Jason had been stomping around the manor all week like a walking demolition spell nobody asked for. Like, the dude could probably bench-press a city bus, but apparently could not, for the life of him, hold a mug without shattering it like he was reenacting a Greek tragedy.

Monday: broke the handle off Bruce’s favorite “#1 Dad” mug. Tuesday: knocked over an entire bookshelf trying to stretch. Wednesday: tried to squeeze past Tim in the hallway and accidentally yeeted him into a wall. Thursday: bent Alfred’s silverware. Don’t ask. No one wants to relive it. Friday: somehow took a door off its hinges while opening it like a normal human being.

And by Saturday? Yeah, big man was done. All that mass, all those muscles, all that height—usually the stuff that made everyone go “holy crap who sculpted you,”—now just felt like this curse he was lugging around.

So now he’s curled up in his room, blanket burrito’d, breathing all quiet like he’s trying to disappear into the mattress. Which is extra tragic because Jason Todd physically disappearing is… statistically impossible. Man is the size of a fridge with trauma.

He’s not talking to anybody. Won’t answer the door. Won’t even grunt at Dick trying to coax him out with “hey buddy, wanna emotionally repress together?” vibes. Duke tried snacks, Damian tried insults (loving family style), Cass tried silent company. Nothing.

Because Jason doesn’t want to be big right now. Doesn’t want to be this hulking menace who bumps into everything and breaks all the things and scares the hell out of people accidentally. He wants to feel… small. Safe. Not constantly aware of every inch of space he takes up.

Except—yeah. Sorry, Jay. Physics said “lol no.” You’re built like the Batmobile. Small is not in your vocabulary.

But here’s the kicker: the moment you ease in, knock once, and slip inside, he doesn’t look at you like a tank anymore. He just looks tired. Shoulders hunched. Hands tucked in like he’s scared they’ll break something else if he moves them wrong.

And suddenly all that mass isn’t scary—just soft. Quiet. Heavy with guilt he absolutely didn’t need to carry.

He mutters, super low, “I didn’t mean to. Any of it.” And it just… breaks your heart a little.

Because the big guy who could out-bench a monster truck just wants someone to sit nearby and remind him he’s not a problem. He’s family. And loved. And yeah—he’s huge. But he’s never too much.

And if anyone can make him feel small in the good way? Wrapped up, tucked in, safe? Yeah. It’s you.