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There are certain truths in Gotham.
The sun sets, and crime rises. The Bats watch from above, shadows in the skyline. The rogues play their endless games, the city hums with a life of its own, and the people--Gotham’s people--carry on, accustomed to the absurdity that comes with living in the most chaotic place on Earth.
One of those truths?
If a vigilante shows up carrying a cranky toddler, you do not question it.
You keep your head down. You nod politely. You maybe spare a second to think, Huh, that’s new, before going right back to whatever you were doing because Gotham teaches you early: the weirder it is, the less you should ask.
And that’s exactly what happens the first time Red Hood stomps through Crime Alley looking like someone hit shrink-wrap on him.
No one even flinches.
The few that do risk a glance just clock the tiny, furious vigilante--helmet slightly oversized on his now comically small frame, leather jacket hanging off his little shoulders, arms crossed like he’s two seconds from committing homicide--and, with the kind of bone-deep acceptance only Gothamites have, collectively decide:
Not my business.
Because it isn’t.
Because this city is weird, and this? This barely makes the top ten.
It starts, like most things in their lives, with an accident.
Some idiot with a magic artifact, a fight gone sideways, and suddenly Jason Todd--Red Hood, ex-Robin, resident bad-tempered, gun-toting Bat--has been de-aged to five years old.
A very angry, very frustrated, very unamused five-year-old, who immediately attempts to threaten the nearest criminal and then nearly falls over because his tiny hands are too small for his usual guns.
It’s humiliating.
At first, they think it’ll wear off.
A few hours, maybe a day. The kind of weird Gotham bullshit that rights itself when you’re not looking.
But the hours pass, then a full night, then a full day, and Jason is still stuck in a body too small to reach the top cabinets. The safehouse mirror reflects the same ridiculous sight every morning--his too-big leather jacket dragging on the ground, his oversized gloves slipping off tiny fingers, his old scars hidden beneath baby-soft skin.
Then they think, okay, fine, but at least he’ll act like a five-year-old. He’ll forget things. His mind will regress. Maybe they’ll get a brief, innocent, wide-eyed baby bird version of Jason Todd.
They don’t.
Jason, to the dismay of absolutely everyone, remains fully aware of everything. He remembers dying. He remembers who killed him. He remembers every damn thing, and he is just as pissed about it as before--if not more now that he’s stuck in a body that can’t convincingly threaten people.
It is, objectively, the worst thing that has ever happened to him.
He can’t hold his guns. He can’t drive his bike. His tiny hands barely get a good grip on his knives.
And Gotham--his beautiful, godforsaken city--is thriving on this.
There’s no shock. No hesitation. No oh no, Red Hood is a baby, what do we do?
Gotham just adjusts. Like it’s been waiting for this moment. Like it’s just another Tuesday.
And Jason? Jason is mildly concerned that Gotham is way too prepared for this.
Bruce, naturally, insists on taking him back to the Manor. Jason, naturally, refuses. The only reason Bruce hasn’t locked him in the Manor like an overprotective mother hen is because Jason threatens to go nuclear if anyone so much as tries to keep him away from his city
“I still got business to take care of,” he growls, all high-pitched and unimposing, arms crossed as he glares up at Bruce from knee height.
It’s an admirable effort. Truly. If intimidation was measured by sheer force of will, Jason would be seven feet tall and terrifying right now.
Unfortunately, Gotham is cruel, and the universe has a sick sense of humor, so instead of being seven feet tall, he’s barely past Bruce’s knee, standing there in an oversized hoodie with sleeves that keep slipping past his hands. His face is stuck in what is probably the world’s grumpiest pout, and if the bastard in front of him wasn’t Bruce, Jason might’ve had a shot at scaring him into submission.
But it is Bruce. And Bruce is doing that thing where his mouth doesn’t move, but his eyes scream I am fighting for my life not to react to this ridiculous situation.
“You’re five.”
Jason inhales slowly, as if gathering the patience of a saint. “I still got business to take care of.”
Bruce exhales like he aged a decade in the last five minutes.
There’s a long, painful silence.
Then Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose like Jason is giving him a migraine.
Jason, personally, thinks that’s offensive. He hasn’t even done anything yet.
