#dc.

Walk with me…

pairing: jason todd–red hood/ kain kent- kyrus

Summary: The Batfamily notices Jason has been... different. Less explosive. More on time to patrol. They blame the new vigilante in town, Kyrus—until they learn Kyrus is actually Kain Kent, Superman’s eldest, and he’s got a sharp tongue that matches Jason’s bulletproof one.

(i haven't really decided what universe this would be in, but most likely I think it would be in wayne family adventures)

P.S: hi creator here, this is a whole different one than my other work, (wrench in the work) as this is NOT a part two of it! this is just another fic <3

this is also a jason healing and actually going to therapy arc!

enjoyy!!

The Gotham rain was a special kind of miserable cold enough to bite, heavy enough to drown in. Jason Todd crouched on a gargoyle overlooking the Bowery, his leather jacket doing fuck-all against the damp. His comm crackled.

“Hood, you’re two minutes late to your checkpoint.” Barbara’s voice was flat, unimpressed.

“Tick-tock, Babs. I was getting a coffee.”

“At two in the morning?”

“Crime never sleeps. Neither should baristas.”

From the fire escape below, a low, familiar laugh drifted up. Jason didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He’d felt the shift in air pressure half a second before the voice came.

“You’re impossible,” Kain Kent said, hoisting himself up onto the gargoyle’s shoulder like it was a park bench. His black hair was plastered to his forehead, middle part almost lost to the rain, the short sides making the sharp lines of his face even more severe. A single dark mole sat under his left eye like an afterthought of charm. “You told me you were wrapping up an hour ago.”

Jason finally looked at him. Kain was wearing his usual—dark blue tactical suit, no cape (he’d laughed at capes once, called them “flying trip hazards”), the symbol on his chest a silver eclipse split by a single sharp line. Kyrus. The name the underworld had started whispering. The vigilante who moved like a ghost and hit like a meteor.

“Plans change,” Jason said.

“You mean you wanted to brood in the rain instead of coming home to bed.”

“Home” meant Jason’s latest safehouse. The one with the heated blanket and the stack of dog-eared paperbacks. The one Kain had started leaving his boots by the door.

Jason’s jaw tightened. “You’re not my keeper, Kent.”

Kain’s blue eyes. the kind of blue that should’ve been warm but usually ran cold as Lois Lane’s best glare softened just a fraction. “No. I’m your boyfriend. Which means I get to call you on your bullshit.”

Before Jason could snarl something back, a scream ripped through the alley below. Old habits: Jason moved first, grapple in hand, but Kain was already gone—just a faint whoosh of displaced air and the distant crack of someone’s jaw meeting a half-Kryptonian fist.

By the time Jason landed in the alley, three muggers were unconscious, and Kain was wiping a smear of blood off his knuckles. He didn’t have a scratch.

“Learned from the best.” Kain’s smirk was razor-thin. “My dad punches hard. My mom punches mean. I just combined them.”

“Show-off,” Jason muttered.

Later—much later, after patrol, after Jason patched up a graze on his arm that Kain could’ve healed in three seconds but didn’t because Jason hated feeling fragile—they sat on the roof of Jason’s safehouse. The rain had stopped. Gotham glittered like a half-drowned jewel.

“Tim’s been running facial rec on you,” Jason said, passing Kain a beer he didn’t need but appreciated anyway.

Kain snorted. “Let him. He’ll hit the same wall the League did. My face isn’t in any database. Mom pulled strings.”

“Paranoid.”

“Practical.” Kain tilted his head, raindrops sliding down his temple. “You haven’t told them about us.”

It wasn’t a question.

Jason stared at the skyline. “It’s none of their business.”

“Jason.” Kain’s voice lost its usual sardonic edge. It went quiet. Soft in a way only Jason ever got to hear. “You flinch every time Dick mentions ‘that new Kryptonian guy.’ You changed patrol routes so you wouldn’t cross paths with Babs when she’s with Steph because you’re bad at lying. You’re a terrible secret-keeper for someone raised by the world’s greatest detective.”

“Bruce isn’t—“

“He’s already figured it out. He’s just waiting for you to say it.”

Jason set his beer down. Turned to face Kain fully. The light from the street below caught the mole under Kain’s eye, the sharp architecture of his cheekbones, the way his mouth curved like it was permanently two seconds from a cutting remark.

“You’re a lot,” Jason said quietly.

Kain raised an eyebrow. “Thank you?”

“Not a compliment.”

“With you? Always is.”

Jason laughed—a real one, rusty and surprised. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

“And you’re emotionally constipated. We match.”

“Tomorrow,” Jason said. “Dinner. The manor. I’ll tell them.”

Kain blinked. “You’re serious.”

“You were right. Bruce knows. And Alfred’s been making your favorite pie for three weeks hoping you’d come in out of the cold.”

“Alfred knows?!”

“Alfred knows everything.” Jason stood, pulling Kain up with him. “Besides. If I’m gonna be a Wayne-adjacent disaster with a half-alien boyfriend, I want Kon to see the look on his face when he finds out you’re dating his brother’s sort-of-kind-of-not-really murderous adopted rival.”

