Chapter Text
Bruce is not going to keep Jason. He told Alfred so, he promised Dick. One thing was raising a child who came from parents who loved him deeply, a child who knew that was true, and who, despite their deaths under horrible circumstances, never lost hope in the goodness that was out there.
Jason was like Batman.
He looked at everyone with suspicion, every movement, every micro-gesture was carefully analyzed to formulate an appropriate response for the context. Abused children, Alfred had explained to him one afternoon when Bruce was particularly stressed—or more specifically, when the butler had called him because Jason's room smelled funny. The answer: rotting food stuffed in the closet.
Bruce didn't know how the hell to fix this.
Now he regretted ever thinking Dick was complex.
"It's normal in traumatized children; they seek to have a certain degree of control over a situation to minimize the possibility of harm," Alfred had said while rearranging the cans they had taken out of Jason's room.
"Where is Jason?"
"Probably in the garden, Master Bruce." Bruce rubbed his face with his hands.
God, he was stressed.
"No one will want a child who over-analyzes you. Besides... I get the impression that in these two days he's been here, he hasn't even shown who he really is."
"An over-adaptation, Master Bruce," Alfred indicated, with Bruce nodding.
Getting to his feet, Bruce walked to the hallway to make sure it was empty, then closed the door and returned to his spot to look at Alfred with his brain running at full capacity.
"I need Jason to adapt a little. If I find him a family and send him off as he is now, the probability of him running away is too high," he planned, frustrated, hearing Alfred ask him what he specifically proposed. "One month, Alfred. We'll have him for one month. Meanwhile, I'll look for a family for him on the outside. But I need to know what he's carrying with him and try to make him..." He stopped, searching for a word that didn't sound offensive.
Alfred didn't help, just looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Less Jason."
Inhaling deeply and then exhaling, Alfred seemed to think carefully about what Bruce had said before slowly nodding. His eyes, fixed on the kitchen porcelain, seemed a little distant, and yet, he asked Bruce what the plan was.
"Well... Jason first needs to learn that he won't go hungry."
"Also, that he won't be killed in his sleep."
"What's with that?" Bruce asked, confused. He got a look of pity that almost said aloud, "Oh, you poor thing," though it was directed at him, which he didn't appreciate. "I have found, the last two days, two knives hidden under his pillow, although I suspect Master Jason doesn't even really sleep in his bed."
Bruce blinked. Well, yes, he suspected something like that, since he once entered the room and saw Jason adjusting under the covers like someone who heard the doorknob and ran to lie down to pretend he was still asleep. The boy had frowned threateningly, asking him why he needed to enter his room at night and that it was creepy. Bruce had mentally shrunk, barely managing to explain that it was something he did with Dick.
"I'm not your son, you weirdo," Jason had replied without blinking, giving him his back in bed, still furious about being "kidnapped," as he put it.
Which, by the way, he hadn't stopped reminding him of.
"I suppose we'll add language to that list."
"Manners," Alfred corrected, because the boy swore like a sailor. "Besides, we must convince him to stop smoking and put some weight on him," he indicated.
Nodding, Bruce added the medical check-up to his mental list.
"Okay, let's recap. Stop hoarding food, sleep in his bed, improve his treatment of adults, manners, get him a medical check-up."
"A bit of integration with other children wouldn't hurt him. It's likely some family with a child might adopt him." Bruce found himself shaking his head.
"No, I want someone without children. It could be counterproductive to arrive and have to share the attention," he indicated, with Alfred looking at him for a few seconds before affirming that it was Bruce's decision.
Nodding in agreement, Bruce stood up, announcing that the lesson would then begin now, as he was going to inform Jason that they had found his stash of spoiled food. The tone of weariness was a key indicator of how he thought that conversation would go, but he still headed towards the library, stopping abruptly when he passed by Jason's room and realized the boy was standing, looking at the closet with regret.
