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Jason Todd did not sign up for babysitting.
He was just dropping off stolen League intel—totally casual—and was on his way out when Alfred handed him a Pop-Tart.
“Feed him this,” Alfred said. “He’s hiding under the weapons rack. Will not come out for Master Bruce.”
Jason blinked. “Wait. Who’s he?”
“Master Richard. Age six. Temporarily.”
Jason blinked again. “You de-aged Dick?”
“I most certainly did not. Zatanna’s spell rebounded during a training exercise.”
“Oh my god.” Jason turned to the faint sound of shuffling near the practice mats. “Dick’s a feral six-year-old. That’s horrifying.”
Alfred gave him a serene smile and patted his shoulder. “He responds well to snacks and sarcasm. You’re uniquely qualified.”
Then he left.
“Alfred, you coward!”
A soft sniffle came from behind the armoury cabinet.
Jason crouched. “Hey. Uh, kid? I got a Pop-Tart?”
A pause.
Then a head of dark hair poked out. Suspicious blue eyes locked onto his.
Then—
“BRUCE!”
Jason was tackled with alarming force for someone under four feet tall.
Tiny arms wrapped around his neck. Tiny face buried in his shoulder. Tiny voice squealing, “Te-am găsit!”
Jason blinked.
“...I don’t speak that.”
But the kid—Dick, he realised belatedly—just grinned up at him like Jason had hung the moon.
“You sneaky,” Dick declared with great admiration. “No mask. I know you!”
Jason looked around wildly. “Where the hell is the real Bruce—”
A voice echoed down from the computer console. “I am the real Bruce.”
Jason turned to see Bruce descending the staircase, cape fluttering, expression pained.
Dick turned, squinted—and immediately recoiled.
“No.”
“Richard—”
“You not my Bruce!” Dick said firmly. “You look old. You look like...uncle.”
Jason cracked up laughing.
Bruce frowned. “He’s six.”
“Exactly,” Jason wheezed. “Peak sass age. You’re screwed.”
Jason managed to coax Dick to the kitchen table with the Pop-Tart and a promise of more if he didn’t throw any more batarangs at Damian.
Dick looked at Jason like he was the world’s coolest person.
“You have red helmet,” he said, wide-eyed. “Is cool.”
Jason grinned. “Yeah? You like it?”
Dick nodded. “It’s battle hat. For Bruce.”
Jason froze.
Then slowly, carefully, he asked, “You think I’m Bruce?”
Dick gave him a look that could only be translated as duh.
“You tall. You serious. You have snacks. You are Bruce.”
Jason felt a weird warmth unfurl in his chest.
Bruce, standing in the hallway, did not.
Bruce tried. He really did.
He tried entering the room without the cowl.
He tried wearing the exact same shirt Jason had on when Dick imprinted on him.
He even tried speaking Romani—badly.
“Buna… Dick?”
Dick squinted at him like he was a malfunctioning robot.
“Wrong,” Dick said gravely.
“Wrong what?” Bruce asked, crouching down.
“You wrong Bruce.”
Jason, lounging on the couch with a juice box, choked. “This is the best day of my life.”
“I am not wrong,” Bruce said, with the strained patience of someone clinging to sanity. “I’m your guardian. I adopted you.”
Dick tilted his head. “You give me Pop-Tart?”
Bruce hesitated. “No, I—”
Dick held up a single accusing finger and pointed to Jason. “He give me Pop-Tart. He is Bruce.”
Jason raised the juice box in triumph. “Suck it, decoy.”
Tim had resorted to pulling up footage from the cave’s surveillance feed. He projected it onto the main Batcomputer monitor for everyone to watch.
“Behold,” he said, clicking play.
Onscreen, tiny Dick was perched on Jason’s shoulders, steering him with both hands. Jason was running around the cave making vroom noises.
“Hai, Batman!” Dick shouted gleefully.
“Put him down!” Damian screamed in the background. “He is unstable and feral!”
Jason, panting, yelled, “He’s bonding!”
The video paused on a freeze-frame of Dick hurling a foam batarang and Jason dramatically pretending to be hit.
Tim turned to Bruce. “So. How’s it feel being rejected by your own kid?”
Bruce did not respond. His eye twitched.
Cass leaned over and signed, You’re handling this well.
Later that day, Dick met Cass. He blinked up at her, curious but wary.
Cass didn’t say anything. She simply crouched, held out her hand, and then mimicked a somersault.
Dick’s face lit up.
He mimicked the move—messily—and grinned when she clapped silently.
They sparred without words for thirty minutes. Jason and Tim watched from the doorway.
“He likes her,” Tim noted.
“He likes everyone except actual Bruce.”
“Cass is smooth,” Jason said, proud. “And she didn’t try to make him eat broccoli. That’s probably why.”
