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It'd be unkind to say that you could trace many of the problems in Gotham directly to Bruce. Between villains who only seem to become more villainous like it's some sort of mating dance competition and they're trying to impress the Bat, and how so much of the city is dependent on Wayne Enterprises not being an evil megacorporation, it might not be an incorrect thing to say, but yeah, not kind.
Jason's trying to figure out how he can pin the rise of shit-headed magic users on B too, but he's finding it hard to focus on that, on account of presently growing a goddamn fucking snout out of his goddamn fucking nose. He's on the ground trying not to scream because his bones feel like they're migrating around his body and his hair follicles feel like they're growing a lifetime's worth of hair in about 15 seconds. Meanwhile, 3 feet away the evil magician du jour is crowing about how the mighty Red Hood's going to be rendered little more than a dog.
Jason does scream a little when he feels his ears, uhm, travel upwards, and he rips his helmet off before dropping to all fours. Judging by the diatribe, it's a casual make-you-a-dumb-animal kind of spell, and while the guy is probably low-key getting off to fucking the fearsome Red Hood up, the thing about dogs is that they have teeth. If you really wanted to break someone's spirit, grind them into the ground and bury them in shame, the go-to creature is a penguin, as they all found out after Tim's little incident a couple of years back.
A dog, like Jason, is a predator. And mid-transformation, Jason is 6 feet worth claws and fangs and muscles built to kill, and his head's still on right.
Magic man hoots and hollers, stepping closer and closer and closer. Jason keeps a flinty eye that's losing colour clarity on him, and in his head there's Zatanna going "Figure out where the magic's coming from and you can figure out how to make it stop."
With her, you'd have to rip her throat out, which would be a challenge because she can say e i d and that's that on that. With this dude?
He comes close enough and Jason doesn't think twice, jaw tensing.
The transformation stops pretty much the second he rips two fingers off, and the guy's so so lucky that Jason's got a date tonight, because otherwise he'd have taken the whole hand. "Oh, shut up," he says, voice all in a low growl. "Fucked up my hair and for what?" He rips off his body armour, taking a deep breath and feels a larger, deeper cavity expand, a howl bubbling up. Boots come off next, and thank fuck his undersuit's stretchy enough to deal with new knees and new ankles and the, uh, fur. "Seriously," he tells the man sobbing on the ground, "you're not even gonna bleed out from that, I'm the one that had your fingers in my mouth. This is what you get for turning everyone who dated your ex into dogs, asshole. And there's at least one more fucker out there turning people into turtles, 'cos when it rains shitheads it sure does pour. "
Unfortunately the guy passes out halfway through Jason's rant, though Jason didn't think he could've been turned back into a human regardless, on account of the missing fingers. He pulls his phone out of his straining pants, handled delicately between 2-inch long claws, and tries to tap it.
Astonishingly, touch screen technology hasn't yet ascended to the level of being able to parse fur. Jason takes a second to look at the severed fingers and considers using them as a stylus, before deciding that he's not quite at that level of desperation yet. Instead, he sighs and presses his muzzle to the screen, because dog noses are skin, right?
The phone comes alight, and it's 10:53 PM. Awful early end for a Red Hood night shift, but he was supposed to get dinner with Bruce at their favourite little late-night Peruvian food truck at 11. Urghhhhh, showing up a little bloody is one thing, but even Bruce's best just-some-guy disguise can't do shit to disguise the fact that Jason's kind of a werewolf at the moment. He cannot, however, send an update text without resulting to finger-pens, so he has to prioritise.
Glad that no one's hear to witness this, he nuzzles his phone in the complicated pattern that starts a direct call to the Cave. The dial tone is the theme tune to some old cartoon Bruce used to watch, and Jason's unsure what it says about all of them that despite the fact that the Cave is always manned on patrol nights, the person at the other end always takes a good few seconds to answer anything that isn't a distress signal, like a manufactured lag so that, oh, some unnamed person might hum along to the music, mayhaps even bop their head a little, pointed ears grooving.
