Chapter Text
The classroom is laid out like a real, adult science lab. Sinks at every desk, with separate taps for hot and cold water. Nozzles for gas, which are clearly marked and almost exclusively obsolete, present to serve decorative purposes only. Safety posters on every square inch of spare wallspace. Keep your nostrils, wear your goggles! That one’s Jason’s favorite. Everything is clean, polished, and worth more than Jason’s old apartment.
A chemical shower occupies the back right corner, a big red head and nozzle looming over a wide circular drain. In the event that a student should come into contact with dangerous chemicals, protocol mandates a hasty trip to the chemical shower, where they can thoroughly scrub down and enjoy the luxurious benefits of ruining their clothes, embarrassing themselves for the next eight years, and, on the once-in-a-blue-moon off-chance that the shower was necessitated by a substance with any real danger, avoid sustaining chemical burns.
School policy is pretty tight--it’s a rich school for rich kids with rich parents and lawsuit-happy attorneys, on call at any moment to sue every school official and their grandmother on the shortest notice. As such lawsuits are obviously avoided like the plague, safety at Gotham Academy is enforced to a ridiculous degree. Exhibit A) the fact that the biology booklet of safety regulations, eighty-seven small-print pages long, instructs that everything is a chemical . Everything should be treated as dangerous.
“Everything is a chemical,” Ms. Jones likes to remind them before, during, and after every lab experiment. “Everything is dangerous.”
Well, Jason’s just about had enough of that bullshit. If the teachers cared so much about their students’ safety, they’d do something about the rampant drugs and bullying. They’d protect their students. No. It’s clear that their care only extends so far as the expensive lawyers and overabundant liability waivers require them to. Every time Jason thinks about it, he gets so angry he has to clench his fists and grit his teeth so he doesn’t start cussing out whichever teacher is nearest--he’s done it before and been suspended enough times to know it doesn’t change anything.
Nothing changes. Jason hates it. Jason wants out.
“Everything is a chemical!” Ms. Jones declares as her students fasten their safety goggles and tie up their hair for today’s biology lesson. They’re dissecting kitten fetuses. Fun. Jason can already name three students who’ve mysteriously found themselves dreadfully ill for the duration of this unit, and one more who suddenly remembered her urgent appointment on the other side of town upon walking into the classroom and realising what the lesson outline consisted of. “Everything should be treated like a chemical.”
“So,” Jason suggests with a lazy raise of his hand, having found himself struck by a lightning bolt of inspiration, “like, water is a chemical?”
“That’s right, Mr. Todd.” Ms. Jones seems pleasantly surprised to see Jason taking an interest in the lesson, raising her perfectly groomed eyebrows and turning her eyes in his direction for the first time all day. Surprised and wary. Jason isn’t the type of guy who likes to participate in class, typically. Looks like his sudden attitude adjustment is making her nervous.
Good, Jason thinks.
He nods, trying to school his expression into one of polite interest. He’s just a student getting his education on. No funny business here. “What should we do if we ever spill chemicals on ourselves, then?” Jason inquires. “Sounds dangerous.” His careful control of his facial expression has not been entirely successful, and a snarky grin spreads across his face to the obvious worry of Ms. Jones.
“We use the chemical shower,” she instructs, pointing to it with one outstretched hand. He curls his lips at the sight of her manicure. Her fingernails probably cost a grand each. “It will rinse off the chemicals to avoid immediate burns. No student should ever hesitate to use it if they need to.”
“Gotcha.” Jason gives her two finger guns to demonstrate his appreciation. “Chemical shower. Sounds handy.” Very handy, indeed.
The lesson resumes with a suspicious side eye from Ms. Jones, and with it, makes the comeback of Jason’s dedicated inattention. He’s not planning on going into any bio-related field. He doesn’t understand why he needs this class, anyways. What Jason wants to do, much more than any sort of science-related bullshit, is make a difference. He just doesn’t know how yet.
