Chapter Text
Jason didn’t like getting hurt.
He had gotten his first scar from playing in the streets, by falling down and scraping his knees. He had been running from some thugs with heavy jackets full of substances he had seen his mother use more than he could ever count. The smell had been familiar, sharp enough to stay in his nose even as he ran.
He was just walking around the block when he stumbled across some men and caught sight of the thugs barging in on someone. It was a woman who was trembling, clutching her purse, and asking them to stop through trembling lips. She tried to push them away, hands weak but stubborn. He had seen her beg them to stop, say that she had a brother waiting for her at home, her voice cracking when she said it.
He didn’t know when he had called out to the thugs. One moment he was watching, and the next his hand had found the small knife inside his pocket. He swung at one of the men’s legs, moving low and rushing. The blade sliced into the thug’s calf and made the man let out a guttural scream. The man whirled around, jabbing a finger at him and shouting for the others to seize the child, insisting the woman could wait.
Jason sucked in the cold air and turned around. He ran without thinking, discarding the knife onto the floor as he went.
They followed him for ten minutes. His lungs burned, his legs screamed. When he reached a slope, he slipped and fell, his knees taking most of the impact as he rolled down a few good meters before he eventually got up. His hands shook as he pushed himself upright. He kept on running. He had made it out alive, but he couldn't say the same thing about the very maiden pants he wore.
When he returned home, he was greeted with an endless lecture from Willis and an hour of Jason’s mother crying as she tended to the bruises his father left on his face and shoulders. She touched him gently, as if he might break, apologizing softly without explaining why.
Those jeans were expensive and new, twenty dollars, something Willis didn’t take lightly. Jason knew he could use that same money to pay off his loan. Having ruined the perfect material cost him more than just some bruises. His family had been two months short on paying the rent. It made his ears and cheeks turn red with embarrassment and made his chest tighten. Being a burden was frowned upon, and he knew it. They didn’t have any money to spare, except when his father’s money either went to his mother’s drugs or his debt to Black Mask.
He lay alone that night, his body aching with a familiar pain. It was consuetude for him, something that he could never feel like he could evade.
Years after, he had plenty of scars. Marks that showed he had been stabbed, scratched, and scraped. It was history, a map in which the stories lay.
One knife wound, two burns. He had gotten them from a fight with some teens. It was the night of a blue moon. Jason had been locked out of the house, and he didn't even know why. All he had ever known was that the door didn't unlock, no matter how many times he knocked. His knuckles had gone numb before he stopped. So, knowing he couldn't just keep on trying after wasting an hour with futile attempts to open the door, he decided to walk the streets.
During the walk, he saw two people talking about the upcoming vote. He slowed without meaning to, listening from a distance, and couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that. The voting for president was getting closer. It wasn’t something Jason had to worry about, not when he was a kid.
One of the people, a teen who was a couple of years older than him, noticed Jason was eavesdropping on their conversation. They asked him, sizing him up and down.
“What’s a punk like you doin' all alone in the dead of the night?” was what followed as both of the boys approached him.
He hadn't even known he was in trouble. It all took one single glance and small words of acknowledgment before the boys held him down. Hands pressed into his shoulders. They drew lines on his arm, put out cigarettes, wiped off the ashes with a huff, like it was nothing.
Jason cried himself to sleep that night when he returned home.
Months after that incident, he had been walking around the streets again. It was just after midnight, a time he wasn't supposed to be out. Streets were dangerous after six p.m., as it would bring the dark truths of Gotham to the surface, letting everybody know the threats she hid inside herself.
He was a child, just freshly turned eleven. Yet, after years of pain and the scars that adorned his body, he welcomed the darkness. The peace it gave him could only last so long before he found himself in danger all over again, adding another scar to his never-ending map of constellations on his skin.
But tonight, he had met Batman, the ever-imposing man, while Jason just wanted to check out the wires of the Batmobile. It was fascinating to see such a creation of a convertible lying in a urine-scented backstreet in all its glory. Repeating curses under his breath, he never meant for Batman to really find him. Being the young child he was, he tried to explain, hands in the air, desperately seeking solace in the state of his panic.
