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He’d stopped feeling hungry. He knew that was bad, but there was nothing he could do about it. He hadn’t found any tires in a couple of weeks, he refused to stand on street corners, and petty thievery had only gotten him so far.
He hadn’t had food in…what day was it? It all seemed to blur together in his head, especially now, when the nights started getting really cold and his threadbare hoodie did little to block out the wind. He’d barely mustered the energy to crawl out of the closet of the abandoned building he was squatting in, tire iron in hand, wandering the empty streets in empty hope.
He was exhausted. It was so cold. Soon it would be too cold to even go out, and with no food and no money, Jason was going to die. Or he’d be caught and trafficked. He didn’t know which one was worse.
Black gleamed in the next alleyway.
Jason blinked at it for a long moment before the shape resolved itself into a car—matte black, sleek, with a small bat-shaped outline on the hood. The Batmobile.
The Batmobile, unattended.
The Batmobile, with fancy tires that could sell for enough to keep Jason fed throughout the winter.
It was a bad idea. He knew it. He was tired and shivering and he wouldn’t be able to run if Batman showed up. It was a bad idea, but Jason didn’t have any other choice.
He’d deal with Batman when it came to it. Who knew—maybe he could get away clean. Batman surely wouldn’t care about a tire thief. He had more than enough money to replace them.
Jason crouched down, and set the tire iron to the first bolt.
It took forever, longer than it used to—Jason kept having to pause for breaks, breaths heavy and shuddering, and he had to set his whole weight against the ground to tug the tire off. By the time he got to the third tire, he was getting dizzy, and he stopped halfway through the first bolt to lean against the car and pant.
He needed to quit while he was ahead. He already had two tires. That would be enough to get back onto his feet. He had to leave before someone caught him.
But he’d already started on the third tire. Just—just one more, he wouldn’t try for the fourth one, he’d just take the third tire and go. Jason sucked in a deep breath, and crouched back down.
He heard the flutter halfway through the second bolt.
Jason instinctively twisted around, surging to his feet, tire iron raised, and looked up.
And up.
And up, till he saw the sharp ears on top of the dark cowl.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
He wasn’t going to get away.
He couldn’t run.
He—he could barely keep standing upright and Batman would—he would—Jason had stolen from him and then failed to get away and—and there was no way he could escape this.
The tire iron slipped from his fingers. Jason tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. His knees hit the ground soon after.
Jason forced his gaze down, away from the cowl, towards dark boots and broken asphalt. His heart was thudding in his ears, too loud, and he’d started to shiver again. No running meant he had to take it. Whatever it was. Maybe Batman would just beat him and be done with it. Leave his broken body as a warning. Maybe he’d drop Jason off with the—the police. Jason shuddered harder at the thought. Maybe he would—maybe he would grab the collar of the hoodie and force him up and over the hood of the car and—and everything Jason had tried so desperately to avoid.
Jason couldn’t stop him. Jason could just kneel, and wait for it to be over.
He didn’t realize how far he’d drifted until he heard the gravelly voice, much closer than he expected. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Jason,” he heard himself answering, like it was muffled through cotton.
“Where are your parents, Jason?” It sounded gentler than the harsh growl most people described.
“Dead,” Jason answered, still floaty and detached. There was no point in lying. Not to Batman.
“Guardians?”
What a polite euphemism. Guardians. Like everyone didn’t know what happened to kids in foster care.
“Jason, where are you staying?”
Jason half-collapsed to one side, curling up against cold, smooth metal. It held his weight easily, and Jason could tug his knees up and wrap his arms around them.
“Okay. I’m going to drop you off at the closest orphanage.”
Jason couldn’t help the choked sob at that. Traffickers it was. He turned his face away from Batman, pressing it against the side of the Batmobile as hot tears curved down his face.
“Jason?”
“T—tires are in—in the n—next alley,” Jason waved a hand in vaguely the right direction, “Pl—please don’t—don’t give me to—”
“Jason, you can’t stay on your own. You’re a kid. You need to be with someone who can take care of you.”
A broken sob stuttered out of his chest, and Jason couldn’t stop the raw pain. He’d tried, he’d tried so hard, and it had all been for nothing. He was going to be taken and—and used—and all because he’d been stupid enough to try stealing from Batman. He stayed, curled up against the Batmobile, and cried until he couldn’t hear anything over his sobs.
The tears drained what little energy he had left, and Jason couldn’t even startle as a soft warmth enveloped him. He felt arms around him—he was being lifted—and the fuzziness ebbed around him like waves on a shore.
He was lying on something soft but firm, and he felt warm again.
The surface jostled slightly, as though it was being lifted.
The sound of a door opening and closing. A hand resting in his hair—Jason pressed into it, it had been so long—and something rough brushed against his face.
“It’s okay,” a gentle voice said, “You’re safe now.”
“Please,” Jason tried one last time. His tongue could barely form the words. “No traffickers. Please.”
The hand in his hair stuttered. No—Jason wanted it back, it couldn’t leave, no, he’d be good, he swore—but it was too late.
“No traffickers,” the voice murmured, no longer so gentle. Jason didn’t know whether that was agreement or not but his stomach was swooping, like they were moving, and the fuzziness reached up to swallow him whole.