His small figure tensed when he realized Bruce was watching him. Holding back a sigh, Bruce advanced inside. The impulse to put his hand on the boy's shoulder was so strong that he diverted it by shoving his hand into his pants pocket.
The boy turned to him, his blue eyes scanning Bruce attentively for a moment and then going straight to his shoes.
"I... I'm not a thief..." he said quietly in a defensive tone, fury dripping from his small, thin figure, clenching his hands on the red hoodie he insisted on wearing despite it being full of holes.
It was one of the garments he arrived in. Most of the clothes he had used these past few days were previously Dick's and, in turn, also some of Bruce's own: some sweaters, pants, and shoes that had enough sentimental value not to be donated to charity after their owner outgrew them. Bruce congratulated himself for that; he knew he had to buy Jason his own clothes, but in these first days, it was good to keep him in the mansion to acclimatize and also, though he didn't like to mention it, to ensure he wouldn't run off at the first opportunity.
"It's okay, I understand that... you're worried," Bruce ventured, and Jason clenched his jaw, frowning as if he wanted to set the floor on fire.
"Yeah, sure," Jason responded without looking at him, though the sarcasm overflowed.
Bruce blinked, starting a "Jas—"
"Well? Aren't you going to kick me out?" the boy asked in a demanding tone, as if it were an order, despite Bruce doubting this boy wanted to return to the living conditions he had before.
Bruce had heard his story, but he had also investigated it. According to police reports, Willis Todd was sent to prison for multiple robberies and drug trafficking under the Penguin's command. A cellmate, under the orders of another inmate, had stabbed him while he slept. Catherine wasn't a saint either; Bruce discovered she wasn't actually Jason's biological mother. Their markers didn't match, and he didn't know if Jason was aware of that, so he didn't mention it, preferring to concentrate more on the cause of death, which matched what the boy had told him: an overdose.
"No, Jason, I'm not going to kick you out," Bruce told him. The boy looked at him, confused. An expression that was becoming very habitual lately and that Bruce began to associate with the phrase "you're a weirdo" that Jason so often told him when he didn't act as expected.
"Why? Is it because I'm a charity case? I could rob you," he warned.
Bruce crouched down. The boy went from confusion to alarm in a blink. His eyes scanned him again for any sign of threat. It reminded Bruce of a time with a stray cat. He didn't know where it came from, but he met it when he was nine.
He remembers. It was old, very old. It was also very obvious to anyone that it had lived a hard life, as it had one and a half ears and one gray, blind eye. It had appeared one day in the garden. It was orange. Bruce thinks that maybe that should have been a sign because orange cats always get into trouble; it's their nature. But Bruce, a nine-year-old who had lost his parents the previous year and still saw Alfred as a strange figure, felt strangely connected to the aloof animal.
"You're not a thief, you said so yourself."
"And you believed me?" Jason mocked, rolling his eyes. "I've stolen before, wallets. But it was because there was no food. Rich people like you don't know what it's like to go hungry," he spat.
Bruce sighed softly.
"You're right, Jason. There are things I don't know how they feel," he said with regret. And there it was again, the look of incomprehension and suspicion.
Then Jason fell silent, nervous, surly, looking back at the now empty space with a regret over his body that Bruce couldn't understand.
"You won't go hungry again, Jason," he said with determination. And Bruce should have known it—who was he to tell the universe how to work? Jason seemed to realize it too, because he told him that he didn't know that, leaving him with a feeling of impotence in the center of his chest that he didn't know how to process. "I know, I know it won't happen, because I will find you a good home, one where you never go hungry."
"Homes are shit."
"Language."
Jason didn't look sorry; on the contrary, he seemed more and more frustrated with life, and Bruce was right there next to him.
"Don't be dumb," he told him, as if anyone had ever dared to say something like that to Bruce. Not even Dick at his age treated him that way; in fact, not even now, when they argued at every turn, did Dick insult him, as he always targeted Bruce's inability to connect emotionally with someone.
That made him blink in surprise.