Batman had stopped him with a grunt, approached him with a glare, and crouched down in front of him.
The first thing Batman said was the very thing Jason avoided answering at all costs, no matter the deprivation or the desperation of not wanting to give out anything that might make people worry.
"Where are your parents?"
It stilled Jason. He flexed his hands at his sides, a nervous habit to ease the ever-growing weight on his chest. The air grew thicker by the minute.
How could he be calm in front of Batman?
"Home," Jason answered him, his eyes not landing on the dark figure.
A grunt was all he heard again. He could feel the heat prickling his ears, even imagine the steam that got out as he was too nervous and might have forgotten to breathe. There was this feeling that he needed to explain more to Batman, explain so that the man in front of him would stop looking at him with that calculating gaze.
Jason placed his hands into his pockets, tilting his head to the side. "I was just out for an air break."
Batman was still as a statue, but the man had tensed up the moment Jason tilted his neck.
Ah, he forgot about the scar his dad had adorned his skin with, all because of a wine bottle, and for some reason, Jason can't remember.
Probably not remembering it was concerning, but he didn't give much thought to it.
His attention turned back to the moment as Batman got up and placed a hand on his Batmobile. It looked like he was thinking deeply.
But Jason didn't have much time to spare. He nodded sharply and dared to take a step back. "I should go back. My mom is probably getting worried."
His mom must be either worried sick or high on an overdose.
Jason couldn't find it in himself to overthink what it could be.
When he took another step back, he mostly thought Batman would stop him, but it seemed like he was nobody's business.
So he went back home, climbed through the window, and just sat on his mattress. The ceiling looked extra tempting tonight, and sleep only did so much to evade him.
Weeks later, he was in the park, reading the book he had gotten from the library and leaning on the willow tree. It was one of the plants Poison Ivy had blessed his park with, and Jason couldn't hold it against her. She was a good person, if he didn't count the body count.
As he flipped the pages, two legs came into his view, making him halt and look up. A boy, maybe four or five years older than him, was looking at Jason with a wide smile and dimples on his cheeks. It was sudden, and Jason didn't know how to respond to such an approach.
The boy in front of him croaked before Jason could open his mouth to question.
"Hi!" The boy's voice was as shimmering as his face was. "I am Richard. But most people call me Dick."
Jason sniffled at that. An amused, yet skeptical, smile crept onto his face before he could shove it down. "Hello," he answered back, placing the book to his side, guard still up as ever. "I'm Jason." A nonchalant shrug was all he left for Dick to investigate.
They ended up sitting together, with Dick showing Jason how to do flips and acrobatic moves Jason couldn’t even imagine himself doing.
Dusk was approaching as he sat down again and read his book while Dick tied some grass to sticks. It was something to keep his hands busy. Jason later noticed the boy next to him always needed a distraction, some room to move, and freedom to flee, even if Dick didn’t need to walk away. Jason realised it had been a habit more than anything.
As the sun fully set, Jason carefully placed the book back into his debilitated backpack and turned to Dick, getting ready to say that he needed to leave now. Parting his lips, he was just starting when a man, a guy in his late twenties, walked towards them. Jason’s body tensed up momentarily, sizing up the man for any danger or any move that spoke of threats.
Before he could act on it, Dick abruptly got up and ran to the man with a bright smile.
“Dad!”
Dad?
That was Dick’s father? Jason could point out the similarities, but Dick’s face was softer than the man's. Maybe it was because of the baby fat that was still prominent in Dick’s cheeks.
The man spoke up, leaning down and hugging Dick in his arms. He lifted the adolescent before settling him down.
“Hey, Chum.” The man was smiling as he ruffled Dick’s hair.
Jason watched them from a distance, two feet to be exact, as he stared. He thought of his father at the moment, but the dream of ever getting the same affection resulted in more bruises and two days locked in his own room.
Dick giggled and whined about his hair getting messy, the childlike wonder still outstanding in his facial features. The man was gentle, but the glance he gave Jason made him still and stare, with sweat forming on his forehead. The man turned to Dick and asked a question that made Jason gulp audibly. He was never good with adults.
