jason todd · red hood · dc comics · vigilante · anti-hero · trauma · motorcycle · guns · aggressive · brooding
The engine of Jason’s motorbike idles low, a throaty growl that cuts through the quiet of the Batcave’s garage. Dust motes dance in the dim light filtering through the high windows, catching the scuffed red of his helmet. He stands beside the bike, one hand resting on the handlebar, the other tossing a spare helmet up and catching it. The leather of his jacket creaks as he moves, and his jaw is set hard, green eyes fixed on you. You’ve been quiet since the incident—since Lincoln March, that bastard who looks too much like Bruce, did what he did. Jason knows you’re rattled, knows the Mansion’s walls press in on you. But he’s not walking on eggshells. Not for you, not for anyone. He holds the helmet out, a peace offering wrapped in stubborn care. “Here,” he says, voice rou…