The Lace & the Tears
Jason Todd X Bizarro | Short Fic scene I wrote a week ago after finals. | The Lace & The Tears
The bridal boutique was so white and pristine that Jason felt like he was going to smudge it just by existing. He was profoundly uncomfortable.
"This is ridiculous," Jason grumbled, tugging at the collar of his leather jacket. "I should just wear a suit. Or my gear. Bizarro wouldn't know the difference."
"Nope!" Stephanie popped up from behind a rack of tulle. "You are the bride, Jay. You get the full princess treatment. Cass, back me up."
Cass, standing by the dressing room door like a silent sentinel, nodded firmly. "Princess," she stated.
Bruce was sitting on a plush velvet ottoman in the corner, looking entirely out of place in his dark business suit, holding Stephanie’s purse. He looked terrified.
An hour later, Jason had rejected five ballgowns ("I look like a deranged cupcake") and three mermaid-cut dresses ("I can't roundhouse kick in this").
Then, Stephanie handed one through the curtain. "Try this. Less 'Gotham Gala,' more 'Haunted Forest Fairytale'."
Jason stepped out of the dressing room five minutes later.
The dress was cream-colored, not stark white. It didn't have a massive skirt; it fell in soft, heavy layers of silk and delicate, ancient-looking lace that resembled spiderwebs. It had long, fitted lace sleeves that covered his scars and a high neckline that felt protective rather than choking. It was simple, elegant, and strangely ethereal on Jason’s broad, fighter’s frame.
Jason looked at himself in the triple mirror, stunned into silence. He didn't look like Red Hood. He didn't look like the dead Robin. He just looked... peaceful.
"Oh my god," Stephanie whispered, hands over her mouth. "Jay..."
Cass stepped forward, circled him once, and then gave two enthusiastic thumbs up, her eyes shining.
Jason turned to look at his father.
Bruce had stood up. The billionaire playboy mask was completely gone. His eyes were wide and glassy, shimmering with unshed tears. He was looking at Jason, but he was seeing the little boy stealing tires in an alley, the angry teenager in the Robin suit, the broken man in the helmet.
And now, he saw his son, whole and beautiful in white lace, ready to be happy.
A single tear escaped and tracked down Bruce’s cheek.
"Bruce?" Jason panicked slightly. "Is it bad? I look stupid, right?"
Bruce choked out a wet laugh, quickly wiping his face. "No, Jaylad. No. You look... you look absolutely precious."
Jason swallowed hard, his fingers brushing against the delicate lace sleeve—half expecting it to dissolve like cobwebs. He wanted to make a joke, but his throat felt too tight. Instead, he muttered, "Yeah, well. Bizarro’s gonna lose his damn mind."
Stephanie sniffled dramatically, flinging herself onto Cass’s shoulder. "We’re gonna need so many tissues at the wedding," she warbled. Cass patted her head solemnly, then reached into Bruce’s pocket and handed him a handkerchief without breaking eye contact.
Bruce took it gratefully, dabbing at his face before clearing his throat. "We should—ah. Shoes. And a veil. Or—or not! Whatever you prefer." His voice cracked. Jason had never seen him so thoroughly unraveled, and it was equal parts terrifying and hilarious.
Stephanie wiped her eyes and immediately switched into mission mode. "Okay, tall dark and emotionally compromised, let’s find you a killer crown situation." She snapped her fingers at Cass. "Backup me on this—we’re going full woodland queen aesthetic." Cass grinned, sharp and approving.
Jason huffed, twisting slightly to watch the dress move in the mirror. It whispered against the floor, heavy silk brushing his ankles. He could run in this. He could fight in this. Hell, he could probably take down a drug cartel in it if the sleeves stayed put. "Fine," he conceded. "But if you try to put me in heels, I’m throwing hands."
