AU where Shane and Ilya don't hook up or have a decades-long secret. They don't really know each other at all, except to play each other.
Shane comes out of the closet sometime after Scott does, and in some random, lighthearted interview, they ask him what he's looking for in a man. And Shane's just, off-hand like, "Well, he'd have to have at least one Stanley Cup. Obviously." And when he gets a good reaction from that, he keeps going, like "Needs to be amazing at hockey. Definitely needs to be at least an All-Star, if not a captain. Hot too. If he can't bench-press me, I'm not interested."
And it's all in fun, except two days after the interview prints, Ilya Rozanov shows up at his door like "knock, knock. I am here to apply for boyfriend position. Do you need resume? I brought my Stanley Cup ring, just in case."
ilya sees this old trend where someone holds out a hand to their partner to see what their partner would give them so he comes over to try it with shane who’s on the sofa. he holds out his hand and shane gives him the remote. he tosses the remote aside. shane looks a bit confused. he gives ilya his phone. ilya tosses that aside. he gives ilya a pillow. ilya tosses that aside. he gives ilya his hand. ilya shakes it out. his face squints in confusion before coming up with an idea and rests his chin on ilya’s hand. and okay, well, the challenge is just to annoy your partner, but holy fuck shane looks so fucking cute with his big brown eyes looking up at ilya waiting for his approval so ilya just really has to smile and kisses him about it.
← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader + platonic! damian wayne ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You and Jason get ready to head to Gotham Academy to pretend to be Damian's parents after he gets into a fight at school.
word cnt. 5.3k
aka ›››› "Jason did you put us as married for tax benefits??" "..." "Hey!"
“Jason!” your voice slips out in a small, breathy squeal — the kind that starts as surprise but softens almost instantly into something warm and instinctive — as he trails slow, wandering kisses along the line of your jaw and down the curve of your neck, each kiss lingering just long enough to blur your thoughts at the edges and untie whatever tension had been sitting in your chest.
“Just ignore it,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips brushing the flutter of your pulse as though he’s trying to memorize it, while his hand tugs the blanket down from your waist with the kind of determined impatience that feels both ridiculous and ridiculously flattering.
“I can’t—” you try to protest, though the words crumble apart the second his mouth finds that sensitive place beneath your ear, the one he likes far too much for your own self-control, “hey—wait, what if it’s actually important?”
“Important my ass,” he groans, words melting into your neck, warm and half-muffled and sounding very much like a man personally offended by the concept of responsibilities, “what could possibly be more important than—”
But before he can finish that question — a question which, knowing how confident he is in bed with you, would have turned into something shameless — the phone call cuts out abruptly, the sound dropping away so suddenly that Jason collapses forward with a low, dramatic exhale of relief, muttering a soft, satisfied, “finally,” like the universe has done him a personal favor.
You giggle, the sound tumbling out before you can stop it, light and fond and maybe a little hopeless, and you let him resume his slow path of kisses, his calloused hands warm against your hips, his smile brushing against your skin like he can’t quite hold it in.
And then — just as the moment begins to settle into something warm and dreamy and perfect — your phone rings again, slicing cleanly through the atmosphere like a cold wind sneaking into a sunlit room.
Jason goes still.
Utterly still.
The kind of stillness usually reserved for wild animals hearing a hunter’s footsteps.
You turn just enough to see the way his brows drag together, his expression darkening as he stares at the vibrating phone like it has personally wronged him in a past life.
“Is this one of your side chicks?” he mutters, low and accusatory, and the seriousness on his face would be concerning if you didn’t already know he’s talking about one of your fully committed friends — or Stephanie, or Cassandra, or possibly both of them in some chaotic combined effort.
Before you can even sit up, Jason has already snatched the phone from the nightstand, answering it with the energy of a man who has been interrupted one too many times and is fully prepared to wage war.
“I swear to the gods, Stephanie, she is not going shopping with—”
But then a noise comes through the speaker — a deep cough, rumbling and unmistakably masculine — and the shock jolting through your body is immediate and full.
