Chapter Text
Gotham breathed like a wounded animal: shuddering, restless, forever hunting. Its prey was not only the cracking brick of its buildings, the rotting of wood shutters, or the rusting of any and all metal that was not kept extremely close. It especially loved the delicious treats that were its citizens. From all ethnic regions of the world, they weeped together in the gloom of Gotham City, New Jersey.
Within her once caring grasp, the blood in their veins thins and their skin gradually melts off of their flesh in due time. The lady that is Gotham took great pleasure in tasting the delicious treats that were her trapped, marked, children. The smell of their broken spirits permeated the streets while their salty tears flowed through the groves of the streets, fleeing into the Atlantic. Rays of warm glory and fame had once shone upon the city, but now clouds of illness create a division between her and the rest of the world. The air has turned acidic, far too polluted for a normal person to breathe it in without feeling cancer practically blooming in their lungs. However, her children had no choice. They stayed and they survived.
If it may be from their stubbornness or lack of opportunity in escaping the city’s trap, then the citizens were remarkable to their own degree. Although, there are a few among the many that live up to this standard much more. Ironically, justice has been born from the wrong. As though they are the house on top of the hill, figures perch above Gotham. They meddle with the gargoyles; and, more importantly, they meddle in the virus of crime that has plagued the streets.
From the very shadows that often claim lives, trade money, and witness the unspeakable, creatures of darkness arise. Originating from a single patriarch, an ensemble of vigilantes claim Gotham as their home. They wear the emblem of The Bat. Nevertheless, they are not all alike as such may believe. Adjacent to the qualities of the human soul, a small army, a family, aspires to serving the city with prestige. Now, each is undoubtedly held dear to Lady Gotham. Yet, one prevails above the rest. One that she had once lost, but not completely.
Hidden by his own clouds, her child of kindness had found his way back to her. During his journey, he had seen the very nature of humans just as she does; But, he did not strive to flick away such creatures of man like ticks, as she was. Instead, he embodied it.
Anger
Obsession
Disgust
Numbness
Fear
Love
The child, whom had once smiled as bright as Gotham’s past sunshine, now regularly bathes in gunpowder and blood in order to occupy his time. Without purpose, without drive for action, his soul was sure to fall apart. At that time, when it all stops, Lady Gotham can only muster up her own hope that he will not depart from her… again.
For now, whilst the fire in his heart and eyes have not died yet, she spends her time watching over him. As nighttime falls upon her, the city does not close her eyes as any other does. Instead, she is refreshed; and so are her protectors. Among them on a particular night, her favorite has started working once again, alone.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Jason Todd knew the sound of its pain by heart. Every crack in the pavement whispered stories of people it had swallowed whole. Every shadow slithered with something hungry. Jason had long since stopped pretending the city was anything but a predator.
Tonight, though… Tonight, something was different. Something was weighing down his bones. His ears perked up at more unusual sounds than usual. The night’s humid air clung to his scarred skin.
It wasn’t as though he had volunteered to go on patrol tonight for these facts. They were too subtle to make him believe that the night had been ‘too quiet’, as in the calm before a radioactive Joker attack. However, it was still unsettling. The shock-absorbers of his boots did not waver when he traveled across familiar, damp rooftops. Neither did his bullets.
As the hour struck 3 am, ‘the witching hour’, Jason helpfully reminded himself in his mind, the tenseness of his muscles would finally be explained. He had finally followed the path to the end that the city had laid for him that night. Apparently, the end had been a gravel filled rooftop of a small pawn shop not too deep within Crime Alley. From atop the at most 3 story building, the microphones of his helmet picked up on something peculiar. It was so uniquely familiar that not even the crunch of moving gravel could hide it.
He heard crying.
It was strikingly different from the broken melody that constantly greeted the ears of Gothamites. This sadness was not heard from behind doors, in the aisles of grocery stores, or behind wobbly smiles of insanity. Not the sharp, drunken howl of someone fighting in an alley. Not the strangled sob of a mugging victim.
This was softer. The vocal cords needed for such a noise were smaller than an adult’s. It was panicked, but trying so hard not to be heard.