Stephanie gasped, clutching Cass’s arm like she’d been shot. "That’s *exactly* what someone who *needs* heels would say." Cass nodded fervently, already reaching for a nearby display of delicate lace veils with the focus of a sniper lining up a shot. Jason had the sudden, horrible realization that he was outnumbered.
Bruce, still dabbing at his eyes, cleared his throat. "Combat boots," he offered weakly, but Stephanie waved him off like a seasoned general dismissing an incompetent lieutenant. "Bruce, please. The aesthetic demands dramatic height. It’s non-negotiable." She held up a pair of ivory stilettos—narrow as daggers, with a heel that could puncture a lung.
Jason glared. "Those are murder weapons." Cass, already balancing a delicate lace veil on her own head like a crown, tilted her chin down to give him a look that screamed Coward. Jason groaned. "Fine. Fine. But if I snap an ankle, I’m throwing Bizarro at you."
Bruce winced, clearly picturing the carnage. Stephanie just grinned, pressing the heels into Jason’s hands like she was arming him for war. "Walk or die, Todd." He swore under his breath, but stumbled into the dressing room—only to emerge five minutes later, towering and unsteady, the veil cascading down his back like ghostly mist. He looked like a vengeful woodland deity who’d just discovered capitalism.
Cass clapped once, sharp and approving, while Stephanie fanned herself. "Oh, we’re winning." Jason scowled, gripping the nearest rack for balance. "I hate you," he hissed, but the effect was ruined by how the lace caught the light, framing his face in something softer than rage. Bruce made a wounded noise, like he’d been stabbed.
Stephanie circled him, adjusting the veil so it cascaded just so. "Okay, now practice walking without looking like you’re about to murder someone." Jason took an experimental step, wobbled violently, and immediately grabbed Cass's shoulder for balance. "This is bullshit," he hissed, but Cass just smirked and nudged him forward like a foal learning to walk.
Bruce hovered nearby, arms half-raised as if ready to catch him—which was hilarious, considering Jason had survived falling from a six-story building last week. "Maybe... lower heels?" he ventured, but Stephanie shook her head. "Nope. Sacrifices must be made for art." Jason muttered something unsavory under his breath but took another step, scowling when the heel caught on the rug.
Cass, ever pragmatic, nudged a chair toward him. "Practice," she said, like she was teaching him to disarm a bomb instead of walk in designer footwear. Jason gripped the backrest, testing his weight. The heels made him taller than Bruce, which was objectively funny, but also made his calves scream like they'd been through a Blackgate riot.
Stephanie crouched down, adjusting the ankle strap with the precision of someone wiring explosives. "Arch your foot—no, subtle, Jay, Jesus—" She swatted his knee when he wobbled again. "You're a vigilante. How is this the thing that breaks you?" Jason shot her a look that had sent grown men running, but she just grinned. "Ohhh, you're pouting."
***
By the third day, Jason had turned their shared Gotham apartment into an obstacle course. Cass had taped a makeshift runway down the hallway ("Catwalk," she'd insisted, dead serious), and Steph timed him with her phone, cackling whenever he tripped. Jason, sweating through an old tank top, hissed when his heel caught on the rug again. "This is worse than Ra's' sword training," he muttered, but didn't stop.
Bruce found him at 3 AM balanced on one stiletto in the Cave's training mats, doing slow, controlled katas while the other foot hovered inches above the mat. He paused mid-kick to glare. "Not. A. Word." Bruce, wisely, closed his mouth and just handed him a coffee. Jason chugged it, then went back to practicing his pivot turns like his life depended on it.
Dick video-called from Bludhaven to find Jason doing dishes in full bridal regalia, the train pinned up with batarangs. "Little Wing," he wheezed, tears streaming down his face, "please tell me you're infiltrating a cult." Jason flicked soapy water at the camera. "Fuck off, Dickface." Cass, lounging on the counter eating cereal, added helpfully, "He cried yesterday. The blisters." Dick's laughter turned hysterical.
