurt in Bruce's eyes had brought its own kind of guilt and pain.
"Are you finished?" Bruce asked, as calm as ever, as if Jason hadn’t just pointed out a series of truths that had struck right at Bruce’s heart.
"Finished?" Jason blinked incredulously.
"Yes, are you finished?"
"For now," Jason said as the Pit-Rage eased down to almost nothing.
"I've made mistakes. I acknowledge that," Bruce began. "But what is it you want me to say, Jason? Do you wish I hadn't adopted Dick? You? Tim? That I hadn't taken in Damian?"
Jason tried to imagine what life without Bruce would be like for any of them and he felt sick. He knew Bruce tried for them, so hard, in his own way. But, ironically, just like with everyone else, Bruce fell short of Dick Grayson’s perfection.
If given a choice, he, Tim, and Damian would always choose a dad over a father.
"As you and your brothers are a product of your environments, I am, too," Bruce said. "Alfred raised me once my parents died, but not as a son. As his employer. He told me after their funeral that he would never try to take their place in my life and overstep his role. My parents’ deaths were so traumatic that I don't remember much of how they treated me prior to that night. I know I was loved. I know I was cared for, but ... I never learned how to show my love or be a parent. I wasn’t raised by my dad. I had a well-meaning butler who refused to overstep his bounds."
Jason swallowed roughly. Because ... yeah, that made a lot of sense. Even all these years later, Alfred insisted on calling them all Master Richard and Master Jason and Master Timothy, and so on.
For just a minute, he let himself imagine what it would be like to be a newly orphaned child, sitting at the enormous formal dining table alone, because Alfred refused to sit and eat with him, and hear meal after meal, "Will that be all, Master Bruce?"
It ... it sounded worse than what had happened to Jason in the Alley. At least Catherine had told him she loved him and spent time with him, even when she wasn't high on her drug of choice.
Bruce didn’t have a Dick Grayson to hug him and tell him he was loved as he grew up. And, for the first time, Jason realized he was richer than Bruce Wayne.
"You want to know what I want you to say, B?"
"Tell me and I'll say it."
Jason looked Bruce right in the eyes and demanded, "Stop driving Dick away. Because if you don't, I'll” — he swallowed the instinctive threat that popped to mind, because it was too cruel, especially in light of what Bruce had just revealed — “never acknowledge you as family again. Stop posturing and trying to control his life. You might be fine when he's running off to get away from you, but" — Jason shook with emotion — "Timmy, Damian, and I need him."
He couldn't believe how good it felt to finally make the threat. No. The promise that had been on his mind for years.
Watching Bruce push and prod at Dick, watching them argue and shout (all while Dick stood up for Bruce behind his back against anyone who criticized him) hurt. Because without Bruce, Dick wouldn’t even be part of Jason’s life. And without Dick, life was dark and lonely.
“You want to be our Father? Fine! But let Dick be our Dad. He told me you agreed to be partners when he became Robin, instead of hero and sidekick," Jason said. "So let him be our emotional security, like you're our physical security.”
He looked Bruce in the eyes, waiting for Bruce to make his choice.
"I ... I didn't intend ..." Bruce fell silent before he nodded. "You're right. I'll be better with Dick. I promise, Jason."
Jason hadn't actually expected Bruce to say ... well, any of it. But especially not that.
Bruce rarely made promises. When he did, he kept them. They were a rare gift, and all the more precious because of it.
Jason rubbed at the back of his neck and wasn't sure what else to say. What to think or feel. Had anyone ever won an argument with B without it resorting to thrown fists? He was pretty sure the answer was no.
He bit his lip and said the only thing he could think of, "Thank you, B."
“You’re welcome, Son,” Bruce said. "Now tell me what triggered the Pit-Rage tonight. Your control hasn’t slipped this badly in months. You’ve made significant progress."
Jason stood up and walked to the edge of the roof, curling his sock-clad toes around the bottom-most shingles. He couldn't look at Bruce while he answered. The answer itself was going to leave him feeling butt naked in the middle of a Wayne Gala.
