Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason Todd thinks this might be what it means to be doomed.

He sits, for there is no other option, tied to a post in the middle of the woods, in a place that is distinctly not Gotham. The man above him seems to be taking his time with whatever it is he plans on doing. He still hasn’t said a word either, leaving Jason with no way of telling what his intentions are in the first place. He just looms over him with his ugly fucking helmet and waits for something. Jason watches him tilt his head once and then laugh quietly.

“Bruce will love you,” he murmurs before tearing the duct tape off Jason’s mouth and disappearing in the nights before Jason can scream.

Well, Jason still has all his organs intact. That’s a start. But he doesn’t know who Bruce is and how long his organs will stay intact. Or if anything else is going to happen. He needs to stop anything else from happening. He struggles against the bindings around his wrists. He just needs to tug himself free. The bindings don’t give. He grunts in frustration and that is apparently loud enough for the lights to flick on inside. He freezes, ancient instincts telling him that if he doesn’t move, he won’t be spotted. His chest buzzes, rabbit fast, even as he tries to hold his breath. He is going to die here. He is ten years old and freezing and fucking terrified and whoever this Bruce person is, he is going to kill Jason slowly and painfully. He knows it. This is it. This is it.

The door to the cabin whines open then slides shut again. Hopefully, this will be one of the last things he sees. Hopefully it all ends here.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” says the voice of someone who absolutely will hurt him.  

Jason doesn’t react. Hopefully this Bruce man will cut him free and he can slip out and run away before his kidneys are stolen.

The man pulls a knife out of a holster on his ankle, lucky Jason, hopefully if he carries it everywhere, the man’s at least good with it.

“I’m going to cut the ropes,” he says. He holds the knife with one hand, one of Jason’s arms with the other. Jason feels the tension snap away as the ropes disappear, but the arm tightens around his shirt. He’s still trapped. “And now we’re going to talk about what you’re doing here.”

Jason hits the man in the gut as hard as he can and tries to take off into the woods.

“Shit,” the man grumbles.

Sticks snap under Jason’s feet, his falling apart shoes are not built for running through woods, in the dark, on uneven ground. He leaps over a very baffled looking raccoon and tries to scramble his way up a tree. He can’t find a purchase, shit. He can’t find a single fucking branch to use to launch himself into the air and hopefully out of the man’s reach.

Arms wrap around him and a moment later, he’s being held like a football, tucked under one arm, the other reaching over to pin his arms to his chest.

“Fuck you,” he swings his legs. “Let go of me, you big boob!”

“I’m not going to let you die in the woods!” the man barks back. He carries Jason off like he’s nothing, like his fight against him is doing nothing. Jason is significantly weaker than this man and he despises him already.

“Why the fuck did you have me tied up and brought here?” he asks.

“I didn’t,” the man says. “I need to know who did. Are you associated with any gangs?”

“Fuck off, no. I was trying to sleep and some asshole in a mask grabbed me, threw me in his plane and tied me up here.”

“Was it a white mask?” the man asks.

“Who are you?” Jason asks in response. If this Bruce guy knows, then he’s an associate.

“A former accomplice of the man you met,” Bruce says. “We are not on good terms.”

“Geez, I wonder why,” Jason says. “You in the kid kidnapping business too?”

“Not technically,” Bruce says, there’s an inflection in his otherwise flat voice. Like he’s laughing at his own joke.

“Oh boy, that technically better not be doing much work,” Jason says. He’s given up on fighting and instead dangles about like a ragdoll, he wants to be as inconvenient as possible if nothing else right now.

“I take children when there is nowhere else for them to go. Essentially, I’m a foster parent,” Bruce says. “Provided you have parents, you can go. You do have parents?”

“Yeah, absolutely.” Aside from the fact one’s dead and the other’s in jail, he totally has parents.

“Great, do you know their numbers?”

“No, I’m like five,” Jason lies. He could totally be a very tall five-year-old. “But if you just drop me off in Gotham, I can find my way back home.”

“Not happening,” Bruce says. “You’re also not five,” he shifts his hold on Jason and stares at his face. “You’re nine, maybe ten. Some sort of growth disorder. Potentially a problem with the pituitary gland but considering your weight, I’m going to assume chronic malnutrition.”

“Fuck you!” Jason squirms. He does not like this man. Does not like the way he stares at him either.

“You’re homeless, aren’t you?” the man asks.