It helps settle him in his (new) skin, enough that he's mostly calm when Alfred picks up. "Hey, Agent A. Got a hot one passed out behind LaSalle's, and he got me good before I got him back. Uhm. You know the Red Penguin situation from a while back?"
Alfred's long-suffering sigh makes Jason want to grin, but he's sure he looks a sight with lips drawing up and away from too many teeth. "Yeah, basically that, except I got zapped into some type of dog and I stopped him halfway."
"And you are all right, sir? You're terribly chatty considering your, ah, circumstances."
Jason barks(!) a laugh at that. "You can say that again. I'm a werewolf lookin' monstrosity, but it's date night and I might as well go and hitch a ride with B, test this body out. Can you get someone to pick this dude up, and maybe call a magician to get me fixed up?"
"Are you certain you would not rather just come home, sir?" Alfred asks gamely, but Jason is already fully invested in freaking the hell out of Bruce.
"Gotta keep him on his toes, you know how it is. If something goes wrong, though, you're gonna hear about it, A. That okay with you?"
Another long-suffering, incredibly affectionate sigh. "Of course, sir. And if you've the chance, do pick up some eggs on the way back. I've a mind to bake tomorrow."
"Gonna get you eggs if it kills me, A," Jason says cheerfully, even if as he is now it's all a menacing growl. "See you in a few."
Putting his phone away is another exercise in delicacy, and so is putting the fingers in a little evidence bag that he tapes to the unconscious sorcerer, but after that?
Jason grins at the moonlight, and then runs up a fucking wall, claws digging chunks out of concrete. If he howls when he's right at the top while perched on an old air-conditioning unit, well. Who's going to rat him out?
-
Bruce is standing a little ways away from Sabor Peruano, calm and relaxed on this warm summer's night on the face of him, but below the makeup and under his skin he's grinding his teeth. Jason's not usually late for date nights, and certainly never without calling ahead to say he's gotten a little caught up, but it's now 11:15 and the only thing stopping him from ducking into the closest safehouse for his Batsuite Lite is Alfred's mysterious text saying that there's been a Situation with Red Hood, but that he was on his way.
He's still awful tempted to just turn on the tracker for Jason and run away into the night, but just as he's deciding to lean into his worst, basest instinct, Victor from the food truck catches sight of him and yells for him to come over. "Hey, Baxter! Where's Jay?"
Ah, he's caught. It'd be too impolite to just pretend he didn't hear Victor and disappear into the night, and he didn't want to risk slighting the best ceviche-maker of Gotham City. "Hello," he says politely, walking closer towards the food truck, keeping an eye on the dark of the Gotham Memorial Park that stretches out behind them. He can't remember if 'Baxter' has ever professed to be much of an animal enthusiast, but perhaps he can pretend he spotted some type of rare animal (a tree frog, maybe? Some manner of squirrel?) and run off into the bush, make a loop 'round and out to hunt down Jason. "He's running a little late. I'm a bit worried."
Victor frowns, because he's a good man who doesn't deserve to be told lies about frogs. "You tried calling him? Want some shrimp soup while you wait? Prawns came in real juicy and sweet, and I know you're a soup kind of man. C'mere, you're a big bad cool-guy lawyer in the daytime, Bax, but I know that really you're always tired and underfed." Not even waiting for a response, the man starts doling out soup. "You've said you don't cook much, but you really should learn, so's you and Jay can have dates at home instead of keeping me company every other Thursday night, hey."
The bushes rustle in the background, and Bruce's eyes narrow. "Why would I deprive myself of an excuse to come and eat your food, Victor?" he points out, wondering if it's possibly the other, more mysterious Gotham Cryptid, Christina the Bobcat. Rumour says that she used to be part of Harley's menagerie, and she allegedly bit off the tip of the Joker's ear during their explosive break up. After that invaluable contribution to the city, she supposedly now prowls the Memorial Park, biting the ears off men who don't treat their partners well. Bruce hasn't come across a bobcat in all his years being the Bat, but there's a first time for everything...
