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Jason Todd had daddy issues. That was probably the least surprising statement ever to anyone who knew him. Hell, to anyone who didn’t know him. You could take one look at him, with his motorcycle, dark helmet, bloody knuckles, and cigarettes, and go “Yeah, that guy’s got daddy issues.” At least that’s what his siblings liked to tell him.
Personally, he had a bit more of a complicated relationship with Bruce than others seemed to think.
Bruce had failed him when he left him to die in Ethiopia. He knows that he didn’t so much as leave a note for him, and that he had any number of opportunities to tell him where he was. Yet, when he laid there on the floor of the warehouse, beat to shit, staring at the bloody crowbar on the floor across from him where the Joker had tossed it tauntingly, he couldn’t think about anything except how badly he wanted his dad. He wanted him to show up in the nick of time, drag him out of the warehouse, and tell him everything would be okay. So when Bruce didn’t show up, he had failed Jason.
He should have been there for him, and he hadn’t been. The Lazarus Pits and the awful, grueling training of the League of Assassins had cemented that in his brain. For a long time, the only thing he had to comfort him was green green green and for even longer after that it was accompanied by pain pain pain. It twisted what used to be deep affection into something resembling loathing, and he couldn’t change that now.
When he returned to Gotham, he had this grand plan to cause Bruce as much pain as he could. To cause his new son to feel as wrecked as Jason had, knowing he was going to die without so much as his father by his side. That way, Bruce would know he had failed again. It wasn’t even really about the Replacement when he had beaten him into the floor of the Tower and let him beg to be set free. In Jason’s green green green addled mind, he was being set free. Clipping the Robin’s wings was freeing him from the possibility of agony like Jason had faced.
However, when he came to afterwards, all he felt was regret. With the horrible tinge of the green green green why is everything always green gone from his mind, he had realized what he’d done. The Red Hood wasn’t supposed to hurt children. The Red Hood was a mockery of the Joker’s old name, and yet he’d become just like him. Luckily, in his panic he managed to stem the worst of the bleeding, and got ahold of Tim’s phone. When he called Bruce to come help Tim, he knew he was fucked. He may have been the man’s son (the man’s Robin) before he died, but the Batman didn’t stand for killing, and he had done that and worse since his return.
He was right. Things were awful and rocky for a long time; taunting jeers and resentment and anger and regret pulsed between them anytime they were near eachother. Yet, Bruce never left. He never failed to show up like he had before, even when he was angry.
So, things slowly got better. Now, Jason could remember more that Bruce had failed, yes, but he had also done so many things right. He gave him food that first night, sitting with him while he shoveled it in his mouth so fast he almost choked. Then, when his stomach rebelled later, he sat and rubbed his back while he threw it all up. He left him snacks in his room because he knew Jason was hiding extra food (he didn’t want to be without it ever again, please god no). He bought him special editions of his favorite books. He let him claim his favorite chair even though it used to be Bruce’s. He always checked on him when he thought he was sleeping.
Jason may have daddy issues, but he also had a Father. He had a Bruce instead of a Willis Todd for once in his life, and Goddammit now that he did he wasn’t going to let that go.
The Red Hood had ways of knowing things. People stationed where they were least expected. One of those was as a worker at a cute little coffee shop-- a totally strategic move to keep an eye on the front business across the street and totally not because it was his father’s favorite and he wanted to keep him safe.
Not long ago his father had come home upset. He knew his day had begun badly, with Jason and Damian’s arguing waking him up. Then, when he returned later from what was supposed to be an easy interview as Brucie about something Wayne Enterprises was implementing, the man had been nearly wrecked. Sure, he managed to fool the rest of his siblings, but Jason knew that there was something wrong. Bruce was never that brief anymore. He had been making a genuine effort lately to be more open, more caring, more emotionally transparent. Jason knew it was difficult for Bruce to open up-- they had a conversation when he came back from the dead, once they were talking again. Bruce had sat him down, and apologized, and told him he loved him. At the end, he explained that “I have something called Autism. It means I have a hard time communicating. Understanding emotions. I’m sorry I ever let that mean I made you feel like I didn’t care. I do.” Since then, Jason has appreciated his efforts a hell of a lot more.