Jason looked at him as if he were an adult teaching the truths of the world to a small child.
"People don't want dirty kids like me. I'm a street rat. No one wants me, and no one ever will," he sentenced, leaving Bruce frozen by the coldness in his blue eyes.
A knock snapped both of them out of the mood they had sunk into (thank God). They turned to look at Alfred. The butler, always practical, looked at Jason with simplicity and kindness, explaining that he had found his little stash smelling bad and that he would appreciate it if, for future... acquisitions, he chose less perishable foods.
Throughout this entire process, Jason just looked at the floor in perfect silence that hid a cold indignation. Bruce looked between them, feeling like he was in a minefield. He doubted Jason would stop hoarding food, and he knew, from what Alfred said, that he doubted a behavior change too.
Well, he supposed he would have to think of an alternative solution.
Taking a deep breath, he stood up with his hands on his hips. He looked inside the closet, now almost empty, noticed the lack of clothes, looked around, and the little intervention in the room itself bothered him in a way he didn't understand. Everything was still in its place, nothing had moved. Alfred told him on the first day that Jason had made his own bed first thing in the morning, somewhat sloppily, so Alfred had to intervene and redo it, all in front of the boy, who watched him suspiciously. The next day, he discovered the bed was perfectly made with the style the old butler preferred.
Apparently, Jason had learned it after watching him only once, and therefore, the room resembled any other guest room.
Bruce nodded to himself.
"Okay, this is what we'll do," he announced, with Jason and Alfred now looking at him. Advancing to the desk, he took a small box for storing notebooks and books, showing it to Jason. "Here you can keep some cereal bars, packets of cookies, and food that won't spoil. Understand? No fruit; it will rot, and Alfred will have to clean it, and we don't want to burden Alfred with more work," he said, throwing a look at Alfred that Jason seemed to catch.
The tension in the boy dropped exponentially. Apparently, having a Plan B in case of an emergency gave him that degree of control he needed to stop walking on eggshells.
Nodding in agreement, Alfred announced that he would then prepare some kit of food for him, though that didn't mean he shouldn't go to the kitchen to eat something more "healthy" than Bruce's protein bars.
"And we'll go shopping," Bruce announced as the icing on the cake. Jason frowned again, suspicious, asking why the hell they needed to go shopping.
Alfred cleared his throat.
"Well, you need clothes, Master Jason. Clothes that can withstand a blizzard and are appropriate for the weather coming to Gotham for winter," he indicated.
The boy didn't seem happy.
"I don't need clothes," he said sullenly, as if trying to fight a battle he knew was lost. Bruce gave him a pat on the shoulder as a sign of support.
Announcing they should get ready to go out, giving an implicit look to Alfred, Bruce pushed Jason towards his room at the end of the hall. The boy asked him what he was doing in that high-pitched, indignant tone while Bruce smiled and told him not to worry.
Jason's eyes doubled in size when he saw Bruce take out a hoodie, a hat, and wide pants that looked like they had seen better days.
"What are you doing?"
"Well... Jason, if we want to go out and go unnoticed, we have to prepare a bit," he indicated, handing him another hat and a pair of glasses that the boy looked at for a few seconds.
He looked very funny; the glasses were obviously too big for him.
Both stood still in front of his closet. Under the boy's astonished gaze, Bruce began to take out his own clothes, the special ones he had for daytime infiltration: a large hoodie, a sun hat, a pair of glasses, a jacket, and pants that looked like they had seen better days.
Jason seemed not to understand anything, letting out a "Hey!" when Bruce put another hat on him and handed him sunglasses.
He looked ridiculous but above all cute, as any small child would wearing items that were too big for him. The glasses themselves almost fell off every time he moved his head, and Bruce smiled after being ready.
"I look ridiculous," he said, though his mood had undoubtedly improved exponentially.
"We look ridiculous," Bruce assured, emphasizing the "we."
Jason gave him a smile that tightened his chest.