Jason immediately stopped moving.
He was never supposed to turn his comm off during patrol. Not alone. Not without permission. ‘To Hell with that’ Jason condemned in his thoughts as he did just that. Bruce would probably lecture him later, Dick would sigh, and Tim would mutter statistical probabilities of homicide. ‘Too bad, so not sad.’ He didn’t need their annoying voices in his ear when he was Red Hood. He had put it in at first just to play nice.
His signature red helmet followed after the comm, leaving his masked face to the cold of the early morning temperature. Finally without anything between his ears and the outside world, Jason felt more confident in his hearing. For a few moments, there was nothing; nothing but the beating of the city’s busy heart. Just as he thought the silence of the night had tricked him with a cry, Lady Gotham proved that she hadn’t.
The sound, thin, muffled, tight with fear, fluttered through the air again.
Jason didn’t even think.
He vaulted off the ledge, landed in a crouch, and followed the noise through the maze of brick alleys and collapsed trash bins that now served as a sad excuse for a druggie’s playground. Echoes of that noise persisted through the narrow walkways.
Eventually, it led him behind an abandoned bakery, its windows smashed in long ago. Albeit, it would be easier to see in the dark with his helmet’s night vision, it remained off. Jason began to lurk around the building’s outside first, setting his perimeter as he waited for the cry once again.
Rounding the north side, he saw that a dumpster was shoved awkwardly sideways. As he rounded the dirty dumpster, a pistol ready in one hand, Jason’s masked eyes narrowed in curiosity. Consumed by his shadow from a nearby streetlight… was a child.
A great heap of dark hair sat atop a small head that faced him head on. The kid’s body was curled up so tightly he could have been trying to disappear.
Jason’s heart clenched brutally.
The boy couldn’t have been older than seven or eight. His clothes, loose jeans and a navy blue hoodie that was way too big for him, were soaked and torn. Below the rolled up hems of his jeans, his feet were bare and scraped raw. Baby hairs clung to his forehead from, assumedly, whatever his clothes were wet with. His face was streaked with grime and he shook so hard that it looked painful.
At the surprising sight of Jason, the raised gun, the armor, the towering silhouette, the kid scrambled backward and pressed himself against the brick wall before going deathly still.
“P-please,” the boy whispered, voice shaking, “I didn’t mean to be here.”
Jason dropped to a crouch and put his gun away instantly.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, raising both of his empty hands palm forward, “You’re not in trouble. I’m not here to hurt you.”
The kid stared, eyes huge, dark, terrified; but there was something else behind that terror. Something sharp. Something seeing. Like he wasn’t just scared of Jason… but of the world, or maybe himself..?
Jason softened his voice until it was barely above a murmur, “What’s your name? Can you tell me that please?”
The boy blinked rapidly, his eyes momentarily spacing out, like reaching for something just out of memory’s reach. Finally, in a timid voice and much quieter than Jason, he responds with “…Peter.”
Jason’s throat tightened. “Alright, Peter. Listen to me, okay? I’m gonna get you out of here and somewhere safe.”
Peter shrank into himself, “You– You’ll help me? You want me…” As his face turned down, his chin resting against his drawn up knees, Peter looked possibly even six just then.
‘Jesus Fucking Christ’
Jason’s lungs went scarily empty fast as he had the breath metaphorically punched out of him. “Yeah, kid. I want you safe. I’m not leaving you here.”
Peter stared at him for a long, trembling moment. Then he nodded. It was noiseless, but it was some sort of agreement; that was all Jason was hoping for.
Jason moved forward slowly, giving the boy every chance to flinch away. Still on the same eye level as the kid, his back bent awkwardly and he kept squatting so he wouldn’t accidentally scare the kid off. Falling from where they had been in the air, his gloved hands went carefully around Peter’s shoulders and legs. When he lifted him up, Peter went stiff with fear, but didn’t pull away. His shaking worsened while his small body had to unfurl for better purchase against the big man. His small hands clenched in Jason’s jacket.
