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Jason caught the cluster of voices before he saw them.
Something about the way Steph said, “Is this new?” and the way Tim muttered, “He framed it?” made him pause mid-step, halfway through the main hallway that looped between the library and the grand staircase. Wayne Manor had always had too many walls, but that particular stretch of wall was Alfred’s territory: a revolving display of antique sketches, oil paintings, and photos that made the place look more like a war memorial than a home.
Except now, apparently, there was a new exhibit.
Jason rounded the corner, a mug of coffee in one hand, the other gripping the strap of his duffel bag. They didn’t notice him at first—not even Damian, which meant whatever they were staring at had to be serious. They were gathered around one particular frame like it was the Rosetta Stone.
Jason squinted. Then he groaned.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.
Five heads turned in unison. Cass gave him a small wave. Dick lit up like a Labrador seeing his favorite ball.
“Took you long enough,” Dick said. “You’re late to your own unveiling.”
Jason blew on his coffee. “What, did someone put up a plaque?”
“Worse,” Steph said, stepping aside.
Jason didn’t have to look. He did anyway.
“Didn’t realize we were holding a gallery viewing,” he said, strolling toward them like he hadn’t immediately considered turning around. “Should I bring wine and tiny cheese cubes next time?”
Dick shot him a grin. “I was thinking flowers. Maybe a velvet rope.”
Jason snorted. “Some of us have seen a diploma before.”
“Some of us have one,” Tim said, glancing over his shoulder. “That’s . . . kind of the point.”
Jason stopped beside them, his gaze drifting toward the wall like it was no big deal.
There it was. His diploma. The thing had been framed within an inch of its life.
Heavy walnut frame. Museum-grade glass. Matte border so the name practically floated. A tiny brass plaque gleaming like it belonged in a gallery. Eye-level and backlit by two softly glowing sconces like it was holy writ.
It hung dead-center in the main hallway of the manor, as if Alfred had measured every possible axis and determined this precise stretch of wall would maximize emotional damage. Not hidden in some forgotten corner or nestled quietly on Bruce’s office bookshelf like Jason had half-expected. No, the thing was hanging in the hallway—the single most trafficked artery of the manor. The one every single person in the house had to pass through if they wanted to reach the cave, the gym, the kitchen, the east wing, or, hell, the front door.
He hadn’t put it there. He hadn’t even known it was up.
Jason took a long sip of his coffee and fought the twitch in his jaw. He almost made a joke right there, something biting and crass to cut through the weird flush of heat in his throat, but they beat him to it.
“So,” Steph said, elbowing him. “Mr. Bachelor of Fine Arts in Words and Feelings.”
“Technically,” Jason said, “it’s a Bachelor of Arts in Literature and Writing. You’d know that if you’d read the very expensive frame.”
“Very humble,” Tim said dryly.
“You just had to go full display case, didn’t you?” Dick said, shaking his head, half-exasperated, half-amused.
“Wasn’t me. That’s—” Jason gestured vaguely, voice lazy. “That’s probably Alfred.”
Damian looked up at Jason, something sharp and unreadable on his face. “It was Father. He measured the frame height. With a level. I watched.”
Tim perked up at that. “Did you really?”
“He also dusted the wall first,” Damian said, like it was an accusation.
Cass, who’d been quiet at the edge of the group, pointed at the tiny brass plaque under the frame. “‘Presented with pride.’”
Jason nearly choked on his coffee.
“I don’t understand what part of this is impressive,” Damian said, his arms folded, looking irritated in that specific way of his that meant he’d already been loudly annoyed about this before Jason had walked in. “Is it the fact that you wasted your time or that you want credit for it?”
“Okay, rude.” Jason turned to him with mock gravity. “I didn’t ask for this display of paternal pride. All I did was graduate summa cum boring and hand the proof to Bruce like the good, overachieving son I am.”
“Overachieving?” Damian scoffed. “Your field of study was utterly impractical.”
“It’s called ‘humanities,’ gremlin,” Jason said. “Maybe try getting some.”
Steph leaned in closer to the display again, hands on her hips. “You really just dropped that on him, huh? Father’s Day morning surprise.”
Tim crossed his arms. “You said you gave him your diploma as a gift.”
“I did,” Jason said, planting himself against the opposite wall, letting his duffel hit the floor with a thud. “Figured it was time someone in this family gave the old man something worth framing.”
Steph whistled. “And he comes out swinging.”
Jason grinned into his mug. This he could do—banter, deflection, dodging the sharp edge of what this entire display meant.