The plan was simple. They would first go to the warehouse where the boy used to stay to pick up some valuables. Then they would go shopping, and maybe they could stop for ice cream.
---
Jason hesitated one street before reaching his hideout. Bruce stopped beside him, attentive to his tense body language and the withdrawn silence that had settled since they left the car (the oldest one he had) parked two blocks back on the boy's instruction, alleging it was less likely to have parts stolen, but specifying that Bruce shouldn't get his hopes up.
"You can wait here... if you want... of course," he said nervously.
Bruce looked at him, confused, not understanding this change in attitude.
"I'd rather go with you," he said, and the boy didn't look at him.
His small fists clenched for a second before being hidden in the pockets of his hoodie.
"Do whatever you want," he spat, moving forward.
The warehouse was just as Bruce had seen it the first time: the mattress on one side, damaged books on another, canned food stacked in broken bowls. It was a ten-year-old boy's attempt to acquire a bit of normality.
He realized too late that he had stayed too long analyzing when he felt another gaze on him.
"It's ugly, isn't it?" Jason asked, making him tense.
Bruce was sure his expression didn't denote that, but before he could say anything, Jason spoke again.
"It's okay, I know it looks dirty," he said, shrugging, looking around with a certain regret. And then Bruce realizes what Jason is feeling right now.
Shame.
Bruce's heart tightened.
"It's—" he began hurriedly, stopping short when he found nothing to say. What words could he give to a child who found what he could to survive? He didn't know, so he opened and closed his mouth a few seconds until he saw Jason (who had been watching him all this time) look around again with an expression that pained him.
He had to put his hand on his head; it was overwhelming how it seemed to fit in his entire palm.
"You are a very brave boy," he said instead, his voice tight.
The blue eyes rose to meet his own. It was a few seconds; Bruce smiled at him sadly.
"You don't have to worry anymore; everything will get better," he said with a feeling of certainty.
Yes, everything would get better, because Bruce didn't know what he would do if it didn't.
Looking at him for a few more seconds, Jason finally walked towards the pile of books, taking the four he had and putting them in his backpack. Bruce said nothing about how they were in bad condition; he thought that maybe... he could send them to someone who knows about the subject to fix them. Then he went to the pile of food, stored it along with some clothes.
"Are you ready?" Bruce asked. Jason nodded.
Both went outside the alley, always keeping Jason in front of him, stopping when the boy reached the street, remaining silent with his gaze in the direction opposite to where the car was.
Bruce followed his gaze. He found a girl selling matches. She looked thin, her clothes dirty. Jason watched her and then opened his backpack, taking out his books, asking Bruce if he could hold them. He felt as if he were holding some kind of treasure, though later he thought he was mistaken when he saw Jason approach the girl and show her the contents inside his backpack.
Confused, Bruce just watched them, feeling surprised when suddenly Jason handed her his worn-out backpack, helping the girl put it on without dropping any matchboxes, for her to smile softly, waving her hand in a goodbye.
Stopping next to him, Jason received his books in his arms, nodding to advance towards the car, leaving Bruce still standing, blinking in the middle of the street. He looked at the girl again, put his hand in his coat pocket, took out his wallet, and gave her some bills he didn't bother to check. She offered him the matches.
He refused to take them, and, to his absolute surprise, the girl resisted taking his money without offering him anything, with each second that passed making her look more scared.
"You have to take the matches; it's a business," Jason said, appearing at his side, almost making him jump.
The girl looked suspiciously between them.
"If she keeps them, she can resell them," Bruce said to Jason.
The boy looked at the girl. Something seemed to pass between them, something that escaped Bruce's understanding. Then Jason stretched out his arm, taking half of the matches and putting them in the pockets of Bruce's coat.
The girl, now calmer, nodded. And Jason, in an act of innocence and trust, took Bruce's enormous hand, dragging him back to the car.
"You can't give things for free to street kids; they'll think you're a pervert," he informed him, with Bruce blinking.
Of course, because in this cruel world, everything was a transaction.