Jason’s expression freezes.
Yours dies entirely.
Your soul, without hesitation, leaves your body.
You sit up so quickly that the blankets slide down your hips in a soft, defeated tumble.
Your snatching the phone out of Jason’s hand before he can make whatever catastrophe he has already begun even worse, and Jason—god bless him—immediately shrinks behind you like a delinquent schoolboy caught with a lit firecracker, his whole posture folding inward in remorse, his eyes wide and apologetic as he rubs small, guilty circles into your hip as though that alone could undo whatever chaos he has unleashed.
“Hello? Sir?” you manage, your voice thin with rapidly escalating dread, every muscle in your body coiling tight because if—IF—this is your boss, the man who never calls but absolutely could choose tonight of all nights to break his lifelong habit of respecting boundaries, then the universe is not merely cruel but personally vindictive.
“Uh—are you Mrs. Wayne?” comes the voice on the other end, deep and nasal and vaguely congested, like the speaker is either sick, bored, or allergic to your peace.
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
A third time, harder.
“Uh—”
Slowly—painfully slowly—you drop the phone to your chest and turn your head toward Jason with the kind of expression you have when coming home from a eight hour shift to find Tim and Kon sleeping on your couch and eating your leftovers.
“Did you put us as married for tax benefits or something?” you whisper, each word elongated by disbelief. While he goes by Todd on almost everything, legally, on paper, Wayne could still work.
Jason stares back at you.
Not guilty.
Not defensive.
Just… blank.
Utterly blank.
Like a computer frozen on a loading screen.
You exhale sharply, a tired, disbelieving sound, and shove him off you; his big, ridiculous body falls sideways onto the mattress with an undignified thump, bouncing once like a discarded throw pillow that’s suddenly reconsidering its life choices. You're not strong enough to shove him on your own—your boyfriend did that willingly.
Then, with all the reluctant elegance of someone preparing to lie their way out of a federal investigation, you lift the phone back to your ear, clear your throat delicately, and say:
“Yes…? And this is…?” drawing the words out slowly, preparing—just in case—to pretend you misheard absolutely everything should this turn out to be the beginning of a financial or legal apocalypse.
“Ah, headmaster of Gotham Academy,” the man clarifies with a weary sort of formality, the kind that suggests he’s been rehearsing the same unfortunate script far too many times in the span of a single day, “you see, your son has had a scuffle with two other students in the courtyard, and the parents of the other children are intending to press charges unless they receive a formal apology, so I believe it would be in your family’s best interest if you arrive—with your husband—as soon as possible. The other parents will be here in about an hour.”
For several long, suspended seconds you simply sit there, the air thick around you as your brain clatters and whirs in an attempt to process the information that was just force-fed into it, and then, with a kind of slow-motion dread, you tilt your head toward Jason.
He stares back at you, wide-eyed and blinking, like a man who absolutely heard every single word but whose brain has refused, on strike, to begin handling it.
Okay.
Gotham Academy.
You can practically hear the gears inside your head grinding as you try to place which Wayne child that actually applies to, your gaze drifting around the room as if perhaps the walls might take pity on you and whisper the answer.
You mouth, very deliberately, 'Tim?'
Jason gives the quickest shake of his head, one short motion that at least rules out one catastrophe.
“Never went,” he whispers back. “Still isn’t.”
Your stomach sinks in a way that feels both immediate and inevitable.
Well. That leaves only—
Damian.
“Ma’am?” the headmaster’s voice cracks faintly through the phone, politely reminding you that you have, in fact, not spoken for far too long.
You inhale a steadying breath, the kind that fills your lungs more with resignation than air, and raise the phone again.
“One moment,” you say, injecting your voice with what you hope sounds like the composed patience of a woman who has any sort of control over her life, “I’m just speaking to my husband.”
If Jason had been a dog before, now he transforms into the canine equivalent of a champion show breed receiving a ribbon: his spine pulls straight, his shoulders shift backward as though pinned by invisible medals, and his eyes brighten with such earnest pride that you immediately regret using the word even if it was necessary.