"I dreamt of the warehouse and the Joker this afternoon," he said, forcing his voice not to shake.
"Oh, Jaylad, I—"
"But I wasn't the Robin that Joker caught in my dream. Dick was," he confessed, hating the wet quality his voice had taken on.
Jason had woken up screaming "Dad!" so loudly that his throat had been sore for an hour afterwards. He had rushed to the bathroom, thrown up twice, and then crawled in the shower. He sat sobbing on the tiles for ... he didn't know how long, before clambering out to spam Dick with a million texts. Each one answered let him breathe a little easier.
In fact, the real reason he had deleted that Code Green text to the group chat was because he knew he wouldn't be able to come down from the Pit Madness at all if he didn't see with his own eyes, and hear with his own ears, that Dick was still alive.
There was silence for so long that Jason almost believed that Bruce had left the roof. When he finally looked back, he saw that Bruce was just standing there, staring at him in silent horror. Maybe he didn't know what to say. Jason was glad for it. He hated listening to people talk just because the silence was more frightening than saying the wrong thing.
Sometimes Dick could be like that, but Dick rarely said the wrong thing. Most of the time he made Jason laugh. Or managed to make Damian feel like someone other than Jason loved him. Or made Timothy realize he was too far away again, that he needed to come back to the rest of the world. That was Dick's greatest strength — his love was genuine and he drew them in like planets orbiting a sun.
"Do you know why the Joker hated the first Robin so much?" Bruce asked.
"No, why?"
"Because he's never gotten the best of him. To this day, Dick has remained impervious to the Joker's schemes," Bruce answered. "I don't think the Joker will ever beat him, either. Dick's not so proud that he wouldn't bend, but nor is he so weak-willed that he'd let the Joker break him. If he were ever captured, you know he would fight to his last breath to get home to us."
Jason's lips quirked the slightest bit. "Yeah, my dad's a total boss."
A muffled sob echoed through the evening air. Jason whipped around, facing the direction the sound had come from, and saw Dick leaning against the brick chimney, his hands clasped over his mouth as tears poured down his face.
Jason ran over and collapsed to his knees at Dick's side, uncaring of the damage it would cause to his bespoke tuxedo. Material goods were replaceable. Dick wasn't. "What's wrong?" Jason demanded.
Dick latched onto Jason and pulled him down into his lap, even though Jason was taller and more muscular and heavier than him now. "Little Wing!"
Jason stroked Dick's hair and said, "Hey, shh. It's okay. We can—"
"Of course I’d fight to come home to you! I love you, Little Wing."
Jason hugged Dick fiercely, grateful for his strength over the years. For his presence and his place in Jason's life. That Dick had looked at him and his brothers and seen kids worth loving and protecting. He was unspeakably blessed that Dick had room in his heart for a rough orphan from Crime Alley that Bruce brought to the safety of Wayne Manor.
"I love you, too, Dad," Jason whispered against Dick's hair, guessing at what had Dick in such an emotional state.
Dick hiccuped and then hugged him even more tightly.
How ironic was it that they were having this conversation while at a fundraiser for the Gotham Orphanage? The only way it would be more fitting was if....
Jason glanced up at Bruce, worried that his next words would hurt him, but the man already had an approving smile on his face, as if he knew exactly what Jason intended to say. Well, okay then.
He looked back at Dick and asked, "So, what do you think, Dad? How does 'Jason Grayson' sound?"
There was a reason, after all, why Jason had refused the Wayne name all of those years ago. Because Dick had given him a family name — Robin — before Bruce had ever awkwardly offered the Wayne name. And after the loving, tearful way Dick had bestowed "Robin" upon him, he couldn't betray him by taking the Wayne name.
Even if it only would have been a betrayal in Jason’s eyes.
Dick looked up at him and smiled so brightly through his tears that it made Jason's chest ache. He had never seen Dick happier than he was right now in the entire time that Jason had known him.
"It rhymes. What could be more perfect?"