Because sure, the diploma had been a gift. Quiet. Private. A moment just between him and Bruce, not a spectacle. He hadn’t expected a speech, but Bruce had still managed to say just enough—just the right words in the right tone—that Jason had spent the whole next hour reorganizing his books to keep from thinking too hard about it.
And then Bruce had done this.
He’d framed it. Hung it up like it was art. Like it mattered.
Jason was not thinking about that right now.
Instead, he shrugged and said, “Face it. I delivered the single most unbeatable Father’s Day gift in the history of this family.”
“Unbeatable,” Steph let out a dramatic groan. “He said it out loud. The audacity.”
Damian scowled. “No one agreed this was a contest.”
Tim snorted.
“It was implied,” Jason said, casually smug. “Father’s Day gifts. Best child. Eternal glory.”
Damian’s scowl deepened. “There is no competition.”
“Oh, there is absolutely a competition,” Steph said. “We’ve just been doing it quietly. In our hearts.”
“Until some people,” Tim said, his tone just shy of offended, “decided they couldn’t be normal and just give Bruce socks or something.”
“If you’re jealous, just say that,” Jason said nonchalantly.
“You have an English degree,” Tim said, very flatly. “That’s like majoring in unemployment.”
“English Literature,” Jason corrected. “Get it right, Timbo. I paid a lot of money to make very little money. You’re just bitter I won.”
“No one won,” Damian argued.
Jason sipped his coffee with exaggerated innocence. “So you admit defeat.”
“I gifted Father a rare Japanese bonsai with a 300-year lineage,” Damian said, chin tilted up like he needed to reclaim some ground. “It is aesthetically pleasing and promotes mental clarity.”
“You also gave him a twenty-eight-page instruction manual on how not to kill it,” Dick pointed out.
“A gift is only as worthy as its recipient,” Damian said, and Jason wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult.
“Okay, that’s actually pretty cool,” Jason admitted.
“I know.”
“I still win.”
“It is beneath me to compete in such trivial displays,” Damian sniffed.
Tim glanced at him, deadpan. “Says the kid who once gave Bruce a limited-edition katana and made him swear to use it on ‘only the most worthy of enemies.’”
Damian sneered, ready to argue some more, but Dick placed a hand on his shoulder and said, lightly, “I made Bruce a photo album of all his firsts with us. First mission, first holiday, first group shot. Alfred cried.”
Steph elbowed Tim and said, “And you gave Bruce a Gotham Knights jersey. Feels a little weak now, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, come on,” Tim said. “It was vintage!”
“Duke got him a titanium modified grapple launcher,” Dick added.
“Which he already has three of,” Steph said. “But sure. Points for effort.”
Cass finally stepped forward. Her head tilted, studying the diploma—not reading it, but reading him. Jason felt his stomach do a slow, confused somersault. Like it had thoughts and feelings, which was entirely unacceptable.
Cass turned to him with a smile. “I choreographed a movement piece.”
Jason raised his mug in salute. “Legitimately moving. I felt things. I thought about crying, then I remembered I have a reputation to maintain.”
“Yours truly wrote a card,” Steph said, placing a hand over her chest. “With glitter pens. Also, love.”
“And I,” Jason said, pushing off the wall and spreading his arms wide, “handed Bruce a proof of higher education. Eat my degree, peasants.”
There was a beat of quiet. The others exchanged glances, the kind they thought he couldn’t read—soft and careful, too full of something he refused to look at directly.
“You think this is what won it?” Dick asked, nodding at the diploma. “The degree?”
“Obviously. I’m the only college graduate in the family. Pretty sure that puts me in the lead for best Father’s Day gift.”
Dick tilted his head, watching him for a moment. There was something strange in his expression—fondness, probably, with a thread of something else Jason didn’t catch.
Dick folded his arms and grinned at Cass. “He really doesn’t get it, does he?”
Cass just shook her head, amused.
Jason looked between them. “Get what?”
They didn’t answer. Just exchanged glances again before looking at him—all of them were looking at him, Jason realized belatedly—with this annoying mix of affection and something heavier. Something like knowing.
Jason scowled. “Okay, if this turns into a group hug, I’m setting the diploma on fire.”
Steph snorted. “Relax, Gold Star.” She nodded at the diploma. “You really thought we wouldn’t notice?”
Jason’s stomach did another traitorous flip. He gave the group a lazy once-over. “Notice what, exactly? You were there at the ceremony.”
Tim huffed. “Not the degree, jackass. This.” He jabbed a finger at the frame. “You changed your name.”
“Oh. That,” Jason said, like he’d forgotten. Like it was nothing at all. He took another sip of his coffee, already prepping a smirk. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”
“Slipped your—” Tim made an inarticulate noise, spinning to the others. “Can you believe this guy?”
