Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Dude, are you fucking studying right now?" 

Jason Todd was twenty-four years old, halfway through a master's degree, and currently perched on a gargoyle in Park Row, highlighting a journal article about literacy rates in juvenile detention centers.

On average, up to 21% of adults in the United States are functionally illiterate and read at an eighth-grade level, while 85% of incarcerated youth are illiterate….70% of incarcerated adults cannot read at a fourth-grade level…

"You're reading about…" Static crackled as Oracle pulled up his screen share. "Educational inequity while on patrol?"

"Crime's slow tonight, paper on this is due tomorrow by 11:59." Jason made a note in the margin. 

Correlation between 3rd-grade reading levels and future incarceration…tends to disproportionately target students with disabilities and students of color - Use this!!

"I can't believe you're actually doing homework," Duke said over comms, and Jason could hear the grin. "Tim, you seeing this?"

"Already screenshotted it for the group chat," Tim confirmed.

"I hate all of you."

"No, you don't," Dick said cheerfully. "You love us, it's your fatal flaw."

Jason was saved from responding by Oracle: "Armed robbery, corner of 4th and Becker. Three suspects, one hostage."

He was already moving, tucking the article into the gargoyle’s mouth. "On it."

The robbery took six minutes to shut down. Jason and Tim had the hostage clear and the suspects zip-tied before GCPD arrived, then he was gone, back to his gargoyle, back to his article.

His phone buzzed. The family group chat, which Tim had added him back to without asking, and Jason had pretended to hate but never left.

Dickhead: JASON IS STUDYING ON PATROL

Steph: No way

Steph: NERD

Timbo: I have photographic evidence

[Image attached: Jason on a rooftop, annotating a textbook before shoving it into a crack in the wall]

Demon: Todd, your posture is atrocious. You'll damage your spine further.

Jason: Go to bed, you're like eight.

Demon: I am fourteen!

Cass: 💚📚

Dork Thomas: For the record, I called this after his bachelor's. I SAID he'd end up in grad school.

He ignored the next forty-seven messages while he finished the article, packed up his gear, and headed home at 3 AM with a mental note to work this source into his thesis chapter on early intervention.

Jason got home around 3:30 that morning, dropped his helmet on the counter, pulled out his laptop, and was three paragraphs into revising his literature review when his phone buzzed again.

Dork Thomas: hey you still up?

Jason glanced at the time: 3:47 AM. He’d just brushed his teeth and thrown on basketball shorts and a Meshugga t-shirt that was just a touch too small in the shoulders.

Jason: Unfortunately. What's wrong?

Dork Thomas: nothing's wrong! just... you're good at english stuff right?

Jason: It’s kind of my job to teach English – I’d say I’m pretty good at it.

Jason: What do you need?

Dork Thomas: paper on much ado due thursday. haven't started.

Jason: DUKE!

Dork: I KNOW OKAY I KNOW

Dork: i'll buy you coffee

Jason: You'll buy me breakfast.

Dork: deal

Jason: Send me what you have.

Dork: ...you still like the nos drinks right

Jason: Jesus fucking Christ.

Twenty minutes later, Duke showed up at Jason's fire escape with two energy drinks. Jason let him in, cleared space on his coffee table (currently covered in thesis notes, student essays, and three different translations of Beowulf), and resigned himself to an all-nighter.

"Okay," Jason said, opening Duke's assigned prompt. "Explain to me why you chose the most chaotic Shakespeare comedy for your procrastination."

"I didn't choose it! It was assigned!" Duke flopped onto the couch. "And it doesn't even make sense. Why is everyone pretending to be someone else? Why do they believe the evil brother? Why does Benedick fall for the eavesdropping thing when he's supposed to be smart?"

Jason stared at him. "You're a vigilante who spends his days pretending to be someone else."

"That's different."

"Is it?" Jason grabbed Duke's copy of the play, flipped to Act 2. "The whole play is about losing yourself in performance. Benedick performs masculinity and bachelorhood because that's his identity, until he's permitted to be vulnerable. Beatrice hides her feelings behind wit because women in her time – and let’s be a thousand percent honest here, still now – aren't allowed to be openly angry or voice what they actually want. They're all pretending until they can't anymore."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh." Jason shoved a notebook at him. "Thesis statement: Much Ado About Nothing is about the masks we wear and what it costs to take them off. Three body paragraphs: Benedick's performance, Beatrice's performance, and the tragedy of what happens when people believe the performance over the person, that's the Hero plot line."

"That's... actually really good."

"It’s almost like I'm really good at my job." Jason stood, headed for the kitchen. "You want actual food, or are we subsisting on caffeine and spite?"

"Do you have pizza rolls?"

"I eat like a goddamn king, of course, I have pizza rolls. Cheese or Supreme?"

“Supreme.”

They worked until sunrise: Duke typed while Jason paced, throwing out ideas about Shakespeare's use of eavesdropping as a narrative device, the way comedy relies on misunderstanding, and how the play's resolution requires characters to choose trust over performance.

"This is really good," Duke said finally, reading back his thesis paragraph. "Like, really good. How did you –"

"I lived it," Jason said quietly. Then, before Duke could ask what he meant, "What’s your conclusion paragraph. Bring it back to the thesis, but make it bigger and better. What's Shakespeare saying about identity?"

Duke typed for another twenty minutes while Jason graded papers from his Credit Recovery class. An essay about The Metamorphosis from Andre, one of his seniors, made Jason pause, reread it, and write notes in the margins about strong textual evidence and good analysis.

Andre was so fucking smart, but he just needed someone to see it.

"Done!" Duke announced. "Oh my god, it's done. Jason, I love you."

"You owe me breakfast."

"I'll buy you breakfast for a week."

"Make it two and proofread your citations. I saw at least three formatting errors."

Duke groaned, but did it. By the time the sun was fully up, he had a complete paper, Jason had finished grading, and they were both running on fumes.

"Thanks, man," Duke said, packing up his stuff. "Seriously. You're, like, really good at this teaching thing." He left before Jason could respond.

Jason stood in his apartment, surrounded by papers and books and the evidence of a life he'd built without permission, and felt an uncomfortable feeling rising. He shook it off, grabbed his bag, and headed to school. He hadn’t slept and decided that his first bell was going to be working independently on the rhetorical analysis papers he’d assigned last week.

Jason’s phone had buzzed approximately seventeen times during the last five minutes of his fourth bell AP Lit class. He had a strict “no phones, even for me” policy on test days, but he was beginning to think that he might have to break that rule to see what was so urgent.

Probably RockAuto reminding me about the struts I ordered for the Type R. Or Bizzaro got his iPad fixed. Again.

He picked up the phone:

Oracle: Need you to check something. Student name Andre Williams, ring a bell?

Jason's blood went cold.

Jason: Yeah, he's in my 7th period. What happened?

Oracle: Picked up last night. Trafficking charge.

Jason: What the fuck do you mean he was picked up?

Oracle: Driving a package across town for $200. Didn't know what was in it. At least that's his story.

Jason: Where is he???

Oracle: Juvenile Detention. Arraignment tomorrow.

Jason's hands shook. He set the phone down and thanked whatever deity was listening that he had a fifth-period plan bell that he could spend ruminating over Andre. 

Andre, who wrote essays about Kafka, asked Jason if he had any other recommendations because he’d genuinely enjoyed reading. Andre, who was smart, who was trying, who just needed two hundred fucking dollars to probably help pay a bill or something since he knew his grandma was on SSI.

Jason made it through his sixth bell. His juniors were discussing Emma, and he was there but not there, going through the motions  while his brain screamed $200, he needed $200, I should have seen it, I should have helped –

Seventh period filed in, but Jason's eyes were on Andre's empty desk in the third row.

"Mr. Todd?" Desiree raised her hand. "Is Andre okay? I heard –"

"Whatever you heard isn’t going to be discussed. End of story. If any of you need anything, you know you can email me and I will personally help find you resources. Now, let’s get back into Gatsby."

That night, Red Hood hit the streets with a purpose. It took three hours, five interrogations, and two broken arms before he got the name he needed.

Black Mask.

Of fucking course. Jesus Christ, were the eight heads in a duffel bag not clear enough for this cretin?

Jason found him in a warehouse off Dixon Dock. He tore through the hired muscle quickly, though most of them scattered at the sound of the first gunshot.

Black Mask was laughing. "Red Hood! To what do I owe –"

Jason's fist connected with his sternum, sending him sprawling.

"You recruited a seventeen-year-old kid." Jason's voice was flat, deadly. "Offered him $200 to traffic drugs. Do you not remember the deal, Roman? Do I need to put your head in a bag to get the fucking point across? No children, no women, and more importantly, not on my fucking turf."

Black Mask spat blood. "Business is business. Kid needed money –"

Jason hit him again. "He's a kid. What was my rule?"