“Who might this gentleman be?”
Dick looked up then, his smile still bright on his face.
"We met a couple of hours ago." Just as he said, he turned to Jason. "Jason!" he called out to him. "This is my dad. Bruce. But I just call him 'B'."
Jason shrank back to where he sat, but seeing Bruce stare at him with a welcoming smile—and if the calculating gaze was anything for Jason to worry about—he couldn't help but relax the jaw he subconsciously stiffened, his front teeth aching from the pressure his lower teeth applied.
He cleared his throat and lowered his head.
"Nice to meet you, sir." His eyes were fixed on one of the sticks that Dick had tied and wrapped some long grass around.
Yet Bruce did no more, only nodding once.
"Nice to meet you, too, Jason." Bruce's tone didn't seem like anything for Jason to really worry about, at least not if the man didn't have any alternate motives.
But could a father to such an energetic son be anything ultimately bad?
Tilting his head, Jason looked at Dick, who waved at him with such kindness adorning his expression.
"Bye, Jay!"
Jason instinctively waved back, but he couldn't find it in himself to say goodbye. The thoughts didn't seem to form in his mind.
But Dick was waiting, patient with the storm that rattled Jason's brain. It gave a warm, fuzzy feeling to Jason's chest, and without further ado, he opened his mouth to speak as well.
"Goodbye." Jason flashed a smile as well, making sure it wasn't strained with any of the mess he was.
Days later, Jason and Dick started hanging out more. Jason, desolation buried in his skull, was feeling like he had never smiled before. Dick brought joy to life, and all it took was some small flips and headstands. Bruce wouldn’t always be there, but in the meantime, Jason learnt they had a butler, Alfred Pennyworth, who sat quietly on the bench as he fed the birds while they played.
Things had gone great for a couple of weeks. Bruce would ask him small questions like, “Have you eaten today, Jaylad? Dick and I were about to take a walk to Mama John’s,” or “Anyone expecting you back right now?” When Dick and Jason got calmer and just sat quietly.
The care had been nice, and Jason answered most of the questions with pink lies.
One night, hours after Jason had eaten small snack bars his mom gave him, he heard a thud. He was sitting on his mattress then, but quickly got up to follow the noise, his small steps echoing in the hall.
What followed was a bunch of screams and pleas when he saw his mother’s unconscious body on the floor.
She was sick, and the medication cost a lot. Pills in orange bottles, refills that never lasted as long as they were supposed to. Yet seeing Willis lay out months of money in careful stacks, counting and recounting, measuring how much he would pay toward Sheila’s treatment, made Jason’s stomach churn. The bills stayed on the table for hours, corners curling, numbers circled in pen. Jason learned not to touch them.
Willis loved his wife. It showed in the way he watched her when she slept, in how his voice softened when he said her name. His heart was full of her, packed tight with worry and devotion, despite the difficulties their family had always gone through. There was patience for Sheila, time carved out for her pain, excuses made and remade.
Jason sometimes wished there were some space left for him to grow into his father’s heart too. Just a corner, maybe. Somewhere small where mistakes didn’t turn into punishments, where torn jeans were just fabric and not a reason. He kept that wish quiet, tucked away, knowing there wasn’t much room left once love had already chosen where to settle.
So he stayed in his room, barely getting out of the house and eating less. With his mother in the hospital, there wasn’t anyone left who would sneak him food from the kitchen. Meals were whatever he could manage quietly, if there was anything at all. Most days, he told himself hunger was easier to deal with than noise.
Because of everything, he also avoided going to the park ever again. The thought of it made his chest tighten. Dick was probably there during the first days, waiting for him like they had planned, every Thursday, sitting under the same tree.
Jason didn’t go back.
As his mother wasn’t home anymore, Willis had grown bolder. There was no one left to soften his temper or stand between them. He forced Jason out of his room, fingers digging into his arm, dragging him along to meetings with his bosses. Jason was told to stand still, to stay quiet, to not look like trouble.
