Author's Note: This is my take on a fluff piece between Jason and Bruce in a similar vein to my other fluff story Comfort…except this is Jason and he is always borderline feral in my stories if injured. Hugs are kept to an absolute minimum, which in a fourteen-year-old street kid's mind lies between none and zero, but there is time for bonding of a sort. Scheduled to run between three and four chapters, dependant on reviews for this chapter. If not well-received, this will become a one-shot. Plot line…Jason and Bruce doing their usual thing on Gotham's street when the tone of their hectic patrol takes an unexpected turn.

Enjoy.

Brick

Jason and I are currently engaged in a twenty-man brawl on the outskirts of Park Row. Tensions that have simmered between rival street gangs all summer are now boiling over explosively. Molotov cocktails are being thrown at tenement buildings whilst gang members wage war with whatever implements are to hand, including discarded bottles, fly-tipped furniture and even loose stonework from the buildings themselves. The GCPD are on route to our location having dealt with a similar scenario seven blocks over, but are still five minutes out. Although we are managing to contain the situation, wayward projectiles pose a constant threat to our safety and terrified bystanders. After dispatching another assailant following a successful counter, I turn to see my fourteen-year-old partner struck on the back of the head by viciously thrown house brick with an audible thud. He crumples to the pavement immediately and lies prone for several seconds before I can reach him. I am about to call for medical assistance when the impossible happens.

Jason rises back to his feet even as blood pours from the back of his head. He turns away from me towards the origin of the brick. Standing fifteen metres away is a lone assailant, barely seventeen years of age and sporting one gang's signature tattoos, who now looks very frightened. Resting at his feet is a small pile of collected stone debris, including another two house bricks. He is clearly acting as an artillery piece for this war. Before I can react, Jason has sprinted off in the older boy's direction. I mean to go after him but am involved in a four-on-one attack that hinders my efforts. It takes me a minute to put them down as a beer bottle skims past my left cheek by an inch. When my eyes relocate my wayward sidekick, I find him mounted atop of the older boy, striking his face repeatedly with bare hands. I combat and put down another three opponents in reaching his position and then a further two in prising him off the now badly-beaten target of his anger. He is phenomenally strong for his age: it takes me close to thirty seconds to properly dislodge him from the other boy's torso.

Jason is almost certainly concussed, perhaps badly, if his reaction of biting my arm is anything to go by. As I try to calm him down for a diagnosis, we are put upon by another six gang members who object to our timely intervention. The boy launches himself at one of our attackers, knocking them over with frightening ease and brutality, as I counter a haymaker from another. Jason's restraint has gone out the window as has his common sense: he snaps an arm before head-butting the same individual at a low enough angle to break their jaw with an audible crunch. As I again try to subdue the boy, two fire trucks streak onto the scene to put out the fires caused by the cocktails. Less than a minute later, four GCPD squad cars and a riot van also joined the chaotic scene. By this stage I have managed to force Jason onto his front against the ground and have a sedative ready to administer. I almost foolishly inject him before realising that unconsciousness with a head injury could kill him. I handcuff him instead as he thrashes beneath me.

Three minutes later, the GCPD have disabled the remaining offenders and all airborne projectiles have ceased reigning down hell from above. A paramedic has arrived and is examining the boy as I hold him still. He is still handcuffed and thrashing like a wild animal. I have never been met with a response like this from a concussion, which the paramedic has confirmed is the injury. Between us, we force-feed him anti-inflammatory medications to counteract possible swelling on his brain and treat the physical injury with antiseptic, stitches and a small quantity of ice. Twenty minutes following this treatment, he begins to calm down. The paramedic tells me he needs to inspect his eyes for haemorrhaging. This would involve removing his mask and exposing his identity. The man is genuinely concerned for his safety and is not out to make a quick buck by tabloid exploitation, but I cannot permit it. Instead I thank him for his help and take Jason to Leslie's clinic.

"What's your name?" Leslie asks the boy once he is seated and apparently lucid. His eyes mercifully show no signs of haemorrhaging according to her conclusions. He frowns in confusion at her.

"Huh?"

"What is your name?" She repeats.

"Jason."

"And who am I?"