“Got you,” Jason whispered before he could stop himself, “I’ve got you.” Peter’s breath hitched.
And then, in the next few moments before they had moved out from behind the dumpster, he sagged against Jason’s chest, exhausted, like his body recognized safety even if his mind didn’t. In response, Jason held him closer, shielding him from the cold wind as he walked away.
With the kid in his arms, Gotham felt smaller, somehow. Less like a roaring beast and more like a place Jason refused to let win.
“You’re okay,” he murmured into Peter’s damp hair, the next part so quiet that he didn’t even hear himself, “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
With closed eyes, Peter made a tiny, broken sound, something between a sob and relief. He couldn’t have heard what was whispered, but his hands still found solid holds on his leather jacket.
Jason swallowed.
He wasn’t ready for this. But he was also more ready than anyone else could ever be. As time passed through Jason’s route home– no, not the manor, those two sentences spiraled in his head. Throughout the trip, he could only reassure himself with the sleepy pounding of Peter’s heart and knowledge of his own green eyes blinking.
Jason’s apartment wasn’t warm or cozy, it was a safehouse in the Bowry. But it was still secure, stocked, and his. Evidently upon arrival, he kicked the door shut, flipped on the lights, and set Peter gently onto the couch. Mentally, he patted himself on the back for turning up the heat a few degrees the day before. Although the entirety of the soft couch was equally warm, the kid immediately huddled into the corner, arms wrapped around himself.
Jason grabbed a blanket and draped it over him. Peter flinched at the movement—but when the soft weight settled, his breathing calmed. Funnily enough, or actually rather unfunny to Jason, his feet were stuck out from under the blanket. It wasn’t like the blanket was small. It was that it seemed Peter was purposefully dangling his feet off of the couch, refusing to let them dirty it. Jason’s eyebrows raised slightly at the display of manners. He could have shoved, carefully of course, Peter’s feet underneath the blanket so that they could get warm before anything else, but he didn’t. The overhead light of the living room glistened against the bottoms of his feet.
“Okay,” Jason murmured, his eyes catching on the sight of redness, “Let’s see what we’re working with.” He knelt beside the couch, medical kit pulled close to him on the ground. It had been lying around from some other night of Jason playing doctor on himself after busting a trafficking ring. The man has an inkling that that's not entirely healthy, but who cares, the kit was where he needed it just now.
Peter’s eyes tracked his every movement, cautious but not panicked. Jason spoke softly, raising his hands yet again in the air and with the medical kit open before Peter’s big doe eyes, “Gonna check for injuries, alright? Nothing bad.”
Quicker than he expected, Peter nodded. Although his chest heaved in relief at how much Peter was letting him do, Jason could not help but feel even more saddened. Under better lighting, he could now clearly see the shine of the kid’s warm brown hair and the even darker brown of his eyes. They were framed by puffy under eyelids, evidence of the kid’s distress.
Jason saw more black hair and blue eyes on the regular than he would like, so the chocolatey sight of Peter was much welcomed. Unfortunately, or fortunately since Jason found him, he wished it was in better circumstances. Refocusing on the task at hand, the man started to slowly work on assessing the kid for proper treatment.
Littered randomly across his body were bruises; some fresh and purple, some older and green. Along with them were faded scars that didn’t look like playground accidents. Jason hadn’t wanted to spook the kid even more than he probably had by taking him to his apartment, so he hadn’t pushed to look at Peter’s entire body. He stopped where his clothes could not be moved. Yet, he still found injuries that curdled his empty stomach. Across his tiny neck was a sliver of lowered skin. Jason’s blood ran hot. His green eyes glowed as they fixated on the scar.
Whoever hurt this kid would never walk again.
After a filling sigh, Jason asked gently, “Do you remember what happened? Who did this to you?”
Peter’s breath stuttered, “N– no. I only… I only remember screaming. And falling. And- and hiding.” His eyes held the same look as they had when he was finding his name.
Jason froze, “Falling?”
Peter’s little body curled in on itself, “There was a light. And needles. And falling. And someone yelling…at me.” During his account, his eyes lowered once again to the floor, his feet tucking under the blanket to tense against himself. Jason clenched his jaw until it hurt.