You glare at him because it’s easier than admitting your heart stuttered a little at the way he reacted.
Then you drop your voice.
“Where is Bruce?”
“Mission,” Jason whispers back immediately, leaning closer so the headmaster won’t overhear. “India.”
You clench your jaw. “Dick?”
Jason throws a hand in the air, genuinely offended you think he might know.
“Why would I know?? Brooding in Mumbai maybe? Clinging to the Taj Mahal and being dramatic? I don’t have his itinerary!”
You stare at him.
He stares back.
For a moment, the two of you are united in the silent, mutual realization that neither of you—absolutely neither—should be the ones responsible for handling anything that begins with the phrase “your son” and ends with “pressing charges.”
But Damian is your problem right now.
And apparently, so are the furious parents headed to the Academy in under an hour.
“Would you like to speak to your son, ma’am?” the voice on the other end asks, the tone clipped but not unkind, like a man who has repeated this exact question far too many times tonight. “This will be a supervised call but—”
“Yes, put me on the phone with Damian,” you blurt, the words tumbling out in a rush that betrays just how quickly your instincts snap into place. You shift on the bed, planting yourself beside Jason, who immediately scoots as if pulled by invisible thread, lowering his head into your lap with a nonchalance so exaggerated he might as well have announced I’m definitely not eavesdropping, please ignore me.
Your fingers find his hair almost automatically, threading through the dark strands the way you always do when your nerves start buzzing under your skin. Jason melts instantly—he always does—closing his eyes like a very large, very dangerous dog settling into a warm patch of sunlight.
On the phone, there’s nothing but dead air. Long, tense dead air.
Then—
A small, sharp inhale. Rough-sounding. Like he tried to swallow a sniffle.
“…Hello? Dami, you there?” you whisper, your voice softening the way it always does around him, like your body reshapes itself into something gentler just at the thought of him.
“Yeah.”
It’s barely audible, scraped thin, as if speaking at all hurts.
Your heart twists so hard it knocks your breath sideways.
“…Should I call Mr. Wayne—”
“Mom.”
The single word lands heavier than anything you expected, clumsy on his tongue, like it’s too big, too odd, too fragile for him to know how to hold. Jason feels the way your whole body goes still beneath him, your hand freezing mid-stroke, and immediately he starts rubbing slowly, grounding circles into your thigh, his thumb warm and steady, silently telling you to breathe.
“Mom,” Damian says again, softer, like repeating it might help how foreign it feels on his tongue. “Can—can you be here in…”
He trails off, the sentence unraveling into nothing.
You share one look with Jason—wide-eyed, overwhelmed, a little wrecked—and answer for both of you, your voice steady even if your heart feels anything but.
“Forty five minutes,” you promise quietly. “Give us forty five minutes."
There’s a tiny rustle, like Damian shifting the phone closer.
Then, a whisper: “...Is he coming?”
You inhale to reassure him—yes, sweetheart, yes, of course he is—but before the words even form, Jason snatches the phone clean out of your hand, moving with the confidence of a man who absolutely should not have confidence.
“Hell yeah Daddy’s coming,” he says, his voice rich with a shameless grin you can hear, and you would smack him so hard his soul rattles if you didn’t know exactly what he was doing: trying to lift the crushing weight off Damian’s little shoulders, trying to lift it off yours too, turning a crisis into something softer, something survivable. Because to him, come on babe it's just a parent teacher meeting.
There’s a quiet exchange—Jason murmuring low reassurances, Damian answering with short snap backs that ‘I'm not crying it's the blood!’—and you sit there beside him, spiraling through every possible disaster, worry flaring and fading and flaring again like a heartbeat.
Then Jason ends the call with a single, unapologetic tap, tosses your phone onto the blanket like it’s an empty soda can, and looks up at you with a grin full of teeth and trouble—so bright, so wildly misplaced in the moment—that your heart practically short-circuits.
