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Jason had always been a bit of a hothead. It wasn’t as bad when he was younger, before trauma and the Pit had dialed all of his issues up to eleven, but living on the streets made you tough. He had lived by the law of fists and blood for too long to just forget it. So, yeah, he had gotten into his share of fights at Gotham Academy. He had always had hot-button issues, things that made his vision go red -- or green, more recently. Those that preyed on the weak never failed to slam his buttons: rapists, drug dealers, crime bosses. Even smaller things. Prejudice. Bullies.
Jason carefully laid down the chef’s knife, wiping his hands on a towel and taking some nice, even breaths before turning to face his guest. “They said what?” he asked, voice dangerous in a way that made the worst of Gotham’s scum shit themselves.
Damian shifted, a sign of discomfort that Jason knew he wouldn’t let most people see. But Jason wasn’t most people. His voice was forcedly steady when he said, as though giving a report, “That Mother threw me away, that I am lucky Father saved me from a-” he shook his head, staring at the counter. “I will not say it.”
Jason was in real danger of ripping his dishtowel in two; he liked these towels so he forced himself to place it on the counter. He folded his arms, gripping his biceps hard enough to bruise. “Anything else,” he gritted out.
Damian shrugged. “The usual. They call me a terrorist. Towelhead. I am sure you can guess at the rest.” His casual facade was cracking, along with his voice, and Jason reached him in two long strides.
“It doesn’t matter what they think,” he said, wrapping the boy in a hug. Hazy memories drifted through his mind, taunting voices, pushes and fists. He had heard it all, the benefit of being ambiguous enough that they couldn’t tell what he was, other than not plain white. Hell, he didn’t even know. If he took one of those fancy ancestry tests, he’d probably be surprised by 90% of the list. That’s what living in Lower Gotham for at least three generations did. But this was about Damian, not him. “You know that right? They’re wrong.”
Damian didn’t answer.
Jason pulled back, sandwiching Damian’s face between his hands and staring into his eyes. “I’m serious. Your mom loves you, and you’re not a terrorist or any of it.”
“You of all people are familiar with my upbringing. They are right.”
“No!” Jason resisted the urge to shake the boy. “You’re Robin. You’re a hero.” Damian wasn’t the only one who was being more open than usual.
Damian nodded and agreed and left after dinner, heading back to the Manor to prep for patrol. Jason watched him go, his easy manner fading as he watched the bright-green backpack disappear down the stairs. He turned, locking his door behind him, and pulled out his cell phone. Damian didn’t believe him, no matter how many platitudes he spouted. Jason hit the first number on his favorites list.
It was time to call in the big guns.
The halls echoed with their footstep; the clumping of his combat boots, the crisp clicking of her heels. No one got in their way; all the students were in class, and the hall monitor practically leapt out of their path. They didn’t bother pausing outside of room 203, pushing open the door and walking inside with the same demeanor they held when walking into a firefight. The teacher trailed off, staring at them. Fifteen pairs of eyes turned their way.
Talia stood tall and regal, every inch of her styled to perfection and obviously expensive. She could be subtle when she chose to be, but now was not such a time. Now was a time to flaunt her wealth with diamonds that dripped from neckline and wrists and ears, with shoes and clothes that could feed a small family for weeks, with hair and makeup that accentuated the angles of her face, the sharp, predatory light in her eyes.
The teacher stiffened, obviously recognizing the danger that she drew around herself like a cloak. She paid him no mind, turning to the students.
“Abn,” she said, holding out a hand in clear command.
Damian overcame his shock, standing and striding over to them. “Um. Ma aldhy tafealuh huna? <Mother. What are you doing here?>”
“la 'astatie 'an aiftaqad abnay? <Can I not miss my son?>”
Damian glanced at Jason, who was standing a step behind her. She examined him, the way his shoulders were just a hair hunched, the way he could not help glancing at the teacher and the students. She placed her hands on his shoulders, gently smoothing out his uniform shirt. “Your brother has informed me of certain issues present in this school.” She looked up, locking eyes with the teacher, who quailed like a mouse trapped in the gaze of a viper. “I must admit I am quite disappointed with the quality of this school, as well as that of the students.” She glanced over the children, schooling her face into a perfect mask of disdain. It was not difficult; most of it was real. “To think,” she said, her voice never rising but clearly audible throughout the room, “I nearly had dealings with the parents of such children.” She shook her head in mock disappointment. “I am glad that such a mistake was prevented.” She looked back at Damian, whose eyes were wide. “Gather your things, Habibi. You will not be returning this day.” She looked back at the teacher, letting her voice chill into contained fury. “Perhaps never.”
It took only a moment for Damian to fetch his bag, and the three of them swept from the room.
“Where are we going, Mother?” Damian demanded, having to take two steps for every one of theirs.
Talia glanced at him and smiled. “First to the principal. Then wherever we please. It has been too long since I have spent time with my sons.”
The meeting did not take long. Talia was short, quick, and brutal. Jason had never seen someone turn so many colors in such a short time without a sword held to their throat. When they left the office the principal was still trying to reconcile the situation, hands fluttering helplessly, no doubt worried about the massive amounts of funding that would be pulled if Bruce Wayne decided he had a grudge against Gotham Academy. Jason let a vicious smirk slice across his face. Bruce Wayne was the least of this school’s worries.