Steph grinned. “Oh, I can. It’s classic stealth sentimentality. He’s got a PhD in it.”
“Working on it,” Jason said. “Give me three to five years and a wildly impractical thesis topic.”
Damian, uncharacteristically quiet, was eyeing the diploma like it personally offended him.
“Todd-Wayne,” he said slowly.
Jason tilted his head. “Something wrong, brat?”
“Nothing,” Damian said coolly. “Merely confirming that Father no longer upholds any discernible standards.”
“Oof,” Tim said under his breath. “He’s rattled.”
Damian shot him a glare.
“You didn’t tell us,” Dick said to Jason, quiet but not accusing.
“Didn’t realize it was news,” Jason said, managing to make his voice sound light. Even bored. “It’s not like I’m the only one rocking the Wayne add-on.”
“Yeah, but—” Steph began, gesturing vaguely at the display. “You never said anything.”
“Wasn’t hiding it.” Jason took another sip from his mug, deliberately calm. “Just didn’t think I had to submit a press release or whatever. Tim beat me to the punch, anyway.”
Tim looked faintly smug. “I didn’t make a whole ceremony out of it. You’re the one who told Bruce with a college diploma. That’s like the academic version of regifting.”
Jason gave him a grin sharp enough to draw blood. “Big talk from the guy who dropped out of two schools.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “I dropped out because I had a case, not because I failed English.”
“Mm-hm. Then you had another case. And another one. And another—”
Tim made a strangled sound. “I’m taking a gap year.”
“You’re taking a five-year gap year,” Jason said.
“I’m going back,” Tim snapped. “Eventually.”
“Sure, Timmy. When Gotham goes twenty-four hours without a stabbing, maybe. Meanwhile, this”—Jason gestured toward the frame with his mug—“will be here so you can bask in my unmatched achievement.”
“God, you’re insufferable,” Tim muttered, but his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.
“And educated,” Jason said, without missing a beat. “Don’t forget that part.”
Dick clapped him on the back, smiling. “You’re not even trying to be humble, are you?”
“I’ve got a BA to prove I don’t have to,” Jason said breezily.
“And a name change,” Tim said, his eyes narrowed. “You bought the entire name change to win Father’s Day.”
“I didn’t buy anything. I went through four years of unhinged essays and bad cafeteria coffee. I earned that piece of paper.”
Tim made a face at that. He opened his mouth to retort, but Steph nudged him hard in the ribs. He glanced at her, sighed, and said in an undertone, “You’re a piece of paper.”
Before Jason could ask what the hell that was supposed to mean, Cass appeared silently at his side.
“It’s good,” she said, giving him a small, thoughtful smile. “A good name.”
Jason felt the warmth of it land square in his chest; he promptly looked away. He took a long sip of coffee, now lukewarm, and leaned back against the wall like he didn’t care.
“Honestly, I only changed it so the diploma would sound more pretentious,” he said. “Jason Todd? That’s a guy who drops out and crashes motorcycles. But tack on Wayne? That guy publishes essays in journals no one reads.”
No one bought that, but no one pushed either.
“Takes one form,” he grunted, trying to keep the heat out of his ears. “Thirty minutes at the courthouse. Big whoop.”
“It’s a huge whoop,” Dick said, grinning now. “You don’t get to act all casual. You Wayned yourself. You joined the fold. You legally absorbed yourself into the name we all pretend we’re too cool for.”
Jason grimaced. The air suddenly felt a little too full. “I did not Wayne myself, I just . . . Wayne-adjacent-ed.”
“Without telling anyone.”
“I told Bruce.”
“On Father’s Day.”
“Yeah. Gave him the diploma. Said, you know . . .” Jason trailed off. The words this is yours, too brushed the back of his throat, but he swallowed them down. “Said nothing, actually. Just handed it over.”
Dick gave him a look. One of those looks that felt way too much like big brother smugness wrapped in soft sincerity. Jason flipped him off, and Dick grinned wider, victorious.
“And he did this,” Steph said, pointing to the display. Her gaze lingered on the frame like it meant more than any of them were saying out loud.
Jason schooled his expression into something carefully blank and shrugged. “Guess he’s proud.”
“Guess?” Cass said softly. She was still watching him with that unreadable look she had sometimes. Quiet, observant. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty.
“Or just excited that I’m finally not a dropout statistic,” he hurried to add.
Cass made a soft noise—half-scoff, half-amused sigh—and said, “He was proud.”
Jason froze for just a fraction of a second.
“I mean, I wasn’t watching his face,” he said, which was a lie. He fought the urge to scratch the back of his neck. “But he didn’t say much, just . . . looked at it. Like he was trying to do math.”