When he’d been younger--really young, young enough to still be happy--he’d wanted to be a cop. Something about the job seemed so glamorous. He’d cruise around in his sleek, black police cruiser, badass K-9 German Shepherd poking its head out the other window, and he’d rescue people. Save the day. Be a hero.
Then, Jason got older, and realized there were no heroes. His father finally got caught--a matter of time, really--and the cops came knocking on the door to arrest him. Jason’s dad had cooperated with their every order, had put his hands up when they yelled and then behind his back when they grabbed him to put the cuffs on. All that careful compliance, not a single finger out of line, and the officers had still knocked him to the floor and held him there to be beaten, just because his drug-related offenses and gang affiliations had been nothing compared to his single most heinous crime of being an immigrant, of being different, and different made him dangerous so they beat him up before carting him off to prison.
Jason doesn’t visit him there. He’d been a shitty dad, all things considered. But the injustice still rankles.
Jason grew up a little more after that. He lived with his mother and went to school at an underfunded public school in the bad neighborhood of Gotham, and his dreams had altered course around that time, because apparently so far he’d learned nothing. Jason was going to be the President. Because if Jason’s dad could be bad and the officers arresting him even worse--if the people were bad and the people helping the people were, too, then the person up top would have to be good for there to be any hope of change.
That hope died as well, around the same time Jason’s mother did. And then he came to live with Bruce Wayne. And then he started going to school in the illustrious, distinguished halls of Gotham Academy, home of the Knights, drug-addicted rich kids, and bullies who clamor for attention because they’re probably neglected at home.
Jason looks around at the expensive, pristine classroom, and thinks maybe he’d have been better off at his old public school. At least there, the kids understood him. He was one of them, they were one with him, and so on, etcetera. Brotherhood--or as close as one could get to it in Gotham.
There is no risk of anything resembling brotherhood here, Jason notices with a scoff. Adam Wellington (the lucky, spoiled son of multibillionaire parents) and his sidekick Geoffrey White (a lowly, regular billionaire, no multi to be found) are picking on Lachelle Anderson again. She’s here at Gotham Academy on one of the much-sought-after Wayne Enterprises scholarships, and though she’s only been here three months, it’s clear that that’s been more than enough time to thoroughly piss off Adam and Geoffrey.
Their harassment is like a rite of passage at Gotham Academy. You know you’ve made it as a scholarship kid if they take valuable time out of their packed schedules to torture you a little bit.
Unfortunately, while Jason probably had earned their animosity (having observed their bullshit early on and made it his goal to fuck them over before they did the same to him) Lachelle’s only crime is having been too studious. She’s got the highest grades in the class, and in a brilliant moment of truly inspirational insight, the teacher had seen fit to pair her with Adam and Geoffrey for the cat dissection in the hopes that her good grades might rub off or perhaps be absorbed via osmosis. They’re now flicking particles of cat brain into her afro puffs while she desperately combs them out and, judging from her face, staves off tears.
Jason stands up and very casually saunters over to their table. “‘Sup, bros,” he says with a casual nod. He puts a hand on Lachelle’s shoulder. “How’s it goin?”
“Fuck off, man,” replies Adam dismissively. “Get your hands off Lachelle. Ain’t you gay or something, anyways?” One note about Gotham Academy culture: they don’t need to use slurs like fag here, because the connotation of gay and the way they spit it out like poison gets the point across just as effectively.
“Yeah,” agrees Geoffrey quickly, “Don’t be touchin’ our girl Lachelle.”
“I’m not your girl,” Lachelle asserts, standing up and stomping away with her arms angrily crossed. “You fucking shitbags.”
The assholes’ eyes go wide with comical offense. “Don’t you fucking call us shitbags,” Adam commands, standing up to follow her away. Jason directs a cursory glance over to the teacher, who has found herself very conveniently absorbed in helping another group locate their cat’s liver. He scoffs. Figures.
“Yeah.” Geoffrey cracks his knuckles and reaches out to grab Lachelle by the elbow. Gripping her harder than a vice, he yanks her towards him sharply, and she stumbles, yelling angrily.