"A bag lady?" I am unsure whether he is being facetious or not in his current condition. Her expression tells me she is too. "I really don't know. Sorry. Hey, where's that guy I live with?" He asks taking a cursory look around the room and missing my obvious presence completely. My cowl is down but he does not appear to recognise my face. I frown at Leslie.

"He's got some memory loss from the concussion. It should only be temporary." She informs me standing back up from her crouched position in front of him. "As near as I can tell without a CT scan or MRI, he's only got a hairline fracture on his skull so there's little chance of internal bleeding having occurred, something his eyes support." She goes to her desk and retrieves a small rubber ball before lightly throwing at him. Jason catches it in his non-dominant hand without difficulty. "His reflexes are also a good sign it's not as severe a trauma as it might have been. He has a remarkably hard head considering his skull bones are still suturing together." Jason is turning the ball over in his hand and squeezing it every few seconds.

"Nice ball, lady." He says attempting to get to his feet. I press down on his shoulder to keep him seated. Despite trusting her medical expertise with my life, I am less than confident of her diagnosis.

"Are you certain he does not require surgery? Could his brain be swollen?" I say only for her to frown. She does not like having her competency questioned, especially from me. Her withering glare tells me I should back down.

"He's just got temporary retrograde amnesia and is a little muddled as a consequence. How many people did he subdue after impact?" She responds. I am forced to count them for an accurate number.

"Five. Six if you include the boy who threw the brick. Four of them are in the hospital for six to eight weeks due to his actions."

"Does that sound like something someone with a swollen brain could do?"

"I suppose it is unlikely. Would he have been aware of what he was doing to those assailants?"

"From what you described, I doubt any thought beyond survival entered his mind."

"Leslie, he was completely feral."

"I'm not feral you asshole." Jason snaps at me. "And I can understand everything you two are saying about me. Don't talk like I'm not in the room. Fucking prick." The boy mutters his last two words almost casually before returning to his ball. I resist the urge to reprimand him for his language in present company when faced with the facts of his condition. I compose myself before speaking.

"What is the recommended treatment?"

"Bed rest, but you'll have to wake him up every two to three hours for the first day to make sure he hasn't slipped into a coma. Any prolonged loss of appetite, nausea or more serious memory impairment crops up, you bring him straight back here or take him to the hospital. The chances are remote, but it's still a possibility. You'll also have to stop him from conducting any strenuous physical exercise or activity for at least two weeks to make sure he doesn't trigger a bleed. His memory problems should start clearing after a few days and you should help him fill in the gaps until then. He may be emotionally confused, possibly violent if agitated, and should not be chided for it."

I look down at Jason and am met with an open stare of defiance. It looks even more intense than usual. "That may prove difficult."

I awake the next morning in a less than agreeable mood. Every time Alfred or I woke the boy to ensure his condition was not worsening, he tried to hit us. Three times he succeeded with his efforts, once dealing a painful blow to the old man's groin somewhere around four in the morning. Needless to say Alfred did not wish to participate afterwards, leaving me with the remaining four checks. I enter the boy's room around ten and find him in the familiar foetal position on the bed with all his bedsheets tangled inside the hollow of his body. This time I approach from behind him and carefully mount the bed. This time I will not be compelled to dodge fast hands and feet to check his condition. This time I will not be caught out. I reach out to touch his shoulder and gently rouse him to consciousness.

A moment later my face is being pushed into the mattress after being pinned with an arm bar bolstered by teenage bodyweight and perfect technique. I must admit using the sheet to temporarily blind me was very shrewd as was his decision to feign sleep until I was too close to negate his movement.

"Do you perverts never learn? No means no. You. Are. Not. Fucking. Me. Understand?" Jason tells me sharply as he did the previous three times I conducted my checks and the two times Alfred took those honours. If I wished, I could easily reverse this position, however such a counter would probably snap one or more of the boy's bones.

"Please apply common sense to the situation, Jason. Look around the room and think." I say calmly despite the pain currently surging up my arm and through my shoulder. Twenty seconds later, the tension is released as the boy decides better of his decision. He does not get off my back though.

"Why can't I remember your name? I know you but I can't remember your name."

"You have retrograde amnesia brought on by a significant concussion. That is why you are getting confused by things. My name is Bruce and I am your legal guardian."