“No,” Jason lies.

“Are your parents homeless too?”

“Nobody’s homeless. I have a place. That I live in. With my parents.”

“Squatting in an abandoned building in Park Row?” the man pries.

“Fuck!” Jason tries to kick him. “Who the fuck are you? The weird guy just said you were called Bruce before he disappeared.”

“I am called Bruce,” the man says. “And I do not mean you any harm. However, from what I’ve heard, Gotham social services haven’t improved since I experienced them.”

“You from Gotham?” Jason asks.

“I’m from Gotham,” Bruce says. “Look, kid, if you’re going home to a loving family, then I’ll let you go,” he looks him over once more, “But you’re going to have to do a lot to convince me that’s the case when you look like that.”

“When I look like what?” Jason asks. “You’re profiling me.”

“It’s two am. My kids are going to be wondering what’s going on,” Bruce tells him. “Dick, he chooses to call himself that, is probably going to run out to try to save me if we stay out here too long.”

“No. I’m not going into the fucking murder cabin with you,” Jason insists.

“Would it help if I called them both outside? Both of them have some… additional needs, but you can see that they’re unharmed.”

“I don’t like you,” Jason states, just to be contrary.

“That’s okay,” Bruce says. “You can hate me where you’re not going to freeze.”  

He holds onto Jason with one arm as he knocks on the door and then looks in through the front window. A teenage boy stares back, tilting his head to one side, considering the situation. He gestures to someone further out of the way and then the front door opens.

“A child,” the girl who opens the door states, staring at Jason. She seems to be about his age, looks close enough to him that they could be half-siblings or cousins or some shit.

“Bruce is gonna love you,” the weird guy had said. Jason feels a little bit more afraid.

“A scared child,” the girl continues. “Dad,” she looks to Bruce. “Why is there a child?”

“Ghostmaker brought him here,” Bruce says.

“Like Dick.”

“Like Dick,” Bruce agrees.

The teenage boy makes his way over. There’s something visibly off about him. Jason isn’t quite sure what it is but he doesn’t hold himself like a person, more like an action figure pretending its human. He stares at Jason too.

“Can you see any signs of maltreatment on either of them?” Bruce asks Jason.

Jason looks. The girl’s hair is sleep mussed as she stands in her large, fluffy unicorn nightgown, pink pyjama pants covered in little gold stars underneath. The boy is wearing Superman pyjamas. The clothes on both of them are clean, their hair looks clean, neither of them looks underfed, Jason can’t see bruises either. That doesn’t necessarily mean much but it means they have clean water, nice clothes, food and that Bruce at least doesn’t punch visible areas.

“We’re safe here,” the girl tells him. It’s like she’s reading his mind. He doesn’t like it. “Meta,” she mutters. “Slightly.”

“You’re a meta?” he asks.

“Um… maybe?” she looks to Bruce who nods. “I read faces.”

“Everyone does that.”

“Cass is exceptionally talented at reading faces,” Bruce says. “It’s also genetic which is why we suspect she’s a meta.”

Cass beams, apparently unbothered about all the shit metas go through. Jason’s never met a meta before but he’s heard stories about them being squirrelled away.

“So, you foster metas?” he asks Bruce.

“Yeah,” Cass says.

“Sort of,” Bruce answers. “Will you come inside if I explain?”

“He doesn’t hit either of you?” Jason asks.

“No hitting,” Cass says.

Jason looks to the boy.

“Do you want to say anything, Dick?” Bruce asks, voice gentle.

Dick stares at Jason for a long moment. “He is not a threat?” he asks Bruce.

“What do you think?” Bruce asks.

“He’s small.”

“He is.”

“He’s weak.”

“Hey!” Jason snaps. He’s definitely not weak.

“Not a threat,” Dick says. Jason now gets why he’s called that. “Not a threat, no fighting.”

“Dick likes to play bodyguard sometimes,” Bruce says.

Dick nods seriously.

Jason really isn’t sure what he feels about this guy. But Bruce said he has issues so he guesses he has issues. He also can’t see any signs of harm on him.

“I’ll go inside,” Jason says.