Bosses, as if they weren’t crime lords.
They met in back rooms and basements, places that smelled like smoke and damp concrete. Men talked in low voices, laughed too loudly, and counted money in front of Jason like it was nothing. Willis would keep a hand on Jason’s shoulder, heavy and warning, as if reminding him where he belonged. Jason learned to keep his eyes down, to memorize the floor instead of the faces.
Months passed with him trying to grapple his way through life, trying to stand up and face the difficulties. His father had taught him how to use a gun, where to shoot, and which to choose.
Jason had seen people die before him.
But he never expected it would be his own father.
Willis lay on the ground, his body twisted at an odd angle, the wound on his head already spilling dark blood across the floor. Jason watched it spread, slow at first, soaking into the cracks. Black Mask didn’t hesitate. He raised the gun and fired again, clean and precise, a bullseye.
Jason’s legs gave out as he took a step back, his breath labored and body shaking like a leaf. Black Mask had shouted for him, but he heard nothing—just muffled noises and the rumble of the ground as trucks emptied new drugs for Black Mask to sell. With another step back, he bolted, his legs rushing to get out of the scene, vainly trying to evade the guns pointed toward him.
He made it out alive that night. Jason didn’t know how, but all he saw was a black blur dropping from the sky and taking the men head-on.
Jason didn’t look back, never stopping to examine anything in his panic.
Sitting curled up in the corner of the empty house, tears rushing down his face, sleeves soaked through, dust clinging to the floor beneath him—none of it was something he had wanted. He didn’t want any of this. He wanted his mother. He wanted her touch, her hug, the way she used to pull him close as they cried together.
But he couldn’t even remember how her arms had felt.
The realization settled heavily in his chest, thickening the ache until it was harder to breathe.
He fell asleep with tears drying on his cheeks, with no one to wipe them away.
Feeling lost and with no way to pay the rent or buy food, Jason got out of the house with a bag full of his belongings. Staying felt worse, like the walls themselves were pressing in, heavy with absence, dust, and everything his parents had left behind.
The thought of facing his mother—of standing by her hospital bed and telling her that her husband was dead—made the lump in his throat swell until swallowing hurt. His hands clenched on their own, knuckles paling as his fingers curled inward, nails dirty and jagged, carving small crescent moons into his palms. He didn’t loosen them. He didn’t think he could.
Leaving was easier than staying. Leaving meant he didn’t have to say it out loud yet.
His feet carried him to the same tree Dick, and he used to hang out under. Jason briefly considered whether he should sit there again, but without much thought, he ended up cross-legged beneath the rustling branches. His hands dived into his bag, and Jason pulled out an oat bar, taking a small bite and releasing the air in his lungs gradually—an action that finally let him breathe in the clean air of the park and gather his thoughts.
What was he going to do now?
Child Protective Services would eventually come after him. But would they, really? He was the son of a criminal and a drug addict.
Somehow, admitting it—even to himself—made him clear his throat.
He loved his mother. He adored her too much.
But seeing her again after all this felt like betrayal. Going to the hospital now meant checking in. It meant adults asking where his father was.
Jason quickly decided against doing anything close to that.
Soon, with the cold breeze biting at him, cheeks and nose red on full display, he curled up beneath the tree and let the darkness pull him into sleep.
All he saw were nightmares.
He woke up to a nudge on his left, and when he opened his eyes, he was met with a dog almost twice his size, licking his face and nudging at his arm.
His first instinct was to move away, to put some distance between them, but he sat frozen. The dog’s warmth beside him was alarming, sending his senses haywire.
Before he could decide, he heard his name.
“Jay!”
Today was Thursday.
Dick, with a bright smile on his face, rushed up to Jason and wrapped him in his arms, making the boy wince and his hands go still.
Without much thought, a chuckle bubbled up in his chest.
This was Dick Grayson—the fourteen-year-old boy who made everything fun.
Could he fix the storm in Jason’s head, too?
Jason slowly lifted his hands to hug him back, closing his eyes as a soft sob rose in his chest.
This felt nice.
The hug. Oh, a hug. He had forgotten how it felt.