But, to his credit, Bruce does not outright refuse him. He does not lock Jason in the Batcave, or the Manor, or god forbid--his childhood bedroom. He doesn’t even insist Jason stay out of the field.
He just stares at him for a long, silent moment, probably wondering where he went wrong as a parent.
Then, wordlessly, he hands Jason something.
Jason looks down.
It’s… a helmet.
A tiny, kid-sized Red Hood helmet.
Jason stares at it in silence, the weight of his suffering crashing down on him.
“Babs modified it,” Bruce says, completely straight-faced. “Built-in comms, real-time vitals. So we can keep an eye on you.”
Jason closes his eyes, breathes in, breathes out. “You do realize how humiliating this is, right?”
Bruce says nothing.
Jason considers throwing the helmet at his head.
Instead, he shoves it on, hops down from the table, and storms outside, tiny boots hitting the pavement with all the force of his endless rage.
And Gotham--chaotic, terrifying, and sometimes unexpectedly kind Gotham--immediately adapts.
Like it’s been expecting this.
Like Gotham took one look at its smallest, crankiest vigilante and collectively went: Yeah, alright. This tracks.
Crime Alley in particular rallies like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Like it's just a universal, unspoken agreement that this is happening, and they’re rolling with it.
And Jason? Jason is losing control of the situation.
It starts the second he stomps down the street, helmet slightly too big for his tiny head, tiny hands curled into fists, exuding all the menace he can possibly muster--which, unfortunately, in his current state, is none at all.
The old ladies at Ma Jean’s Diner take one look at him--one--and immediately start cooing.
“Oh, ain’t you just the sweetest--”
Jason freezes mid-step, a deep, gut-level sense of danger crawling up his spine.
“No.”
He tries to escape. He really does. But Ma Jean’s ladies move fast, years of city living sharpening their reflexes into something downright terrifying. One second, Jason is a free man. The next?
He’s caught.
Three grandmas descend--warm hands pinching his cheeks, voices pitched soft and syrupy, drowning him in coos and sweethearts and oh, what a darling boy!
Jason struggles. He glares. He huffs. He tries to protest, tries to growl something appropriately Red Hood-ish, but his voice is still trapped in that high-pitched kid register, so it just makes them coo louder.
He is losing the war.
Someone--probably Mrs. Louisa, who once beat a purse snatcher half to death with her cane--calls him Little Red.
The name sticks.
Afterwards, he stomps into Ma Jean’s Diner in defeat, shoulders hunched, boots scuffing against the floor like a soldier retreating from battle. He's about to climb onto his usual barstool, ready to drown his sorrows in a strong cup of coffee--except.
He stops.
He blinks.
There’s a booster seat.
Not just any booster seat. A permanent one. A booster seat that has been claimed--branded, even--as his own.
His name is spelled out in puffy gold glitter stickers, shining obnoxiously bright under the diner lights. Little star stickers are dotted around the edges like some kind of cursed elementary school craft project. It’s an art piece, clearly labored over with love and intention, which only makes it worse.
Jason stares.
The world around him goes quiet.
Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, a part of him screams.
“Ma,” he says, voice flat, because he cannot--cannot--acknowledge this with emotion. “What is this.”
Ma Jean doesn’t even blink. She plops a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of him, utterly unbothered. “You sit right there, sugar.”
Jason opens his mouth to argue--
“And don’t think about paying, either,” she continues, like he hasn’t spent years dropping cash on her counter. “I got grandkids your size.”
Jason considers arguing.
Really, truly considers it.
Then Ma Jean slides a fresh slice of pie onto the counter, and--
Well.
He’s only human.
Meanwhile, the Iceberg Lounge bartenders take it upon themselves to ensure Gotham’s tiniest menace stays warm, fed, and--most importantly--non-murderous.
It starts, as these things often do, with a drink.
“Hot chocolate,” the bartender says, sliding the mug across the counter with a practiced ease. “On the house.”
Jason, perched on a barstool that’s far too big for his current body, stares at it. Then at the bartender. Then back at the steaming mug like it might be laced with something.
“…You realize I’m not actually five, right?”
“Sure, kid.” The bartender smirks, not looking up as he wipes down the counter. “Drink your cocoa.”
Jason scowls. “I’m serious.”
“And I’m sayin’--drink your cocoa.”