Kain groaned. “Jon’s going to be insufferable.”

“Your little brother adores me.”

“Jon adores everyone. It’s his whole thing.”

They went inside. The safehouse was small, cluttered with books and ammo boxes and one of Kain’s hoodies draped over the back of the couch. Kain kicked off his boots. Jason locked the door.

Outside, Gotham rumbled on—sirens, shouts, the distant wail of a police cruiser. “you’re an idiot"

And tomorrow, he’d watch Tim choke on his coffee, Dick cry, Damian scowl, and Bruce do that tiny almost-smile he pretended not to have.

part two: Dinner and other controlled explosions.

The Batfamily dining table had seen a lot. Alien invasions. Midnight strategy meetings. Tim Drake falling asleep face-first into his cereal. But tonight? Tonight was something new.

Jason Todd was nervous.

Not the jittery, trigger-finger kind—the quiet, jaw-clenched, staring-at-his-own-hands kind. He’d showed up to the manor fifteen minutes early. Fifteen minutes. Dick had checked the windows for signs of mind control.

“He’s not brainwashed,” Tim said, not looking up from his laptop. “He’s just… wearing a clean shirt.”

“It’s unsettling,” Damian muttered.

Stephanie grinned. “Maybe he’s finally telling Bruce he’s dating someone.”

The room went quiet.

Duke set down his water glass very slowly. “Wait. Is that why he asked if we had any of those fancy vegetarian options Alfred makes?”

“Jason Todd,” Cassandra signed, a tiny smile playing on her lips, “is scared.”

“I am not scared,” Jason growled, walking into the dining room early—because of course he had perfect dramatic timing. “I’m… strategically managing expectations.”

From behind him, a new voice drawled, “You literally paced the car for five minutes before knocking.”

Kain Kent stepped into the light.

He was dressed simply—dark jeans, a charcoal sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, his black hair still damp from the rain. The mole under his left eye was more noticeable indoors, a small dark comma against pale skin. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. But his hand didn’t leave his pockets, and his eyes—that sharp, startling blue—swept the room with quiet assessment.

“Everyone,” Jason said, sounding like he was reciting a eulogy, “this is Kain. My boyfriend.”

Silence.

Then Dick made a sound like a deflating balloon. “THE ELDEST SON OF SUPERMAN?!”

“Technically,” Kain said, “I’m the eldest adopted son. Kon and Jon are biologically Clark’s. But yes. That’s the one.”

Tim’s laptop snapped shut. “You’re Kyrus. The vigilante who’s been operating in the Bowery. The one I couldn’t ID.”

“You’re good,” Kain said, and it didn’t sound like flattery. It sounded like acknowledgment. “You almost found my MetU student records. Almost.”

“I knew it,” Tim hissed.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Todd. You are dating the spawn of the alien who—”

“Finish that sentence,” Jason said pleasantly, “and I tell Grayson about the hamster incident.”

Damian went red. Then purple. Then sat down very quietly.

Stephanie ignored all of it, leaning across the table with her chin in her hands. “So. Kain Kent. Lois Lane and Clark Kent’s kid. Reporter genes and Kryptonian genes. That’s terrifying. Are you scary?”

Kain considered her. “My mom taught me how to ask questions that make people cry. My dad taught me how to bench-press a building. You tell me.”

Steph beamed. “I like him.”

Alfred appeared in the doorway like a very polite ghost. “Master Jason. Master Kain. Welcome home. Dinner will be served in ten minutes. Shall I fetch extra bread?”

Kain’s posture shifted—just slightly. Less defensive. Almost warm. “Yes, please, Mr. Pennyworth. And thank you for the pie last week. It was the best I’ve ever had.”

Alfred’s eyes crinkled. “You are most welcome, young man. It’s a pleasure to finally meet the young man who makes Master Jason smile.”

“I don’t smile,” Jason said.

“You did,” Cassandra signed, “when he walked in.”

Jason looked like he wanted to sink through the floor.

Bruce entered last—because he always did, like he was born for dramatic entrances. He was out of the cowl but still wearing his sternest dad expression. He looked at Kain. Kain looked at him.

Neither blinked.

“Mr. Kent,” Bruce said.

“Mr. Wayne,” Kain replied. “Thank you for having me.”

“You’ve been in my city for six months without introducing yourself.”

“You’ve known for five of them without saying anything.”

A beat.

Then Bruce’s mouth twitched—the tiniest, most microscopic almost-smile. “Alfred likes you. That’s a better endorsement than any background check.”

“I know,” Kain said. “He already sent me home with leftovers last week.”

“He what.”

Dinner was loud.

Not in the Batfamily way—no shouting, no thrown utensils. Just the comfortable chaos of too many people talking at once. Dick asked Kain about Metropolis (“Do you ever miss it?” “Sometimes. But Gotham has better coffee and worse villains, which is exactly Jason’s brand.”). Tim grilled him about his patrol routes (“You’re avoiding the Diamond District on purpose.” “The Diamond District has seventeen cameras per block. I’m not stupid.”). Duke asked about his powers (“Can you actually hear my heartbeat?” “No. And please don’t test that.”).