The bushes rustle again in a manner that distinctly implies that there's something big behind them, and Bruce is forced to address the fact that he doesn't know how big bobcats get. First priority is to ensure Victor stays safe and secure in his truck, so it's vital not to let on that something might be Wrong. He reaches up and accepts his paper bowl of shrimp chupe, and smiles the tired strained smile of a gently depressed corporate drone. "Thank you. Jay cooks for me plenty anyways, I'll have you know. I'm not allowed to cook anymore because I set off the fire alarm the last three times I tried to make an omelette, and I can't argue that he's wrong to ban me from the kitchen."
Victor throws his head back and laughs, hearty and hale, tickled redder than pink at the concept of well-built, stony-faced Baxter being the timid, non-argumentative type. It makes its own type of sense, given that in the early days Bax had calmly, sweatily consumed food he found unpleasantly spicy until Jay had intervened to say the man can't actually bear that much jalapeño.
Bruce laughs along with him, leaning into the counter of the truck with mirth, grabbing a little paring knife and tucking it into his sleeve in a smooth, unseen movement. "Come now, Victor, I think I get teased enough at home."
"Sorry, sorry," Victor says, tears in his eyes. "You must be terrifying in the court room, I literally saw you make that guy who called me a slur burst into tears, but it's a miracle how timid you actually are."
"It's a curse," Bruce says mildly, knife at the ready as the rustling comes closer. It's big, it's big, it feels awful tall even for the famed, phantasmic Christina Bob-cat, but at least there aren't a lot of civilians. "Plus you've met Jay. A courtroom judge and another lawyer can only do so much, you know? We have, ah, laws. The kitchen though, is Jay's territory. I've been forbidden from it, and I'm not fighting him for it." He makes a suitably concerned face. "He doesn't care about laws. I'd die."
Victor laughs again, but it tapers into something gentle that melts into the night. "He takes care of you pretty good though, doesn't he? Always gets extra empanadas whenever it's just him come by to pick food up for you two."
"He does," Bruce agrees, serious and honest. "And I'm worried that he's not here yet." He palms his knife, making out the shape of something massive and looming just past the dark brush. "Hey, Victor, can you just do a takeaway of our usual order? I'll step away and try calling him again."
"Of course," Victor says cheerfully, hustling away to knock up two sets of ceviche and lomo saltado with rice, while Bruce steps to the back of the truck with a vaguely apologetic look.
Knife out, he quietly stalks towards the treeline. "Listen," he says, "if you're thinking of robbing my friend Victor, I'm going to have to ask you to leave-"
"You gonna make me, are you?" says a familiar-unfamiliar voice. "What happened to being a shy kinda guy, huh?"
Bruce frowns. "Jason?" he whispers.
And there Jason is, the whole of him, ears perked up, forelock-fur hanging over his eyes, teeth gleaming in the quiet dark.
"Hey, B," this monstrous thing says, leaning in to press his muzzle to Bruce's cheek. "Surprise? Wasn't gonna let a little shape-shifting fuck up date night, was I?"
"Hello," Bruce says dazedly, reaching up instinctively to stroke Jason's jaw. The fur is coarse and thick, and there's more jaw than usual, but it's nevertheless as soothing as it always is. "Are you all right?" He frowns. "Are you taller?"
Jason huffs a laugh that sounds more like a woof, and rubs his jaw all over the crown of Bruce's head. "Ankles are higher on were-dogs, I guess. And I'm fine." Running howling across rooftops does wonders for the mood. "But can you order extra beef for me? Feeling all typa hungry right now."
"Jason!" Bruce hisses in surprise when Jason's massive paw pulls him even closer, the better to enjoy him with.
Jason's just trying his damn best not to pant. "Alllll types of hungry," Jason says in a low growl, holding Bruce tight around the waist, inhaling deep as he enjoys scents he's never had access to before.
Bruce goes stiff(!) in his arms, before Jason gets flicked right on the tip of his sensitive nose. "Bad dog," Bruce says, all mussed and red-cheeked, and Jason's so close to saying fuck the lomo saltado, come try some real-deal doggy-style, heh heh, before he gets bapped on the nose once more. "Bad dog," Bruce says again, stepping away while Jason's still busy whining. "I'm going to pick up our food, and we're going to go home." He neatens up his hair, neatens up his neat little polo shirt, and then turns to smile his million-dollar one-hit-KO smile at Jason. "If you're good, I might even let you on the furniture."