"Plenty of kids need money. Not my fault –"

Jason saw red. Pit-green-tinged-red, rage flooding every synapse. His hands found Black Mask's throat, squeezing as he slammed him against the concrete.

"He's seventeen. He's in high school. He needed two hundred fucking dollars –"

"Hood." Bab’s voice over comms. "Hood, your heart rate –"

Jason squeezed tighter as Black Mask’s eyes started to roll back into his head. 

He was losing consciousness. Good.

"Hood." Bruce's voice now, closer. When had he arrived? "Let go."

"Why should I?" Jason's voice cracked through the modulator. "You know what happens to him now? He gets a record, can't get a job, can't get financial aid, can't… fuckin’ A,  he's gone, and for what? Two hundred dollars?"

"I know," Bruce said quietly. "I know. But killing Sionis won't fix it."

"Maybe not, but he won’t be able to touch one of my kids again."

"Jason." Bruce's hand on his shoulder. "He's not worth it."

Jason's hands loosened as Black Mask gasped for air, and he instantly wanted to tighten them again; he wanted to feel bone crunch under his fingers, wanted to see the light leave Black Mask's eyes, he wanted to –

"Get him out of here," Bruce said to Dick. "I'll handle this."

Dick approached carefully, hands visible. "Come on, little wing. Let's go."

Jason let himself be led away; he let Dick guide him to his bike, let him take the helmet, let him drive them both back to the Cave because Jason's hands were shaking too hard to hold the handles.

In the Cave, under fluorescent lights, Jason sat on a cot and stared at his hands.

"He's just a kid," Jason said to no one. "He just needed money."

Bruce stood nearby, still in the cowl. Silent.

"I should have seen it. Should have asked. Should have…" Jason's voice cracked. " Jesus fuck, Bruce, I lived it. I know what it's like. And I didn't –”

"You can't save everyone," Bruce said.

"Then what's the fucking point?" Jason looked up, and his vision was blurry. When had he started crying? "I got lucky. And for what? To watch other kids fall into the same trap and research it for a fucking thesis while they live it?"

Bruce crouched in front of him. "You're doing everything you can."

"It's not enough."

"It never feels like enough." Bruce's voice was soft.

Jason let out a bitter laugh in a poor attempt to hide a sob. "You sound like a therapist."

"I have one," Bruce said. "You should too."

"I'm fine."

"Jason –"

"I'm fine."

Bruce stood. "I see Dr. Quinzel. She's very good, knows about ‘the life’. She doesn't accept insurance, but I can give –"

"Absolutely fucking not." Jason's head snapped up. "That woman was an accessory to my murder, among…other things. I'm not – hard fucking pass, Bruce. Do you know how much of a conflict of interest that would be? Trust me when I tell you, I know she's not one for ethics, but seriously. That's gotta cross a line or something, even for her." Jason looked down at his boots. "She doesn't even have a license to practice."

"She's a great therapist. If not her, then find someone else," Bruce said.

“Please, Jason."

The please did it. Bruce never begged, but the word hung there. Jason wanted to argue and to say he didn't need help, that he could handle it, that he'd handled worse. But his hands were still shaking, and Andre's empty desk was burned into his brain, and he could still feel Black Mask's throat under his fingers and how badly he'd wanted to squeeze.

"Fine. I will go to a shrink if they take my insurance - which is shit by the way, you and I both know Bowery Public's benefits aren't great - and they call me themselves."

Chapter Text

Jason was grading papers when his phone rang. 

Unknown number. 

He never answered phone calls unless he A.) Knew who it was, and B.) it was an absolute emergency. Despite his better judgment, he picked up.

“Hello?” "Is this Jason Todd?"

"Depends. Who's asking?"

"This is Dr. Kent Nelson. Bruce Wayne gave me your number, he said you might be looking for a therapist."

Jason closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and let out a long sigh. "Of course he did."

"I specialize in trauma, PTSD, and what Bruce delicately referred to as 'complicated life experiences.' I also have a very flexible definition of patient confidentiality, given that I'm aware of your...extracurricular evening activities."

"You're a cape?"

"Technically, my title is 'Lord of Order,' but yes. Dr. Fate, when the helmet's on, Dr. Nelson when it's not."

Jason debated hanging up and telling Bruce to mind his own business. He planned to keep doing what he was doing, which was clearly working fine, except for the part where he'd nearly killed a man last week and couldn't stop thinking about it. On top of that, it had been a solid decade since he'd had a hot shower (always cold, too hot reminded him of the pit or the explosion), and he'd nearly come unglued working on his car after hearing the sound a ratchet made when he kicked it across the floor.

Fuck it. The WRX needs brake pads, and I can't do those if I think I'm in Ethiopia.

"...What's your availability?" Jason asked.

"Usually Monday through Friday from eight in the morning until six PM, but I can be flexible if needed. My office is in Las Vegas."

"Vegas? That's –"

"I offer telehealth, Jason. It's not an issue unless I’m prescribing you medication or we’re doing EMDR therapy. Those I would need to see you in person for."

Of fucking course Dr. Fate offers telehealth and EMDR.

"Fine," Jason said. "But I'm paying."

"Bruce offered to –" "I know what Bruce offered. I'm paying."

On the other end, Jason could hear the scratching of a pen against paper - presumably Nelson penciling him in. Then: "Alright. The first session is next Tuesday. I'll send a link to your email."

"Great. Fantastic. Love this for me."

Dr. Nelson chuckled. "I think we'll get along fine, Mr. Todd." He hung up before Jason could respond, leaving him staring at the calendar notification that now read "Therapy - 7 PM with Dr Kent V. Nelson" on Tuesday, and wondered what the hell he'd just agreed to.

Dr. Nelson's office was not what Jason expected. He'd anticipated clinical white walls, leather couches, maybe some pretentious abstract art. Instead, he clicked the telehealth link (which included a retinal scan from his laptop camera in addition to insurance details.

Dr. Nelson himself was in his sixties. He was bald with an ankh scar, kind eyes, and wearing a cardigan that had to be older than Jason. 

Guess we’re forgoing the golden helmet this session.

"So," Dr. Nelson said. "Bruce told me you've been through quite a lot."

"That's one way to put it." "How would you put it?"

"Do we have to do the whole 'tell me about your childhood' bit?"

"Only if you want to. I find it's more productive to start with why you're here."

"I'm here because Bruce wouldn't stop pestering me."

"And why was Bruce pestering you?"

Jason's jaw tightened. "I almost killed someone last week."

"Almost?"

"I wanted to. Really wanted to. Had my hands around his throat and wanted to feel him stop breathing."

"But you didn't." "But I didn't," Jason echoed. "So I guess that's progress."

"What stopped you?"

Jason thought about Bruce's hand on his shoulder. About Andre's empty desk. About his students who needed him alive and out of prison.

"I don't know," he lied. Dr. Nelson took a sip of tea as he studied him through the screen. "You're very good at deflecting."

"I'm very good at a lot of things."

"I don't doubt it. But we're not here to catalog your skills, we're here to talk about why you wanted to kill someone."

Jason looked up at the ceiling. "He recruited one of my students. Kid's seventeen and needed $200 to help pay bills. Now he's got a record. His life is over before it started."

"And that made you angry." "Of course, it made me angry. He's a kid."

"You were a kid once, too."

Jason's hands clenched into fists. "Yeah. I was."

"And no one saved you."

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and for a second, Jason forgot how to breathe.

"Bruce saved me," he said finally.

"But not before you suffered. Not before you died."

Jason hovered the cursor of the mouse over the red “X” in the upper right corner of his screen. "I think we're done here."

"We have forty-five minutes left."

"Then I'll wait outside."

"Running away is easier than feeling it. I understand that. But you came here for a reason, Jason. When you're ready to figure out what that reason is, I'll be here. Same time next week."

Jason's finger was on the button. He wanted to turn off his laptop and go back to handling everything alone like he always had.

But he didn’t. Instead, he took a sip of the lukewarm Monster next to him. "...The kid's name is Andre," Jason said, deflecting his eyes to the gun safe next to his TV stand. "He's smart, really smart. Always asks great questions, one hell of a writer, too. And I didn't see that he needed help."

"You can't see everything." "I should have seen it, though. I lived it, I know what it looks like."

"Knowing what something looks like and being able to prevent it are two different things."

Jason finally looked back at the screen. "Then what the hell is the point of surviving if I can't help them?"

"Maybe the point isn't helping everyone," Dr. Nelson said gently. "Maybe it's trying. And maybe it's forgiving yourself when you can't."

Jason stood there, index finger still on the left mouse button, throat tight.

"...Same time next week?" he asked.

Dr. Nelson smiled. "Same time next week. See you then, Jason."

His phone buzzed as soon as he exited the window and grabbed his pack of Luckies.

Bruce: How did it go?

Jason stared at the message for a long moment. He debated on ignoring it and telling Bruce to piss off.

But he knew that wouldn’t do anything. He stepped onto his back patio, lit a cigarette, and typed:

Jason: It was fine.