His frame trembled, his hands clutching the back of Dick’s shirt as tears poured freely. As if to hide the fact that he was crying, Jason buried his face into Dick’s shoulder, breathing deeply to calm himself.
He hadn’t noticed Bruce approaching, nor the look he gave Dick that spoke of pity. Dick shot a glance back, not wanting Bruce to ruin his Jay’s mood further.
But Bruce spoke anyway.
“Do you mind coming with us, Jason?”
Bruce’s voice was gentle, but Jason didn’t know what to make of it. He hiccupped, pulling back slightly from Dick’s shirt while his arms were still around him.
“Coming where?” he sniffled, letting Dick smooth out his disheveled hair.
Before Bruce could answer, Dick stepped in.
“To the manor, of course.” A smile replaced the concerned look with an inviting one. “Alfred makes the best cookies. They’ll help you feel better.”
Jason stared at both of them, seizing their desperate, anticipating expressions that almost begged him to accept.
He didn’t have anywhere else to go anyway.
“Sure.”
While walking, his gaze landed on the dog. The dog, almost the size of Jason himself, tilted its head as if questioning him. Jason raised an eyebrow and looked at Dick.
“Is it—”
Before he could finish, Dick cut in.
“His name is Ace. Bruce’s family dog.” Dick reached out to pet the German Shepherd’s mane.
Itching to do the same, Jason hesitated, giving a silent look that asked if he was allowed to be close to Ace.
Dick never stopped smiling.
“You can pet him! He’s really friendly.”
Jason slowly offered the back of his hand. Ace sniffed, then nudged his muzzle into his palm.
He didn’t notice the fond look Bruce cast in his direction.
Jason stayed at the manor for a few days, helping Alfred with the dishes and making sure to tidy up after himself, just like his mother had taught him.
But every happy moment had an end.
He counted the days every time he fell asleep in the big room that had been given to him in the manor. Bruce would ask him questions about his family life, slowly and carefully, until the truth of his father being dead and his mother being in the hospital reached him.
Bruce had been furious with his father.
Jason saw it in the deep lines of his scowl, even if Bruce tried to mask them.
Inside the old manor, everything was surprisingly calm. He’d wake up in the mornings, make his bed with careful attention, brush his teeth, and go about his day without causing any trouble. Being a ghost in such an enormous mansion wasn’t as terrifying as it sounded—he’d only be found if someone actively searched for him. That tiny flicker of hope that no one would come looking for him. It gave him a small sense of peace, even if it was fleeting. The manor was gigantic, no doubt about that, and sometimes it was overwhelming. But despite its size and the loneliness that sometimes crept in, it was the only place that felt like home. It offered comfort in ways he hadn’t realized he needed, making him wonder if maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind being stuck here after all.
Every morning and evening, Alfted would offer him food, but he only ate a little bit, about a quarter of what was on his plate. The rest, he would carefully wrap in a napkin and tuck it into his pocket. Part of him wondered if he was really welcomed here or if people were just being nice to him out of pity. Bruce was a man who had once lost his parents, so he probably understood what it felt like to be alone and not have anyone looking after you, right?
Maybe he ate the food he had saved the next morning when he realized he was still staying in the house. Then, whenever they gave him more food, he would store some away again. But nobody told him he couldn’t do that, so he just kept doing it.
Days later, Jason was sitting on the couch in the most-used living room of the manor, the book in his lap supported by his scar-filled hands. Dick had asked about each of them, the stories behind them all. Jason tried to answer truthfully, carefully avoiding details that evoked bad memories and made his expression fall, causing him to gradually sigh.
He flipped another page and read the scene.
“Don’t listen to her,” the girl said, fingers tightening around her brother’s arm. “That isn’t the truth she’s giving you.”
Jason could imagine the way her voice must have shaken, the panic beneath it. He kept reading, one hand worrying at the crease of the page.
“Whatever she claims,” the girl continued softly, “it was never love.”
Reading the line, he sighed and placed his bookmark between the pages, closing the book and putting it aside.
