Chapter Text
No matter what Bruce said on his more intense nights as Robin, Jason wasn’t a violent person at heart.
But right about now, he’d be happy to stab a cyclops in the eye.
Or something. Pretty much anything that would be cathartic enough to make up for being at a gala instead of holed up in the den with Dick, analyzing The Odyssey against the Epic: The Musical adaptation for hours on end.
For the tenth time in just as many minutes, Jason resisted the urge to unbutton his cuffs and roll the sleeves of the stupid suit out of the way. Honestly, why did Bruce wear these things so often? You couldn’t throw a decent punch with these sleeves without tearing something. Whoever invented suits deserved to be thrown off the wall of Troy.
Okay, Jason would really rather be listening to Epic in his room right now.
But who could blame him? It was the best musical since Fiddler on the Roof , and best of all, Dick liked it too. They’d finally been getting along over the last few months, and Dick’s theatrical side liked the show just as much as Jason’s inner literary analysis nutcase.
It was something they could actually connect over. And when Jason was kicking Dick’s shins for singing Penelope’s lines in a horrendous falsetto, they felt more like real brothers than… well, than they ever had.
Instead, Jason was here, stuck at Bruce’s side to ward off at least some of the snobbish looks that just about screamed you’re too much of a street rat to ever belong here.
It was the first time in a year Bruce had brought him along to one of these things. Jason kind of blew it at the last one, which just so happened to be the first one he’d ever been to. He didn’t regret it though. His only regret was that Bruce caught his punch before he could deck that syrupy-sweet-and-superior woman in the face.
“It’s such a shame he grew up with a mother like that. What an example to set for your child! I hope you’ll pardon me for saying this, but it’s probably for the best things turned out as they did with her. For his sake, you know.”
He did not pardon her. No one gets to talk about Mami like that.
Jason forced a smile and nod as Bruce ended his conversation with the current group of rich folks. He shuffled off behind him as the man started a chat with the next attendees, Brucie Wayne persona in full swing.
Barring any insults toward his mother, though, Jason really was going to try to control himself this time. Even though these things were as stupid as a 50-year-old in first grade, they apparently meant a lot in high society circles, and he couldn’t go ruining things for Bruce.
It wasn’t like Bruce was going to throw him out if he did probably. But still. He’d gotten used to not walking around with his hands always ready to clench into fists at the first sign of a threat. It was better not to tip Bruce over the edge if he could help it.
(Those fights with Dick were… not fun to listen to.)
So, yeah. He’d save the Epic karaoke fest for later. Even if it would be pretty fun to see everyone’s faces if he decided to belt the song “Monster” out of nowhere.
Something told him that fancy socialites wouldn’t take well to a teenage street rat in a suit singing about throwing infants from walls.
Heh.
“Bruce! It’s so lovely to see you. How has your ward been settling in?”
Jason tensed as Bruce responded to the woman with a dazzlingly fake smile. “Hello, Charlotte! My son has been doing wonderfully, thank you.”
He didn’t miss the slight emphasis Bruce put on the word son. Jason’s chest tingled even as his mind spun with the best insults for this woman. The Spanish insults tucked in his back pocket really would have been best, but, well. Alfie had been training him a little too well against that. Apparently the old butler disliked swearing in Spanish just as much as he did in English.
A shame, really. English insults had nothing on the words that flew out of his old neighbor Marisol’s mouth.
Mrs. Charley Horse apparently didn’t know when to shut up and backtrack. “Have you had any further issues with… outbursts?”
Bruce’s jaw twitched along with Jason’s. He ignored whatever the old man said next and glanced around the room for an out. If people were going to talk about him as if he wasn’t even there, he might as well just. Actually not be there.
His eyes landed on a small figure at the edge of the room. A boy who looked maybe ten, black bangs falling just above his eyebrows. He looked mostly Asian, but not exactly all the way. Whasian?
The woman beside the boy shifted, and Jason’s eyebrows shot up. Those were the neighbors, weren’t they? Or at least, as close as neighbors got in Bristol.
Another not-quite-white kid stuck at a party meant to bore even adults? It was more than he had in common with Mrs. Charley Horse, at least. Jason stuck his hands in his pockets and headed over.
“Hey, Timothy Drake, right?”
The kid looked up sharply from his gazing at the floor. He looked pale enough to begin with, but if possible, the color faded from his face even more.
Weird. “How are ya—”
And the kid just. Turned away. Straight up turned his back on Jason and pretended to join the circle of chatting adults his mother was part of.
A sick pang went through Jason’s stomach. It shouldn’t bother him anymore. He already knew everyone here looked down their noses at him. But seriously, even their kids?
He froze mid-step, swallowing hard. This was why he hated galas so much. How could he forget that amazing feeling, like he carried some disease that everyone and their dog could sense the moment he walked in? Like he was ruining every stupid person’s night by existing in their presence, not wanted, never wanted —
“Hey, there you are, Jay!”
The dark spiral snapped as a familiar octopus arm flung itself around his neck. Jason glanced up and scraped together a grin. “Hey, Dick.”
His big brother ruffled his hair and tugged on his arm. “They just put out some fresh strawberries at the fondue table. Come on, we’d better hurry before Bruce inhales them all.”
Jason avoided casting a second glance at Timothy Drake as he followed Dick. It doesn’t matter.
Dick hovered close as Jason stabbed a skewer through three strawberries at once. “Hey, don’t let shallow people get to you, Ćhiva.”
Jason’s lip twitched upward at the nickname. Dick only used it when it was just them and family. Little Wing was perfect for patrol, when Dick avoided speaking Romani for identity purposes. But Ćhiva—chick—was special. An approval of Jason’s claim to the Robin mantle, and an acceptance of him as a little brother trusted with a bit of his other language all at once.
He bit back a sharp grin. “Thanks, telchámo.”
And there was the groan he was looking for. “Jay, what does that mean? I’ve asked Alfonso at the station like, ten times, and he refuses to tell me. And Google is absolutely no help whatsoever!”
Alfonso at the station wouldn’t tell him because Jason specifically begged him not say a word. And of course Google was no help. Telchámo was nothing but Spanish-sounding gibberish and just about Jason’s best method so far of making Dick’s life miserable.
He sighed and twirled the strawberries in the chocolate fountain. “Seriously, Dick? I thought you loved me, I really did. But you can’t even figure out one Spanish word for my sake?”
Dick spluttered. “How is this my fault?”
Yeah. Who needed Mrs. Charley Horse or Tim Drake?
This was enough.
Right?