Jason: Don't ask me about it again. Please.

Bruce: I won't. But I'm here if you need to talk. I'm proud of you for going.

Jason didn't respond; he had a thesis chapter to revise, papers to grade, and another therapy session in seven days.

Jason's third-period AP Literature class was discussing The Great Gatsby.

"So Gatsby's just, like, obsessed with this girl?" Madison asked, twirling her pen. "That's the whole book?"

"That's reductive," Jason said, leaning against his desk. "What's Gatsby actually obsessed with?"

"The past," Trevor offered. "The green light, Daisy, all that."

"Close. Anyone else?"

Silence. These were smart kids: honors students, college-bound with SAT prep courses and scores to match. But they'd never had to claw their way up from nothing.

"He's obsessed with class mobility," Jason said finally. "That if you just get rich enough, work hard enough, throw the right parties, you can erase where you came from and completely reinvent yourself. But the book's whole point is that you can't: old money will always see new money as lesser. The American Dream is a lie."

"That's depressing," Madison said.

"It's realistic," Jason countered. "Fitzgerald's showing you that the system is rigged. Has been from the start. Gatsby dies believing he almost made it, but he was never going to make it. The Buchanans destroy people and then retreat into their money."

"So what's the point of trying?" Trevor asked.

"The point," Jason said slowly, "is that trying matters even if the system's rigged. Gatsby's tragedy isn't that he tried, it's that he thought success meant becoming something he wasn't."

The bell rang, and his AP students packed up, already thinking about their next class and their upcoming SAT test that weekend.

Seventh bell was having a different discussion.

"Mr. Todd, this book is bullshit." Jermaine slammed The Great Gatsby on his desk. "Rich people's problems. Who cares?"

"You should," Jason said. "Because this book is about rich people, quite literally getting away with murder. Daisy kills someone, Tom covers it up, and Gatsby takes the fall. And nothing happens to them because they have money. That’s bullshit."

The room went quiet.

"That's..." Destiny started, then stopped.

"That's exactly what happens in real life," Jason finished. "The system protects people with resources and crushes people without them. So yeah, it's about rich people, but it's also about how they destroy everyone else and face no consequences."

"Like Black Mask," someone muttered.

Jason's jaw tightened. "Like a lot of people."

"Did you grow up rich, Mr. Todd?" Sean asked, trying to conceal the vape he was hiding in his hoodie sleeve.

Jason debated lying as he snatched the Geek Bar from Sean’s fingers. "Nope, I grew up in Park Row. My dad was in and out of prison, my mom ditched when I was really little, and my stepmom OD’ed when I was eleven. I stole car parts to survive, then got adopted."

The room was dead silent.

"So when I teach you this book, I'm not teaching it like it's some abstract literary exercise. I'm teaching it because I need you to see how the game is rigged. And then I need you to figure out how to play it anyway, or better yet, how to change it."

Jermaine picked up the book again. "...Okay. I'll read it."

"Good. Essay's due next Friday. Two pages minimum, MLA format, and if anyone uses ChatGPT, I will know, and you will rewrite it by hand in front of me."

Chapter Text

For the third week in a row, Jason did his retinal scan and logged on to telehealth with Dr. Nelson. The last time had been a discussion that ended twenty minutes early because Jason turned off his laptop when he was asked about his death. Thankfully, Kent wasn’t too upset with him, but still.

Not his best move.

"You told your students you grew up in Park Row?" Dr. Nelson asked as he clicked his pen open.

Jason shifted in his chair. "It was relevant to the lesson."

"Was it? Or were you trying to connect with them?"

"They need to know I'm not some asshole slumming it in the Bowery for a feel-good story."

"You're afraid they'll see you as inauthentic."

"I'm afraid they'll see me as a Wayne." Jason's hands clenched. "Bruce took me in, gave me everything, and don’t get me wrong, I'm grateful. But those kids don't have a Bruce Wayne, they have me, and if I can't be honest about where I came from, what's the point?"

"You think honesty makes you more effective as a teacher." "I know it does. They trust me because I don't bullshit them."

Dr. Nelson set down his legal pad. "What about the parts you don't tell them?"

"That's different." "Is it?"

Jason glared at him. "Yes. One's about poverty and survival, the other's about...I don't know what it's about."

"Trauma," Dr. Nelson said gently. "It's about trauma. And you're very good at talking about poverty, you’re willing to talk about surviving, but you won't touch the rest."

"Because the rest doesn't matter."

"Jason –" "It doesn't," Jason insisted. "What matters is that I help them graduate. That I keep them out of the pipeline. That I –"

"Save them in a way no one saved you."

Jason's mouth snapped shut. "You're a good teacher," Dr. Nelson continued. "But you're also trying to rewrite your own story through theirs, and that's not sustainable."

"I'm fine." "You almost killed a man three weeks ago."

"And I didn't. That's progress."

"It is," Dr. Nelson agreed. "But stopping yourself from murder isn't the same as healing."

Jason stood up. "Same time next week?"

"Same time next week," Dr. Nelson confirmed. "And Jason? Think about what you'd tell one of your students if they were in your position."

Jason clicked off without answering.

Around 12:46, Jason was roughly halfway done grading essays over Beowulf (as a student, he hated reading Beowulf; he hated teaching it even more) when he heard a THUNK coming from his bedroom. He grabbed the Ruger he kept taped to the underside of his coffee table (better safe than sorry) and clicked the safety off. When he tapped his bedroom door open, he saw Damian trying – and failing – to put whatever he had knocked off his dresser back where it was. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Damian, I know Talia and Bruce have taught you to break into places. That’d have earned you at least fifteen lashes from Ra’s himself.” Jason said as he lowered the gun, clicking the safety back into position. He briefly scanned Damian for injuries. "You know I have a front door, right?"

“Shut up, Todd. Your door is for emergencies only. This is a matter of academic importance."

"...What?"

Damian swept past him into the apartment, pulled off his domino mask, and dropped a tablet on Jason's coffee table. "I require your assistance with a school assignment."

Jason stared at him. "You broke into my apartment in full gear for homework help?"

"I didn't break in; you left your window open."

"Damian –"

"It's an argumentative essay. Five pages. I've already completed the research, but Father insists my thesis is 'too aggressive' and Alfred says I need to 'consider my audience.' Clearly, they're both incorrect, so I'm seeking a third opinion."

Jason sat down on his couch, Glock still in hand, and tried to process this. "What's the topic?"

"The ethical implications of factory farming and the sentience of bovine species."

Jason bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "You want to write about Batcow."

"I want to write about the systemic abuse of animals in industrial agriculture. Batcow is merely a relevant case study."

"Uh-huh, sure. Let me see what you have."

Damian pulled up his draft. Jason read the first paragraph and immediately understood why Bruce and Alfred had concerns.

The meat industry is a genocidal machine of death that murders billions of sentient creatures annually in conditions that would be considered war crimes if applied to humans. Anyone who participates in this system is complicit in mass slaughter and should be held accountable for their crimes against nature.

"Okay," Jason said carefully. "So this is passionate."

"It's factually accurate."

"It's also going to make your teacher defensive, which means they'll stop listening. You want to persuade people, not make them feel attacked."

"But they should feel attacked. They're participating in –"

"I know, bovine genocide or whatever. I’m still going to eat burgers around you and moo. But here's the thing about rhetoric, Damian. You can be right and still lose the argument if you make your audience hate you in the first sentence."

Damian scowled. "That's illogical."

"That's human nature." Jason grabbed a notebook. "You need to make them care about the animals without calling them murderers. Show them the suffering without making it sound like you're planning to bomb a slaughterhouse."

"I would never bomb a slaughterhouse; the animals would be harmed."

"Great. Let's focus on the essay."

They worked for two hours. "Start with a story," Jason said. "Not Batcow yet, save her for the conclusion. And don’t call her Batcow, you’ll out yourself as a vigilante, call her Bessie or something, I don’t know –” “Todd. Bessie isn’t a distinguished name. I will refer to her as Josephine.”

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose and bit his tongue to avoid saying something stupid. “Damian. I do not give a flying fuck what you refer to Batcow as, as long as you get your point across without threatening anyone. Start with something your audience can connect to, like a family farm that got bought out by a corporation, or someone who worked in a factory farm who got PTSD from whatever they saw."

"But the essay is about animals." "The essay is about convincing humans to care about animals. Sometimes that means meeting them where they are."

Damian was quiet for a long moment, then started typing. Jason watched him work, this kid who'd been raised by assassins and was now passionately defending cows, and felt something warm in his chest. He’d watched Damian go from barely being

"This is better," Damian said finally, turning the tablet around.

When my family rescued a cow from a factory farm, I expected to find an animal who simply chewed grass and mooed. What I found was a person. She had preferences, emotions, and relationships; she grieved when separated from her calf, and she showed joy when reunited with friends. She was, in every meaningful way, a someone, not something. And yet, billions of animals like her are treated as products in a system that prioritizes profit over basic compassion.

