Dick stared incredulously at Bruce. Was he really supposed to believe that the man on screen was Jason? Don’t get him wrong, Bruce made a very compelling case- DNA matches, memories only he should have, a very Jason™ style of fighting. It all lines up except one thing…
The man is just that: a man. Jason was a baby when he died. A tiny fifteen-year-old whose shoulders were too wide for his body and bony knees and tiny grabby hands that Dick had to constantly watch or else the little punk would steal Dick’s shit. His apartment would always be missing something after a visit from his successor anyway, no matter how close an eye Dick tried to keep.
The Red Hood was decidedly not baby. Not a bit. He was big. Big wingspan, big thighs, big guns held in much bigger hands than Jason ever had. Like he’s really supposed to believe this huge asshole is actually, truly, a back-from-the-dead bigger Jason Todd, for real? He stares at Bruce some more, but the bat gives him nothing.
Dick walks away, but only as far as the uneven bars. He’s definitely not done freaking out about this- not even close, but he has to start moving or he’s going to start screaming instead. It’s rude to scream in the ‘Cave, it disturbs the bats.
As he warms up Dick thinks about why he can’t let go of the fact that Jason is much larger than he was a few years ago. There’s the obvious, but that’s not what getting to him. So, why does he care if Jason’s got huge everything now? Big, long legs, big torso, big arms, big- oh no.
Holy shit has his ego grown to match the rest of him? Of course it has, he’s going around proclaiming himself the new savior of Gotham. No one just up and decides they’re the next crime boss to rule all other crime bosses without a massive ego- and a few screws loose, but Dick’s not really able to judge there.
Young teenage Jason was a punk. A cute punk, but still an insufferable little shit when he wanted to be. Older teenage Jason was turning out to be an even bigger shithead, probably just for kicks. Dick would bet anything though that this means he’s an even bigger nerd too. The real worst part about Jason’s attitude back in the day was that he would knee you in the crotch and also insult you with the elegance of a prince. Rip a guy wide open with perfect barbs and taunts, then kick ‘em while he’s down with actual brawling.
As annoying as it was, the fact that Jay’s backhanded compliments were as good as, if not better than, his actual backhand was something Dick really liked about the kid.
Big Jason probably used even bigger words, or maybe he’s switched tactics since then. He really struck Dick as the kind of guy who would start talking to you in another language mid conversation because he didn’t want to talk to you anymore. Maybe that, or maybe he was as elegantly acerbic as ever, or maybe something else entirely.
As he twists through the air, he catches a glimpse of Jason’s picture still on the monitor. He’s so big. Just…huge. As big as Bruce. Jason isn’t that big; he a little tiny thing who Dick could throw over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Tiny little baby hands that couldn’t quite hold the big tome-like books in the library comfortably.
Cute little punk to very large punk. A baby bird to a drug lord. A boy to a-
Good lord Jason is legal. A fucking huge, barely legal man made of pure muscle. Dick looks at the picture of Red Hood again. Pretty big looking boots. Dick hopes someone in Jason’s life gave him the talk at some point.