The terrified receptionist barely managed to ask for Talia’s signature on the sign-out sheet, not even checking the list that Jason was very sure Talia was not on. His nose wrinkled. Bruce would have to look into security if removing a kid was this easy. The three of them piled into the Lamborgini and Talia pulled smoothly into traffic.
“What would you like to do, my blood?” she asked, glancing at Damian in the rearview mirror.
He hesitated and Jason nudged his knee. “C’mon, kid. Today’s your day. Whatchya want?”
“Might we go to Choolaah?”
Talia’s brow furrowed, so Jason quickly supplied, “Indian restaurant. A bit, uh,” a smirk tugged at his mouth, “plebian for…” he made a wide gesture encompassing her and the car. “But the food is great. We go sometimes, see how much of the menu we can try in one go. Haven’t had a chance in a while though.”
“I would be delighted,” Talia said. “Metropolis doesn’t not, in fact, have everything.”
Jason laughed and gave her directions.
It was there that Bruce found them a few hours later. Talia was speaking to the owner about possibly opening a branch in Metropolis through Lex Corp, Damian was nibbling on another piece of naan bread, and Jason was finishing off his thirteenth bowl. Turns out when you’ve got a wallet as deep as Talia’s, the answer to how much of the menu can you try in one go is a lot.
“The salmon is pretty good but dude, you’re sleeping on the lamb,” he was telling a dispassioned Damian. “The lamb is sensational.”
Damian sniffed. “Perhaps, but I maintain that the samosa chaat is the best thing on the menu.”
Jason hummed in thought and snatched one from the plate in the center of the table. He chewed contemplatively and nodded. “Okay, fine, you’ve converted me. But we’ve still got some combos to try.”
Damian groaned. “We are not all bottomless pits, Todd. Some of us have a normal digestive system.”
“You mean a weak digestive system,” Jason corrected with a grin. He glanced up when the door opened, and if anything his grin stretched wider. “Hey Bruce!” he called casually. Bruce looked pissed, what else was new.
Talia glanced over her shoulder and pulled a business card out of her purse. She handed it over with promises to begin negotiations before turning and walking back to their table. She stopped directly behind Damian, resting her hands protectively on his shoulders. “Beloved.”
“Talia,” Bruce gritted. She could see the way he glanced around the restaurant. It must rankle him, to be in so public a place, unable to shout as he so clearly wished to do.
Jason stretched out his long legs, folding his hands contentedly on his stomach. “Chill, B, we just got lunch.”
“After kidnapping my son,” Bruce said, keeping his voice low and his eyes locked on Talia. She scoffed.
“After removing our son from a toxic environment.”
Bruce faltered. She could see his mind rebooting, running through possible explanations. “What do you mean,” he demanded.
“I see your vaunted observational skills are as sharp as ever,” she said acerbically. Jason oohed and Bruce’s jaw twitched. “Those-” she inhaled sharply through her nose and glanced at Jason, “plebians were insulting my blood. Jason told me everything, Damian has shared further. They called him the most vile of names, insinuated that I did not care for him.” Her eyes blazed at the reminder. If she could get away with it she would remove their voiceboxes, but she had long learned to control such impulses. “They said he was lucky that he was rescued from my type, saved by the pure aspects of his parentage.”
Bruce’s mouth clicked shut at the second half of that statement, no doubt around a comment that Damian was lucky to be rescued from the League. As if she had not sent her son to him herself. His nostrils flared. “I will fix this,” he gritted.
“There is no need.” Talia flicked her hand dismissively. “I have taken care of it.”
“Still.”
Talia glanced at Damian, who had gone from looking nervous to staring down at his naan bread, a hot blush turning his ears red. She looked back at Bruce and nodded once, sharply.
“Aw,” Jason said, voice sweet enough that Talia was already shooting him a warning look before he continued, “Look at you two getting along.” Faced with both of their glares he raised his hands in surrender and said, “I’m jus’ sayin’. S’a nice change.”
His voice was a bit too honest and Jason pinked, going back to poking at his empty bowl.
Talia hummed, still watching Bruce. He stared back, before finally breaking their staring contest and looking at Damian. “Are you alright?”
“I am fine, Father,” Damian said. “And I am confident they will not dare to harass me again.”
“They better not,” Jason said. “Or else I’m gonna hafta go and kick all their asses, and that’ll make me look bad.”
“You are not going to fight eleven-year-olds,” Bruce said long-sufferingly. Jason merely smirked.
Talia adjusted her purse and collected her coat from the back of her chair. Both boys’ eyes were immediately locked on her. “I must depart,” she said, the regret in her voice very real. She ran a hand over Damian’s hair and bent down to give him a kiss. “I will return soon to see you, abn. Inform Jason, your father, or myself immediately if problems persist.”
Bruce looked startled to have been included on the list, and he stiffly held out his hand. “Thank you for your assistance in this matter, and bringing my attention to it.”
Talia let a hint of a smile stretch across her lips. “Of course, Beloved.” She took the hand and pressed his knuckles to her lips. Bruce's ears turned red just like Damian’s did. Her smile grew slightly. “Until we meet again.”
Jason gagged loudly but stopped when she dropped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you, Jason. You are a good brother and I am proud to call you my son.”
Jason swallowed. “T-thanks, T.”
She patted his shoulder and walked to the car, back straight and heels clicking.