Jason Todd

He wasn't born with much going for him in that department. He was small for his age growing up, stunted by years in Crime Alley where there wasn't enough food to grow properly, not until Bruce took him in and gave him something resembling stability. He had that, for a while. Until the day he died. He died young, full of hormones and rage and acne, died still being a kid in every way that counted, and came back without any idea how to fit into a world that had moved on without him. Same anger. Same irrationality. Same body that hadn't finished figuring itself out. Those first years back were dedicated almost entirely to revenge.

People said he looked like Bruce. Deep down, somewhere he would never admit to, he held onto that. But when he looked in the mirror what he actually saw was someone beaten up. He didn't do anything about it either, no effort, just accepted what was there and moved on. Maybe that was part of why he almost never went out in civilian clothes.

He looked up. You were clean. Put together. The kind of person that didn't quite fit the aesthetic of Gotham on an average Tuesday. You looked at the cheese, then looked at him, and without any hesitation or visible fear you just offered it to him. Pure simple kindness. Then you left. And then, somehow, he kept running into you. And for the first time in a long time, he looked at himself in the mirror and thought maybe he could try something. Something that involved actually showing up as a person for once. You said yes. No hesitation, no visible concern. No problem.

He put real effort in. He found a restaurant that wasn't embarrassing, made a reservation, showed up on time, a fresh cut along his jaw, bruising under one eye that concealer would have helped with if he owned any. He felt a few glances from nearby tables land on him and slide away. But you were sitting across from him with sauce at the corner of your mouth, smiling at something he had said, looking at him exactly like he was someone