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Bruce Wayne, as it turns out, is a big fan of “choices.”
“Which hoodie do you want?”
Jason stares at the racks of Gotham Natural History Museum souvenir hoodies, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t need a hoodie,” he says for the third time in as many minutes.
“You’re cold,” Bruce says.
And that’s Jason’s fault. He should’ve known that the museum would be cold—he even went here in fourth grade! And he also should’ve known that what was a slightly chilly temperature for the average Gothamite wouldn’t be for his stupid, malnourished body. “I’m fine,” Jason insists.
Bruce sighs. “Jason…”
Jason’s next protest halts on his lips. He’s annoying Bruce. He doesn’t understand why not wanting Bruce to waste money on a hoodie is annoying Bruce, but it undeniably is.
Grudgingly, Jason looks at the array of hoodies. There are so many. Different colors, different designs, different everything. And Bruce is asking him to choose one. How the hell is Jason supposed to do that?
Oh. This must be another test.
Jason takes a closer look at the hoodies. He tries the usual suspects. Price. Some of the hoodies are more expensive than others, but the least expensive price is already a ton, and there are several designs at that price. Practicality. They all look pretty warm, and they all seem to be made similarly, so they’ll last for similar lengths of time. Dick Grayson. Jason knows Dick liked Disney movies—Bruce has mentioned that at least three times—and bright colors, but he doesn’t specifically know Dick’s hoodie preference for museum hoodies.
Safe to say, Jason is at a loss.
“Any one of them is good,” Jason decides. If he can’t distinguish between the hoodies, then this must be a test of his flexibility…although that would be more suited to something like ‘does Jason throw a fit if he has to skip meals for a day,’ not ‘does Jason care which stupid overpriced hoodie he gets.’
“But which one do you like best?” Bruce presses.
Damn it. So, instead of failing the test, he just completely refused to take it. That’s probably even worse.
Jason takes a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Bruce’s jaw is starting to clench a little tighter than usual. Jason needs to decide, and quickly.
He starts by eliminating everything but the cheapest hoodies. And then, because they’re here under the radar, he points to a grey and white hoodie, the one with the least bright colors—the one least likely to be memorable. “That one,” he says.
Bruce smiles and takes it off the rack. Jason breathes a sigh of relief.
That’s one type of choice, the tests. The other type is worse, though. The ones that aren’t any more than bait dangled in front of Jason’s eyes. Sometimes, he’s tempted. Most of the time, he isn’t. But either way, it’s patronizing and makes his skin crawl every time.
“Are you sure about this?” Bruce had asked, the first day of training, when Jason had finally recovered enough from malnutrition for Bruce to take him down to the Cave and tell him they were going to practice falls. “It will be difficult. It will be dangerous. It will require sacrifice. Being Robin isn’t a choice you can make lightly.”
And Jason had looked Bruce in the eyes and said, voice steady, “I’m sure.” Because, well, he was sure. And he did want to be Robin. Who wouldn’t? And Batman seemed to see something in him, something that made him special, something that made him worth training. Jason wants to see what that is and use it to help people.
But Bruce calling it a choice? That had sucked. Because yeah, Jason would choose to be Robin, but given that the alternative in this particular “choice” was foster care—where Jason knew he wouldn’t be safe—choice was a bit of a misleading word. Technically, Jason had an alternative. He just would have to be absolutely suicidal to have taken it.
And Jason is grateful! He is! He does want to be Robin. Hell, Bruce could offer him unconditional free room and board until he turned eighteen, and he’d still want to be Robin. But Jason was never a fan of playing pretend, especially when he couldn’t even acknowledge that the whole thing is a farce.
Thankfully, those types of choices are rare, and always obvious. Do you want to scale back training so you can audition for the school play? (No, Jason doesn’t want to slack off on training.) Would you prefer Alfred or me to pick you up from school? (Alfred, so Bruce can focus on his work.) Would you be willing to do an interview with the Daily Planet, Jay? (Yes, Jason knows how important the cover is.)
So mostly, it’s the tests that get him.
They’re a small price to pay for getting to live here and be Robin, but sometimes they make Jason want to scream. Because maybe he was able to deduce the answer to the hoodie test, but sometimes it’s really hard. And they keep getting harder. Smaller and smaller. Jason can’t see why any of these choices matter, what they even tell Bruce about him. Still, Jason hasn’t failed a test yet. And he doesn’t intend to start now.
“Pick one.”
Jason looks between the two bowls of popcorn. They are, functionally, identical. Both bowls are red, and the same size. Both are filled to the same fraction. Literally the only difference is which hand is holding each bowl.
This is—
This is it. This is as bad as it gets. Instead of movies or hoodies or classes, it’s two identical bowls of popcorn.