Bruce, behind them, muttered, “It was one suggestion.”
That night, Dick climbed into Jason’s lap with a picture book and tugged on his hoodie.
“Read,” he demanded.
Jason raised a brow. “This is in Romani. I don’t—wait.”
He pulled out his phone, opened a translation app, and scanned the first page.
“Okay, so this says… ‘The little bat flew high into the sky.’”
Dick beamed. “Yes! Read more!”
Bruce stood in the doorway again, watching them like someone observing his own funeral.
“You’re learning Romani?” he asked.
Jason shrugged. “Seems important.”
Bruce paused. “That’s... good.”
Jason didn’t look up, but his voice softened. “He trusts me. I’m not gonna screw that up.”
Bruce nodded and left the room.
Dick didn’t even notice.
Jason woke up to the unmistakable sound of a child yelling “HAI-YAH!” at six in the morning.
Then came a thunk. Then something shattered.
Then Damian’s voice from down the hall.
“Why is there a child on the chandelier?!”
Jason groaned and buried his face in the pillow. “Five more minutes.”
Another crash.
Then: “You said I could have Pop-Tarts if I did battle moves!”
Jason sighed. “…Right. That’s on me.”
Dick had declared the manor his training ground.
Every surface became a ledge. Every ledge became a perch. Every perch was now his domain.
“Jason-Bruce!” he called, sprinting into the kitchen with a cardboard tube held like a sword. “I defeat seven ninjas!”
Jason, half-asleep and pouring coffee, gave a lazy thumbs-up. “Nice work, champ.”
Damian appeared, dripping wet, holding a cracked training staff. “He attacked me in the shower.”
“He said you were a League infiltrator,” Tim said, yawning as he entered.
Dick nodded solemnly. “He was not brushing his hair. Suspicious.”
“I don’t brush my hair!” Damian snapped.
Dick gasped and pointed dramatically. “See?! League!”
Cass silently applauded from the corner. Dick bowed.
Jason was trying. He really was.
He’d started a running list in his phone titled: Useful Romani Words for Not-Dads.
“Sastimos” = hello.
“Nashti” = no.
“Baro” = big.
“Chavo” = boy/kid.
“Foarte tare” = super cool (Romanian, but Dick used it often)
Mostly, though, Dick kept creating his own hybrid sentences with wild confidence:
“You are Bruce. Bruce wear red helmet. You have cool jacket. You are...Bat-Boss.”
Jason nearly spit out his coffee. “Bat-Boss?!”
“Yes! Bat-Boss punch bad guys and make breakfast.”
Tim wheezed from across the room. “New codename unlocked.”
Jason muttered, “Don’t you dare.”
Bruce tried again—this time armed with an actual Pop-Tart.
He approached slowly, crouching beside the couch where Dick and Cass were building batarang towers.
“Richard,” Bruce said softly. “Can I sit with you?”
Dick eyed him suspiciously, clutched a foam batarang, then pointed to Jason.
“I sit with that Bruce.”
Jason, sitting across the room, froze. “Oh no.”
Bruce tried to smile. “I’m the real Bruce.”
Dick looked him up and down. “You have grey hairs. And weird voice.”
Jason choked.
Bruce’s eye twitched.
“I’ve always had this voice.”
“You sound like Bat-Vampire.”
Cass had to leave the room to keep from laughing out loud.
That night, Jason was reading Dick a story (poorly) when the kid suddenly asked:
“Did I have Mama and Daddy?”
Jason blinked. “Yeah. You did.”
“What happen?”
Jason closed the book. “They died. There was… an accident. You got hurt too.”
Dick’s lip wobbled. “But now I have you?”
Jason reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Yeah, kid. You got me.”
Silence.
Then a soft whisper: “Te iubesc, Bruce.”
Jason whispered back, “Love you too, little Wing.”
Gotham, 3:14 AM.
Jason landed on the rooftop of a 7-Eleven.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Six-year-old Dick Grayson was crouched on the edge of the roof, holding a half-eaten churro like a grappling hook, cape flapping in the wind.
“I’m on patrol,” Dick said seriously. “Crime never sleep.”
Jason walked slowly toward him, hands raised like approaching a wild animal. “Neither do I, apparently.”
Dick pointed dramatically at a raccoon in the alley. “Suspicious activity. He stole that hot dog.”
Jason glanced at the raccoon, who hissed.
He sighed. “You’re not wrong. But you’re grounded.”
“I’m Batman. Batman is never grounded.”
Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “I raised a menace.”
“Where’s Dick?” Tim asked from the couch, half-awake, face in his tablet.
Cass signed: Sleeping, last I saw.
Damian, entering with a scowl: “Check again. I found the ventilation grate open. And my night-vision goggles are missing.”
Jason looked up sharply. “No.”
Bruce, from across the room, stopped mid-sip of tea.