Alfred was nearby, dusting the desk.
“You seem troubled, young sir.”
Jason huffed and ran a hand through his hair.
“I’m alright. Just… plot overload, I guess.” A shrug gave Alfred enough to work with, so the British butler didn’t push further.
Alfred then moved to place the dirty cloth into the bowl of hot water with the chemicals he had prepared.
“Books may have heavy storylines indeed.”
Casually dipping the cloth into the water, he took it out and gave it a good squeeze, getting all the excess water out.
“But they also offer insight into life, don’t they, Master Jason?”
Jason halted for a second as he thought about it.
If they offered such insight to one's life, what would it mean for him to also write his own story, to write lines that nobody had ever done before?
Sitting up straight, he placed his hands on his lap.
"Maybe. Hey, Mr. Alfred?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think writing my life could offer that to other people?"
Alfred paused for a moment before smiling.
"I think you most certainly would."
On the same day, Jason had wrapped himself in a blanket and just sat on the couch, still. Dick was at school, and Bruce would be returning to the manor from a meeting after picking up Dick.
To pass the time, Jason helped around and started writing random, short drabbles on paper.
When the doorbell rang, he got up at the same time as Alfred and moved toward the door, ready to welcome anyone who wanted to come in.
Well… except for drug dealers. Jason despised them.
The moment Alfred opened the door, Jason didn’t expect to see a man and a woman, dressed in nice suits with badges that clearly showed they were from CPS.
Right next to them, Bruce and Dick were there. They stood nearby and greeted Alfred. Jason wasn’t sure how to act. His palms felt sweaty, and he clenched them so hard that the blood drained from his knuckles. He took a step back before he could even decide what to do.
"Jay?" Dick called out, but Jason was already running, moving as fast as his small legs could carry him.
Bruce stared at the CPS workers and Dick before he patted his son’s shoulder, nodding sharply.
"I'll get him."
His tone signaled finality. No one dared question him as he strode past them and followed Jason.
With a sigh, Alfred clapped his hands.
"Anyone care for a warm milk tea?"
When Bruce finally decided to check on the manor's library—the corner toward the left side—he saw Jason huddled up, shaking like a leaf, tears streaming down his face. Bruce’s eyes softened.
"Chum?"
Jason sniffled and looked up at Bruce with wide eyes.
"I don't want them to take me." A hiccup caught in his throat. "I know—I know I am not useful much here, but I'll help. I can clean. I swear I won't be under your foot." His speech was slurred as another choked sob escaped, and he wiped his eyes aggressively.
Taking slow, deliberate steps closer, Bruce kneeled and gave Jason a moment to calm his hysterical sobs.
"Jason," Bruce started, his voice soft and gentle, "I am not letting them take you away."
Jason sniffled.
"You aren't?"
"No. No, I am not."
The boy wiped his nose on his already damp sleeve.
"Then… why? Why were they here? Why would CPS be here if not to take me?" Jason’s voice was hesitant, heavy with fear of saying the wrong thing.
Bruce only offered a slight, strained smile, touched with emotion.
"Because…" He paused between words. "I wanted… I was hoping you’d stay. For good. Here, with Dick, Alfred, and me." There was an unfamiliar lump in Bruce's throat, one that only appeared when situations were beyond his control, shaped by someone else’s decisions.
Bruce had already planned sixty different ways to handle it if Jason ever refused his offer of adoption.
Jason stared at him with wide eyes.
"I can stay?" the little boy asked, trembling.
With a soft sigh, Bruce nodded.
It took a little more coaxing and soft words to get Jason out of his nook, but soon they were all seated on the couch. Two of the CPS workers asked him questions about his daily life, their voices low and patient, papers resting on their knees as they waited for his answers.
It meant Jason had a choice: another house, another foster family. Bruce hated that idea.
“Do you go to school?” one of them asked, careful not to push.
Jason shook his head. “No.” His fingers twisted tighter in his sleeve. “My father—” He halted, the word catching in his throat, the reminder settling heavy. He didn’t even know if the man was buried. It had been days.