Damian, still nursing his wounded pride, stabbed a brussels sprout. “You trained with the League of Assassins?”

“I trained with my mother,” Kain corrected. “She learned from the League. I learned from her. There’s a difference.”

“Which is?”

“She didn’t let anyone throw me off a mountain.”

Jason snorted into his water glass.

Stephanie grinned. “So what’s your deal? You’re half-Kryptonian but you don’t wear a cape. You’re Lois Lane’s son but you punch people at night. You’re funny but you look like you want to commit a crime.”

Kain set down his fork. “My deal,” he said slowly, “is that I grew up watching my dad save the world and my mom save it with words. I wanted to do both. So I help people. Quietly. Without press or parades or Capes with a capital C.” He glanced at Jason. “And I met someone who doesn’t need me to be a hero. Just needs me to be real.”

The table went quiet.

Jason’s ears were red. He didn’t look up from his mashed potatoes.

“Oh my god,” Tim whispered. “You’re romantic.”

“Say that again and I tell Kon about your embarrassing fan edits.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I have screenshots.”

After dinner, while Alfred served apple crisp and coffee, Kain found himself on the back porch with Bruce. The manor gardens stretched out in the dark, wet and green and impossibly peaceful for a place owned by Batman.

“You don’t trust me,” Kain said. Not accusatory. Just fact.

Bruce leaned against the railing. “I don’t trust anyone my children bring home.”

“Fair.”

“Jason has been hurt by people who claimed to care about him. He acts like he’s fine. He’s not fine.”

Kain’s jaw tightened. That one landed. “I know.”

“If you hurt him—”

“You’ll find a way. I know.” Kain turned to face Bruce fully. Moonlight caught the mole under his eye, the sharp lines of his face. “I’m not here because he’s a project. I’m not here because he’s a Wayne or a Red Hood or a redemption arc. I’m here because when he laughs—really laughs, not the mean one—it sounds like my mother’s typing when she’s just broken a story wide open. Like something important is being made.”

Bruce was quiet for a long moment.

Then: “Your mother taught you well.”

“She taught me people aren’t projects,” Kain said. “They’re stories. And Jason’s is worth staying for.”

Inside, Jason watched them through the window, heart in his throat.

Stephanie appeared at his elbow. “He’s holding his own.”

“He’s a Kent,” Jason said softly. “They’re stubborn.”

“Like someone else I know.”

Jason didn’t answer. But when Kain came back inside—shoes wet from the grass, blue eyes finding Jason’s across the room—he didn’t move to touch him. Didn’t need to.

He just nodded.

Kain nodded back.

And the Batfamily, loud and ridiculous and theirs, kept eating apple crisp like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Because maybe it was.

Part Three: Healing.

Dr. Hale, the third therapist he'd tried (the first two had quit—"too hostile," their notes said; Jason had framed one), had asked him six months ago: What do you want, Jason? Not what you're fighting against. What are you fighting for?

He'd said "Nothing" at first. Then, quieter: "I don't know how to want things that arent for other people."

Start small, she'd said.

So he'd started with coffee. Then a safehouse with a heated blanket. Then Kain's boots by the door.

Later—much later, after patrol...

Jason told Kain about the therapy sometimes. Not the heavy parts—the parts where he talked about the pit, about the anger that still lived under his ribs like a second heartbeat. But the small victories.

"You're a terrible secret-keeper," Kain was saying.

Jason snorted. "My therapist says I have 'guarded attachment patterns.' Apparently I'm textbook."

Kain raised an eyebrow. "Your therapist used the word 'textbook' about you?"

"No. I'm paraphrasing." Jason stretched his legs out on the rooftop. "She says I'm getting better at letting people in. That I've stopped treating relationships like something I have to earn."

"That's good."

"It's annoying. She's always right."

Kain's mouth curved. "Sounds familiar."

"Don't let it go to your head

They kissed—

And when they pulled apart, Kain's lips were red, but Jason wasn't shaking anymore. That was new too. The first few times they'd been intimate however loosely you defined that word Jason's hands had trembled afterward. Not from cold. From waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It never dropped.

Dr. Hale had called it "relearning safety." Jason called it "Kain."

Because Kain had been the one to say, three months into dating, You should talk to someone. Not because you're broken. Because you deserve to not hurt all the time.

And Jason,who had told every other person to fuck off when they'd suggested therapy had made an appointment the next day.

He'd never told anyone that part.

The Iceberg Lounge was the frosty heart of a criminal empire; a bulwark for the Rogues Gallery and organized crime alike. A neutral ground as much as it could be, for someone like the Scout, this was where you deployed your eyes to see and ears for hearing, keeping two fingers on its pulse to read that sordid beat.

As one of the waitresses, Svetlana wasn't a standout among the crowd, and that was her strength. Clad in a form-fitting sheath as many of the cocktail waitresses did, balancing a brass tray upon which drinks were served, one order at a time. Oswald Cobblepot cared about quality, not quantity, after all.

But, there was one face among the crowd she actually sought.

Lowering the dark liqueur and cream cocktail in distinct layers, it clinked softly as it was set on Binary's table. The brunette regarded the woman knowingly, gaze intent.