Jason inhales sharply, pressing himself against the arm of the couch. He can’t—he can’t do this. Is Bruce just looking for an excuse to fail him? And if he fails…what happens?
He knew there was a catch to the movie night. It was always going to be too good to be true.
“You choose,” he whispers.
Bruce frowns. “You can choose, Jason.”
Jason shakes his head. He can’t. He can’t choose right.
“It’s just popcorn,” Bruce says.
Exactly. It’s just identical servings of popcorn in identical bowls, completely indistinguishable except for the hands Bruce is holding them in. Is that it? Is Jason supposed to analyze the symbolism of Bruce’s left vs. right hand?
Jason feels his breaths growing shallow. He tries to calm down and think it through, treat it like one of the Riddler’s old riddles, but nothing comes to mind.
Jason can’t do this. He doesn’t know what the consequences will be, but he can’t do this. He can’t pass this test. He can’t choose.
Jason’s lungs are burning.
“Jason, you need to breathe.”
Burning.
“Jason—”
Burning.
“—need—”
Burning.
“—breathe.”
He’s failing the test. All he had to do was choose a bowl of popcorn. That was it, right? That was the test? If he’d follow the order and just choose one, like Bruce told him.
Jason clutches at his chest, like he can tear open his ribcage to let the air in.
“In for four.”
Something clicks in Jason’s mind. And suddenly, he understands why Bruce taught him grounding techniques so early on in the training regimen. Because they’re not just for civilians—they’re also for panicking, failed Robins.
“Hold for seven. Out for eight. In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.”
For a bit, Jason just follows the instructions, not wanting to fully return. Not yet. Not when he still has to face the consequences of the failed test.
And then, something cuts through the haze. “You don’t have to choose, okay, Jay?”
Jason’s eyes widen. “Thank you,” he whispers. Bruce swims into view, crouching in front of him. Jason takes a deep breath and then slowly shifts forwards from where he’s wedged into the couch’s corner.
“Do you want me to hug you?”
Jason takes another breath, feeling like he’s finally back on solid ground. This is another obvious-answer question—Bruce doesn’t like physical contact. Like, at all. “No,” Jason says.
Bruce withdraws, looking almost disappointed. Wait—no—
“I mean, yes,” Jason corrects himself. “You can hug me. Sorry.”
That seems to make Bruce even more upset. “No, you don’t want me to hug you.”
Jason blinks. Great. Bruce got rid of his super hard test and gave Jason an easy one instead, and Jason stillmanaged to screw it up. “I want you to hug me,” he says.
Bruce winces. “No, you said—”
Jason can’t deal with this anymore. He takes his hands and slaps them over his ears, making sure to press the little flap down to block out all the noise. If Bruce wants to yell at him, then he can pull Jason’s hands away from his ears. He probably will. But until then, Jason can just sit here in silence.
But Bruce doesn’t reach up. He just sits there, looking sad and lost and a tiny bit scared.
Eventually, Jason slowly lowers his hands from his ears. Bruce might be too nice to force him to listen when he’s not ready, but he might as well get this over with. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“You don’t…you have nothing to apologize for,” Bruce says, voice slightly hoarse.
“I failed the test.”
Bruce frowns. “The test?”
“The popcorn test.” Bruce stares at Jason, looking completely confused. Is he really going to make Jason explain this? “You wanted me to choose one of the popcorns. I don’t know which one, or if it mattered, or what—but I failed.” Jason twists his fingers together anxiously. “So, I’m sorry.”
Bruce stares at him for a moment longer, before finally averting his gaze. “It wasn’t a test. I just…you have difficulty making choices, Jason.”
“Because I don’t know the right one!”
“I wanted to help you with small choices.”
Jason crosses his arms. “Then what about the other tests?”
“…what other tests?”
And Jason feels like someone has opened a trapdoor for his organs, heart and stomach falling together. “The other tests,” he says. “The—the hoodies, and the movies, and all—all that stuff.”
“Jason, I just wanted to help you feel comfortable,” Bruce says.
Jason swallows. But that would mean… “Those weren’t tests.”
Bruce meets Jason’s eyes. “Yes.”
Now it’s Jason’s turn to look away. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t—I—”
“I’m sorry,” Bruce interrupts. “I didn’t realize you thought…movies…could be a test. What would they even be a test for?”
Jason shrugs miserably. “You’re Batman.” You’re probably playing 7D Chess with movie titles.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce repeats.
Jason curls into himself. He doesn’t know where to go from here, with his chest emptied out and the knots tied in his brain quickly unraveling. “I want you to hug me,” Jason says suddenly, before even realizing he’s going to say it, let alone deciding to. He cringes back, horrified at the presumption.
“You said—”
“I want you to hug me now,” Jason says. “Please.”
And so, Bruce reaches forward and wraps his arms around Jason, and for the first time in a long, long while, Jason feels safe.