All of a sudden, Jason’s simmering annoyance bubbles over and before he knows it, he’s seeing red. Before he can even consciously decide to take action, his teeth are gritted, his face is red with apoplectic rage, and in each fist, he’s scooped up a juicy handful of cat brains, which he wastes no time in hurling at the unsuspecting faces of Adam and Geoffrey.
His aim is true--the disgusting, squishy organs hit their marks and splatter all over, covering each of their faces, shirts, and backpacks like paintballs. Adam and Geoffrey both double over, howling in miserable disgust. “MISS!” shouts one of them, “MISS, HE’S THROWIN’ BRAINS AT ME!”
“GET THIS SHIT OFF ME!” hollers another desperately, wiping at it frantically with his hands and gagging when the slimy substance coats them--he, unlike Jason, has neglected to don his protective gloves. His next move is to frantically shake his fingers out to, hopefully, scatter the brains away, but they end up all over his expensive shoes, and that seems to appall him even more. “MISS, THEY’RE ON MY SHOES, THERE’S BRAINS ON MY SHOES! GET IT OFF!”
“Oh, I can get it off you,” Jason promises grimly as one of them wails about how he’s going to get brain stains on his white shirt. His anger is not yet spent, and the declaration sparks a lightbulb of glorious inspiration. Jason hadn’t intended to utilize this particular secret weapon so soon, but another look at Lachelle has his rage returning in full and nothing he can do enables him to control it. He’s always had rage issues.
Vision tunneled in on the bullies, Jason steps forward to grab each boy by the handles of their backpacks and, in one sharp movement, propels them straight into the chemical shower. With a push of the foot pedal, he’s turned it on, and icy-cold water is pouring over both of them in a torrent. Their clothes, fancy Gotham Academy uniforms with crisp collars and neatly done-up buttons, are instantly soaked through, and Jason notices with satisfaction the shapes of cell phones in their pockets. Good. He hopes they’re ruined, and no amount of putting them in rice will help. The boys continue to howl dramatically and it’s like music to Jason’s ears. He wonders why he hasn’t done something like this before.
By then, the entire classroom has turned to look and observe the confrontation with wide eyes, and Jason, breathing heavily with leftover rage and exertion, holds his hands up, fully meaning to make good use of his moment in the spotlight. “Everything is dangerous,” he snarls mockingly, clenching his fists. “How about these fucking assholes? You gonna treat them like they’re dangerous?” He punches a desk and answers his own question. “Of course you’re fucking not! Nothing’s ever gonna change as long as you let the shitheads stomp all over everyone else.”
Dropping his backpack like a microphone and relishing in the weight off his shoulders, Jason makes two peace signs and grins like a shark. “Well,” he finishes, making eye contact with the shell-shocked Ms. Jones, “fuck that. I’m done with this shit.”
He takes the back door right out of the classroom and into the parking lot.
*
The halls of Wayne manor are, generally speaking, quiet. The lavish mansion is egregiously underpopulated--the only occupants on any given day are Jason, Bruce, Alfred the butler, and Damian the demon child. None of them are particularly loud people. Damian keeps to his room a lot of the time, and with the noteworthy exception of his screaming tantrum meltdowns, he likes to keep his voice very prim and proper like he’s perpetually in a library with angry old ladies looking over his shoulder. Alfred seems to live by the same general principle--something like the help should be seen and not heard even though he knows he’s as much a part of the family as anyone. Jason, while he does enjoy blasting loud rock music and yelling at Bruce on occasion, prefers to restrict those activities to the confines of his room, and Bruce himself is very soft-spoken when he’s not putting on a face for press conferences or galas.
So the manor is quiet like usual when Jason walks in that day after school to find Bruce already seated on the sofa with his we’re-going-to-have-a-serious-chat-young-man face on. That’s an expression Jason’s been privy to time and time again, and generally, it’s not as unbearable as one might expect. Bruce’s talks are usually short, interspersed with lost-sounding grunts, and eventually taken over by Alfred, who by all means does more than his fair share of the parenting in the manor. What is unusual about Bruce’s expression today is that, beyond resigned, he looks thunderous. Absolutely thunderous.