"Since when?" Jason challenges. I sigh.

"Nearly two full years ago. Are you going to get off me now?"

"What are you going to do me when I do?"

"Let you go back to sleep again. You rarely get up before midday anymore."

"What time is it?"

"Quarter-past ten. Now, please would you be so kind?"

The boy shifts his bodyweight off me. I roll onto my side and face him. He sits cross-legged staring at me in suspicion. It is clear I am not fully believed. At this stage of his physical development I really wish he would wear night attire…or any sort of clothing at all when sleeping. After a minute of intense staring, Jason nods his head in apparent agreement with me. "Bruce sounds right. How many times have we had this conversation?"

"This is the fourth time."

"Then why don't I remember?"

"Medication and sleep tend to make it difficult to hold on to such information. You likely only remember our previous meetings this morning as half-heard dreams. Doctor Thompkins has assured me it will pass in a day or two." I tell him honestly. Jason regards the fresh bruises and half-clotted cuts peppering his body.

"What turned me into a retard?" He asks. I roll my eyes.

"You are not a retard, Jason. A brick caused your recent trauma. It will pass."

"Are you used to seeing me in my birthday suit by any chance?" He inquires without bothering to cover anything. He really has no modesty to speak of.

"Unfortunately yes. You despise pyjamas. I'm going to leave you to rest now." I say whilst shifting my weight to vacate the bed. He stops me by putting a hand on my forearm. His grip is much stronger than Dick's at the same age. His blue eyes offer me guilt in lieu of mistrust.

"I'm sorry I've messed you around so much, Bruce. I don't want to forget this happened again and attack you. Mind if I just stay awake this time? And you stay here for a while?"

"If you tell me your age, weight and height in less than twenty seconds, I will stay."

"Fourteen, one-forty and five-five." He replies immediately. I am impressed. I thumb to the set of drawers on the far side of the room.

"Put some pants on and I'll stay awhile then we can go downstairs and have breakfast."

We sit on the bed and watch some adult-cartoon show for an hour once Jason is sporting a pair of jogging pants. The boy rarely uses his flat screen television or bothers looking through his untouched stack of video games when he is fully fit. He deplores cable television almost as much as Alfred, but has a deep-seated love of cartoons. He prefers older efforts to new concepts and has once or twice spent an entire Sunday watching Tom and Jerry without ever leaving his bed. Despite his preference for those and other classic cartoon fare, such as Looney Tunes, he likes this American Dad programme we are currently watching. I find I like it too, if only because he is relaxed and comfortable in watching it and not lashing out. He even laughs in places, a rarity with him at the best of times.

Following this we head downstairs and enter the kitchen where the old man is plating up a late breakfast for our enjoyment. His posture suggests he is still feeling the effects of Jason's earlier kick but is able to offer the boy a reassuring smile.

"Good morning, Master Jason. How are you feeling, young man?"

"I'm so sorry I kicked you in the balls, Al. I don't remember doing it but you gotta know I'd never do it on purpose, honest." Jason apologises profusely having easily believed the incident as I described it to him earlier was fact. He needed furnishing with Alfred's name as well as his preferred moniker for him, but he almost sounds like himself. The old man winces slightly before patting him amicably on the back.

"I was a little testy about it earlier…" He says to garner a sly grin from Jason with his wordplay, "but I believe everything's now up to scratch." Even I crack a smile at his humour with the situation. The boy snorts.

"Oh, that's good, Al, that's really good. Seriously though, you okay? You don't need to go on the donor list or anything?"

"Even at my age, they are not beyond saving, Sir. I shall be fine in a day or two. Please sit down for breakfast." Evidently his concussion is not interfering with the boy's quick wit and their usual flow of banter. Through the course of breakfast however, it becomes increasingly clear that certain gaps in his memory are odd.

"Remember where you were born?"

"Nope."

"But you know what you do every night?"

"Yeah, I'm Robin. I kick ass."

"What was your father's name?"

"Asshole? I don't know."

"How many men did you sleep with on the streets?"

"Seven. That's an easy one. Ask me another."

"How did we meet?"

"Were you one of the seven? I don't know."

"What's your last name?"

Jason cannot palm this one off with a wisecrack. He frowns first in thought then bewilderment and finally anger. "What the fuck is wrong with my head?"