The inside of the house looks lived in, no shit, Jason guesses, it is a home. But it’s reassuring all the same. The shoes aren’t placed perfectly on the shoe rack and there’s a wrinkled blanket in the living room, a school bag thrown haphazardly on the sofa. It’s clean enough, a bit of dust on the skirting boards but nothing notable in either extreme. He thinks of some of the foster homes he’s stayed in, how extremely strict some were and how negligent others were. This is… this is in between in a way that feels reassuring. He steps through into the living room properly and there’s a games console and a wall dedicated to bookshelves. It’s full too. Jason finds himself staring at in awe. There’s pretty much every genre he can think of on there. Fantasy, Sci-Fi, mystery, romance, horror, comedy, a substantial collection of non-fiction books too. Classics as well as modern. Someone here likes reading.

“I take it you like reading?” Bruce asks.

Jason nods. “You too?”

Bruce nods. “When I can. You’re welcome to any that are age appropriate,” he tells him.

“Then I’m actually eighteen, I lied about being five.”

“You’re not eighteen,” Bruce says. “I will find your details, it’s probably best not to lie. All you do by lying is make the process marginally more inconvenient for me.”

“For all I know people think I’m dead back in Gotham. You’re not gonna find nothing.”

“You’re right,” Bruce says, confidently, “I won’t find nothing. I will however find something.” He pulls out his phone, checks… something then puts it back in his pocket. “You’re welcome to watch me background check you or Dick can make you something to eat… You have eaten something in the past three days, yes?” “Yeah,” Jason snaps. “I had a sandwich yesterday.”

“Okay, Dick, find food for Jason. There’s soup in the cupboard or you can make a very early start on breakfast. Cass, you have school in the morning, you should go back to sleep.”

“No,” Cass says.

Jason watches to see how Bruce reacts to backchat.

“If you fall asleep in class tomorrow, that’s on you,” Bruce says. “It means you will miss ballet after school to catch up on the work you missed.”

Cass glowers.

“It’s your choice, Cassie. Do you think you can stay up all night and be fine in the morning for school or not?”

“I don’t like you right now,” Cass says.

“Thank you for communicating that,” Bruce tells her. “It doesn’t change biology. And biology says that eleven-year-olds aren’t very good at all-nighters.”

 “Good night,” Cass grits out. She stops off past Jason, stomping her feet.

Bruce snorts once she’s out the room. “Still waiting for you to act like that, Dickie,” he pats the teen’s shoulder.

Dick looks fascinated by the backchat too, the way he tilts his head reminds Jason of a predatory bird. “I… won’t?” he says, sounding more confused than anything else.

Bruce snorts fondly then turns to leave, “I’ll be in my office. Again, you can follow me or stay with Dick, Jason.”

Jason isn’t sure which of them he trusts less. Dick is another kid. Sometimes that’s a good thing but not always.

“I’ll show you the office,” Bruce says.

Jason guesses he’s going to the office.

Bruce pulls a book off the case. It’s the Grey Ghost, 1988 annual. Jason has no idea why they need that.

“Follow me,” Bruce orders.

Bruce leads him past a comfortable looking kitchen with a dining table by the window and a fruit bowl on the table and pictures on the fridge to a wall with a calendar and a couple extra doodles signed by Cass on them. He then places his hand on the wall, right at the top of his reach, pretty high considering the guy’s built like a tank, and suddenly the wall splits open. “What the fuck?” Jason says.

“Pretty cool, huh,” Bruce says.

“What are you?” Jason asks.

“Competent,” Bruce tells him. He leads him down the now apparent staircase.

They enter a basement that looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. There’s a lab to one corner, test tubes and distillation equipment and shit Jason can’t recognise sat on a series of benches. And then there’s a computer with a fair number of servers behind it. A gun in a locked glass case sits by a supply cupboard.  Bruce puts the Grey Ghost annual to one side.

“Spit into this tube,” he orders.

“Fuck off,” Jason tells him.

“Hrn,” Bruce looks at him critically then turns on the computer and he has a picture of Jason’s face there, in the house. He took a picture of him, guy’s fast. “Let’s see who we have here,” Bruce says. He types some things down and scrolls through a list of names faster than Jason can read them. “Jason Todd, born on the 16^th of August, 2014. Your parents were Willis Todd and Sheila Haywood.”

“My mum was called Catherine.”

“Not on your birth certificate,” Bruce tells him. “Blood type O negative. You were born with neonatal abstinence syndrome and a congenital heart defect, specifically a ventral septal defect which interfered with your growth, which was corrected when you were three. Did well academically in your first few years of elementary school when you attended, which was rare. You were placed in foster care for the first time when Willis was jailed for two months when you were five. You were then reunited with your family although your social worker noted that she felt this was a bad idea.”