"But she received your things," he said.
Jason shrugged.
"Between kids, we look out for each other. She was hungry too," he explained simply, getting into the car, fastening his seatbelt while looking out at the changing landscape.
Even despite his explanation, Bruce couldn't help but notice that Jason had given away almost all his belongings, even when he himself didn't believe he would end up in a better place.
The visit to the mall was quiet. Jason didn't seem to get along well with crowds, so soon Bruce had a small hand holding onto his pants, probably as a strategy not to get lost and also as a form of protection (an aspect that moved him). Directing the way to the clothing store, Bruce approached a rack with different models of t-shirts and offered one to Jason, pulling out one with the Superman logo.
Dick always liked Superman.
Jason looked at him as if he had smelled something bad. Bruce put it back quickly, though not quickly enough.
"Superman sucks," he said, and hope surged in Bruce. "Wonder Woman is better."
There went Bruce's hope. He didn't understand why none of the children he had taken in had an inclination towards Batman. However, it was probable that the fact that he had "kidnapped" Jason didn't help his cause.
Handing him an increasingly high pile of clothes, Bruce pushed Jason towards a changing room to sit in the chairs.
The boy came out faster than he thought.
"Bruce," he called nervously.
He approached, with Jason looking everywhere.
"This shit is too expensive," he whispered through his teeth.
"Don't worry about that; I'll pay for it," Bruce said in the same tone, trying to calm the boy.
It didn't work. Jason seemed to want to throw everything back at him, but he restrained himself after some customers passed in front of the changing room dragging their own future purchases. Still, he glared at him in a gesture that seemed too similar to an exasperated expression typical of a teenager and not a ten-year-old. He couldn't help but wonder if that was a window into a future.
A future in which perhaps Bruce would not be.
Opening the curtains three minutes later, Jason appeared with a different image. He wore dress pants, a white shirt, and a burgundy sweater on top. He looked like another person. Bruce couldn't help but pull him closer, saying, "Wait a moment," to run his hand through his hair, pushing the black locks back, trying to give him a clean hairstyle that didn't work but transformed into something else, a bit more rebellious, a bit more Jason, who frowned at him.
It was ridiculous how much Bruce wanted to take a photograph of him, especially when the boy blushed angrily.
"Hmph!" Jason snorted, turning around to return to the changing room, indignant.
A very sweet old lady, sitting in another chair, smiled at him with a "What a sweet son you have." Bruce opened his mouth to say he wasn't his son but successfully held back. It would be suspicious to deny it.
With a pile of t-shirts and a few shirts, Jason came out with several jeans and dress pants. Bruce added some sweaters and winter coats to the pile, which he placed in a paper bag that Jason insisted he could carry. Bruce wasn't sure, as the bag could easily be his size. He swiped his card at the cash register, feeling the boy's eyes on him the entire time until the cashier asked if he wanted a receipt.
"Yes!" the boy exclaimed, almost making both of them jump.
Blinking, surprised, the cashier let out a "Well..." very suspiciously, looking between them for a few seconds before pressing the buttons on the machine, the paper spitting out. She handed it to Bruce, but Jason snatched it before he could take it.
The sense of it all hit him too late. The boy inhaled with a gasp.
"All this cost this much?!" he exclaimed in a high-pitched tone.
Bruce gave a nervous smile to the cashier with a "Kids, eh?" to which she smiled, amused, unaware of what was happening.
Taking Jason by the shoulder, hearing him complain about how expensive everything was, getting more and more worried about the money spent, Bruce discreetly pulled him out of the store. The boy pulled away from him to look at him with the receipt in his hand, which he shook. Bruce had to gently take it away, murmuring a "Not here." Jason fell silent with a unique sensitivity that surprised him, though his face left no doubt that he had a lot to say. Bruce didn't doubt it; in the few days they'd known each other, he had learned that Jason held nothing back.