Jason mutters something unkind but takes the mug anyway, because this is Gotham, and you don’t question free food unless it comes from Joker.
And, well.
If anyone in this city understands the importance of keeping a pint-sized, rage-fueled Red Hood from being cold, hungry, or homicidal, it’s the people who work for Penguin.
Which is probably why Ricky, his usual informant, takes one look at his too-big hoodie and sighs like it personally offends him.
“Hold up,” he says, disappearing into the back.
Jason barely has time to consider making a run for it before Ricky comes back, holding something black and tiny and--
Oh.
It’s a leather jacket.
A kid-sized leather jacket.
Jason stares at it, expression blank, save for the single, violent twitch of his eye.
Ricky, the smug bastard, just grins. “Looks good, huh?”
He flips it around with a flourish, revealing the back--Lil’ Hoodlum stitched in bold, crimson-red thread, standing out stark against the dark leather. The lettering is perfectly even, the craftsmanship too damn good, like someone really sat down and put time into this.
Jason glares.
Ricky beams.
“Betcha it makes you extra intimidating.”
Jason snatches it out of his hands with all the grace of a feral raccoon, shoving his arms through the sleeves like he’s personally offended by how soft the lining is. The fit is annoyingly perfect--warm, broken-in, comfortable. Like it was made for him.
Which, judging by the sheer confidence radiating off Ricky, it was.
Jason adjusts his helmet, twisting to get a better look at himself in the nearest reflective surface.
And, okay. He can admit it’s not bad.
Not good, either, but--
Well.
It better be intimidating.
Jason squints at his tiny, leather-clad reflection, tilts his helmet just slightly, and mutters, low and deadly, “…It better.”
Ricky howls with laughter.
Then there’s Harley Quinn.
Oh boy.
Harley takes one look at mini Jason--tiny, scowling, arms crossed like he’s personally offended by the laws of physics--and squeals.
Like, full-on squeals. Hands on her cheeks, eyes sparkling, bouncing on her heels like she just found a stray kitten on the side of the road.
Jason knows that look. It’s the look people get right before they decide he’s adorable, which is the absolute worst thing they could possibly do.
He backs up immediately.
“No.”
Harley ignores him.
“Jaybird, ya didn’t tell me ya got even cuter!” she coos, crouching down to his level like she’s about to scoop him up and snuggle him.
Jason growls. “I am not cute.”
Harley gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh, puddin’, ya don’t gotta be shy about it! Here--hold this!”
Before he can even process what’s happening, she shoves something into his arms. Something soft. Something--
Jason looks down.
It’s a stuffed hyena plushie.
He blinks.
The thing grins back at him--all sharp teeth and beady little eyes, looking alarmingly mischievous for something made of polyester and fluff. Its fur is patchy in a way that’s almost too intentional, the stitches just slightly uneven, like it’s been through a couple of scrapes and came out tougher for it.
It looks stupidly smug.
Jason slowly raises his gaze.
Harley is beaming, practically vibrating with excitement. “Name’s Lil’ Lou!” she chirps, reaching out to ruffle his hair.
Jason ducks immediately, but he’s five, and she’s faster. He squawks in protest, swatting at her hand as she cackles.
“He’ll keep ya safe!”
Jason glares, shoving the plush back at her like it’s cursed. “I don’t need it,” he grumbles, arms crossing tight over his chest. The stupid thing flops against his side anyway, clutched tight in his little fist.
Harley tsks, wagging a finger in his face like he’s a particularly stubborn toddler. “Aw, sweetie, it ain’t for you,” she says, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. She leans in, stage-whispering like she’s sharing top-secret intel.
“It’s so everyone else knows ya got protection. That lil’ hood o’ yours only does so much.”
Jason stares at her.
Harley grins wider, twirling a piece of bubblegum around her finger.
Jason stares harder.
He looks at the plush, at its stitched-up grin, at the little black button eyes that gleam like they know things.
What the hell is he supposed to say to that?
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Sighs so hard it rattles his tiny five-year-old bones.
Then, with the air of a man accepting his deep, personal suffering, he secures the hyena plush to his back with an extra strap from his gear.
Lil’ Lou, Gotham’s newest and most ridiculous crime deterrent, now rides along like a bitey little sidekick.
Harley cheers.