“How are you finding all of this?” Jason asks. He feels like Bruce has just opened him like a book.

“Your medical records, your school records and your records with social services?” Bruce asks, as if this is nothing.

“Yeah.”

“Well, there are ways to do it manually, however, I have now programmed an algorithm to do it for me for simple cases. I put your face in and it does all the jobs I would normally do. Carrying on, your father was arrested again when you were seven and this time he was sentenced to fifteen years. Your attendance became even more sporadic after this. Catherine had three non-lethal heroin overdoses before she died when you were nine. You were placed in one subsequent foster home before disappearing from records entirely, likely homeless. Your father died in prison two months ago. And now, here you are.”

The man just read Jason like a book. Jason stares at him. He doesn’t know how to respond or what to say. He doesn’t think he has any way to regain power in this situation.

“Now Jason, do you prefer Jay or Jason or Jace?” Bruce asks. “I see all three of them listed at various points in your record.”

“I don’t-” he has so many priorities that aren’t his name right now. “You said- I have a mum who’s still alive?”

“Sheila Haywood,” Bruce says. He types something else into the computer and grimaces. “I wouldn’t pursue contact with her.”

“Why not?” Jason asks.

“Charity fraud. If she can fuck over impoverished children, she can fuck over you,” Bruce says. “Now Jason, you have options. You can take a shot at another foster family and then another one when that one fails and then probably a group home until you age out of the system. Or, with permission from my other two, you can live here. If you have any questions about that, I am happy to answer.”

“Who are you?” Jason asks.

“My name is Jack Bruce Miller,” Bruce tells him. “I am lead software engineer for Queen Industries. I’m also Grey Ghost, the communications, software and forensics expert of the Justice League.”

“You’re a hero?” Jason asks.

“I work with them.”

“I want proof,” Jason insists. He’s never heard the name Grey Ghost, besides, dude could still be some sort of creep trying to get Jason to trust him.

Bruce reaches into a drawer in the desk and pulls out a black card. “This is my Justice League card.”

Jason looks it over, he can’t see anything that doesn’t look legit about it but also he’s not sure what a Justice League card is meant to look like.

“Do you want one further proof?” Bruce says.

“Yes,” Jason says. He wants as much proof as he can get.

Bruce takes his wrist then taps the card.

Before this point, Jason never wondered what it would be like to have each and every one of his atoms disassembled, turned into a wave and then put back together at the other side. Now, Jason no longer has to wonder. “Fucking hell,” he yelps.

Bruce looks him over. “No missing limbs.”

“Was that a thing that could happen?” Jason asks.

“Hn,” Bruce starts to walk away, “Follow.”

“Where even is this place?” Jason asks as he looks around. It’s all a metallic grey until he sees the stars. He’s never seen them so clearly outside of photos before. In Gotham, you’re lucky if you can see Venus, let alone any stars. But here, they’re all there, as far as the eye can see, no horizon at all. He looks down and he can see more. “Where is this?” he repeats.

“The Watchtower,” Bruce says. “Justice League’s offworld base.”

Off world, Jason rotates the phrase in his head. They’re off the world. They’re in space, his sleep deprived brain finally catches up. This is space. “Holy shit!”

“Why is there a small child here?” someone asks. Jason looks up as fucking Black Canary walks into the room. Holy shit! Holy shit! He could faint. He could die. Black Canary is in front of him. “Bruce, what the hell?”

“Canary, meet Jason,” Bruce says. “He was dropped off on my porch. Needed proof that I was actually Justice League.”

“Wait, now I can tell everyone that you’re Justice League,” Jason realises what power he now has.

“You can,” Bruce tells him. “You can go back to Gotham and tell everyone that you were kidnapped by a weird masked man who left you on the porch of an aloof but kind software engineer and he told you he was a superhero who’s codename isn’t actually public so no one can find it by googling it and then he took you into space. Feel free to see how that story goes from a troubled ten-year-old boy.” He ruffles his hair.

“Fuck you!” Jason says.

“A weird, masked man left him?” Canary asks, she looks Jason over critically. “Last time that happened, we found out about a whole new genre of assassin engineering.”

“Jason’s just a street kid,” Bruce says. “But… it seems he needs a home.”