"That's perfect," Jason said. "They're thinking about Batcow as an individual. Now hit them with the facts."

When Damian finally left through the window (because, of course, he did. The brat was allergic to using the goddamn door), his essay was focused, persuasive, and only slightly threatening.

"Todd," Damian said, pausing on the fire escape.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you, Akhi. You were incredibly helpful.”

"Words I thought I would never hear leave your mouth for eight-hundred, Alex."

"I'm serious." Damian's expression was uncharacteristically earnest. "Father and Alfred spent hours trying to help me, but you made this make sense."

Jason's throat felt tight. "Anytime, Dames. Just maybe shoot me a text first instead of breaking in?"

“Absolutely not," Damian said, which was probably the best Jason was going to get.

After he left, Jason sat on his fire escape with a cigarette – Omar had been out of his usual Lucky Strikes, so he had to settle for Spirits – and stared out at the Bowery. 

His phone buzzed.

Bruce: Damian mentioned you helped him with his essay. Thank you.

Jason: He wrote about Batcow.

Bruce: I'm aware. Alfred and I tried to help, but apparently, we didn't understand the assignment.

Jason: He's a good kid. He’s weird as hell, has been since he was a baby, but his heart’s in the right place.

Bruce: He looks up to you.

Jason stared at that text for a long time.

Jason: Yeah, well, I kinda helped raise him.

Jason: And someone has to teach him how to write without threatening his teachers.

Bruce: I'm serious, Jason. 

Bruce: I'm proud of you.

Jason: Dude, you gotta stop saying that.

Jason: It's getting weird.

Bruce: I'll stop saying it when it stops being true.

Chapter Text

"You've been helping your siblings with homework," Dr. Nelson observed.

"Yeah. Duke and Damian so far. Steph's supposed to come by in a couple of days."

"How does that feel?"

Jason shrugged. "Fine. They ask, I help. It's not complicated."

"You're deflecting."

"I'm answering the question."

Dr. Nelson smiled. "You're answering around the question. Let me rephrase: how does it feel to be the person your family comes to for help?"

Jason shifted in his chair. "Weird. Good-weird, I guess. I'm not usually... I don't know. I'm not usually the support guy."

"Why not?"

"Because that's Dick. Or Alfred. Or even Tim when it's tech stuff. I'm the –" He stopped.

"The what?"

“Shit, Kent, I don’t know. The problem? Black sheep might be a better way to put it.” Jason took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. “I'm the one they have to worry about. I ran a criminal empire, almost killed the Joker – I don’t regret that one – and I almost killed Black Mask three weeks ago. I'm not the one people come to for help."

"But they are coming to you."

"Yeah, for homework help."

"For connection," Dr. Nelson corrected. "Duke could have asked Bruce or Dick, or even Alfred, for help with Shakespeare. Damian has access to the world's greatest detective, as does Stephanie. But they go out of their way to come to you. Why do you think that is?"

"Because I'm a teacher?"

"Because you make them feel safe enough to ask, you don't judge them for not knowing something. Because despite everything you've been through, you're kind."

"I'm not kind, I have a body count in at least the six-hundreds."

"You're allowed to have trauma and rage and also be someone your family trusts. Those things can coexist."

Jason looked at the cracked frame that had a Polaroid of him and Catherine from his eighth birthday. "Doesn't feel like they should."

"Most contradictions don't, but life is one big contradiction. Isn’t it, Jason?"

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Damian thanked me for helping him," Jason said finally. "Said I make things make sense. He also called me Akhi, which he hasn’t done since he’s been really little."

"How did that feel?"

"Terrifying."

Dr. Nelson raised an eyebrow. "Why terrifying?"

"Because what if I can't keep doing it? What if I fuck up and they realize I'm not –" He stopped.

"Not what?"

"I don’t know," Jason whispered. "Not worth trusting. Not worth..." He couldn't finish.

"Jason." Dr. Nelson's voice was firm but kind. "You're catastrophizing. Has anything happened to suggest your family is going to suddenly stop trusting you?"

"No."

"Have you done anything to violate that trust?"

"...No."

"Then where is this coming from?"

"I don't know."

Jason knew exactly where it was coming from: every time he'd thought he was safe, only to have it ripped away seconds later, from when he’d been forgotten about and left behind.

From when he had been left to suffocate on smoke and his own blood in a pile of rubble after having the one person he never thought would forget about him do just that.

"I keep waiting for it to end," Jason admitted. "For them to realize I'm still…wrong."

"You were always good enough," Dr. Nelson said. "You just didn't have people who knew how to show you that."

Jason's vision blurred. He blinked hard. "We done?"

"We have twenty minutes left."

"Yeah, well, I'm done."

"Same time next week?" “Yeah. Same time next week. See ya, Kent."

Steph showed up on a Wednesday night with Thai food and two NOS drinks.

"So," she said, dropping onto Jason's couch like she owned the place. "I need your giant brain."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"I brought Pad Thai."

"Flattery and food will get you everywhere. What's the assignment?"

"Rhetorical analysis. I have to analyze a speech and break down the persuasive techniques." She opened her laptop. "I chose Harvey Dent's DA acceptance speech from 2009."

Jason choked on his Red Bull. "You what?"

"Harvey Dent!" Steph was grinning. "You know, white knight of Gotham, tragic fall from grace, became a supervillain? I thought it would be funny."

"Steph –” "Come on, it's perfect! I get to analyze a speech about justice and fighting corruption from a guy who literally became a crime lord."

Jason stared at her. Then he started laughing. "You're insane."

"I'm efficient. Plus, it's a solid speech. The fact that he went on to flip a coin to decide whether to murder people just makes it more interesting to analyze."

"Your teacher's going to think you're mocking the assignment."

"My teacher's going to think I'm brilliant. Now help me." She shoved the laptop at him. "I need to identify the rhetorical strategies and explain how they work."

They pulled up the speech. Jason had heard it before; hell, everyone in Gotham had heard a young, idealistic  Harvey Dent standing at a podium promising to clean up the city's corruption. 

"I'm going to do what people say can't be done. I'm going to bring the mob to justice."

"Okay," Jason said. "First, identify the audience. Who's he talking to?"

"People who are scared and angry and want someone to fix things."

"Right. So he's playing on their fear and hope. What else?"

They worked through the speech line by line. Steph was sharp, catching things Jason hadn't even noticed, such as the way Harvey used personal pronouns to build a connection.

"He uses 'we' more than 'I,'" Steph noted. "Makes it sound like it's a collective effort."

"What's the effect?"

"It makes people feel invested. Even though he's the one with the power, he's making them feel powerful too."

"Exactly. Now, how does this shift when you know what happens later?"

“It really drives home the fact that Dent is just as much of a hypocrite as every other politician. He’s playing a role more than anything."

"Write that down. That's your thesis. The speech is effective because Dent understands how to perform the role of savior, but the performance ultimately reveals the instability of identity based on public perception."

They worked for another hour, breaking down the speech's structure, identifying logical fallacies (several), and analyzing the emotional manipulation (extensive). By the time Steph's essay was outlined, they were both fired up about it.

"God, I hate this speech now," Steph said. "Like, it's so manipulative."

"That's politics," Jason said. "People who want control learn to speak the language of the powerless."

"Is that what you teach your students?"

"I teach them to recognize manipulation so they can't be controlled by it."

Steph looked at him for a long moment. "You're really good at this, you know. The teaching thing."

"You're the second person to tell me that this week."

"Who was the first?"

"Damian."

"Damian said you were good at something? Jason, that's like...his version of a declaration of undying love."

Jason snorted. "He called me 'surprisingly competent.'"

"See? Undying love."

They worked until Steph's essay was fully polished. When she finally packed up to leave, she paused at the door.

"Hey, Jason?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for helping. You didn't have to."

"You brought food, of course, I had to. I’m not above being bribed by the best spring rolls in Miagani Island."

"I'm serious." She smiled. "You're different lately, good different, not bad different."

"...Thanks, Steph."

After she left, he cleaned up the takeout containers and found himself thinking about Dr. Nelson's words.

You're allowed to be both. Those things can coexist.

The last day before Thanksgiving break, Jason wrapped up class fifteen minutes early. Every class had gotten the same spiel: locations for food banks, where to get a hot meal (even a Thanksgiving dinner if they wanted one), and to email him if they needed help for absolutely anything else.

As he was packing his things for the long weekend, Jason’s text chime went off.

Alfred: Master Jason, you are expected at the Manor for Thanksgiving dinner at 2 PM. Please confirm your attendance.

Jason stared at the message; he'd always skipped holidays at Wayne Manor under the guise of patrol, work, the Iceberg, or, more recently, school work. If he was being honest, showing up meant admitting he wanted to be there, and that felt way too vulnerable.

His phone buzzed again.

Alfred: I am making your favorites, including the cranberry sauce you pretend not to like but always eat half of.