The orange of streetlights turned to white lights flickering past too fast to track.
The tugging vibrations stopped.
A car door opening again. More light. The hand came back, tracing a lock of hair away from his face. Jason didn’t have the energy to nestle into it, but it was a curl of warmth inside of him.
Every time he blinked, the world went dark for a stretch before he could force his eyes open again. There wasn’t much point to it—Jason couldn’t stop anyone, couldn’t fight back. Maybe if he fell asleep, it would all be over by the time he woke up.
The hand went away. The hand came back. Jason was slowly tugged out of the car and lifted against a broad chest, held as easily as if he was a sack of flour.
The shirt his cheek was pressed against was soft, and smelled like jasmine. Jason made a soft sound and pressed closer.
“Safe,” came the low murmur, “You’re safe, Jason. No one will hurt you.”
That was nice. Jason didn’t want to be hurt.
His stomach did the swooping thing it sometimes did in elevators, and he heard a ding that must’ve been the doors opening. He hadn’t been in an elevator in a long time—most of the apartments in Crime Alley didn’t have them. Where had he been taken? Had he missed being handed over?
Had he—was he already—
“Master Bruce,” came a disapproving, accented voice.
“He had nowhere to go, Al,” the voice rumbled against him, “I didn’t—you didn’t see him. I couldn’t just leave him.”
“No, Master Bruce, but there is existing infrastructure to support homeless children. You didn’t need to abduct one—”
“He said something. About the orphanage. I can’t—I need to look into it. And in the meantime, he’ll be safe here.”
A long pause.
“In the meantime,” the British voice responded, sounding skeptical.
“Al.”
“I made up the room three doors down from yours, Master Bruce. I also took the liberty of preparing dinner for our young guest.”
“I don’t think—soup. And tea. Something warm. He isn’t—he stopped responding. The weighted blanket, I think. And if you could get Zitka from Dick’s room…”
“Very well, Master Bruce. Did you happen to tell our young guest where exactly he’s spending the night, or are you attempting to terrify an already frightened child?”
A sharp, stiff silence.
“I’ll meet you in the room,” the voice responded, sounding slightly strained.
Too many names. Too many people. Soup sounded nice, though. Soup and tea. Jason wished he could get a sip. Just one. Maybe if he begged really nicely—
The click of a doorknob. Jason didn’t turn his face away from the warm, soft shirt to see where he’d ended up, but he did register the softness of the material he was being lowered onto.
A bed.
He’d missed the handoff then.
Teardrops escaped when he blinked, no matter how hard he tried to stop them, and he waited for the hands to come back. It would hurt, he knew it would, and if he just stayed away for a little while, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad.
Something heavy landed on top of him. Panic slid sharply into his veins, but fizzled out when he realized it wasn’t a person. It was soft and wrapped around him. Like a blanket? Why was it so heavy?
Or maybe he was just drowning, sinking deeper and faster into the softness enveloping him, brought down by a weighted net as something…itched against his face.
Jason blearily cracked open his eyes, and was met with an elephant. A small elephant. A stuffed elephant.
“What,” Jason tried to say, and a head came into view next to the elephant, concerned expression, blue eyes, dark hair, vaguely familiar features.
“Hi, Jason,” the strange man said, “I’m Bruce. Batman dropped you off at my house.” Cut out the middleman entirely, then. “You’re safe here, I promise.” Jason blinked at him. “Do you think you can drink some soup and some water?”
He was hungry. He remembered that he was hungry. And if Bruce was offering food first, maybe Jason could drift away again with a full stomach. It was better than getting hurt on an empty one.
Jason nodded, and Bruce reached forward to tug him upright, keeping the strange heavy blanket wrapped around him. The elephant was deposited in Jason’s lap, and Jason stared at it. It looked so soft. He wanted to run his fingers over the velvety gray fur.
“Tomato soup,” Bruce said softly, holding the bowl in one hand and bringing the spoon to Jason’s mouth. It was warm and delicious and Jason’s stomach almost started cramping and three spoons in, the prickling in his eyes grew too much to suppress. “Jason?” Bruce asked, alarmed, halting the next spoon as Jason shook.
The blanket was too heavy—the blanket wasn’t enough—Jason clawed it off and tipped forward because the warmth was searing inside of him and burning away the cold and it was all too much.
“Jason?” Bruce said again, and Jason managed to flop forward until his head was resting against Bruce’s knee. Fingers combed through his hair, as gently as last time, and Jason went boneless as gentle strokes tugged at his scalp.
He couldn’t stop crying—he was shuddering and shaking and sniffling with every hitched breath—the heavy blanket was drawn back over him and the fingers kept carding through his hair and Jason didn’t know how he still had tears left to give, but he couldn’t stop, not even when his sobs turned to dry, hitched gasps and his shudders turned to full-body trembling, not until his breaths slowly died to hiccups and he slumped against the bed, a wrung-out wreck.
“It’s okay,” Bruce said softly, “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”
Jason would be stupid to believe it.
He closed his eyes, twisting his head slightly so the fingers would curl over a larger portion of his scalp. He hadn’t made any good decisions so far, and there was no reason to break the streak.