“You’re just acquiring another stray?” Canary asks. “You seem to be remarkably talented at that Ghost for someone who doesn’t like people.”

Bruce shrugs, “Dick won’t protest and Cass has been very interested in having a sibling her age.”

“I haven’t agreed to living with you yet!” Jason snaps. “Besides, you haven’t answered all my questions!”

“Okay,” Bruce says. “What else do you want to know?”

“How many meals a day do Cass and Dick get?”

“Three and they can eat snacks ad libitum,” Bruce says.

“Ad libitum?” Jason asks. That could mean anything.

“At liberty, whenever they want,” Bruce says. “They’re both young and athletes. They’re good at determining when they’re hungry and eating intuitively. With your history of starvation, I’d monitor your food intake at first to make sure you weren’t under or over eating, but you wouldn’t go hungry or be force fed by any means. Anything else you want to know?”

“What would my chores be?” Jason asks.

“You would be expected to contribute to keeping shared spaces clean. If you use a piece of dishware, it goes in the dishwasher, if you create trash, it goes in the trash. You might end up alternating with Cass over who takes the trash out. If you don’t want crumpled clothes, you will fold your own laundry and put it in your wardrobe and chest of drawers. If you don’t know how to do that yet, I will show you. I expect you to keep your room in a habitable condition. If it seems too untidy, I will tell you to clean it.”

“And if I don’t clean it.”

“I will stand there and stop you doing anything else until I feel it is habitable again.”

That’s… less severe than Jason was expecting. “Okay, and what about school?” Jason asks.

“Unless there is a significant reason that you are unable to attend, you will be expected to attend school.”

“What would be a significant reason to not attend?” Jason asks. “Not finishing my chores?”

“You would be expected to do your chores after school. Reasons for non-attendance would include short term or long term illness. Or if sending you to school endangered yourself or other people.”

“How would that happen?” Jason asks, again wondering where Bruce’s boundaries are.

“If you were to constantly physically lash out regardless of what supports were put in place,” Bruce says. “Or if you have a tendency to unquestioningly follow what others tell you to do. Extreme anxiety that meant you were having panic attacks and all other supports failed. And of course, severe enough chronic illnesses or disabilities that couldn’t be managed in a mainstream or alternative placement.”

“Got none of those,” Jason says.

“Then you’re going to school,” Bruce informs him. He looks intrigued. “And this is a positive to you."

"Hell yeah it is,” Jason says.

“You’re an August baby. So we’ll put you in fourth grade rather than fifth, especially with the time you’ve missed. If Cass’s school has space, it will mean you don’t have to spend all day with her or vice versa. And if you’re somewhat behind, it will give you time to catch up."

"I'm smart!” Jason insists. “I’m the smartest person I’ve met.” He puffs his chest out proud. “I was better at maths than Dad by four.”

“Either a compelling statement about your own intelligence or a scathing critique of your father’s, perhaps both,” Bruce says. “Do you have any other questions?”

Jason pauses, “Will I have my own room?”

“We have a spare room that we can convert. It might take a few days though but we also have a camping bed you can borrow for those few days. It would be up to you whether you shared a room with Dick or Cass or if you slept in the living room.”

Jason considers that for a moment. “I’ll take your deal. But if I decide I’m running off to Gotham?”

“Then I will fly you directly to an orphanage the moment you say the word. That said, once I have papers proving custody of you, you’re stuck with me. This will be a commitment Jason.”

“And you’re not going to make me call you dad or anything?”

“I’m not your father. That would be weird.”

“Okay, you’re on probing but I’ll agree for now.”

“You mean probation and I believe you’re making a sensible decision,” Bruce says.

“Bruce is good people,” Black Canary says. “Aloof bastard but good.”

That’s kind of the most stunning endorsement Jason can hope for in this situation. “So, what happens next?” he asks.

“We come up with a new identity for you,” Bruce says, “Of course your old name etcetera are still yours, you just won’t use them publicly.”

“Wait, so everything I have in Gotham will just be gone?” Jason asks.

“Not gone. The things you did there will still have happened there. The people you knew will still have known you. It will just be in the past. A fresh start,” Bruce says, like it’s so simple.

“You’re not actually called Jack Bruce Miller, are you?” Jason asks.

“I am, but it’s not my first name,” Bruce says.

“What is your first name?” Jason asks.                    

“Bruce Wayne.”

