Jason: Theyre Children, Bruce! They Shouldnt Be Soldiers In Your Crusade!

Jason: “They’re children, Bruce! They shouldn’t be soldiers in your crusade!”

Bruce: “The children, Jason. They yearn for the capes.”

The voices are speaking to me in the language of love

What is the relationship between these two. Hero and sidekick? Besties? Husbands? Proud owners of one, single brain cell? All of the above? 

I choose to believe: yes. 

Jason has a life-sized cardboard cutout of Bruce Wayne in his apartment, and he argues with it a hell of a lot. When Dick dropped by one day and saw it, Jason convinced him of how cathartic it was. Dick brushed him off, telling him to find healthier coping mechanisms, only to go out and get one of his own.

Scary boyfriend privilege? No. Scary sons privilege.

Bruce who can’t go anywhere without his newly adopted ward. He follows Bruce like a sunny shadow, grin always in place.

“Dick, can I hold your hand when we cross the street?”

Dick, very sweetly, “No.”

Bruce sighs, but accepts easily. Some guy scoffs at that and asks Bruce if he’ll let his kid just talk to him like that. His kid. His heart hurts in a very good way.

He’s about to say something, but Dick interrupts him, his teeth bared full, “Weren’t you on the news for hitting an old lady with your car?”

Bruce freezing. Dick goes back to his gameboy. They hold hands when they cross the street.

It’s both scary and comforting how little he changes when he’s an adult.

Jason, on the other hand.

Although he refuses to admit it, he does follow Bruce around, too, when his dad actually has to leave the manor. It’s when Alfred says he needs sun.

“You signed a contract, sir.”

Bruce sighing, “I signed it when I was 4. In black crayon. Those don’t count.”

Damian gasped, as if discovering a vile fact, sending an accusing glare Bruce’s way. “They don’t?”

Bruce needs an excuse to haul ass fast and that’s how Jason ends up chaperoning his socially awkward, disaster of a father in his quest to pick up food.

He’s a titanic presence next to Bruce, glaring off whoever stares a little too long or too appreciatively, strong arms crossed and his eyes hard and sharp.

Bruce gently taps his bicep and he hates the way he melts. “Do you want the chicken nuggets with or without apple slices?”

“Without.”

“Jay.”

“FINE.”

Give Jason his “he asked for No pickles” moment. It has to embarrass Bruce enough to jump in traffic, thought.

Damian has his own league and none of them can really compete with it. I think, during parent’s night, he drags Bruce off to proudly showcase his gallery of portraits.

Bruce is very moved when he realizes they’re almost all him.

There’s portraits of Dick, too, and Alfred, and a comically bad one of Tim. “Damian, they’re very beautiful. Thank you.”

“I painted them with the blood of your enemies.”

“…Thank you.”