He leaves Jason agog in the woods, and when the damn (sweet) fool starts howling, Bruce picks up their order from Victor and says "Jay said to say hello."
-
Jason's a healthy young man, has a pretty healthy libido that only got healthier after his whole-hearted pursuit of B ended up with the man now being an unbearably hot, infuriating mess outside and inside the bedroom. This whole dog-man thing though, god.
Bruce just smells really nice. So does Victor's take-out, of course, but once Jason gets looked over by Alfred and is cleared to have dinner, the beef and the fish got gulped up right quick while Bruce just stares at him quizzically and jots down little notes on his little notepad (BatComputers are BatBanned on date nights, after all). Belly full, Alfred gone upstairs with eggs Bruce had bought at a bodega, all Jason can think about while licking his chops is licking Bruce. God, did he roll around in steak before he left the Manor? To Jason's new-and-improved nose, Bruce smells warm and delicious, like smoky barbecue sauce slathered on the love your life.
He's.... in a hell of a shape right now, and while Bruce is plenty adventurous in bed, Jason's not even 100% sure how to, uh, summon his dick, never mind how he'd go about convincing Bruce to have a taste. He can't stop thinking about it, how he's big and Bruce is his and how his paws go 'round most of Bruce's waist, how he's always wanted to dig his teeth into Bruce and now he's got more teeth than ever and he just wants to bite down and not let go.
Without realising it, Jason's shuffled across the Cave to come to a rest by Bruce's feet, resting his muzzle across Bruce's thigh. God above, this close it's a miracle twelve different ways that he's not just ripping Bruce's clothes off and just, nn, devouring him. He's considering tugging Bruce's fly down with a fang when a hand starts rubbing between his ears, careful fingers running through thick, long fur. It feels like lightning buzzing through his brain, and when Bruce's hand travels down to Jason's nape then round to the corner of his jaw, it's more bone-melting even than the curse. He can't resist the desire to pant, and he has to reach back to pull his fuck-off massive tail out from where it'd been shoved down a pant leg because the wagging's threatening to tear through the seams.
"God," he says, and it's more a growl than it is a word as he presses harder into Bruce's touch. "I'll give you a million dollars, just keep doin' that."
Above him Bruce huffs a little laugh, and he gets more pets between the ears. Jason's eyes are closed now, he's pretty sure he's drooling, and his tail's whipping up a storm behind him; heaven, good god, it's heaven. "Good boy," Bruce tells him in a half-earnest half-smarmy tone, and Jason's ashamed to say the tail wagging gets even more vigorous.
"You ain't seen nothing yet," Jason warns, twisting slightly to very very delicately nip at the very tips of Bruce's fingers. He gets rubbed along the muzzle for his trouble, a curious thumb pushing his lip up to press against his canine. "Careful, B. Bad idea to go 'round tempting a badly-trained dog." And it's unseemly to show off, sure, but he makes a production of licking Bruce's hand.
Look at the length of this tongue! Imagine it being put to better use than talking smack!
Bruce looks at him with an expression of deep concentration, before leaning over to bonk their foreheads together. "You look like a good boy to me," he says like it's a statement of fact, and Jason is so sure Bruce doesn't mean it to be a little scandalous and salacious, dog's master and boy's father and wolf-man's lover all at once, but he's beginning to believe in his ability to manifest his cock, oh, oh, the appeal of humping someone's leg is suddenly Becoming Clear.
Jason pulls back, but only so that he can get enough space to get to his feet. Bruce doesn't startle or turn away, just keeps looking at him with a thoughtful little frown that doesn't shift off even when Jason gets all up in his space, bowed over with claws digging into the back of Bruce's seat.