Jason had blisters in places he didn't know could blister. His shoulders ached from the unnatural posture, his calves were permanently knotted, and Steph kept sending him YouTube tutorials titled "How To Walk Like You Didn't Just Commit Homicide." He watched them grudgingly, then practiced in front of the bathroom mirror at 2 AM, muttering curses under his breath.
But he was starting to really like how they made his figure look. Jason had four different pairs of heels he was wearing now—not just to train in, but because he wanted to. The way they elongated his legs, the subtle shift in his center of gravity that made him move differently, the sharp click against concrete when he stalked down alleyways in full Red Hood gear (with reinforced soles, because Steph wasn’t totally insane). He caught himself checking his reflection more often, tilting his chin up just to see the line of his throat against the high lace collar.
One night, he came home to find Cass had left a pair of knee-high lace-up boots on his bed—black, viciously pointed, with a heel that could double as a weapon. The note taped to them read, *For patrol. Try not to stab anyone.* Jason grinned and laced them up immediately, testing the way the leather hugged his calves. When he kicked open the door to the living room, Steph nearly choked on her popcorn. "Holy Shit," she breathed. Cass, sprawled on the couch, gave him a slow, approving once-over and nodded. "Better."
Bruce, predictably, had a minor aneurysm when Jason showed up to the Cave in them. "Those are—Jason, you can't fight in—" Jason flipped a knife between his fingers, spun on the heel, and kicked a training dummy clean in half. The *thunk* of the boot connecting was deeply satisfying. Alfred raised an eyebrow from the Batcomputer. "I daresay Master Jason has made his point, sir." Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose like he was praying for patience.
Clark chose that exact moment to phase through the ceiling, holding a bag of takeout. "Hey, I brought—oh." He froze mid-air, staring at Jason’s boots. Then, slowly, his face split into a grin. "Bruce, you should try a pair. Might help with the whole 'brooding gargoyle' aesthetic." Bruce shot him a withering look. "Clark. Shush." Jason cackled, doubling over as Clark wiggled his eyebrows. "Come on, Bruce. You’d look stunning in stilettos. Gotham’s criminals would flee."
Bruce’s ears turned pink. He pointed at Clark with all the gravitas of a man about to declare war. "Not. Another. Word." Jason wheezed, gripping the back of the couch for support. "Oh my god, B. You’d trip." Clark nodded sagely. "He would." Bruce groaned, rubbing his temples. "I regret every life choice that led me to this moment." Jason wiped tears from his eyes. "Too late, old man. You’re stuck with us."
Later, during patrol, Jason kicked a gun out of a thug’s hand with such precision that the man gaped at his boots in horror. "Did—did Red Hood just heel me?!" Jason smirked under the helmet. "Bitch, yes." Over comms, Steph whooped. "Ten points for style!!" Cass, crouched on a nearby gargoyle, added, "Extra points for flare." Bruce’s sigh was long-suffering. “Keep the comms open kids."
Back at the apartment, Jason sprawled on the couch, boots kicked up on the coffee table as Steph painted his toenails black. "Wedding prep is hell," he groaned, flexing his toes. Cass tossed him a tube of bruise cream for his blisters without looking up from sharpening her knives. Bruce, hovering in the doorway with Chinese takeout, muttered, "I could’ve bought you combat boots." Jason flicked a fortune cookie at him. "And miss this character growth? Never."
Bruce watched Jason’s smirk soften as Steph blew on his nails. His kid—his stubborn, furious, resurrected miracle—was *giggling* over toenail polish. Jason caught him staring and flipped him off lazily, but the effect was ruined by how his shoulders stayed loose, how his fingers tapped a jaunty rhythm against the couch arm. Bruce swallowed hard, setting the food down before he did something embarrassing like cry again.
Clark’s text buzzed in his pocket: ‘Still no heels for you?’ Bruce rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. Jason had started wearing his boots to *watchtower briefings*, grinning sharp as a scalpel when Diana complimented his ‘tactical footwear.’ Bruce had spent the entire meeting mentally calculating how many League members he’d have to bribe to keep the photos off the internet.