Jason shudders at the sight of it. “‘Sup, B,” he tries in his most winning tone, directing Bruce with two friendly finger guns before turning casually to make his way to the kitchen. “I’m getting snacks, you want some, bro?”
“I am not your bro,” Bruce intones in his deepest, most gravelly growl. So Jason supposes it’s a no on the snacks. “Why don’t you sit down.”
It’s not a question. Jason gulps apprehensively. He’d known this was coming, of course, but he’d been hoping to avoid it for another hour or two at least to prepare his appeal. “Uh, I’m a little busy at the moment,” Jason attempts, pointing at the kitchen. “I can pencil you in for an appointment tomorrow, though, busy schedule permitting. Maybe Wednesday.”
“Now,” Bruce commands, and like a puppet on strings, Jason abruptly changes course to plop down onto the couch. That’s not a tone he feels particularly prepared to argue with.
Once Jason is seated across from Bruce, fixing him with his most politely perplexed stare, Bruce clasps his hands together and sends a God-help-me glance to the ceiling like he’s about to start praying. Not that Jason’s ever seen him do that before, but he wouldn’t be opposed to the concept it buys him some more time.
“Before I get mad,” Bruce begins, sounding dangerously as though he’s already gotten mad, “I would like to hear your side of the story. Maybe,” he grits out, sounding doubtful, “there was a misunderstanding?”
“Ain’t no misunderstanding about it,” Jason bursts out angrily the moment Bruce shuts his mouth. He’s not sure how long Bruce will tolerate his sorry tale, so he’s got to get as much out as possible before Bruce reaches the end of his rope and the real argument commences. “They were flicking brains at Lachelle,” he begins. “You know Lachelle, super nice, super smart? The dumbass teacher paired Wellington and White with her so she could do their fucking project for them, and as if that wasn’t fucking enough, they started flicking bits of goddamn cat brain at her hair like it was some sort of game. So I stood up and walked over there, all casual, and was like, ‘Hey bros, how’s it goin?’ Real diplomatic, you know me. And they told me to get away from Lachelle, as if they hadn’t been tormenting her just one goddamn minute ago! And then one of them grabbed her! So I threw brains at them,” Jason explains, as though any logical person in that scenario also would have reached for their own cat-gut arsenal. “And they started screaming. Little pussies if you ask me. So I was like, jeez, alright, I’ll get the damn brains off you. So I take ‘em over to the chemical shower. And give ‘em a nice little rinse. Okay? That’s all that happened.”
Jason says it all as quickly as he can, feeling the fury begin to build up again as he recounts the story. He clenches his fists, almost wishing there were some brains he could throw at Bruce. He knows all too well how this is gonna go. Bruce is gonna be all, that was unacceptable, you need to learn a lesson, and Jason’s gonna resist, because there is no lesson to learn. He doesn’t regret what he did. Not even for a second. The only thing he’s sorry about is that he didn’t whip out his phone to record the magic show. Imagine how many upvotes he could have gotten on Reddit.
Bruce pinches his nose, looking very lost. “Why,” he asks, “was anyone throwing cat brains? I don’t understand where the brains come in.”
Relieved to be getting off topic, Jason explains with emphatic, helpful hand gestures. “It was cat fetus day,” he says informatively. “We were dissecting them in AP Bio. And everyone had to, like, remove their brain, label it with their name, and set it out on a platter, so they could be graded, you know? I just borrowed ‘em off the brain platter.”
Perhaps, thinks Jason hopefully, Bruce will be too distracted by the idea of a brain platter to be able to refocus his anger on Jason. Perhaps the topic of biology will interest him. Does Wayne Enterprises have a scientific research branch? Yes, Jason is sure that it does.
Jason has no such luck. “Do you know,” Bruce begins, in that quiet, dangerous voice, “how they preserve corpses for classroom dissections?”
“Um.” Jason pretends to rack his brain. “I, uh, must have missed that part of the lesson. Teach musta forgotten to mention.”