Alfred exhaled long and slow. “Good heavens.”
“HE ESCAPED?!” Tim shot up.
Jason was already moving. “He thinks he’s Batman. He thinks I’m Batman. He probably left to patrol Gotham.”
There was a moment of collective horror.
Then Damian growled, “I will kill him.”
Cass smacked the back of his head.
CCTV footage showed a tiny figure in a makeshift cape (Jason’s leather jacket), sliding down a fire escape, then sprinting across rooftops on the Lower East Side.
“Where the hell is he going?” Jason barked, rewinding the footage.
“Somewhere with crime,” Tim said grimly.
“Or sugar,” Cass signed, pointing at the mini duffel on Dick’s back. Jason squinted. It had juice boxes. And what looked like… a foam grappling hook.
“He made his own go-bag?” Jason said, equal parts horrified and impressed.
Bruce crossed his arms. “Where would he even—”
Jason’s eyes widened. “...I know where he went.”
Jason landed silently behind Dick.
“You really gonna make me chase you, kid?”
Dick turned, narrowed his eyes, then bolted.
“Goddammit.”
Jason sprinted after him across a rooftop food court, past a sleepy pretzel vendor and a blinking neon taco sign. Dick ducked under a table, flipped over a bench, and threw a juice box.
Jason dodged. “Hey! That was my lunch!”
Dick skidded to a stop near the edge of the roof, looking triumphant—until Jason tackled him gently, rolling them to a stop.
They landed in a tangle, Dick giggling breathlessly.
“I evade you!” he declared.
“You evaded nothing. You ran like a sugar-drenched possum.”
“I learned from you.”
Jason groaned. “That explains everything.”
Jason sat them both down, legs dangling off the edge. Dick passed him the remains of the churro.
Jason took a bite and spoke carefully.
“Why’d you leave the house, Dickie?”
Dick swung his legs. “I had dream. Mama fell. I couldn’t catch her.”
Jason’s heart cracked. “Hey. That wasn’t your fault.”
“I wanted to be strong,” Dick whispered. “Like Bruce.”
Jason was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said, “You already are.”
Dick blinked up at him.
“I’m not Bruce,” Jason added softly. “Not really.”
Dick stared. “But… you are.”
Jason hesitated. “I’m not. I’m Jason. I used to be Robin too.”
Dick was quiet. “You’re not Bruce…”
“Nope.”
“…You’re better.”
Jason almost dropped the churro.
They arrived back at the manor just after dawn. Jason carried a half-asleep Dick on his back, who snored softly into his ear.
Bruce met them at the door, arms crossed, stern face on full display.
Jason held up a hand. “I got him.”
Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but Dick murmured, “Not-Bruce is best Bruce,” and Jason snorted.
Bruce sighed, stepped aside, and let them in.
Tim filmed it. Damian threw a pillow at him.
Cass just smiled.
The storm hit around midnight.
Thunder rolled across the sky like artillery fire, shaking the windows of Wayne Manor.
Jason was curled up on the couch with a blanket over his head, and a sleeping Dick sprawled on his chest. They’d made it through dinner without a single food fight—barely—and Jason had just started to drift off when lightning cracked across the sky.
Dick jolted awake with a gasp.
Jason tensed immediately. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay, you’re safe.”
Dick was already climbing up him, fists clutching Jason’s hoodie like a lifeline.
“Was dream,” Dick whispered. “Fell. They fell again.”
Jason froze.
Jason carried him up to his old room, heart heavy.
Dick’s tiny hands were still shaking as Jason set him down on the bed and pulled the blanket up to his chin.
“Want me to stay?” he asked softly.
Dick nodded. “You stop bad dreams.”
Jason sat down beside him. “I’ll try.”
Another crack of thunder lit the room, and Jason saw it—just for a second—the shadow of a bruise on Dick’s shoulder. Not fresh. Not dangerous. Just… old.
From the fall. The original one.
Jason reached out and touched it gently.
Dick flinched—but then leaned into his hand.
“I was scared,” Dick admitted. “When I fell. Thought no one catch me.”
Jason’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”
“You catch me now,” Dick said, eyes half-lidded. “That’s enough.”
Jason blinked hard.
Bruce found him still in the room twenty minutes later, sitting in the dark with Dick curled up against his chest again, breathing deep and even.
“You’re getting attached.”
Jason didn’t look up. “Of course I am.”
“This isn’t permanent.”
“I know.”
Bruce exhaled. “Then don’t let it break you when he changes back.”
Jason finally looked at him. “You think it won’t break him?”
Bruce didn’t answer.
Downstairs, Tim and Cass were playing cards.
Damian paced like a caged animal. “He’s still with Todd, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Tim muttered. “Because apparently Jason is the only person he trusts.”