Jason: Fine. I'll be there.

Jason: But I'm bringing something.

Alfred: Master Jason, that is entirely unnecessary.

Jason: Too late, already decided. See you tomorrow, Alfie.

On Thanksgiving, Jason showed up at the Manor at 2:15 PM with a container of brownies he'd stress-baked after he'd gotten home from busting a drug-smuggling ring.

"I know you said not to bring anything," Jason said when Alfred opened the door, "but I brought something anyway."

"How very thoughtful, Master Jason. Please, come in."

The Manor was warm and loud in a way that made Jason uneasy, even after being welcomed back. Damian was setting the table with Cass, Tim, Duke, and Steph were laughing about something in the corner, and Bruce was doing God knows what in the cave, because god forbid that man take time off work.

Dick bounded over and pulled him into a hug. "You came!"

"Don't make it a thing."

"Too late, it's a thing." Dick was grinning so wide it had to hurt. "Come on, I need you to meet someone."

He dragged Jason into the living room, where Kori was sitting on the couch, holding a bundle wrapped in soft blankets.

"Kori?" Jason blinked. "When did you –"

"Two months ago." Kori's smile was radiant. "Surprise?"

Jason looked at the baby, then at Dick, then back at Kori. "You didn't tell anyone you were having a baby?"

"We wanted to wait until she was here," Dick said, that goofy dad-grin plastered on his face. "Everyone, meet Mar'i."

"You hid an entire pregnancy and birth," Jason said slowly. "That's… What the hell, Dick? Hiding major life events is my bit!

Dick laughed. "I learned from the best! You hid a bachelor's degree for four years."

"Fair point." Jason moved closer, and Kori shifted the baby so he could see her better. Mar'i had Dick's dark hair and Kori's bright green eyes. "She's beautiful."

"Would you like to hold her?" Kori offered.

"I don't... I'm not good with babies…" Jason froze: Kori was already handing Mar'i over, and his arms moved on instinct, supporting her head, holding her against his chest the way he'd learned from necessity. Upon settling in his arms, Mar'i made a small sound that was similar to the sounds of contentment Damian would make when he was small.

Jason's vision got blurry. "Congratulations, guys. Really."

"Thank you, my friend," Kori said warmly. "It is good to see you here."

Alfred had made everything: turkey, stuffing, three kinds of potatoes, vegetables Jason vaguely recognized, and enough pie to feed a small army. They cycled through people leaving for patrol (crime didn't take holidays) and coming back, plates kept warm in the oven.

"Todd, your brownies are adequate," Damian announced. “They could use chocolate chips, though.”

"Adequate," Jason repeated. "Thanks."

"Better than Tim's attempt at cookies last year," Duke added.

"I was experimenting with the recipe!" Tim called from across the table.

"You used salt instead of sugar. And if I threw them hard enough, they could give someone a concussion."

Jason ate Alfred's cooking and his own mediocre brownies and let the conversation wash over him. Bruce caught his eye from across the table and shot him a small smile. Jason nodded back.

He left at 6 PM for patrol, but came back at 9 for pie. Alfred had saved him a slice of each kind.

"You came back," Alfred said quietly, setting the plates in front of him.

"Yeah, well." Jason picked up a fork. "Couldn't miss the pie."

"Of course not, Master Jason." Alfred's hand rested briefly on his shoulder. "We're glad you're here."

Jason's throat felt tight. "...Me too, Alfie."

"You went to Thanksgiving dinner," Dr. Nelson observed.

"Yeah. It was... fine."

"Just fine?"

Jason shifted in his chair. "It was good. Dick and Kori have a baby. Alfred made his cranberry sauce. Damian called my brownies adequate, which, from him, is basically a Michelin star."

"You brought brownies."

"Alfred said not to bring anything, but that felt wrong. So I stress-baked at midnight and brought mediocre brownies to a table full of Alfred's cooking."

"Why did that feel wrong? Not bringing something?"

Jason was quiet for a moment. "Because... I don't know. Because Alfred was doing all this work, and I felt bad not contributing anything. Even if it's the Betty Crocker boxed brownies."

"You wanted to participate."

"I guess."

"That's significant, Jason. Last year you didn't go at all."

"Last year I was –" Jason stopped. "Fuck, I don’t know, different?"

"How so?"

"I don't know. Angrier, isolated. I didn't think I deserved to be there."

"And now?"

Jason's jaw tightened. "I'm working on it."

"That's all any of us can do," Dr. Nelson said gently. "Work on it. Show up. Try."

"Dick told me hiding major life events was my bit," Jason said suddenly. "About the baby. He was joking, but..."

"But it resonated."

"Yeah. I spent four years hiding a degree; before that, I hid my GED. I'm really good at keeping secrets."

"Why do you think that is?"

Jason looked at his hands. "Because if people don't know about the good things, they can't take them away. They can't... I don't know. Can't prove I'm not good enough."

"And yet you showed up for Thanksgiving. Brought brownies. Held your niece."

"Yeah."

"That's brave, Jason."

Jason's laugh was bitter. "It's brownies and dinner. That's not brave."

"For you it is," Dr. Nelson said. "For someone who's spent years protecting himself by hiding, showing up is an act of courage."

Jason was quiet for a long moment, turning that over in his mind. "It doesn't feel brave. It feels terrifying."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive."

"I kept waiting for someone to tell me I shouldn't be there. That I didn't belong. That…" Jason's voice cracked slightly. "That they were just being polite. That Bruce was just doing his duty or whatever."

"Did anyone say that?"

"No."

"Did anyone act like you didn't belong?"

"No. Alfred saved me pie. Three kinds. Bruce just smiled at me across the table. Dick cried when I held Mar'i." Jason rubbed his face. "They were happy I was there."

"And how did that feel?"

"Wrong. Good. I don't know. Both." Jason's hands clenched. "It felt like lying. Like I was pretending to be someone who deserves – fuck I don’t know, a family."

"And who do you think deserves family, Jason?"

"That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Jason felt his face get hot, his palms were sweaty, and the collar of his t-shirt felt like it was getting tighter by the second. This wasn’t a question he’d prepared himself for this session.

Who deserves a family? Gee, I don’t know, maybe people who don’t have a body count in the upper seven-hundreds or people who aren’t zombies, or who got abducted and tortured and –

"Jason? Are you with me?"

Jason diverted his attention from his laptop to the bookshelf that held his textbooks, to the stack of half-graded essays in front of him, to the gun safe next to the entertainment center.

Dr. Nelson set down his tea. "Jason, look at me."

Jason looked back at the screen and took a sip of his coffee.

"You were fifteen. You were a child. What happened to you was not your fault. The Pit, the anger, the years lost, none of that was your fault."

"But the things I did after –"

“You were trying to make sense of something that made no sense." Dr. Nelson's voice was firm but kind. "And you're here now. Doing the work. Teaching kids who need you. Building bridges with your family. That's not broken, Jason. That's healing."

Jason's vision blurred. He blinked hard. "Doesn't feel like it."

"What does it feel like?"

"Like I'm pretending to be a person who can handle family dinners and holidays and people caring about me. Like any second they're going to realize I'm still –" His breath hitched. "I'm still the angry kid who got resurrected like some fucked up version of Jesus, but y’know, if Jesus  knew how to kill someone in multiple different ways with multiple different weapons, or even with his bare hands."

"What if you're not pretending?" Dr. Nelson asked gently. "What if you're not faking it? What if you're there because you want to be? Even though it's hard and it scares you."

"Then what?"

"Then you're not the angry kid anymore. You're Jason Todd, who teaches high school English and answers emails at 2 AM and brings mediocre brownies to family dinners because he wants to contribute. You're someone who's building a life."

Jason was quiet, tears threatening to spill over. "I don't know how to be that person."

"You already are that person, you just don't trust him yet."

"How do I trust it?"

"You keep showing up," Dr. Nelson said. "You keep bringing the brownies. You keep going to dinners. You keep answering when Bruce texts. You keep letting them in, even when it terrifies you. Eventually, your brain will catch up to what your actions are already telling you."

"Which is?"

"That you belong. That you deserve good things. That you're worth loving, not despite what happened to you, but because of who you've become because of it."

Jason pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "That's a lot."

"It is. We don't have to solve it all today, but I want you to sit with something."

"What?"

"You brought brownies, you showed up, you held your niece. You participated in the holidays for the first time since you've been...back without sabotaging it or running away." Dr. Nelson smiled. "That's progress, Jason. Real, tangible progress."

Jason huffed out a wet laugh. "You're really annoying, you know that?"

"So I've been told. How are you feeling about Christmas?"

Jason groaned. "Do I have to go to that too?"

"Do you want to go?"

Jason thought about Alfred's cooking, about Dick's terrible jokes, about Damian's grudging approval, about the fact that it would be his niece’s first Christmas. And as much as it absolutely terrified him to admit it, he wanted to be a part of it.