"Formaldehyde," Bruce says, voice colder than ice. “And I don’t suppose you paid attention to the effects of formaldehyde on the human body?”
Jason gulps, like he’s just swallowed a frozen-solid lump of snow. It settles in his stomach like an icy weight. He hadn’t meant to actually hurt anyone. The lawsuits will be brutal if he managed to accidentally kill those dudes. “Must have missed that part, too,” he manages in a squeaky tone.
“In large enough doses,” Bruce says, “it can be fatal. You were lucky enough that in this case, it was not. Misters Adam and Geoffrey were wearing their eye and nostril protection.”
Jason breathes out a relieved sigh and wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. “So, we’re good then,” he concludes hopefully. “I’ll just make sure not to do that again, okay? My brain-throwing days are officially over.”
“We are not good, then,” Bruce mocks. “Both sustained minor chemical burns on the lower portions of their faces and necks.”
Jason gulps. He still doesn’t feel bad for White and Wellington, of course. They deserved everything they got, and more. But he didn’t mean to cause trouble for Bruce. His lawyers will be up to their elbows trying to keep the fallout under control, and his PR team will be working overtime for weeks to prevent details of the assault from leaking out to the press. He can see the headlines already: dozens of puns about how Jason turns to throwing brains because he is sad that he, himself, possesses none.
“Oh,” says Jason intelligently, feeling the weight of Bruce’s disappointment like a ton of bricks on his shoulders.
“Yes, oh,” replies Bruce chillingly, and Jason’s guilt increases exponentially.
Jason stares down at his shoes for a moment or two, and Bruce says nothing. The guilt settles on him, tight like a second skin and heavy like it’s made entirely of lead.
After a minute of excruciating silence, Bruce speaks. “As you can imagine, you will no longer be welcome at Gotham Academy. I am under no illusions that this wasn’t your intention from the very beginning.”
Jason scoffs. Of course it was his intention. He’s told Bruce time and time again how much he hates that God-forsaken school. Those pristine white halls, decorated with golden trophies, patrolled by teachers who don’t give a shit about the kids. They don’t respect the kids.
More specifically, they don’t respect Jason. Why would they? It’s not like he’s ever made any effort to do anything but return the vitriol.
“I hate that fucking school,” Jason says, clenching his fists in his lap and turning his head up to meet Bruce’s eyes dead-on. His gaze is clear, cold, and sharp like pointy icicles of anger. “If they didn’t kick me out, I’d’a left.”
Bruce grits his teeth in an angry snarl. “Do you understand how much I pay for you to go to that school?” he demands. “It’s the best school in Gotham. I am trying to give you an education, so that you can have a future.”
Offended, Jason stands. “And you think I wouldn’t have a future anyways?” he shouts, taking a step forward to get in Bruce’s face. Bruce stands to meet him and suddenly it's a faceoff between two bulls, neither willing to back down. “I don’t need your help, old man. I never fuckin’ did.”
“I give you everything and you throw it right back at me,” Bruce hisses, grabbing Jason by the shoulder. “You are spoiled. You are entitled. You are going to the best academy in the state and it’s still not enough for you. Do you know how many kids would just die to take your place?”
“I don’t want to go to the best academy in the state,” Jason bursts out, hands in the air. That’s been the point all along. Of course Bruce wouldn’t be able to understand. To Bruce, money equals happiness. Money is the only thing he has, the only thing he fully understands, and it’s always been that way. Jason is different. Jason doesn’t need money--any more than it takes to get by, at least. So it hurts that Bruce called him spoiled and entitled. All his life, Jason’s looked down on people like that. “I want to go somewhere they understand me. Somewhere I fit in. And there ain’t no school like that. ”
Bruce inhales bracingly, and then his hand falls from Jason’s shoulder, and there is quiet except for Jason’s heavy breathing. “I understand,” Bruce says finally, shocking Jason into complete silence. “Would you like me to find you a public school in Gotham?”
