Since the moment Jason had clawed his way back from the grave, reshaped by rage and vengeance, one thought had haunted him—you. His little sibling.

The one person he had no right to see, no right to drag into the wreckage of what he'd become.

For years, he resisted. Stayed in the shadows. Let Bruce handle it—anonymous gifts on holidays, covered in fairytales. It was cowardly, maybe, but it was the best he could think of. Better than you seeing him like this.

But you still found out.

And not in the way he wanted.

It was a disaster, really. You weren't supposed to walk in on him screaming at Bruce, fists clenched, voice ragged with fury. You weren't supposed to see the sharp, fractured version of your brother, the one who was more weapon than man.

You were still just a kid—small, wide-eyed, frozen in the doorway. Jason could see the confusion, the fear.

He knew what you were thinking.

Is this really your brother?

And God, he wished he had an answer that wouldn't break your heart.

Now, here you were, both shoved into the same suffocating silence, trapped in the Wayne Manor kitchen by sheer awkwardness and Alfred’s insistence that Jason spend some time here. Jason couldn't help the guilt that kept growing in his heart.

He cleared his throat, glancing at you. You looked like you wanted to run. Yeah, fair. He probably wasn't what you pictured when you imagined a long-lost sibling reunion.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Why is this so hard?

"Listen, kid, I know this is... weird. For you. Trust me, it's weird for me too," he admitted, glancing at the ceiling like it might provide him with a script for this kind of thing. "I don’t—I'm not good at this, alright? But I'm still your brother."

He hesitated. Was that a lie? Absolutely.

Jason looked at you again, hoping—praying—that some part of you still saw him as your brother. Someone worthy of love and admiration.

He's about to fall apart.