"Bruce," Jason says, all gone and guttural, "look, we haven't discussed limits and shit for this exact situation, but if you don't want to rapidly broaden your horizons re: interspecies relations, you're gonna need to give me some space." This very earnest statement gets punctuated by Jason sticking his whole damn face into the side of Bruce's neck and, urgh, snuffling. "God love me but your cologne maker deserves a fucking Nobel prize and a lifetime's supply of handjobs." He whines, and only realises that he'd instinctively tried to climb onto Bruce's lap when the chair starts creaking and groaning.
Instead of shooing him off, though, Bruce just laughs at him and rests his hands 'round Jason's hips, like he has any hope of holding Jason's bulk up should the chair collapse. "My horizons re: interspecies relations are, I suspect, broader than you'd expect." He presses a kiss to just under Jason's jaw. "Go on. Ask, and we'll see if you'll receive."
A lifetime passes in a fucking second, Jason's brain running at ten thousand miles a minute as he parses the words that have just come out of Bruce's mouth. He runs a mental tally of all the non-humans in the League, and then has to figure out if he's outrageously jealous or aroused or some vivid, feverish combination of the two. Just when he opens his mouth to say please or potentially just howl, though, the alarms blare, and Alfred's voice comes over the speakers.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, sirs, but there's a report of a drunken man turning everyone within a 10 meter radius of him into American toads. No one else can get to him for another hour at the very least, so if you have a moment, Master Bruce?"
"Alfred, I'm on my way." Bruce pats Jason's broad, broad back, and looks vaguely apologetic. "Some other time, Jason."
Jason does howl, and wishes he had something to gnaw to pieces. "This conversation is not over," he growls, pointing a pointy claw right at Bruce's face. "Also, not a chance in hell I'm letting you go out alone. I'm all for trying new things, but I'm not gonna be into a half-toad Batman."
He takes another look at Bruce who's mussed and flushed, and he has to sigh. "Probably," he adds, because Jason always tries to be honest with at least himself.
-
On the one hand, there's little need for the Red Hood's red hood when he's now this massive jackal-looking thing with knives for teeth. On the other hand, Jason feels a little underdressed in just his undersuit. Bruce solves the problem by machining a red bat symbol out of the stuff Batarangs are made of, and pinning it to Jason's front while he gets ready.
"If this goes on for longer, we'll figure out an alternative for your leather jacket," he says matter-of-factly. "Do not take any hits for me, you aren't armoured."
"Act like an idiot, get treated like an idiot," Jason tell him even as he vigorously rubs up against Bruce's uniform, marking his territory as thoroughly as he can manage. "I won't need to take hits for you if you don't put your dumb ass in harm's way, consider this."
Bruce doesn't respond beyond a heavy, heavy sigh. "Are you sure sure you wouldn't rather just sit this one out?"
Jason affectionately bites down on a bat ear, and thinks whoops when a chunk of titanium alloy crumples under magicked teeth. "Not a chance in hell, B."
-
Turns out that even a magician drunk on power and 7 Jägerbombs will give up right quick when it's almost 1 in the morning, he's got at least a dozen angry toads hopping by his feet croaking at him, and Batman and what looks like a whole-ass literal werewolf drop down on him from the 12-storey building next to the cheapest, shittiest student bar on 5th street.
Jason's barely landed on his feet (paws?) before suspect Jacob Harry Stevens is in a dead faint on the ground, eyes rolled to the back of his head as his dozen toad-victims all swarm to stomp their sticky icky feet on his dumb stupid face. Jason wolf-whistles(!), amused and lightly embarrassed for the man. "Other fucker at least really tried to get me, you know? This dude's just a chump." He licks his teeth. "Any idea what body part I need to tear off to stop him from being trigger-happy?"
"None of them," Bruce says in his Batty growl, shoving Jason's face away from where he'd been sniffing at (poor) Jacob Harry Stevens. "Everyone who was turned into a toad, hop once at the count of three. One, two, three."
Right on cue, all 12 toads jump, 4 exceptionally viciously right on top of Jacob Harry Stevens' slack face. Bruce is too professional to sigh in uniform, but it's clear that he wants to. One of the toads croaks at him, potentially out of sympathy. Bruce nods gravely back. "Did he cast a spell on you with his hands? Did he say the spell out loud? Any ideas?"