“Or emotions,” Dick offered.
“Same thing,” Jason said.
“He was proud,” Cass repeated, gentle but firm.
Jason didn’t answer that.
Because the truth was—yeah. Bruce had been proud. Jason had seen it on his face, in the way his hands held the diploma like it was something sacred. Like it was fragile. Like he was fragile. Like Jason might vanish if Bruce didn’t memorize the name on the page fast enough.
And maybe Jason had wanted that. Not the attention, but the recognition. The permanence. Something real. Not just the shadows and the mission and the years of estrangement, but something that said, I’m still yours. I made it.
And Bruce had heard him, had seen him.
And for once, Jason hadn’t joked. He hadn’t deflected—not much, anyway. He’d stood there and let himself be seen. Not as the failed Robin. Not as the mistake. Just . . . Jason. Claimed and claiming.
Bruce hadn’t said much, but what he had said had stayed. Settled deep in Jason’s ribs, where all the worst and best things lived. Bruce had looked at Jason in that way he recognized now—not just pride, but relief. As if this was something Bruce hadn’t dared hope for. As if Jason had given back something Bruce thought was lost.
Not forgiveness, maybe. But family.
So yeah. Bruce had been proud.
And then he’d put it on the wall.
Jason cleared his throat. He forced a grin. “So. We’re all agreed, then. I totally won this year. Better luck next Father’s Day.”
Damian, predictably, was still squinting at the diploma like he was checking for forgery.
“I am crafting a superior gift as we speak,” he announced. “Next year I’ll procure Father a rare first edition of The Art of War. Bound in dragon hide. He will weep.”
“Neat,” Jason said. “I’ll be over here looking at grad school applications.”
Damian looked up. He actually looked alarmed. “You intend to go back?”
Jason smirked. “If it keeps me ahead of you losers? Absolutely.”
Tim groaned. “Oh my god, you’re not serious.”
“When Bruce hangs up my MFA next, I expect full applause. Sparklers. Confetti.”
“You’d go back to school just to win a fake competition?” Tim said incredulously.
“It’s not fake if I’m winning,” Jason said, kicking off the wall. “Just wait till I get my PhD. Doctor of Sad Boy Studies.”
Cass laughed softly. Steph cackled.
The laughter drifted down the hallway as they slowly moved on, one by one. Steph linked arms with Cass as they headed for the sunroom. Tim peeled off toward the kitchen. Damian gave Jason a long, unreadable look before stalking toward the study.
But Dick lingered, giving Jason a look that was somewhere between proud and something quieter.
“What?” Jason said warily.
Dick tapped the edge of the frame gently, smiling like it was a secret. “Why now?”
Jason didn’t flinch, but something in his gut shifted.
It was a good question. He didn’t have a neat answer.
Maybe it was because things had settled. Maybe it was because Bruce had actually showed up to his graduation, had stood in the rain with a hand on his shoulder, saying little but being there. Maybe it was because Jason had finally started to believe that the door wasn’t going to close on him again.
Maybe it was because, for the first time in years, he wasn’t angry when he thought about the name Wayne. He wasn’t nineteen and furious and lost, carving space between himself and the people who’d let him fall. He was older now. Tired. Whole, maybe. Or getting there.
“It just felt right,” Jason said finally.
Dick nodded like that was enough. Maybe it was.
“Just . . . good job, Little Wing.”
Jason looked at him, caught the meaning under the words, and looked away again before it could get too warm.
“Gross,” Jason said. “Go away.”
Dick laughed and did just that.
And then it was just Jason and the hallway.
He looked at the diploma again. At the name that didn’t use to be there, now in black serif font on cream vellum, practically glowing under the glass. The name that he’d chosen—stubbornly, maybe even recklessly—and the moment Bruce had looked at it like it was both a punch and a gift.
JASON PETER TODD-WAYNE
Still there.
Still ridiculous.
Still very much a thing he had done.
Seeing his legal name, with the hyphen and everything, written so formally felt weird. It felt weirder that it looked like it belonged there.
It looked . . . right.
Like maybe it had always been waiting there, just out of sight. Something he’d fought for and hated and come back for without even realizing it. The name fit like armor. Not the kind worn to keep people out, but the kind that had been dented, reforged, and passed down. Trusted, chosen. Loved.
Jason swallowed once and picked up the duffel bag on the floor. Coffee mug still in hand, he walked toward his room. He didn’t look back at the hallway.
He didn’t need to.
The diploma and the plaque underneath—presented with pride, it said—would still be there, quiet and bright and steady.
Proof.
He didn’t need to stare at it.
But it felt good to know it was staring back.