“Kid,” he said low, steady, “I know it's hard, but thank you. Thank you. You hear me?”
Peter’s eyes filled with tears so fast Jason barely caught the first fall.
“I– I’m sorry..!”
“For what?” Jason asked, bewildered. Under the cautious gaze of the kid, one of his ungloved hands made their way to rest against Peter’s shoulder in comfort.
“For being broken.”
He reached out and wiped the falling tears with a gentle thumb. Peter flinched and closed his eyes, but didn’t pull back.
“Listen to me,” Jason said, voice soft but wickedly fierce, “You’re not broken. You’re a kid who's going through hell. And no matter what your story is, I’m getting you out of it.”
Peter sniffed. “Do you… do you promise?”
Jason didn’t hesitate, “Yeah, kid. I promise.” With the same eagerness as Jason, the little boy leaned quietly against his hand, then his arm. His tired muscles slowly melted. His bare feet stayed underneath the blanket and laid on the couch, regardless of how they rubbed dirt on the soft fabric.
In that moment, Jason Todd felt something shift inside him.
Something solid.
Something steady.
A vow.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
For the remainder of the early morning come sunrise, Jason tended to Peter while the boy drifted off to sleep. Once finished with bandaging the soles of Peter’s feet, Jason made soup. Badly.
Despite his eyes being droopy from sleep and the quality of the soup, Peter ate like he’d never tasted food before. Later, he watched cartoons, huddled on the couch, careful not to take up too much space. Neither had spoken much since Peter woke up. It was as though both of them were afraid that by speaking, this reality would fade away. Nevertheless, the man thought that they had been communicating well enough so far. Whilst Peter ate his soup, some had spilled onto his damp shirt, so now he really couldn’t continue to wear it. So, Jason tossed wet clothes in the wash and found an oversized shirt for him to have in the meanwhile.
By the time his clothes were about done in the dryer, Jason offered to help him shower, unsure if the boy should be left alone in his bathroom. Albeit silently, the boy miraculously agreed with a nod.
However, as they both crowded into Jason’s clinically clean bathroom, Peter’s hands were shaking too hard to hide. Of course the taller noticed, but the kid really needed to get clean. Thus, he sat on the edge of the toilet as Peter stood on the other side of the shower’s curtain.
The moment water hit his face–
He panicked. Hard.
He bolted backward, slipping, scrambling like he thought the water would drown him. In an instant, the curtain was pushed open and a scarred hand twisted off the water almost to the point the handle came off of the wall.
“Hey– hey, okay,” Jason murmured, catching him and pulling him against his chest, “We’ll do it different. No problem.” The wet eight year old clung to his shirt just as he had earlier that morning. He buried his face into the warm fabric, as though hiding himself from the world.
Moments later, together they washed Peter’s hair and sections of his body with a cup instead of the showerhead. After being thoroughly and slowly washed, Jason wrapped him in a towel while he stood motionless on the fluffy bathmat. Seeing the lost look in those brown eyes, Jason awkwardly hugged him. Peter leaned into the warmth, eyes heavy with exhaustion but never leaving. Jason lifted him gently, carrying him to the couch.
“Are you going away?” he whispered.
The vigilante dramatically rolled his eyes, “No chance, bud.” Tossing Peter onto the couch, Jason joined him with terrible posture. Instead of huddling away, Peter curled against Jason’s side like it was instinct. Jason draped the blanket over them both and ran a hand through soft brown hair until the boy finally fell asleep, small breaths brushing Jason’s shirt.
Jason looked down at him.
This small, traumatized scrap piece of a child.
Something in him unfurled and anchored in the same breath.
He’d failed as Robin.
He’d failed himself.
He’d failed Gotham.
But he wouldn’t fail this kid. Not a chance.
Jason brushed a thumb over Peter’s temple, wondering how any adult had ever looked at this child and seen anything but someone to protect.
“Sleep tight, spider,” Jason whispered.
He didn’t know why the word came to him. But it fit.
The creepy crawlies had to stick together, right?