"...Yeah," Jason admitted. "I do."

"Then go. Bring more mediocre brownies. Let them be happy you're there."

"What if I can't handle it?"

"Then you leave. You text me. You take a break. But you don't have to decide right now that you can't handle it. You might surprise yourself."

"I already surprised myself by showing up to Thanksgiving."

"Exactly. So maybe trust that you can do it again."

Jason exited the session feeling like he'd gone through the emotional ringer, yet somehow lighter. He stopped at a bodega afterwards and bought ingredients for cookies, as well as a couple of packs of Lucky Strikes.

BZZZ BZZZ BZZZ

Bruce: Alfred wanted me to ask if you're coming to Christmas.

Jason stared at the text. His first instinct was to deflect, to say maybe, to keep an escape route open.

Instead, he typed:

Jason: Yeah, I'll be there. I'm bringing cookies this time.

Bruce: You don't have to bring anything.

Jason: I know.

Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again.

Bruce: We'll be glad to have you.

Chapter Text

On Christmas, Jason showed up at 6 PM on the dot with a tin of cookies he'd made himself and a trash bag of wrapped gifts. Not early enough to seem too eager, not late enough to seem like he almost didn't come. Just... on time.

"You brought cookies," Alfred said, taking the tin. "How wonderful."

"They're probably terrible."

"I'm sure they're lovely." Alfred's smile was warm. "Everyone's in the living room. Go on."

The Manor was decorated within an inch of its life: garland, lights, a massive tree that definitely violated some kind of fire code. Dick and Kori were on the couch with Mar'i, Steph and Cass were stringing popcorn, Tim was on his laptop (of course), Duke and Damian were arguing about something, and Bruce was attempting to untangle a string of lights.

"Jason!" Dick called. "You're here! On time!"

"Don't make it a thing."

"Too late, it's a thing." Dick grinned. "And you brought gifts!"

"We're not doing presents until everyone's here," Bruce said, still fighting the lights.

"B, you've been fighting those lights for twenty minutes," Dick said. "Just get new ones."

"These are perfectly functional –"

"Bruce. You’ve had the same lights since 1987," Tim said without looking up from his laptop.

"They have sentimental value."

“Jesus fu-fricking Christ, hand them over.” Jason grabbed the lights, found the tangle, and had them unknotted in under a minute. Bruce blinked at him.

"How did you –"

"I used to steal Christmas lights and resell them." Jason handed them back. "You get real good at unknotting things."

The evening cycled through people leaving for patrol and returning. Jason left at 9 for a quick sweep of the Bowery, came back at 11. By midnight, everyone was present, and Steph was vibrating with anticipation.

"Presents now?" she asked. "Can we do presents now?"

"Yes. Let's do presents," Damian agreed.

They gathered around the tree, and Jason suddenly felt self-conscious about his gifts. He'd spent weeks thinking about them, trying to find things that meant something without being expensive or weird or too much.

They gathered around the tree, and Jason suddenly felt self-conscious about his gifts. He'd spent weeks thinking about them, trying to find things that meant something without being expensive or weird or too much.

He handed them out without commentary:

For Alfred: A tin of loose-leaf Earl Grey from a specific estate Alfred had mentioned once, years ago. Alfred opened it, breathed in the scent, and smiled softly.

"Master Jason, you remembered."

"You mentioned it like... four years ago. So. Yeah."

For Bruce: A first edition of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. It had been their thing when Jason was Robin: Bruce would hunt down first editions of classics and they'd read them together. Jason hadn't been sure if Bruce still did that, but the book felt right. Bruce opened it carefully, ran his fingers over the cover with misty eyes, and nodded once.

"Thank you, Jason. This means a lot."

For Dick: A vintage Flying Graysons poster that Jason had tracked down through three different memorabilia dealers and framed himself. The frame was slightly crooked, the matting a little uneven – Jason had watched a YouTube tutorial but clearly hadn't mastered it. Dick took one look and immediately teared up.

"Jay, this is…and you framed it yourself?"

"Don't look at the corners too closely."

"It's perfect." Dick hugged him, nearly crushing the frame between them. "Thank you."

For Kori: A hot chocolate of the month subscription: twelve different varieties from around the world. She opened the card, explaining it, and gasped with delight.

"Jason! This is wonderful! I love hot chocolate!"

"I know. You drink like six cups a day."

For Tim: An ergonomic mouse and wrist brace, because Tim's wrist strain was getting bad and he refused to do anything about it. Tim stared at them.

"How did you know my wrist was –"

"You wince every time you use a trackpad. Just use the damn mouse, Tim."

"...Thanks, Jason."

For Damian: Professional sketching pencils (the expensive kind), a leather-bound sketchbook, and high-quality erasers. Damian opened the box and went very still.

"Todd. These are...these are professional grade."

"Yeah, well, your art's good. Might as well have decent supplies."

Damian looked at him the same way he had when Jason had snuck him an extra ghraybeh cookie for his third birthday. "Thank you. This is thoughtful."

For Duke: Two tickets to Luke Fox's next MMA fight. They were decent seats, not nosebleeds. Duke's jaw dropped.

"Jason, how did you…I mentioned that once!"

"You said you liked MMA. Luke's fighting next month, figured you'd want to go."

"This is amazing, man. Thank you."

For Steph: A personal survival kit equipped with hair ties, fun-sized Sour Patch Kids, a mini first-aid kit, and three chocolate-chip Chewy Dips. She shrieked with laughter as she pulled out a small bag of purple glitter labeled: "for the real pains in the ass. Or clowns."

“Oh my GOD, Jason! It’s like I won the lottery!”

“Well, now you don’t have an excuse for forgetting to eat. Or forgetting a hair tie. Or both.”

For Cass: New ballet slippers, the exact brand she preferred. Cass pulled them out of the box and smiled, wide and genuine.

"Thank you, Jason," she said as she hugged him, her voice hoarse as she took a sip of her tea.

Jason hugged her back, throat tight. "You're welcome, Cass."

For Mar'i: A cloth book with a stuffed giraffe attached; the book made crinkle sounds, had different textures, and the giraffe was soft enough for teething. Dick and Kori both looked delighted.

"Jason, this is so sweet!" Kori said.

"Yeah, well. Figured she needed something too."

Jason sat back, surrounded by wrapping paper and family, and felt something warm in his chest that he didn't have a name for.

"Jason," Alfred said quietly, sitting beside him. "These gifts are remarkably thoughtful."

Jason shrugged. "Just... paid attention, I guess."

"That's what makes them meaningful." Alfred squeezed his shoulder. "Thank you for being here."

"...Thanks for wanting me here."

He left at 2 AM for another patrol shift but came back at 4 AM to sleep in his old room (Alfred had insisted). When he woke up at noon, there was a plate of Christmas dinner waiting for him in the kitchen, still warm.

Bruce was sitting at the table with coffee.

"Thought you might be hungry," Bruce said.

Jason sat down. They ate in comfortable silence for a while.

"The book," Bruce said eventually. "We used to do that. First editions."

"Yeah. I remember."

"I still have all of them. The ones we read together." Bruce took a sip of coffee. "I'm glad you're here, Jason. That's all."

Jason's hands tightened around his fork. "...Me too."

They finished eating without saying much else, but it felt good, like maybe they were figuring it out.

"Merry Christmas, Bruce."

"Merry Christmas, Jason."

Jason's first day back after winter break started with an email that made his stomach drop.

From: [email protected] Subject: update

Mr. Todd,

Andre here, I know it's been a while. I got out of juvie last week. They dropped the charges to a misdemeanor because I didn't have priors. I'm not coming back to school, though. My mom says I need to work full-time to help with rent.

I just wanted to say thank you for everything. Nobody ever said I was smart before you. I don't know if that matters anymore.

- Andre

Jason read it three times before he could breathe properly. Then he hit reply.

Andre,

It still matters. It will always matter. You're one of the smartest students I've ever taught, and one bad decision doesn't change that.

I know you need to work, but GED classes are free at Gotham Community Center on Tuesday/Thursday nights. You could finish your diploma and work at the same time. I can send you the information if you’d like. Personal experience, it’s a great program, and they’ll accept whatever is on your high school transcript for credit.

You're not done yet. Not even close. Give me a shout if you need anything.

- Mr. Todd

He sent it before he could second-guess himself, then sat at his desk staring at Andre's empty seat until first period filed in.

Jason had successfully dissociated through most of the day, until his fourth-bell AP Lit class. They were discussing Beloved by Toni Morrison, and Jason could tell within five minutes that none of them had done the reading.

"Okay," Jason said, leaning against his desk. "Who actually read it?"

Three hands went up out of twenty-five. Jason sighed.

"Alright, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to tell you why this book matters, and then you're all going to go home and actually read it, and tomorrow we're going to talk about it like the intelligent humans you and I know that you are."

"Mr. Todd, it's so depressing, though," Madison complained.