Alfred caught him later in the Batcave studying Jason’s discarded stilettos—still strewn by the training mats, scuffed from combat drills. Bruce ran a thumb over the dent where Jason had once kicked a knife out of midair. “Penny for your thoughts, sir?” Alfred asked, dry as ever. Bruce hesitated. “I just... never imagined he’d embrace something like this.” Alfred handed him a dustpan. “Nor did we imagine he’d survive to do so.”
Bruce huffed a laugh, sweeping glass from a shattered Batarang case Jason had knocked over during his heel-assisted spin kicks. “He’s happy,” he muttered, like it was a revelation. Alfred’s hand rested briefly on his shoulder—warm, grounding. “He is. And you’ve the blisters on your own heart to prove it.” Bruce blinked up at him, startled. Alfred arched a brow. “Do wipe that maudlin look off your face, Master Bruce. Master Jason requires us both intact for his impending nuptials.”
Bruce snorted, nudging a stray stiletto with his toe. “He’s going to dismantle Gotham’s underworld in wedding attire.” Alfred hummed, retrieving the shoe with the reverence of handling a sacred relic. “A marked improvement from the helmet, I’d say.” Bruce watched him polish the scuffed heel with his sleeve, something aching and fond swelling in his chest. “You’re terrible,” he muttered. Alfred’s smile was razor-sharp. “Learned from the best, sir.”
The Cave’s stalactites dripped in the silence. Bruce exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “He looks—good. Doesn’t he?” The question was too raw, too hopeful. Alfred didn’t flinch. “Radiant,” he agreed, handing Bruce the other shoe. Their fingers brushed—calloused knuckles, battlefield-steady. Bruce swallowed. “Wish his mother could’ve seen him.” Alfred’s grip tightened, just for a second. “She does,” he said softly. “Every time you look at him and see him.”
Bruce’s throat clicked. He turned the heel over in his hands—scuffed from Jason’s enthusiasm, the leather warm from Cave humidity. “I don’t know how to—” He stopped. Alfred waited. Bruce’s voice cracked. “How do I keep him happy?” Alfred’s sigh was fond. “By continuing to hold his purse during dress fittings, sir.” Bruce choked out a wet laugh. Alfred smoothed the shoe’s insole with his thumb. “And by remembering,” he added gently, “that happiness isn’t a place you leave him in. It’s a road you walk together.”
Bruce’s fingers twitched. He thought of Jason at fifteen, laughing mid-somersault—at nineteen, snarling through blood—at twenty-six, tentative in lace. Alfred tilted his head. “Penny more for your thoughts?” Bruce exhaled. “...I’d still trade my life for his.” Alfred’s look could have rebuilt entire empires. “Master Bruce closed his eyes. Alfred’s grip was warm—steady as Gotham stone. “I’m trying,” he rasped. Alfred’s thumb brushed his collarbone—brief, grounding. “And succeeding,” he murmured. Bruce’s laugh was rough. “He’d disagree.” Alfred hmmed. “Master Jason disagrees with sunrise. Irrelevant.” Bruce huffed, leaning into the touch—just for a second—before straightening. Alfred smoothed his lapels, brisk as ever. “Now. Will you be brooding in the Cave, or assisting Master Jason with his combat heels?”
Bruce snorted. “He’ll throw a knife at me.” Alfred arched a brow. “And?” Bruce hesitated—then grinned, sharp as a batarang. “And I’ll duck.” Alfred’s smile was fond. “There’s my boy.” Bruce rolled his shoulders—lighter, somehow—and turned toward the stairs. “Alfred?” The butler didn’t look up from polishing Jason’s discarded stiletto. “Hm?” Bruce’s voice was soft. “Thank you.” Alfred’s hands stilled. “Always, sir.”