“Mommy,” he croons in a sing-song tone that feels like knives and affection all wrapped in one, “ready for a parent–teacher conference?”
You stare at him.
How is he this calm?
Your eye twitches. “You never got in trouble when you were in school, huh?”
“Fuck no,” Jason replies without a second of hesitation, before immediately collapsing forward and shoving his face into your stomach—like he’s burrowing there for warmth, comfort, absolution, or maybe just to hide the fact that he finds this entire situation hilarious.
His voice comes out muffled, warm, tinged with the kind of fond amusement that makes you want to both smack him and curl into him. “Hated that place, but I always kept my head down… good, he fought back. Kiddo is way better than I was.”
You let out a strangled noise, something halfway between a groan and a prayer, because your nerves are tightening like piano wires and your pulse is pounding like a drumline. “...We’re going to have to change you out of your leather jacket if we want to pass you as Mr. Wayne,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose as if you could physically massage the panic out of your bloodstream. “Gotham Academy is going to eat us alive if you walk in dressed like the ghost of juvenile delinquency.”
Jason, the absolute menace, smiles.
Not a small smile.
Not a reasonable smile.
A full, lazy, self-satisfied grin that spreads across his face as he lounges back onto your lap like he’s posing for a magazine instead of living through your shared impending doom.
“You just want to see how good I look in a suit,” he hums, voice dripping with that infuriatingly smooth smugness, clearly delighted at your spiraling because he genuinely, wholeheartedly believes everything is going to be fine.
You roll your eyes, shove him off your lap with both hands, and stand abruptly—your mind racing with worst-case scenarios, your breath hitching as you try not to imagine the cold marble halls of Gotham Academy swallowing Damian whole. Jason topples sideways with a theatrical grunt, limbs sprawling messily across the bed, looking both betrayed and ridiculously at ease.
The contrast between you is almost comical—your panic rising like a tidal wave, your hands trembling just enough to betray you, while Jason lounges there like this is a Saturday morning and not the beginning of a potential scandal involving Gotham’s elite, three lawyers, one unhinged headmaster, and a child with a sword collection.
Worst-case scenario?
Bruce comes home in a private jet, snarls at everyone, snaps a pen in half with two fingers, and throws a mountain of hush money at the issue until the entire school pretends it never happened.
But right now?
Right now none of that matters.
Right now your stomach is flipping and your throat is tight and your heart is pounding against your ribs like it desperately wants to escape this situation and leave your body behind to deal with the mess.
Because right now Damian is cornered.
Right now Damian sounded small on the phone.
Right now Damian asked for Mom.
And Jason—infuriating, steady Jason—is already pulling himself up, already planning, already stepping into a role he was never taught but somehow knows exactly how to fill, his calm a warm blanket draped over your panic.
Jason knows what that school is like.
Knows the coldness of its hallways, the sharpness of its expectations, the viciousness of people who think money gives them the right to be cruel.
Knows that being “Bruce Wayne’s kid” means nothing if Bruce Wayne isn’t physically looming over the crowd like a pissed-off bat.
And Jason Todd—your Jason—will walk into that school ready to burn it down for Damian, his calm not born of carelessness but of certainty, a certainty that everything will be fine, because if it all goes sideways, Bruce can always throw enough money at the problem to make it vanish like smoke in a lantern.
In fact—
He stretches out across the bed with an ease that feels almost storybook, propped up on his elbows, feet dangling over the edge, watching you with eyes full of warm, quiet pride that glows the way lanterns flicker in old films, a calm so steady it makes your own heart race in contrast.
And you—you are halfway to the bathroom, hands slightly trembling, stomach tight, mind racing a thousand steps ahead, imagining every possible way this could go wrong—when his voice drifts after you, soft as a breeze through an open window.
“He’s definitely getting hot chocolate after this.”
It’s said so simply, so utterly matter-of-factly, as though hot chocolate could heal the weight of the world, and as though Jason Todd—leather jacket, reckless grin, stubborn jawline, all of it—was born knowing exactly how to soothe a child’s storm.