Jason shakes his head. “No,” he says emphatically. He wonders why Bruce just doesn't get it. He can't do it. He won't do it. He gives up. “I don’t want to go to any school, okay. You don’t need a fancy diploma to have a future.”
Bruce tilts his head like he’s thinking, but Jason knows Bruce understands. He hires plenty of people without diplomas. He gives them a chance.
That’s all Jason wants. A chance.
“I will not let my son drop out of high school and then sit around doing nothing all day,” Bruce says finally, spurring Jason into another bout of anger. He opens his mouth to argue, but Bruce silences him by speaking first. “You are too intelligent not to make something of your life. You will either go back to school or you will get a job. Do you understand?”
Jason exhales and bites the inside of his cheek to try to keep his anger from spilling out. “At Wayne Enterprises?” he guesses, looking up to meet Bruce’s eyes. He supposes that wouldn’t be so bad. If he works hard, he could get a promotion in a year or two, and start a career, all without having to go back to school. He knows Bruce’s company has many different departments. He could find one he enjoys. Maybe the one in charge of the charities, or something.
“No,” Bruce says cuttingly, sending a sharp slice of hurt through Jason’s chest. “It wouldn’t be fair to my employees or my applicants to hire you, my unqualified eighteen year old son, as a reward for somehow managing to get kicked out of the school I fund.”
Jason looks away, focusing his gaze on the wall next to Bruce. That’s… fair. Still, he feels rejected. Bruce doesn’t think he’s good enough to work for him. Bruce is ashamed of him. “Where, then?” he asks scornfully. “You hire everyone. If you won’t take me, who the fuck will?”
Bruce is disappointed in him.
Bruce sighs and sits back down on the sofa. “I’ll figure something out, Jason. Until then--” he pauses for a moment, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he’s got a headache coming on. “Please just go to your room.”
Jason goes, the waves of Bruce’s disappointment washing over him like a riptide of shame he can’t escape.
*
Jason is still sitting in the spinning desk chair in his room, playing some very agitated Terraria on his PC, when Damian lets himself into the room without knocking.
“I hear they have finally tired of your shenanigans at Gotham Academy,” he announces unceremoniously.
Jason doesn’t look up from his game. He’s in the middle of kicking Skeletron’s ass at the moment, and could do without the distraction. Though, he supposes, now that he’s dropped out of school, he’ll have plenty of free time to throw hands with Skeletron as often as he wants. In no big hurry he hits pause and swivels his chair lazily to face Damian.
Damian’s still in his school uniform--a mini version of the same one Jason has to wear. Pressed black slacks, blue blazer, and white, long-sleeved button-down. Damian, despite having made his distaste for school quite clear, takes a lot of pride in his appearance and makes sure to have his clothes carefully cleaned and ironed every single day. Jason suspects that Damian’s wardrobe maintenance makes up around half of Alfred’s paycheck any given week.
Beyond that, his short black hair has been combed back tastefully, and unlike the average ten-year-old, his face is clean and non-sticky. If he weren’t so small, he’d look like a regular little businessman. Jason wants to spit in his face. If it were anyone but Damian, he probably would. After today, though, he really doesn’t need to face Bruce’s wrath for a second time.
“They were tired of me the moment I stepped through the doors,” Jason corrects, spinning idly in his chair. “Just, now they have an excuse to kick me out.”
Damian nods attentively, crossing his arms across his chest. “I was appraised of the events by Safiya,” he explains, referring to the office secretary at school. How he came to be on a first-name basis with her when he still calls Jason by his last name, the world will never know. “While your methods were crude, I admit I had a certain… admiration for your boldness.”
Jason snorts, beginning to feel himself grin. Things with Damian haven’t always been smooth sailing. When his mother dumped him on their doorstep a year and a half ago, Jason swore he experienced the unprecedented emotion of hate-at-first-sight. What followed were six months of non-stop arguments that often devolved into physical assault, several escape attempts (by both Damian and Jason himself) and then finally, a truce. Only now are they making efforts to tolerate each other. It’s new and, quite frankly, weird, but not altogether unwelcome.