“Absurd,” Damian scoffed. “Grayson would never—”
“He called him ‘not-Bruce’ and said he’s better,” Tim said blandly, not even looking up from his hand.
Damian stormed out of the room. Cass smirked and laid down a royal flush.
Jason stayed in the room the whole night.
He didn’t sleep. Not really.
But sometime after 3AM, Dick shifted, pressed closer, and mumbled in Romani, “Love you, Bat-Boss.”
Jason chuckled softly. “Love you too, kid.”
And meant it more than he knew how to say.
It happened without warning.
One moment, Jason was asleep in the chair by Dick’s bed, chin tucked against his chest, little legs tangled in a blanket beside him.
The next—
A grown man shifted in the sheets.
Jason blinked blearily. “Wh—?”
Dick Grayson, fully grown and utterly confused, sat up in the bed and groaned.
“Why do I feel like I’ve eaten nothing but crackers and sugar for three days?”
Jason stared.
Dick looked down at himself, at the child-sized Bat-themed blanket still clutched in one hand. “Where… am I? Wait. Am I back?”
Jason opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Then said, “Yep.”
Alfred had prepared a proper meal. (Finally. Vegetables.) Tim and Damian sat at the table, whispering. Cass watched with a small smile.
Dick walked in mid-yawn, rubbing the back of his neck.
Jason followed behind him like a ghost.
Bruce stood. “Dick. Do you remember anything?”
Dick blinked. “Sort of? It’s fuzzy. I remember Pop-Tarts. Running. Foam batarangs? And… Jason.”
Jason looked up.
“You kept showing up,” Dick said, voice light. “Every time I was scared. You always caught me.”
Jason shrugged. “Somebody had to.”
Bruce stepped closer. “Do you remember calling me wrinkly?”
Dick burst out laughing. “Oh my god. I do. And the socks! I remember saying you wore weird uncle socks.”
“Because you did,” Jason muttered, sipping coffee. “Those sandals were a crime.”
Later that day, Jason tried to leave quietly. No drama. Just disappear out the back entrance of the Cave with his helmet under one arm and his bag over his shoulder.
Dick caught him halfway down the hall.
“Leaving?”
Jason paused. “Yeah. You’re back. My job’s done.”
“You were never assigned to me, Jay.”
Jason gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Didn’t stop me.”
There was a pause.
Then Dick said softly, “I meant what I said. About you being better.”
Jason turned. “You were six.”
“And somehow still right,” Dick said with a crooked grin. “You were good with me.”
Jason tried to smile. It didn’t quite make it. “You called me Bruce.”
“You were Bruce. For the parts of me that needed one.”
That… hit.
Harder than Jason expected.
When Jason got back to his apartment, he peeled off his hoodie—and something slipped out of the pocket.
A folded piece of paper.
A drawing.
Crayon lines: Jason in his red helmet. Little Dick beside him. A giant Pop-Tart in their hands. Lopsided smiles. Sloppy colours.
At the top, in shaky letters:
“MY BRUCE” 💙
Jason sat down on the floor with it in both hands, eyes stinging.
For once, he didn’t push the feeling away.
He let it stay.
Jason didn’t expect company.
He especially didn’t expect Dick Grayson showing up at his apartment with grocery bags.
“Don’t panic,” Dick said, stepping inside. “I cooked. Sort of.”
Jason blinked. “You... cooked?”
“Well, I assembled. Tim helped chop things. I might have distracted him with bad knife form.”
“You made food and brought it here. Did you hit your head?”
Dick smirked and handed him a Tupperware container. “Lasagna. No Pop-Tarts involved. Thought you’d appreciate the growth.”
Jason raised a brow. “Still craving closure or something?”
Dick’s grin softened. “Just checking on the guy who kept me alive for three days when I was six and feral.”
Jason stared at the lasagna. “I did… okay.”
“You did better than okay.”
They ate in companionable silence—until Dick leaned back, stretched, and said:
“Do you ever miss it?”
Jason blinked. “What?”
“Being the one I needed.”
Jason’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth.
Dick didn’t press, just waited.
Eventually, Jason muttered, “Yeah. I do.”
He set the fork down. “It was stupid. I got too used to it. Hearing his voice. Him calling me Bruce. Like I was… enough.”
“You were,” Dick said quietly. “To him. And to me.”
Jason swallowed hard.
“I wasn’t trying to replace Bruce,” he said.
“I know.”
“I didn’t think I could.”
Dick nodded. “That’s why you could.”
Before he left, Dick dug in his coat pocket and pulled something out.
A smaller drawing. New.
Jason took it with cautious fingers.
Two stick figures again—grown-up Jason now, with a tiny Dick holding his hand.
Above it, in neater, older handwriting:
“Still My Bruce”
Jason stared.
“You’re gonna break me,” he said, voice rough.
Dick clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good. You deserve it.”