You pause.
Just for a heartbeat, framed in the doorway, and your chest aches a little because the sight of him—this wild, chaotic man capable of soft, patient gentleness—hits you somewhere unguarded, a place that doesn’t even have words. It’s like watching a streetlamp flicker into a lighthouse, sudden and steady all at once.
You let out a slow, shaky breath, and a smile tugs at your lips despite the tension coiled in your shoulders. “Get up,” you murmur, voice small but warm, because if you don’t act, you’ll stay frozen here forever. “We’re dressing you up like a billionaire.”
And like a character in a musical who hears the first note of his cue, Jason springs upright, a bright, boyish light sparking in his eyes, something almost ridiculously heroic, as if he could stride into any world you pointed him toward and conquer it.
You point toward the closet with a glare that pretends to be stern but barely contains the frantic energy coiling through your limbs. “Move.”
You watch, arms crossed, chest tight, as he rummages deep into the shadows and produces a long-neglected suit bag, sighing with theatrical doom. He moved in all of his clothes from the manor here a few weeks ago, not wanting any more reasons to go anywhere besides your apartment and his run down one.
“You own a suit?” you demand, incredulous.
Jason snorts, rolling his eyes, voice lazy and teasing, deliberately calm. “Bruce forces one on every kid like it’s some sacred Wayne tradition. ‘For charity galas,’” he rumbles, giving an impression of Bruce so accurately it makes you blink. “Or funerals. Mostly funerals.”
The bag falls open, revealing a charcoal-gray suit cut so sharply it seems spun from moonlight and whispered promises, fabric catching the light in quiet, dangerous waves. Before he even slips it on, just seeing him knowing how to handle it, transforms him—your chaotic, foul-mouthed, impulsive partner—into someone who could stride into a boardroom and make every grown adult quake.
You blink. “That’s… actually gorgeous.”
Jason glares at it, clearly offended by your praise. “It looks stupid…think I can go without?”
“It looks perfect,” you correct, breathless and half panicked, because if you don’t make him move, you’ll never feel like your making progress on the situation. “Now put it on.”
And just like that, he’s yours again—rolling his eyes, muttering under his breath, but stepping into the role anyway, because you asked, because it matters, because family is a word he’s still learning to carry without flinching or wincing, the kind of word that feels heavier than his leather jacket but lighter when he lets it settle here, in the quiet space you both share.
He gives you a sly, sideways smile, slow and molten-warm, the kind that coils beneath your ribs and curls into the small, startled flutter of your heart that you swear he can feel if he wants.
“I’m not exactly fond of how into this new role-play you are,” he drawls, talking like a man who’s already caught you in something scandalous, the kind of careless ease that makes your pulse spike even as your brain insists you remain calm.
You roll your eyes because admitting the truth—how much this makes your heart stutter—would give him exactly the power he wants. Instead, you shove the suit jacket into his arms and steer him toward the bathroom with the kind of authority you only summon when panic threatens to spiral.
“Go,” you order, trying—and failing—to sound entirely unaffected.
He laughs—bright, unguarded, infuriatingly Jason—just before the door swings shut behind him, the sound echoing in the quiet like a warm promise that somehow calms you even as your stomach twists in knots.
You stand there, breathing shallow, realizing how absurd it is that he can remain so calm in a situation that should be utterly stressful and yet still collapse completely at three in the morning if you merely hold him a little too tight, whispering tiny, frantic worries about hurting you, about not deserving softness, about being terrified of failing, as if he isn’t already the one who melts into your arms like he’s meant to be there.
It’s barely ten minutes before the door swings open again, steam curling around him like a halo, and your brain short-circuits.
Oh.
Oh, damn.
Jason steps out, tugging at the cuffs of the crisp black dress shirt in that slow, lazy way that somehow makes every line of his body more dangerous, more exquisite, the charcoal vest cinching at his waist with sinful precision, the slacks hanging low enough on his hips to make the whole room blush while his damp hair falls in dark, rumpled waves across his forehead like fate personally sculpted him just to torment you.