And the Batfamily--oh, they’re the worst of all.
There's no discussion. No pause for Jason to protest before they immediately start tag-teaming babysitting shifts like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Dick carries him around like a grumpy football, tucking him under one arm like a linebacker sprinting down the field. Jason struggles. Jason fights. Jason threatens to commit multiple felonies.
Dick just coos at him and ruffles his hair.
Cass, bless her soul, has the decency to at least pretend she respects his dignity. But she also lets him ride on her shoulders during patrol, which means he is now five years old, tiny, and riding bat-themed piggyback style across Gotham’s rooftops like some kind of cursed superhero mascot.
Tim is the worst.
Not only does he take so many pictures, but he fully abuses Jason’s tiny size to dress him in the most humiliating outfits possible.
The final straw?
Jason wakes up one night in a full cow-print onesie with a little hood and tiny ears sewn into the top.
Tim pays for that one.
(Specifically, with a pillow to the face. And then a full-out war that nearly destroys half the manor.)
Steph, meanwhile, has so many baby memes to send him. Jason blocks her number. She uses other people’s phones. It’s a nightmare.
Duke pretends to be responsible, but he keeps sneaking Jason sips of his coffee just to watch him rant like a tiny, furious old man. The first time Jason storms across the kitchen, yelling about Gotham’s failings while barely two feet tall, Duke wheezes so hard he falls out of his chair.
And Damian--oh, Damian.
After an initial period of existential crisis (where he stares at Jason like he’s personally offended by reality), Damian eventually… accepts it. But not in any normal way.
No, Damian starts treating Jason like a very small, very angry pet cat.
Jason finds this out the hard way one night after a long training session, when Damian--silent, efficient, and utterly terrifying--wordlessly picks him up by the scruff and deposits him onto his bed like a misbehaving stray.
Jason stares.
“Did you just--”
“Sleep, Todd,” Damian commands, then immediately turns off the light.
Jason does not know how to handle this.
And, despite everything, Gotham somehow makes it work.
Jason is mildly concerned about how efficiently the city has organized babysitting shifts for him.
Not just the Batfamily--oh no, that would almost be expected. They’re nosy. They’re attached. They treat personal boundaries like suggestions at best.
But Gotham?
Gotham, with its crime rings and corrupt politicians, with its rogue gallery of walking nightmares, with its reputation for being a death trap on steroids--has somehow, without a single meeting or memo, collectively agreed to make sure one (1) pint-sized Red Hood is fed, warm, and accounted for at all times.
It’s alarming.
Jason glares up at Barbara from his spot on the Batcomputer’s desk, where someone--probably Tim, the little menace--has plopped him like a decorative accessory.
His legs dangle over the edge, too short to reach the floor, swinging back and forth against his will. His helmet sits beside him, abandoned in favor of pure, unfiltered indignation. A juice box--one of those stupid apple ones--waits just within arm’s reach, placed there strategically, like bait in a trap.
Jason squints.
They planned this.
“You’re all enjoying this way too much,” he mutters, crossing his arms so tight his tiny fingers dig into his sleeves.
Barbara doesn’t even look at him. “No idea what you mean, Jay.”
“None at all,” Duke chimes in from the side, offering him a second juice box because apparently, one wasn’t enough.
Jason glares harder.
This is a conspiracy. A coordinated attack.
His family--the same people who trained him, fought beside him, mourned him--are now using that same tactical prowess to babysit him against his will.
And Gotham--his city, the place that raised him--is playing along.
It should not be this good at adapting to him. Gotham doesn’t adjust to people. It lets them sink or swim, chew them up and spit them out. Yet somehow, somehow, the moment he’d stomped through Crime Alley at knee-height, the entire city had just--decided this was happening.
Like it had been waiting for this.
Like Jason Todd, Red Hood, former Robin, crime lord and vigilante, was just another part of Gotham’s chaos that it had quietly claimed as its own.
It’s infuriating.
It’s--
It’s something else, too. Something warm and steady, something unspoken in the way Gotham closes its arms around him like a mother gathering up her lost, wayward children.
He is never--never--going to live this down.
But.
He’s still Red Hood. He still has his city.
And, judging by the way Gotham looks after him--without question, without hesitation, like he belongs to it as much as it belongs to him--
It’s got him, too.