There's a chorus of toad song as they hold a quorum, before the wartiest one of them all takes a giant leap and lands on top of Jacob Harry Stevens' right hand. There's more hopping agreement, and Batman holds his hand up. Like a well-trained choir watching the lead of a stern-but-fair conductor, they all go quiet.
"Good job," he tells the assembled amphibians, and Jason feels disgustingly jealous.
Bruce kneels down on the ground and pulls out a roll of Bat tape, curling Jacob Harry Stevens' hand into a fist and taping it immobile. "Red Hood, get all the toads in the Bat mobile. We'll need to get them somewhere safe before a League member can come by to undo the magic."
Jason eyes the little hoppy bastards, and he gets eyed right back. "Can't we just tell them to like, hang around in this area, and we'll come back tomorrow?" he asks optimistically, wondering if puppy dog eyes are a thing he can do when he's almost 7 feet of toothy monster.
Bruce just looks pained. "Of course not," he says, protective of all of Gotham, warts and all. The toad-people clearly appreciate his sentiment, as they start a mass migration to hide inside his cape. "They're civilians, Red Hood. Our duty is to protect them."
"I don't remember signing up for any of that," Jason says, pretty sure at least four separate Gothamatoads are jeering at him from behind Bruce's legs. "Tell you what, you handle your little warty brood, I'll grab our magic man to go."
Bruce seems amenable to that compromise, turning around with a flourish that would be dramatic if his cape wasn't being weighed down by many, many toads. He stops halfway to the BatMobile, so suddenly that 2 toads hop into the back of his calves, before looking back over at Jason with a concerned twist to the corner of his mouth. "You're not going to eat him, are you?"
Jason bares his teeth as he hoists Jacob Harry Stevens up on his shoulder. "It's not him that I want to eat," he grumbles very, very loudly.
'Aghast' is not an expression you'd ever expect to see on any type of amphibian's face, probably, but what's one more new experience for the night, right?
-
It is somehow almost 3 in the damn morning by the time the last of the toads are put to bed in a hastily-assembled toad enclosure, built according to Damian's specifications based on esoteric knowledge from Youtube animal husbandry videos. They're set up in an isolated corner of the Cave, to be transported somewhere nondescript before they're magicked back to human, and if Jason ever hears anything croak again it'll be too soon.
Bruce is in the main chamber of the Cave, just his cowl off as he finishes up typing a brief mission report on the computer. Jason comes up behind him, and he knows he's the very picture of a dejected dog, ears and tail hanging low, but was one decent night out so fucking much to ask for? And while he enjoys being taller, enjoys deeply the ability to loom over Bruce, it sucks now that they're out of alignment and he can't rest his chin on Bruce's shoulder to heckle his unwillingness to use contractions in his reports.
He rests his jaw on the top of Bruce's head instead, making a mournful whine. Bruce scritches him under his jaw with his left hand while he continues typing with his right. "Be patient," Bruce chides, even though it's a third Thursday and they're supposed to not touch work that isn't life or death.
"Been plenty patient." He makes another sad little whine. "Shouldn't leave a dog hanging."
Bruce snorts. "Consider it obedience training."
"You don't like me obedient, you like me like me." Jason pulls back to nip at Bruce's ear, before worrying at Bruce's armoured shoulder, feeling his teeth leave deep marks in the armour. "Haven't I been a good boy? Don't I get a treat?" In the hazy reflection of one of the inactive screens, Jason makes a sad little face, even if his tail's already wagging in anticipation.
Bruce turns in his hold, strangely delicate but just as unbearably vulnerable as usual in Jason's grasp. He gently touches the corner of Jason's jaw, clearly unperturbed by a jackal grinning with all his teeth at him, and smiles. "I suppose you have been good."
"The best," Jason agrees, barely holding back a woof! His tail's swinging fast enough to raise wind, god, this is so embarrassing and so good all at once. "What do I get?"
With his other hand, Bruce reaches down to the hand at his waist and squeezes, leaning just a little into Jason's wicked claws. "Weren't we talking about broadening some horizons?"
Jason can't resist going AWOOOOOOOOOO.