Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This was karma, wasn’t it?

Very specific fuckin’ karma. Hyperspecific. Like the universe woke up today and was like, ‘you know what would be really fuckin’ poetic?’ and then knocked a can over somewhere to start whatever bullshit butterfly chain that led to this.

Jason Todd, in full Red Hood armor, continued to stare at the kid currently jacking his tires.

Four foot punk-nothing shrimp, bony wrists, and a filthy red beanie that matched even filthier red sneakers. The soles were shot to hell, half unglued at the heel.

Two out of four tires were done, stacked out of the way as the brat cranked a tire iron on the third.

This was karma.

First night Jason brought the damn car on patrol, and a street kid decided to jack the tires. What were the fucking odds?

“Between 25-27%, considering the car is brand new, clearly custom, and you have no established connection to it,” A little voice that sounded like the Replacement said in the back of his mind, “Though that’s underselling it, since your luck is dogshit, Jason.” 

Fuck that asshole was annoying, even in his own head.

Tabling the statistics for now, Jason stepped out of the alleyway and into the glow of a street-lamp, purposefully angling his shadow towards the car. Equal parts drama and subtle warning, not that the kid seemed to notice.

Was this a newbie? Hell. Keeping an eye on the shadows was Gotham basics. Even rich-folk paid attention to that shit.

The kid continued to not fucking notice him, loosing the lugs on the tire with practiced movements. Professional even. Even if the brat was a newbie to Gotham, they weren’t new to the streets.

Jason was less than four feet away and the brat didn’t even look up.

Or maybe not.

He walked right up to the passenger-side door. Crossed his arms. Frowned.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?”

The kid whirled around, and swung the tire iron right into his knees.

Solid steel into kevlar and nanofiber and whateverthefuck was in armor material nowadays, logically, should have done jack and shit. In the hands of a literal child, it should have done even less jack and zero shit.

Instead, his kneepad crunched like goddamn plastic. His knee, thankfully, did not crunch like plastic. It did, however, hurt like hell and was going to bruise like a motherfucker.

“Son of a bitch!” Jason swore, slamming down on an instinctive flash of green.

The kid flinched, tire iron clattering to the street.

“Oh fuck,” The kid squeaked, breathy and horrified. Higher pitched than Jason had expected, especially considering the brat nearly busted his kneecaps. 

They looked up, tracing from his boots, to the gun holsters, the bat on his chest, until they met the eyes of the Red Hood’s helmet.

And for the first time, Jason got a good look at the kid’s face.

Wide, terrified, ice-blue eyes. Gaunt cheeks dashed with freckles and dirt— a single curl of black hair poking from the beanie’s brim, right above the bridge of their nose.

Goddamn karma.

Like a shot, the kid dove under his arm and into a tuck-n-roll, popping up into a crouch that would have turned into a dead sprint had they been dealing with anybody but a Bat. Former-bat. Sort-of-bat. Point being, Jason still kind of wanted to throw Bruce out a window, but he’d still been trained by fuckin’ Batman and catching a half-starved kid wasn’t exactly hard.

Jason grabbed the brat by the back of their hoodie, just below the arms, and yanked them off the ground like an errant kitten. Or Damian. Either comparison was valid and equally likely to maul him.

In the moment of surprise, Jason was given a brief, two second window to pin the kid under his arm like a sack of potatoes before they started struggling.

“Lemme go, asshole!” The brat shouted, flailing in his grip.

They dug their fingers into his arm hard enough to bruise, elbows and legs swinging wildly at soft-spots that were thankfully protected by several layers of bat-quality armor.

Jason had too much practice wrangling Damian for the kid to get free, but the brat’s stubborn wriggling did manage to knock their beanie loose— revealing a cascade of tangled black hair. Suddenly the high-pitched voice made a lot more sense.

A little girl, fuckin’ jesus.

“I’m not gonna hurt ya,” Jason huffed.