"It's fine. Your surname is…"

"Don't fucking tell me! I can get it! I know my own fucking name! I have to!" The boy snarls at me. A long silence follows as I await an inevitable tantrum. Three minutes later, Jason bangs both his fists hard on the table, yells several expletives and storms off towards the parlour. Alfred and I exchange glances of concern at this reaction. Stress and anger may trigger a bleed if he pushes himself too hard too soon. Concussions are always unpredictable, but this one's symptoms are being particularly cruel to him by gifting some information and shrouding others. No doubt he feels foolish when there is no reason to feel anything but thankful it is not more serious. We are both very aware of this. I consider my next approach carefully. A moment later, I believe I have a solution. I stand up.

"Where does he hide his cigarettes?"

I find Jason sat on the steps outside the front of the house, still topless and looking hurt but acting indifferent, five minutes later. I take a seat next to him but keep a sensible distance between us. I place a crumpled pack of Diamondback cigarettes in the space that separates us from one another. He takes them without looking and taps one out of the packet in the same manner. Once he has one clamped between his teeth, he vainly searches for a lighter. I produce one of my father's from my dressing gown pocket, the Zippo he used for his cigars, and hold it open for him. He leans over and lights his cancer stick with practiced ease then inhales deeply. I close the lighter and put it away as he lets out a sizeable plume of grey smoke. He nods in appreciation.

"I'm sorry I lost it back there. It just made me feel like a dumbass. Even a five-year-old knows their last name." He tells me taking another long drag. "How long have you known I started smoking again?"

"I know you never stopped to begin with: you merely cut down to one-a-day." I say only for him to disagreeably shake his head in exhaling.

"Not even that. I only have one when I'm really strung out, so maybe four a week at most." I incline my head at his correction. It is always nice when he volunteers information willingly.

"I stand corrected. Have you remembered your last name?" I ask as he reaches the middle stages of his cigarette. He sighs.

"No. What is it?"

"Todd. Jason Peter Todd." He smiles and nods at the view of the front drive.

"I knew that. I…I definitely knew that." He says more to himself than me. He sounds less than convinced. At this stage, it is remarkable he is so mobile and lucid. I venture to reach across the divide and rub his shoulder in the hopes he is receptive to physical reassurance this morning.

"You'll remember it all in time. Until then, no question is a stupid question. Okay?" I tell him. He takes another drag as I maintain contact with his shoulder. His flesh is cold to the touch. He exhales and finally gives me eye contact for my efforts. A moment later the boy offers a lop-sided grin that has lost none of its charm.

"So how did we meet, big guy? How'd we find ourselves here, at 'Brickgate'?" He asks to take me up on my offer. I smile at him.

"You stole the wheels off my car when you were twelve. We've been together ever since." Jason rolls his eyes and gives up a brief laugh at the image that has conjured in his head. He can see that scenario being true. He nods and stubs out his cigarette on the step below us.

"I'm wild, huh?"

"You are the wildest boy I have ever met. And even if I sometimes wish you were a little more…domesticated, I love you just as you are." I tell him honestly. There are no suspicious looks from him this time. He believes me immediately: I see it in his eyes.

"Congratulations on being the first, Bruce. I don't need all my marbles to know that's the truth. It's a big deal for me." He replies without any hint of tears or greater emotion threatening to surface. He is very tough outside and made of something stronger inside. That would be why a brick could not keep him down, why a concussion is no obstacle to meaningful conversation. He is simply too stubborn to admit defeat on any level. It will hopefully be an advantage and not a hindrance to his recovery. I squeeze his shoulder in appreciation.

"How about we go back inside and finish breakfast? Afterwards we can just go inside and watch cartoons all day."

"Yeah, I'm freezing my ass off out here." He says finally shrugging me off and getting to his feet. "Do I always walk around half-naked like this?" He asks as I shadow him through the door.

"Are you perhaps thinking it is impractical?"

"No, I'm thinking I must literally look too good to wear a shirt all the time. My body's crazy shredded." He answers without any sarcasm. Apparently even a concussed teenager is still a teenager. I am certain to some parents that might be a comfort. I sigh.

"Let's wait until we're back at the table for more questions, Jason."