"Well, no shit it's depressing; Sethe kills three of her children. It's also one of the most important pieces of American literature ever written." Jason grabbed his copy, worn and annotated. "Morrison is writing about trauma. About how the past doesn't stay past. About how violence and pain get passed down through generations, how it lives in your body even when you think you've escaped it."

The class was quiet now, actually paying attention.

"Sethe kills her daughter rather than let her be taken back into slavery. And the book asks: Was that murder or mercy? Was it love or madness? Can it be both?" Jason's voice was steady, but his hands tightened on the book. "And then it asks an even harder question: how do you live with yourself after? How do you build a future when your past is a ghost that won't leave you alone?"

"That's..." Trevor started, then stopped. "That's really dark, Mr. Todd."

"Life is really dark sometimes. Literature helps us process that and helps us understand that we're not alone in it." Jason set the book down. "Now go home and read it, don’t go on SparkNotes. Come back tomorrow ready to actually engage."

Seventh period was different; most of them had done the reading because Jason had told them it mattered, and for some reason, they believed him.

"Mr. Todd, I don't get the ghost thing," DeAndre said, playing with the wires on his earbuds. "Like, is it a legit ghost or is Sethe just traumatized?"

"Does it matter?" Jason asked.

"Yeah, because if it's real, then it's a ghost story, but if it's not, then it's about mental illness, right?"

"What if it's both?" Zahara offered. "Like, the trauma is real, so the ghost is real to Sethe even if nobody else sees it the same way."

Jason felt his lips curl up into a smile. "Exactly. Morrison's not interested in whether the ghost is 'real' in a literal sense. She's interested in how trauma haunts us and how the past affects us even when we try to move forward."

"That's heavy," Marcus said.

"Yeah, it is." Jason kept his voice neutral, professional. "But that's also why it's important. A lot of people carry heavy things; the weight is real, and Morrison's acknowledging that."

"Todd, have you read a lot of books about trauma?" Xochitil asked.

Jason paused. "Yeah. It's kind of my academic focus for my master’s program. My thesis is on how poverty and education intersect with the criminal justice system."

"That's cool, it’s like, you're actually researching the stuff we live."

"That's the point," Jason said. "I want to understand it well enough to maybe change some of it, or at least help people navigate it better." They dove into discussing the text, and Jason felt the familiar satisfaction of watching them connect with literature that mattered. 

This was why he did this.

That night, Jason was drowning in research. His thesis chapter on literacy intervention programs had expanded into a monster of data analysis, case studies, and policy recommendations. He was trying to quantify something he'd lived: the exact moment when a kid tips from "reachable" to "lost cause", and it was brutal work.

His phone buzzed at 11 PM. Group chat.

Timbo: Jason, are you awake?

Jason: What do you need?

Timbo: Can you look at something for me? It's not homework, I just need a second opinion on some writing.

Jason: Send it.

Tim sent over what appeared to be a press release for Wayne Enterprises. Jason read it, made notes about clarity and tone, sent it back with edits.

Timbo: How did you know exactly where it was getting too technical?

Jason: Because I constantly have to translate academic writing into human language. It's a skill.

Timbo: You're really good at this.

Jason: It’s literally my job.

Timbo: No, I mean. You're really GOOD at it. Like, better than the professional editors we've consulted.

Jason: Are you trying to recruit me for Wayne Enterprises??

Timbo: Would you say yes if I were?

Jason: Tim. That is a terrible idea. I am a walking HR nightmare. Absolutely not.

Timbo: Worth a shot. But seriously, thanks. This is way better.

Jason set his phone down and went back to his thesis. An hour later, it buzzed again.

Bruce: Tim mentioned you helped with the press release. Thank you.

Jason: He ambushed me.

Bruce: Even so, you made it significantly better. How's the thesis coming?

Jason looked at his laptop screen, at the cursor blinking in the middle of a sentence he didn't know how to finish.

Jason: It's coming along.

Bruce: If you need anything, let me know.

Jason: I'm good.

Bruce: Alright. Don't stay up too late.

Jason: Rich, coming from you.

Bruce: Do as I say, not as I do.

Jason snorted and went back to writing. He worked until 3 AM, finally finding the thread he'd been looking for: the data showed that consistent adult support, that if there was just one person who showed up and gave a damn, the outcomes could shift dramatically. It wasn't about money or resources, though those helped. It was about someone believing a kid was worth the effort.

Jason thought about Bruce, pulling a street rat out of Crime Alley. About Alfred, teaching him which fork to use without making him feel stupid. About Leslie Thompkins, patching him up without question. About himself, standing in front of twenty-two kids who'd been written off, telling them they were smart enough, strong enough, worth the work.

He typed: The research suggests that intervention points exist at every level of the pipeline, but the most significant factor is a consistent human connection. Students need to know someone is invested in their success; not because of what they might become, but because of who they already are.

Chapter Text

Midterm season was always hell. 

Jason's AP students were stressed about their grades, his Credit Recovery students were stressed about graduating, and he was stressed about everything while also juggling his own graduate midterms and thesis deadlines.

He'd taken to sleeping in his classroom during his planning period because going home felt like too much effort.

"Mr. Todd, you good?" Shantell, one of his AP kids, asked after class one day. "You look tired."

"I'm always tired during finals week."

"You're taking classes too, right? Graduate stuff?"

"Yeah."

"That's a lot."

Jason shrugged. "It's temporary. You guys doing okay with the midterm prep?"

"Yeah, actually. Your study guide was really helpful."

"Good. That's what it's there for."

Shantell lingered. "Hey, uh, thanks for everything this year. You actually give a shit, you know? Not all teachers do."

Jason's throat felt tight. "Thanks, Shantell. That means a lot."

After she left, Jason sat at his desk and let himself feel tired. Bone-deep, all-the-way-through tired. But also satisfied: his students were learning, they were passing, they believed in themselves.

That had to count for something, right?

From: [email protected] Subject: college update

Mr. Todd,

I got into Gotham State! Full ride! I'm going to be a nurse. Thank you for making me believe I could do this.

• Destiny

Jason read it twice, then typed back with one hand while keeping watch with the other.

Destiny,

That's incredible! I'm so proud of you. You've worked so hard for this, and you absolutely deserve it. You're going to be an amazing nurse.

Congratulations.

- Mr. Todd

Another buzz. Different student.

From: [email protected] Subject: job stuff

mr todd, remembered you said i was good at arguments, so i got a job at a law office as a paralegal. starting next month. thanks for the rec letter.

• amaya from 2 years ago, idk if you remember me

Jason typed back: I remember you, Amaya. Congratulations on the job. You're going to do great.

He answered three more emails before Oracle came over comms.

"Red Hood, are you...are you answering emails right now?"

"Crime's slow tonight."

"You're literally on a stakeout."

"Multitasking." Jason watched the warehouse below while typing a response about college essay structure. "I can do both."

"That's the most Jason Todd thing I've ever heard," Dick chimed in. "What are you even…"

"Student emails. They have questions, I answer them."

"At 2 AM?"

"They email at 2 AM, I respond at 2 AM." Jason hit send. "Keeps them from spiraling."

There was a pause on comms. Then Dick's voice, softer: "You're a good teacher, Jay."

"I'm an adequate teacher who just got shit for swearing with my fifth bell."

"No," Dick said. "You're a good one. Those kids are lucky to have you, even if you do swear like a damn sailor."

Jason didn't respond, but he didn't mute comms either. He just kept watching the warehouse and answering emails, making sure his students knew someone was paying attention.

His phone buzzed again.

From: [email protected] Subject: thank you

Mr. Todd,

I graduated last year, but I wanted you to know I'm finishing my first semester at GCC. I never thought I'd make it to college.

Thank you for not giving up on me.

• CJ

PS: My daughter got into the good daycare in Brumley. It's right down the street from work!

Jason stared at the email for a long time. Then he typed:

CJ,

I never gave up on you because you never gave me a reason to. You did this. I just believed in you while you figured out how to believe in yourself.

Keep going. You're going to do amazing things. I'm glad your daughter is in a good daycare, too.

- Mr. Todd

He saved the email in a folder with all the others. Destiny's college acceptance. Amaya’s job offer. CJ's update about his daughter's first day of daycare. Andre's message from juvie.

Evidence that it mattered. That showing up mattered. That believing in them mattered.

"Hood, you still with us?" Oracle asked.

"Yeah. I'm here."

"Good. Because your target just moved."

“Mother – FUCK! Shit, thanks, Babs.” Jason pocketed his phone and dropped into the alley below; the emails could wait until after.

But he'd answer every single one.

Chapter Text

He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man….HOOOOOAAAAH

Jason woke up at 5:50 AM to his alarm blaring. He had exactly forty-five minutes to shower, eat, chug a cup of instant coffee, and get to school for SAT proctoring. His own final exam for Medieval and Early Modern Rhetoric was at 7 PM, which meant he'd be running from school directly to Hudson University without a break.