“Well, you would, at least,” Jason agrees. “Add it to the mood board for your own jailbreak inspo. Got any ideas yet?”
“Nothing that tops yours,” Damian admits with a scowl. “And I still disapprove of the use of animals for class when perfectly adequate digital alternatives exist. The cruelty--”
“Yeah, yeah, we get it, Dr. Doolittle,” Jason interrupts. He’d tried to hide it behind a front of outrage and righteous fury, but he’s pretty sure Damian cried when he found out the AP Biology class would be dissecting real kittens.
The one thing that brings Jason and Damian together as brothers is their shared loathing of all things educational. While Jason’s issues originate from the disrespectful, every-man-for-himself environment created by the academy, Damian’s are rooted in his abiding belief that he is above the American education system. All specific grievances aside, the opinion that Gotham Academy is a dumpster fire inside a shithole rolled up in a trainwreck is the only thing the two brothers agree on and one of their very few bonding points.
Damian’s probably jealous, Jason realizes. He managed to escape their nefarious, educational clutches, while Damian has to keep on attending class like a peasant. The epiphany fills him with deep satisfaction.
“In the spirit of fairness,” Damian confides, “I believe Father should cut me the same deal he offered you.”
“What,” Jason asks, flicking a piece of lint off his sleeve to demonstrate his disinterest in the conversation. “About either school or a job?”
“That is the one,” Damian confirms, looking hopeful. “I believe he would--”
Jason interrupts him with a burst of raucous laughter. “Yeah, sure,” he snorts, “start handing out your resume. Damian Wayne, ten years old, previous job positions including demon child and general menace. People will be begging to hire you."
Damian scrunches up his nose, offended. “I’ll have you know,” he begins, holding up a finger, “I have experience in--”
“Torturing people, tormenting senior citizens, and making babies cry,” Jason lists gleefully. “You should bolster it a bit, add your proficiency at temper tantrums and--”
“I DO NOT HAVE TEMPER TANTRUMS!” Damian explodes, eyes bugging out in his outrage. His face is almost entirely red and his little fists are clenched at his sides. “If I applied for jobs I would be swimming in offers! I just need Father to agree!”
“Oh, he’ll agree alright,” Jason says, wiping a single tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. “He’ll say--”
“What will I say?” asks a deep, intimidating voice from the door.
Jason whirls his chair around. Bruce is standing in the doorway, phone clutched at his side and paperwork clasped on a clipboard in the other. Jason quickly wipes all signs of laughter from his face. Damian storms past him out of the room, probably to prepare his sales pitch. His loud, angry footsteps echo down the halls.
“I hope you weren’t picking on your brother,” Bruce warns, closing the door behind him.
Jason rolls his eyes. “I’d never,” he says.
“Good,” Bruce concludes, effectively putting an end to that branch of conversation. He sets the paperwork down in front of Jason and places a pen down firmly on top of that. “I have found somewhere with a position open willing to hire you. Fill this out, please.”
Jason looks down at the clipboard. It’s a job application form for some place called GOTHAM COFFEE. Not the most creative name he’s ever heard, all things considered. He picks up the pen, but doesn’t uncap it. “A coffee shop?” he asks, twirling the pen around between his fingers. “Never heard of it.”
“It’s in Old Gotham,” Bruce divulges. His voice has not lost the rumbly texture that means he’s pissed off. “It is an independently owned business with a small staff. The owner is being kind enough to offer you a position.”
Jason rolls that thought over in his brain. A coffee shop. Could be worse, to be sure. He’s always been a sucker for caffeine, and there are worse ways to spend time than making fancy-ass lattes for rich people all day. He’s never been there before, though. For all he knows, it could be a total shithole.
He glances up at Bruce to gauge his expression. Hard, unyielding, and insurmountable as a brick wall. “Any other choices?” Jason asks, just because he doesn’t want to comply with the system so easily.
“Gotham High,” Bruce says bluntly.
Jason uncaps the pen and begins to write.