He looks like trouble in a boardroom.
He looks like a scandal tabloids would gnash their teeth over.
He looks—unfairly, impossibly—like your husband in some alternate universe where penthouses and champagne were mundane, and yet somehow, impossibly, it works.
Jason catches your frozen gaze and spreads a slow, dangerous grin across his mouth, knowing full well how powerfully he owns your attention even while still flinching at his reflection on bad days.
He knows you—knows that strange, unshakable taste of yours—and somehow, against all odds, it always defines him.
“What?” he murmurs, stepping closer, voice low and amused, curling around you like smoke in a candlelit room. “Too much?”
“Not enough,” you breathe, before your rational mind can intervene.
And the wicked grin that spreads across his face in response could ruin reason, could melt stars, could make time itself pause to watch.
He shrugs the suit jacket on, battling with the sleeves as if they have some personal vendetta against him, before finally letting it settle over his broad shoulders, and then he turns to you with a tie dangling carelessly around his neck, arms opening just slightly in a gesture that is equal parts invitation and vulnerability, the kind he’d never admit to the world but offers to you without hesitation.
“Alright, boss,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, eyes sparkling with mischief but carrying that deeper, careful glimmer beneath, “make me look like B.”
Standing there, chest tight, mind caught between panic and awe, you realize the mission of him looking like Bruce is already accomplished. Long before the tie touches his throat, Jason—crisp white shirt, perfectly tailored trousers, jacket molded to his frame—exudes a magnetism that feels both inevitable and breathtaking.
You step closer, closer than strictly necessary, letting the heat of your almost bare body brush against his, letting the gentle press of your chest against his arm remind you that you are still here, still breathing, still holding something sacred in your hands, and you lift the tie, settling it around the curve of his collar with fingers that linger just a heartbeat too long at the base of his throat, tracing pulse and warmth alike.
Jason inhales sharply, barely perceptible, just enough to betray the flawless, un-touchable facade he wears for the world, and you feel the subtle quickening beneath your fingertips, a reverent stillness that is all him, all attentive, all present.
He focuses on you in a way that steals the air from your lungs, and for a long, suspended moment, the world outside your apartment ceases to exist entirely; it is only you, only him, only the slow, deliberate looping of silk between your fingers as you tilt his chin upward, catching his gaze and holding it like a fragile flame in your own hands.
And there, in the soft curve of his eyes, a light softens, fragile and steady, like dawn spilling slowly across a quiet valley, gentle enough to make your chest ache in a way that is almost painful, almost holy.
Whatever teasing, rehearsed bravado he had intended quietly crumbles beneath your gaze, replaced with something soft, something almost sacred, as you tighten the knot and smooth it down the front of his chest, and he does not move, does not flinch, does not speak; he simply watches, entirely present, entirely yours, like he was meant to react to your reactions.
You are stressed.
Undoubtedly so. It is not as if you have ever walked those polished halls of Gotham Academy or navigated the unspoken currents of expectation and subtle cruelty that live there.
Jason remembers that feeling from his first day at a school too big and crowded, where everyone assumed he didn’t belong: nervous, out of place, yet oddly alive, energized by the thrill of surviving in a world that seemed set on testing him.
“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now, almost reverent, voice carrying across the taut, intimate space between you, “we’re gonna be okay. He’s gonna be okay. I'm serious babe, were going in and out and your going to laugh at how easy it was.”
You nod, letting your hand linger a moment longer than necessary against the broad, steady plane of his chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath your palm as a tether to something constant, something grounding. You know that logically, together you can hold this small boy, this tiny, fierce creature of Gotham who looks at the world with suspicion and hurt and bravery, and remind him that he is not alone either.
Damian is not alone.
And you are not alone.
You have Jason.
…And, should the night take a sharp turn for chaos, you have Bruce’s money.
“Train there?” you murmur softly as you step toward the bathroom, words barely more than a whisper, your mind still spinning through what awaits you.