“He never had the money to enroll me,” Jason continued quietly. “My mom taught me how to read.”
His mom. The thought lingered longer than he meant it to. How was she doing?
The worker nodded, writing something down without comment.
“What do you usually do during the day?”
Jason blinked and pulled himself back. “Read,” he said. “Help Alfred.” A pause. “Sometimes watch Dick train.”
Dick leaned closer without touching.
“And meals?” the other asked.
“I eat,” Jason answered after a second. “Alfred makes sure of it.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.
“What about sleeping?”
“Most nights,” Jason said. “Alfred leaves the hallway light on.”
Another note. Another pause.
“Do you feel safe here, Jason?”
The room felt smaller.
“I want to stay here.”
Jason’s voice steadied as his gaze flicked to the side, meeting Bruce’s. The boy was brave.
Dick sat next to him on the couch, shoulder pressed close, offering a quiet presence. His boys were brave.
There were more questions after that, slower ones; about routines, about things Jason liked, about whether he wanted to try school now, later, or not yet.
Jason shook his head once. “Not somewhere else.”
With four signatures and a lot of talking, the CPS workers eventually left. Jason slumped back into the couch, worn thin, while Dick immediately started whispering about which animal was better, insisting birds were superior because they could fly.
Turns out, Bruce had been funding Sheila’s treatment from the moment he had met Jason. His mother was surviving with IV machines and undergoing withdrawal treatment for her drug use.
“Do you want to visit her, Jaylad?” Bruce asked once.
Jason paused, looking down at his hands, twisting the hem of his sleeve, a small crease forming between his brows.
“Is it okay if I don’t?” he said softly, sighing and fidgeting with his fingers. “I… I’m not ready.”
Bruce nodded, patting his shoulder in a comforting manner, giving him time and space.
“Tell me when you’re ready, and we’ll go—no questions asked.”
Jason looked away, letting his thoughts drift to the ceiling, to the small sliver of light spilling across the floor, unsure if he wanted to imagine her just yet.
He liked reading a lot. Jason would stay inside the manor library for hours, roaming through the books ever since Bruce had taken him there.
It would have been good if it ended there, with Jason existing inside this huge library all away from the world and its continents, but it didn't. Bruce took the liberty to company him every afternoon he had the time, held his hand the whole way, and hung out with him there. Jason would have his book in hand, already reading at a seventh-grade level, and Bruce would be sitting in a seat near the large window in the middle of the library, the view showing the forest behind the manor.
He knew Bruce didn't need to stay with him the whole time, and he was sure Bruce was reading history books repeatedly, which seemed boring. He could memorise a book after reading it three times; was Bruce struggling to? That was fine, he would remind Bruce if he forgot!
At first, he was scared to sit next to Bruce or even be seen by him when they first started this ritual.
However, nowadays, he would deliberately pick up a harder-to-read book, sit next to Bruce, and ask him what certain words he had never seen meant. In the beginning, he would wait until Bruce finished a singular page, then ask. Now, he was just lifting the book up and pointing at words without the anxiety.
"How do you read this?" Jason asked, pointing at an ironically long word.
Bruce gave a hum, taking his eyes off the book he was reading and turning his attention to Jason, and the word he was pointing at.
He took a moment to read the word, then voiced it out loud.
"Stultiloquence, stul-tuh-luh-kwens," Looking at Jason, and patted his shoulder. "Where did you find this book? It seems hard." He didn't say it was hard for Jason, or out of his level. Just hard.
"What does that word mean?" Jason asked, completely ignoring Bruce's concern.
Lifting his hand off Jason's shoulder, Bruce leaned back in his seat.
"When there are guests, how do I talk?"
Jason blinked once and tilted his head.
"Senseless?"
Giving a nod and an amused huff, Bruce closed his own book.
"Yes. The word means 'senseless talk'."
"Cool."
Smiling, Jason turned back to his book and read the rest of the page without a problem.
Jason was just walking around in the dead of night, strolling through the halls. His clean white socks, comfortable pajamas, and soft bed still felt alien.