Jason recognises that name. He pauses, thinking back and he remembers… “Wait, didn’t you kill someone!”

Chapter Text

“It was a mistake,” Bruce says. The kid in front of him is a tiny, scrawny thing, all poking out bones and worn, grubby clothes and matted hair. Yet, there’s a fight in him, a venom. Bruce thinks he can tell why Minhkhoa brought him here. “Killing is not something you can take back.”

“Did the guy deserve it?” Jason asks.

Bruce thinks of blood on his hands, a man struggling to breathe as his body tries to writhe in agony. “No.”

“What’d he do to piss you off?” Jason asks.

“He killed my parents,” Bruce says. “Killing him didn’t bring them back. Now, criminal history disclosed, is that a deal breaker?” he won’t blame the kid if it is. Maybe he can throw him at Ollie, inform him that Roy has a little brother now.

Jason shrugs. “You kill anyone else?”

“No,” Bruce says. It’s not a lie, technically. He had people to do his dirty work. He just wrote out his experiments and sometimes the Pit failed to bring some people back. The victims accepted it anyway, a worthy risk for the greater good Ra's Al Ghul sold. For the greater good Bruce had believed in for much too long.

“Any other crimes?” Jason asks.

“Theft, hacking, espionage, unlicensced bio-engineering." 

“Those are all cool crimes, not deal breakers,” Jason says. “My dad never killed no one but he knew people who did. Some of them were cool.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t bring that up around Dick,” Bruce says. “I disagree with your view but I can see where it comes from. Dick has much stronger opinions about killing.”

“He know what you did?” Jason asks.

“He knows,” Bruce tells him. Dick is the first person to have worked out all of it and yet he hasn’t spilt a word of it to anyone. Bruce is glad for that. He doesn’t know what the Justice League will do when they find out he is the creator of their every foil, that he is the reason the League of Assassins can make zombies, that Ra’s can reuse Pits and has likely found immortality. “Come on, Dick will have made food by now and be wondering where we are.”

Jason looks around again, “You want me to leave space for the suburbs?”

“You can come back later,” Bruce promises.

“Fine,” the kid huffs. “Dick better have made something good though.”

Bruce imagines something will have been made from a recipe exactly to the punctuation. Bruce isn’t exactly the expert at making assassin children act less robotic.

Dick is stood in the kitchen, staring at three bowls of what looks like Oliver Queen’s signature chilli. “The boy, I don’t know his spice tolerance,” Dick says. “It is less spicy than usual.”

“Thank you, Dick,” Bruce says and he watches Dick relax slightly.

“There is rice underneath the meat,” Dick states before picking up a fork. He watches Jason, analysing the level of threat he poses, how he can neutralise it, how he can use it. The Court of Owls wasted Dick as an unthinking blade. He is much more efficient 

“What do you think about Jason living with us?” Bruce asks.

“I haven’t thought about it,” Dick says. “Is that- I’m sorry, Bruce.”

“I phrased that wrong,” Bruce says. He’s trying to be more casual to not intimidate Jason but orders are still less confusing for Dick. “Robin, think about the boy, Jason, living with us. What do you think that would be like?”

Dick stares intensely at Jason. “I have insufficient information but he is small. He is… scrappy. You are asking me so you are thinking about him living here. You wouldn’t ask if you didn’t want him here.”

“I wouldn’t,” Bruce agrees. “But yours and Cass’s opinions matter too.”

“I…” Dick stares at his chilli. Bruce knows that this is immensely difficult for him. “I think you like him. I don’t dislike him. So… that is a net good?” he suggests. “If Cass doesn’t like him, then it’s a tie.”

Bruce doesn’t think Cass will dislike Jason. But who knows. Then he'll throw the kid at Ollie.

Jason is studying Dick too.  

Dick stares at him back. Bruce might not be taking in another assassin child but it appears he’s taking in another starer. This is what dinner is going to be like for the next eight years, everyone just studying each other. Part of Bruce almost wants Khoa to hand him a child who's good at small talk but that would result in him having to make small talk with said child. Starers are probably for the best.

“Where will the boy stay?” Dick asks.

“We’ll convert the spare room into a new room for him. You can address him directly,” Bruce reminds him.

“You were brought here because…” Dick looks at the boy, “Bruce likes sad things.”

“I’m not sad!” Jason snaps.