Away from the rest of the prying eyes, standing in a corner, Bruce tried to take the receipt from Jason's hand, but the boy was impossibly faster for a ten-year-old up against Batman. Putting the paper in his pocket, the boy pointed his finger at him.
He is the adult here, right?
"No more shopping, okay?"
"Don't you want ice cream?" Bruce asked innocently.
The boy looked at him furiously.
"NO!" he shouted.
Bruce looked at him, amused.
Well, Alfred had taught him to pick his battles.
"Okay, then we'll go buy one for me. I'm dying for an ice cream," he said with a smile.
The boy next to him accompanied him, grumbling things about rich people and their unnecessary expenses. Bruce smiled at him, stopping at the ice cream vendor. He bought himself a chocolate ice cream, asking for it with sauce and sprinkles, always watching the boy who tried not to pretend it was a big deal.
"And I want another one," he said, taking his ice cream.
The boy's eyes lit up.
"I don't want any!" he exclaimed tensely.
Bruce looked at him, feigning disappointment.
"Well, then I'll have to give this ice cream away. It will be a waste," he said. "Unless... someone wants one," he said, with Jason frowning.
He looked as if Bruce had done something horrible, as if he had forced him to do something unforgivable. Leaning towards Jason, he whispered that it would be a secret between them, that not even Alfred should find out. They looked at each other for a few seconds, with the indecision and desire so palpable in the small figure, who finally looked at the floor to murmur that okay, though with the sole condition that he wanted the receipt.
Confused, but choosing his battles wisely, Bruce asked him what ice cream flavor he wanted, mentally noting the Neapolitan flavor as "Jason's ice cream," determined to include this new, precious information in the report he was making on the many qualities and aspects to consider for the new family.
Sitting together on a bench surrounded by other families and couples, always with the shopping bags at hand to avoid theft, they watched in perfect silence that didn't feel suffocating as life passed before their eyes. There were no more words beyond Bruce's "Let's go" when he realized the ice cream was finished. The atmosphere had changed. Jason carried his own bag of new clothes with a kind of calm possessiveness, trying to reject Bruce's offer to help until he almost fell on the stairs and had to accept that Bruce wouldn't let him continue on his own.
Alfred greeted them at the entrance, and his expert eye immediately caught the difference in the boy's posture: less like a cornered animal, more like a reluctant guest who is considering staying and who is, above all, very tired.
It's understandable, he knew. The boy is almost skin and bones, so energy is a precious commodity. The memory of one of his missions throbbed in the center of his mind: they must put weight on Jason.
"I hope the expedition was fruitful," Alfred commented, taking Bruce's coat.
"Jason is now an expert in retail prices," Bruce said with a slight smile, which earned him a grunt from the boy.
"It was a waste of money," Jason grumbled, but without the rage from before. It was an almost ritual, expected complaint.
Dinner passed with an unusual normality. Bruce noticed he saved a roll in the pocket of his new pants. This time, he said nothing. He chose his battles by instead sliding another roll towards Jason's plate with a slight movement of his fingers, making the boy raise his head, his blue eyes meeting his for a fraction of a second. An almost imperceptible nod passed between them.
Later, passing through the hall to go to his study, Bruce stopped in front of Jason's room. The door was ajar. He saw the boy, already in his new pajamas (red ones with the Wonder Woman logo—his preference for both the superhero and the color was obvious), standing in front of the open closet. It wasn't empty now. The small box with cereal bars and packets of cookies that Bruce had given him occupied one corner, but Jason wasn't touching it. He was just looking at the new clothes, hung carefully on each hook, folded in each drawer, while his own small hands caressed the soft fabric of a sweater, absolutely unaware of Bruce's presence.
It wasn't the look of a child greedy for new things. It was the look of someone who couldn't believe something so good could be real. It was the look of someone caught in that kind of mental, emotional dilemma, improper for his young age, that made Bruce want to go in and comfort him.
But it wasn't Bruce's place to satiate Jason's permanent hunger in aspects that went beyond mere stomach pain. So he left.