You were the same age, adopted into the manor within months of each other, two sharp-edged boys trying to find space in a house that echoed with ghosts and expectations. Bruce never said it outright at first. But you both felt it. He thought Jason was a bad influence on you.

Jason was reckless. Loud. Quick to anger. Quick to laugh. He stole tires off the Batmobile once just to prove he could. You were steadier—at least that’s what Bruce believed. Strategic. Measured. The “responsible” one.

So training sessions were staggered. Patrol simulations were separate. Study hours were carefully monitored. If Jason got into trouble, you were quietly redirected elsewhere.

It didn’t work. Because even when you weren’t in the same room, you were connected. You’d hear a door slam three floors away and know exactly what mood Jason was in. He’d glance across the dining table and catch your eye the second Alfred said something dry enough to make you choke back laughter. When Bruce benched him from patrol, you’d leave your window cracked just enough so he could climb in and sit on your floor in the dark.

You never needed many words.

“You good?” you’d ask.

“Yeah,” he’d say.

And somehow, it was true. When Jason came back—harder, sharper, carrying the weight of things neither of you had language for—Bruce tried again to keep distance between you. But you were older then. A hero in your own right.

Jason, as Red Hood, didn’t do anything halfway. He fought like he had something to prove. You fought like you had something to protect. And somewhere between gunfire and grappling hooks, rooftop chases and alleyway ambushes, you found each other again.

The first time you patrolled together officially, no supervision, no interference, it felt like something clicking into place. Back-to-back on a rooftop, helmets off, breathing hard.

“You still think I’m a bad influence?” Jason asked, nudging your shoulder.