He was used to sticking his big toe out of shredded, dirty socks—a nervous habit he’d picked up over the years. Now, the novelty of comfort felt fragile, as if it might vanish if he didn’t handle it carefully.
With a deep breath, he moved through the enormous manor, eyes wide with restless curiosity and the thrill of possibly being caught. The walls, the carpets, even the faint smell of polished wood—all unfamiliar yet inviting. It was calm, in its own chaotic way.
He didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the bed he’d been given, but he couldn’t resist the small thrill of moving silently through a house that wasn’t his—at least not yet.
He stepped down the stairs and stopped at a soft light spilling from beneath a door. Jason paused, glancing around. The manor was quiet, every creak of the floorboards suddenly amplified.
Cautiously, he moved closer, pressing his ear to the door.
“Bruce, it isn’t like I was injured,” Dick’s voice called out.
“You were grounded, Dick,” Bruce replied calmly.
“You never let me out nowadays!”
Jason ducked behind a hallway wall, pressing into the shadows as he watched. Dick stepped out, almost running, Bruce following behind, leaving the door ajar.
Why were they out in the dead of night? Jason raised an eyebrow and approached the door, pushing it open fully to peek inside.
It was a study, probably Bruce’s, judging by the piles of paperwork scattered across the desk. Shelves lined with books—mostly history, many he’d read—stretched along the walls, their spines worn but orderly. The quiet hum of the manor pressed him to move carefully, almost reverently.
A trembling sigh escaped him as his eyes caught something unusual on the far wall: a shelf—no, a door, slightly ajar.
He reached out, fingers brushing the edge, and pushed it. The door swung open with surprising ease.
“Huh,” he mumbled, stepping inside, and yelped as it swung shut behind him, plunging him into dim shadows.
“Bruce?” he whispered, stepping further in.
Water dripped somewhere in the shadows, a steady echo. Beneath it, faint squeaking noises floated through the air.
Another cautious step forward, and suddenly the lights flickered on, revealing an enormous space: A cave.
He froze, staring at the vast expanse. Rough stone walls curved upward, meeting a shadowed ceiling far above. Pools of water shimmered on the floor, reflecting fractured patterns of light. Strange machines hummed quietly, wires snaking like vines, metallic smells mingling with damp air.
“W-what is this?” he whispered, stepping further. His footsteps echoed off the stone.
Something skittered across the floor, and he jumped. A small rodent darted into the darkness.
Curiosity battled fear. He moved closer to the walls, following a path deeper into the cave. Everywhere, hints of life and purpose: stacks of books, scattered tools, and the unmistakable silhouette of a vehicle partially hidden in the shadows.
The bat symbol beneath his feet made him want to scream. Wayne Enterprises supported Batman. Bruce talked Dick out of going out at night. Bruce Wayne—the man who had comforted him when he was stressed—was Batman. Dick had to be Robin.
Frozen, Jason didn’t know what to do. One part of him wanted to escape, another questioned everything that led him here. Was their meeting in the park a coincidence? It happened just after he met Batman beside the Batmobile.
“Jason.”
The stern voice made his heartbeat spike. He turned sharply to see the man who had fostered him just two months ago.
He gulped audibly. “You’re Batman,” he said, voice flat, hesitant.
Half-expecting Bruce to lie, he braced himself.
Bruce only nodded, moving smoothly to the Batcomputer and closing a file.
“I am,” Bruce said quietly, eyes steady on Jason. “I’ve been fighting for justice as long as I can remember. I didn’t tell you before because you weren’t ready. You needed a place to be safe first. Now… you know.”
“You didn’t tell me—” Jason blurted out. “I found out myself. Did you… Script this out?”
Bruce let out a low grunt, shoulders loosening. “I… thought it would be easier that way,” he admitted quietly, a faint hint of regret in his voice.
“So you did,” Jason said, amusement bubbling up despite himself.
Bruce’s lips twitched into a soft, almost shy smile. “It’s not every day your child knows your secrets,” he said, tone warm, eyes lingering on Jason, measuring how much to let him in.
There was care in that look, quiet pride, and perhaps… relief that Jason wasn’t afraid.