He grabbed his phone, scrolling through his morning routine: check emails, check the news, check –

Nothing, just another Tuesday in late April.

Jason made coffee, reviewed his thesis notes for his own exam while eating toast, and headed out the door. His mind was already on logistics: SAT testing procedures, making sure his Credit Recovery students remembered their final papers were due, and his own exam tonight.

The Bowery was waking up around him as he rode to school. Bodega owners rolling up their gates, early shift workers trudging to the bus stop, the city moving forward like it always did.

Just another day.

"You have three hours," he said. "Multiple choice first, then the essays. You know the drill. No phones, no talking, no bathroom breaks during the first hour. If you need to go after that, one at a time, and I'm timing you."

"Mr. Todd," Madison raised her hand. "What if we don't know an answer?"

"Skip it, come back to it. Don't spiral. You've got this." Jason held up the sealed exam packet. "Ready?"

A chorus of nervous "yes" responses.

"Alright. You may begin."

The room fell silent except for the sound of pages turning and pencils scratching. Jason sat at his desk, technically monitoring for cheating, but mostly working on his own notes for tonight's exam. Educational psychology. Theories of learning. He could do this. He'd been living it for two years.

His laptop popped up with an email notification.

From: [email protected] Subject: final paper

Mr. Todd,

Is the paper still due today? I'm almost done, but I need a few more hours. Can I turn it in tomorrow?

• DeMarcus

Jason typed back quietly: Paper is due by the end of the school day. You've got time.

Another pop-up.

From: [email protected] Subject: HELP

mr todd i dont understand the prompt can you explain it again

• Xochitil

Jason sent her the rubric breakdown he'd already posted to Google Classroom three separate times and a reminder to breathe.

The SAT exam continued around him as Jason glanced at his calendar on his phone: April 27. Final papers due. SAT testing. His own final was at 7 PM.

Just another busy Tuesday.

The final exam for Medieval and Early Modern Rhetoric was brutal. Three hours, essay-based, covering everything from Chaucer to Fadlan to Beowulf. Jason's hand cramped from writing, his brain felt like it was leaking out of his ears, but he pushed through, even though he despised Beowulf.

By the time he finished, it was 10:15 PM. He was the last one in the room. The professor collected his exam with a nod.

"Good work this semester, Mr. Todd. Your thesis proposal is excellent."

"Thank you, Dr. Richards."

Jason walked out into the warm spring night, exhausted and wired at the same time. His phone had eleven notifications: emails from students, family group chat freaking out over Mar’i pulling herself up for the first time, a text from Dr. Nelson confirming their Tuesday appointment.

He pulled up the calendar to check when his thesis draft was due.

April 27.

Jason stopped walking.

April 27.

His chest went cold. The entire day had passed with SAT testing, final papers, his own exam…and he'd forgotten. 

He'd forgotten the day he died.

Jason stood on the sidewalk outside Hudson University, people moving around him, and felt like the ground had dropped out from under him. He'd worn this date like a scar for years; he’d allowed it to define him, shape him, haunt him.

And today, it had just been a Tuesday.

Jason's hands started shaking. He couldn't breathe properly. The Pit-green rage that usually lived in the back of his mind was gone and replaced by something worse: emptiness.

If he didn't remember dying, who was he?

His phone was in his hand before he realized he was moving. His fingers hovered over Bruce's contact, then Roy’s, then finally landed on Dr. Nelson's number.

It rang three times.

"Jason? It's late, are you alright?"

"I forgot." Jason's voice cracked. “It was today. And I forgot."

"Where are you?"

"Outside Hudson. I just finished my exam, and I checked my calendar and –" He couldn't finish.

"Are you safe?"

"Yeah, I'm safe. I'm just…" Jason's breath hitched. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I've never forgotten. I always remember, it's the one day that matters and I just...forgot."

"Jason, listen to me. Can you get somewhere private? Somewhere you can sit down?"

Jason looked around, found a bench near the campus library, and sat. "Okay. I'm sitting."

"Good. Now breathe with me. In for four counts."

Jason followed instructions, breathing in, out, in, out. The panic started to recede slightly.

"Talk to me," Dr. Nelson said. "What are you feeling?"

"Empty, wrong, like I lost something important."

"Or like you're healing."

Jason's laugh was bitter. "Sure as shit doesn't feel like I'm healing. I feel like I'm forgetting."

"What or who are you forgetting?"

"I don’t know, fifteen-year-old me who didn't get to... who didn't..."

"Who didn't get to grow up," Dr. Nelson finished gently. "And you feel like forgetting his death means forgetting him."

"Yeah." Jason's voice was barely a whisper.

"Jason, you honor him every day. Every student you teach, every kid you help, every email you answer at 2 AM, that's you remembering. That's you making sure other kids don't end up like you did. Forgetting the date doesn't mean forgetting the person."

"Then why does it feel so wrong?"

"Because you've been carrying that date as proof that you survived something, and now you don't need it anymore. You have other proof. Your students, your degrees, your family, your life. The date doesn't define you anymore."

"If I'm not the kid who died, then who am I?"

"Maybe that's something worth finding out," Dr. Nelson said, echoing what he'd said weeks ago. "Maybe you get to decide who you are now, not based on what happened to you, but based on what you're building."

"I don't know how to do that."

"Yes, you do, you've been doing it all day. Teaching. Learning. Showing up. That's who you are, Jason. The trauma doesn't have to be the center anymore."

"...Okay."

"Are you going to be alright tonight?"

"Yeah. I think so."

"Reach out if you're not. Anytime."

"I will. Thank you."

"That's what I'm here for. And Jason? I'm proud of you for reaching out."

"Shut up, Kent."

His phone buzzed.

Bruce: How did the exam go?

Jason stared at the text. He could deflect, could say "fine" and leave it at that. Instead, he typed:

Jason: Well. Forgot what day it was until after my exam.

Three dots appeared immediately. Then stopped. Then started again.

Bruce: Are you okay?

Jason: I’m okay, just... weird.

Bruce: Do you want company?

Jason thought about it. About going home alone to his apartment, about sitting with this feeling by himself. About how maybe he didn't have to.

Jason: I wouldn’t say no.

Bruce: I'll be at your apartment in twenty minutes with your regular from Bat Burger?

Jason stood up, got on his bike, and rode home. The Bowery was quiet at this hour, Crime Alley settling into its nighttime rhythm. When he got to his building, Bruce was already there, leaning against a car in civilian clothes.

"Hey," Jason said.

"Hey." Bruce studied him. "You okay?"

"Getting there." Jason unlocked the building door. "You want to come up?"

"If you want me to."

They went up to Jason's apartment. Bruce didn't comment on the thesis notes covering every surface, or the stack of ungraded papers, or the half-eaten takeout on the counter. He just sat on the couch and put the takeout bag on the table. Jason settled on the opposite side, taking a bite of the burger, rotating it, and taking another bite in order to get a bit of everything each time.

"I forgot the day I died," he said finally. "Just...completely forgot. I was so focused on my exam and my students' papers and SATs that it didn't even register."

"And that scared you."

"Yeah. The whole ‘being dead’ thing is one of my personality traits; I’ve never forgotten about it before, and today it was just Tuesday."

Bruce was quiet for a moment. "When I was young, after my parents died, I marked the anniversary every year. Put flowers on their graves, spent the day in the study, and made sure I never forgot."

Jason looked up.

"And then one year," Bruce continued, "I was in Nanda Parbat, and the day passed without me realizing. I felt like I'd betrayed them."

"What did you do?"

"I wrote Alfred, which was incredibly frowned upon, and I got the ever living hell beat out of me for it, and he told me that my parents wouldn't want me to spend my life marking the last and worst day of theirs. They'd want me to live." Bruce met Jason's eyes. "You're living, Jason. That's not betrayal. That's honoring the kid you were by becoming the man you are."

"Dr. Nelson said something similar."

"He's a smart man."

“I’d imagine he has to be if he’s a Lord of Order with a Psy.D.”

They sat in silence for a while.

"You did well today," Bruce said eventually. "Your students' papers, your exam. You should be proud."

"It's just one final."

"It is." Bruce moved toward the door, then paused. "You know what today is, right? Beyond the other thing?"

Jason frowned. "What?"

"It's the day you passed your last final for your master's degree. That's worth marking too."

After Bruce left, Jason sat in his apartment and pulled up his calendar. 

April 27: The day he died. The day he forgot that he died. The day he passed a major exam. The day his students turned in their final papers.

Maybe Dr. Nelson was right. Perhaps he got to decide what the date meant now.

Jason opened his laptop and started grading papers. He read each one carefully, leaving detailed feedback, writing encouraging notes in the margins. It was 4:21 AM before he finished, but he answered every email that had come in and sent each student a response, telling them he was proud of their work.

When he finally went to bed, he felt lighter than he had in years.

Tomorrow would be April 28th. Just another day. And that was okay.