“Yeah, train,” Jason responds, quietly, smoothly, following your gaze as he grabs one of the dresses you keep for important occasions, a hint of mischief in his voice, “I don’t think they’re taking Bruce Wayne seriously if he shows up on a motorcycle.”
“Business class!” you snap, half-command, half-laugh, turning on the water with a practiced hand.
Jason scoffs, settling himself on the edge of the bathroom counter, “Do I look like a billionaire to—”
You glance up, still tense, still nervous enough that your smile is small and wary, and your eyes drink him in: every line, every shadow of muscle, every calculated imperfection, and Jason pauses mid-scowl, mid-rebuttal, caught by the gentle gravity of your gaze.
“Oh. Oh, okay. Well played, babe,” he murmurs softly, tapping business on his outdated phone—one probably as old as Damian himself—grinning like he has just won the most important, absurdly personal game in the world.
․ ⸝⸝𓅨⸝⸝ ․
Damian is damn near losing his mind, perched rigidly on the edge of the chair they made him sit in, too nervous to even lift his feet from the floor, fearing that any sudden movement might provoke another round of scrutiny from the teachers who sit before him with pens poised and eyes sharp.
The other kids deserved to be here.
He doesn’t regret that.
God, he regrets calling you.
Regrets the fleeting moment of bravery that led him to give them your number—the number he had spent hours insisting he didn’t need to memorize—because now, every second stretches into an eternity of longing and anxiety.
If he had called his father, Bruce would have come—without question, without hesitation.
Dropped whatever urgent mission had claimed his attention and appeared at the school in a heartbeat, ready to wield authority and wealth like a shield. But Damian will be damned if he allows that. He won’t have Bruce stepping in; he wont give him that luxury.
Dick? Everyone knows what Dick looks like—tabloids, public appearances, magazine covers. If Richard Grayson had been here, he would arrive fully adorned in the heir’s mantle, flawless, untouchable, the favorite son paraded since the day he arrived. Damian would never hear the end of it. He doesn't care if it's from other students, who might poke fun carelessly, but from teachers whom he cannot fight back without consequence? The ones who sing praises about Dick Grayson like their lives depend on it? Fuck no. That kind of scrutiny would drive him absolutely insane.
If he had access to his mother’s phone, if she had even allowed herself to be reached, Damian would have given it in a heartbeat. Every call now is strictly monitored by his father, every word supervised, every moment watched. At first, Damian suspected Bruce thought they were conspiring against him—but now, as the hours stretched since the first call, he realizes his father misses her voice as much as Damian misses her voice.
His mother would have come. She would have stormed in, fierce and precise, correcting every injustice, tossing money at the other boys’ parents as if it were nothing, and whisking him out of the room by the arm, leaving nothing but her voice and her presence to reassure him. Later, she would whisper that he had done well, that every little instinct and reaction he had in defending himself was right, justified, admirable.
He would love her for that habit, always.
Now, however, he has only the two of you.
Jason rarely appears in tabloids except for the occasional official family photograph, often mistaken for Bruce anyway, his presence muted in the public eye. And you… well, your number is the one he remembered, the one he clings to, the one he hopes will save him.
Maybe—just maybe—he wanted you to appear, to lift him gently from the edge of his panic, to let the familiar weight of your hand settle on his shoulder like an anchor, to offer that look you give him when he’s hurt: soft enough to soothe, sharp enough to command respect, a look that quietly tells him, without words, that he is seen, that he matters, that he is utterly, unconditionally worth defending.
And maybe, just maybe, he wants a hug right now, arms around him, warm and steady, as he stares at the sketchbook you bought him, left on the headmaster’s table, soaking in mud, juice, and tiny footprints that map the chaos of the morning.
Damian Wayne wants to stab himself when he watches Jason Todd stroll into the headmasters office and say, "Daddy's here Damian!"
please please please let me know what you think it gives me so much motivation to write and you will be getting a new work sooner if you do ; (◞‸◟)