“Not sad,” Dick says. “That was the wrong word. You… inspire pathos?” he looks to Bruce for confirmation. Bruce isn’t entirely sure what he feels about Dick calling himself pathetic but it is true that he would have handed him to social services if he had any chance of getting adopted elsewhere. “Like me.”

“You might be pathetic,” Jason huffs. “What is up with you, anyway?”

“I’m taller than you. I am average height for a seventeen-year-old,” Dick takes the question far too literally. “And that is not what you meant. I am… the cupboards are about my height.”

“He’s asking why you act the way you act,” Bruce informs him. Dick can understand his teammates when they use slang reasonably well. But with unfamiliar people, he always starts to revert back to a robotic order machine.

“I’m Robin,” Dick says as if that’s all the explanation Jason needs.

“Wait, you’re the silent, shady guy who works with the Teen Titans?” Jason asks. Perhaps it is the only explanation Jason needs.

“Yes.”

Jason continues to frown at him. He then looks at the table. “Is Cass a hero?”

“Cass is a bit young,” Bruce says. “When she’s older, she can be a hero if she wants to.”

“Just a family of heroes, huh,” Jason mutters. “Beats mine.”

Dick looks contemplative. He wants to help. Dick is so good at helping with so many things. Words often isn’t one of them however. “My parents died eighty years ago,” he offers.

“How old are you?” Jason asks, baffled.

“A hundred,” Dick replies.

Bruce supposes the non-sequitur is probably enough to confuse Jason. “It’s complicated. He was put in a freezer for a few decades.”

“Roy calls me a defrosted chicken nugget sometimes,” Dick states.

Jason actually manages to laugh at that. “Wait, why did they put you in a freezer?”

“Storage,” Dick says.

“Huh,” Jason swings his feet against the kitchen counter as he eats another mouthful of chili. “You’re not one hundred years old, right?” he asks Bruce.

“I’m thirty-two,” Bruce says.

“Oh, just a third of the way there then,” Jason comments.

Bruce grunts. “Eat your chili,” he tells the boy.

“Sensitive about your old age?” Jason asks.

Bruce snorts. The boy is already starting to come out of his shell a bit. He’s glad for it. He thinks about what the boy said again and wonders what Khoa’s motivation is to gift him a second orphan. Removing Dick from Gotham by bringing him to Bruce was to Khoa’s benefit. He doesn’t see any benefit in bringing Jason to him. Either Khoa has developed some sort of compulsion to help small, endangered children, or more likely he wants something from Bruce and has decided he can build him into some sort of debt by repeatedly handing him small, endangered children. He looks at Jason and wonders what that price will be. “When you’re done eating, we’ll head to bed,” he tells him. “Cass has some old pyjamas that will fit you until we’re able to buy you your own clothes.”  

Dick finishes his chili and then stares intently at Bruce. He still struggles with starting a task without prompting but Bruce can see there’s something that he wants to do.

“What do you think is the best move in this situation?” he asks Dick.

“I… can set up the spare bed,” Dick suggests.

Bruce nods. “Go set up the bed. Jason, I am going to need to comb your hair for lice. Wash it and cover it in as much conditioner as you can.”

“What, you think I’m some parasite riddled-” Jason balks.

“I think that lice are common in children anyway, Cass’s school has an outbreak every few months. You also haven’t had anyone about who could help you deal with them.”

“Fine,” Jason huffs.

“I can cut your hair at the same time,” Bruce offers, “I do my own and Dick’s hair. However, if you want to go to the same hairdresser as Cass or go to a barber, you are welcome to do that too.”

Jason eyes his hair critically. “You can cut my hair.”

It’s odd later, sitting in the living room with a boy he met all of three hours ago. Dick is perched on the windowsill, observing. Bruce feels that really he should sleep but he’s aware that he probably won’t until they have full certainty over the situation. Jason sits on a chair in front of him as Bruce combs through conditioner full hair, straightening out curls with each brush. He’s thorough as possible, even though they will have to do this several more times before Jason’s clear. He considers suggesting they buzz cut his hair and start again from scratch. But he thinks about the instances that everyone in this family have had shaved heads. It’s efficient, no need to maintain a weapon’s hair if it has none. A buzzcut once a week, or whenever they’ve been out of the freezer long enough that some fuzz is coming through and not only are you taking away some extra work, you are taking away something that could have become individuality.