But Bruce had been wearing sunglasses when he came inside. He only ever wore them when he needed to fool the media or hide his emotions-- and Jason knew that because he had made a throwaway comment about how uncomfortable they were.
Jason might not have a perfect relationship with his father, but Bruce was upset and he was lying about it. So, he reached out to the girl he had planted at the coffee shop for the footage from the day.
It wasn’t the most ethical, or really ethical at all, but Jason knew his father was a creature of habit-- so he placed a camera directly above his normal seat. One with audio and visual recording.
“‘Excuse me? I’m not sure what gave you the impression that I might be remotely interested in someone that can’t even remember what shoe goes on the right foot half of the time, but whatever it was is wrong. Not to mention the fact that I wouldn’t go out with a fag---’ The reporter was cut off there. Behind him, from a few tables away, a man had stood up abruptly and his chair made a loud, drawn out scraping noise.”
And for the first time in a long time, Jason saw green green green.
About a month later (so as to avoid suspicion for the reason for the visit), The Red Hood stood outside the door to a shabby apartment in Bristol. Those two things didn't go together on a normal day, but considering the man inside was what he was interested in, he didn’t ask a lot of questions. The only thing he felt at the moment was pure, unadulterated fury.
Redge Turner was a reporter with the Gotham Times Gazette, and The Red Hood couldn’t wait to make his acquaintance. Despite common assumption, he had manners, after all Alfred had partly raised him. So he knocked. And about two seconds after that, he decided he wasn’t waiting anymore and he slammed his way bodily through the door.
Sitting at the dingy gray couch watching football (on a big TV, nonetheless) was the man he wanted to meet. The one who thought he was so much better than his father. The bigot. Red Hood hated bigots. Right now, he also hated football, gray couches, and big TVs-- just by association.
Redge scrambled back and away from the couch he was sitting at, screaming out “What the fuck!” as he reached for the end table where his gun was sitting. He really didn’t fit the stereotype of a man who owned a gun, but he did live in Gotham, so Jason guessed it could be excused.
Jason didn’t waste any time, grabbing one of the guns from his side holster and leveling it directly at the man’s head.
“Redge Turner. I’m The Red Hood. You’ve probably heard of me.”
“What the fuck? Man, I have a gun. Stay the fuck back. What the fuck? What are you doing here? Get out!”
Really, it was cute. Jason had four guns.
“You are a detestable man, Redge. No, really. You think you’re so much better than everyone else, don't you? You with your fancy job and your fancy office. Your superior morals.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Really, I don’t! Please just leave. I won’t even say anything,” the reporter begged, trembling where he stood. The gun he held in his hand slipped slightly as his palm sweated, and he had to bring up his other hand to catch it and readjust. It wavered as he held it aimed at Jason’s torso.
“Really? You know nothing of what you could have done wrong? Your biased reporting, skewing of facts, and downright libel mean nothing to you? Aren’t you just a treat!” Through the modulator, his voice came out low and gravelly, but the hint of mania in his tone was still clear.
“I don't know! I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. Please. Please don’t do this please. I’ll take it all back. I’ll reprint them, I swear,” Redge grovelled from his place across the room. In his fright, he seemed to forget about the gun in his hands. The Red Hood presented a menacing figure where he stood, a panoplia of weapons strapped to his body, and it was no wonder he grovelled. Every part of Jason’s body screamed murder.
“That isn’t the only thing you’ve done wrong, Redge. Nuh-uh. You’ve been a very very bad man. Yet you deny it! As if your bigotry is the only thing wrong here! Like if I open that laptop sitting on the couch, I won’t find things that could ruin you.” The Red Hood hated bigots, but the one thing he hated more? Pedofiles. And in front of him stood someone who was both. Not to mention: “Plus, you hurt my father’s feelings.”
“What? Plea-” Before Redge’s final plea could finish leaving his mouth, a loud and distinct Bang! shook the room. His mouth dropped open in shock, and his eyes froze in the wide position they were left in. Then, before Jason could even blink, his body collapsed to the ground in a boneless heap. On the front of his forehead was a messy, gaping hole.
Jason thought he looked better that way, anyways. At least with his ugly face obscured by blood he was spared the torture of looking at him.
Unlike what had happened with Tim, when the green green green cleared from his hazy vision, Jason felt nothing but content with his actions.
He may have had daddy issues, but he would still take care of Bruce however he could.