Instead, Jason gets to keep his hair although now in a curly French crop that he picked from a list of pictures Bruce could find online of hair styles. For some reason, in Bruce’s mind it feels like progress.

“What do you think?” he asks, holding out a mirror.

Jason looks himself over. “I look skinny.”

“It’s more noticeable now,” Bruce admits. A bath, somewhat faded but intact clothes and a hair cut have made Jason go from looking impoverished to sickly. “But we’ll put you on a diet and exercise plan, start making some targets for weight gain and you’ll be okay, short but okay.”

“Hey, I might have a growth spurt!” Jason protests.

“You will,” Bruce agrees. It doesn’t change the fact he’s the height of a child half his age presently and thus probably won’t be able to fully catch up. “At a guess, you might be able to scrape five feet tall one day.”

Jason huffs. “My parents were both tall.”

“I’m sure they were,” Bruce says. He doesn’t think genetics is Jason’s problem, chronic stress and malnutrtion can hugely interfere with growth hormone. “Somethings leave us with scars. I think this is one for you. Height isn’t the end of the world. We’ll get you some shoes that might give you an inch or two extra if you want.”

“What if Cass says no to all of this?” Jason asks.

“Then I have a friend who loves a sob story.”

“I am not a sob story.” Bruce looks at a half-starved, orphaned child, with a cigarette burn scar on his neck, yellowed fingers, he’s ten and smokes already, thinks about a story of a little boy with a hole in his heart that almost killed him because his parents couldn’t afford to fix it. A dad turned to crime and a mother turned to drugs. The elementary schooler hiding in the closet as his mother overdosed again and again and again. Jason Todd can be as defiant as he wants, as determined to show that he is strong and brave and that none of that has hurt him. But even if, somehow, he is fine. He has a weapon here. A weapon that he could use time and time again to get what he wants, at least until he is no longer small and cute.

“Tip in life, kid,” Bruce starts, “No one gets through this life with dignity intact. If you can get power over people through pity, you should.”

“Thought you were a hero?” Jason asks, frowning. “Thought heroes were all about being big and tough and scaring off the bad guys.”

“They are,” Bruce says. “I’m not a hero. I just help them. Only be a hero if you can afford to be, the rest of the time, just survive.”

Jason contemplates that for a moment then nods. “Can’t help no one if you’re dead.”

“Exactly,” Bruce nods in agreement. “Now, I’ll show you the spare room. You should get… a few hours sleep. Either I or one of the kids will wake you up in time for breakfast.” He looks to where Dick has been watching all of this exchange. “Go to bed.”

Dick stands and leaves.

Bruce gestures for Jason to follow.

He doesn’t tell him who’s room is who’s. Doesn’t tell him that all of them have locks on their doors anyway. He shows him the upstairs bathroom. He might need it. And from there he can work out that every other room is someone’s, but if he has a target, he will have a fight with their door lock. And then a hell of a fight to either dispose of them or take them wherever they need to go. The pyjamas Bruce gave him also have no spaces in which a weapon could be concealed and his old clothes showed no signs of being armed either. He appears to be a civilian child, but Bruce wants to be as confident in that as possible. He opens the door to the spare room, closes the window that Dick left open, probably to air the room out. “This is your room,” he tells him. “Provided everything goes well, it will be your choice how you decorate it soon enough.”

The spare room is not exactly extravagant. There are the things you’d expect, a bed, a chest of drawers, a built-in wardrobe that is mostly filled with random crap that could be useful one day. But it’s not exactly cozy. It’s just a space that exists for emergencies, such as this it seems. It’s as impersonal as the room Bruce would probably have if not for Cass constantly gifting him things. He finds himself feeling guilty again. It was such a fight to get Cass to realise her own personhood, it’s still such a fight to get Dick to understand his. Jason isn’t either of them, Jason isn’t him either. Jason is neither memorial nor calculator nor sword. He is a human and yet, he is also a tragedy, a taboo. And that too ends in a battle for personhood. Bruce stops on his contemplation. “Breakfast is at seven am. The door locks from the inside but I do have a master key for it if necessary. Get some sleep and shout if you need anything.”

Jason approaches the bed and then ragdolls into it. “Holy shit, these are some expensive feeling sheets.”

Bruce shrugs. He never exactly lost his taste for finery if nothing else. “Sleep.”  He leaves and closes the door.

He ignores it later when he hears the boy cry. He’ll leave him to his grief.