She honest-to-god growled at him. “And I’m a fuckin’ unicorn, lemme go!”

Unicorn, no. Meta? Probably. Gremlin? Jason was leaning towards ‘most definitely.’ 

“I think you’ve got a couple of questions to answer first, kid,” He drawled, adjusting his grip as the kid renewed her efforts to break free. “And since I’m sure you’re not interested in answerin’ them—”

Jason shifted his balance, taking most of the brat’s weight on his hip as he grabbed the driver’s-side door handle. He tugged it, the scanner on the inside reading the tech in his gloves, and popped it open as soon as he heard the click of the latch.

He readjusted his grip on the kid, ducked around a clumsy punch, and dropped her into the driver’s seat. She thudded against the leather with a quiet ‘oof’ and a far-louder curse.

Jason crouched down in front of the doorway, deliberately rocking back on his heels to give her some space, even as he gated the opening with his arm.

With his free hand, he reached up, undid his helmet, and tugged it off.

The girl’s eyes went wide again, her shoulders relaxing for the briefest of seconds.

It was common knowledge the Red Hood didn’t hurt kids. Didn’t change the fact he was scary. That was the point. 

But when you’re trying to calm down a freaked out kid, an actual face was a helluva lot better than a featureless helmet. Dick might make fun of him for wearing a domino under the mask, but there was a reason he did it. This specific reason, mostly.

The kid looked even younger like this, tiny and dirty and too-thin, fingers digging into the leather seat with a strength she probably shouldn’t have. Young and scared and familiar. 

Her eyes traced his face, stopping to linger briefly on the white streak in his hair.

“All right kiddo,” Jason began, “What’s your name?”

Her expression shuttered, all traces of vulnerability buried under creased brows and a sharp frown.

“I’m not tellin’ you,” She snapped.

“Kid, do I look like CPP?” Jason asked, gesturing at himself with his free hand.

(If Gotham’s CPP were dressing up in leather and kevlar, he was gonna have to have a talk with Jim Gordon.)

The girl scowled at him, lips curling in a way that clearly wanted to twist into a toothy snarl. “I dunno, do I look like an idiot?”

Sassy little shit.

All right, new tactic. “Wanna tell me why you were tryin’ to steal my tires, brat?”

The girl looked at him like he was stupid. “Wasn’t tryin’, I was succeeding,” She said, chin up.

A smile tugged at the corner of Jason’s mouth.

Smartass.

“Getting caught is an automatic failure, kid,” He replied, shoving his amusement under an unimpressed mask. “Now I’m gonna ask again. Why were you stealing my tires?”

“Why’dya think?!” She asked, briefly flinging her hands in the air before returning them to the seat edge. “I need the money!”

“What for?” Jason pressed.

The girl glared at him, eyes narrowed, teeth clenched, her mouth a tense line. “Whadda street kids usually need money for, dumbass?!” She demanded, nails digging into the car seat.

All right, so she wasn’t gonna tell him shit. Fair enough, Jason hadn’t told Bruce shit when he’d been in her shoes. Now for everybody’s least favorite question—

“You got parents?” He asked.

She mimicked his unimpressed expression with eerie accuracy. “Do I look like I got parents?”

Jason shrugged. “Depends on how shitty they are at being parents.”

The girl mulled that over a bit, expression guarded. She broke eye-contact as her shoulders slumped, turning to glare at the steering wheel.

“My old man’s a fruit loop. Don’t got a mom.”

Fruit loop? That was a new one. The obviously shitty home life was, unfortunately, less new. Kids in Crime Alley weren’t there for happy reasons, and the girl was out by herself after dark and jacking tires for cash. Odds were things were shit, this was just confirmation.

Meta kids rarely had good home lives as it was.

“Got anybody looking after you?” Jason asked.

She shrugged. “...Cousins.”

Like pulling teeth. Was Jason this bad at her age? Fuck, probably. Half those years were a haze of fear-hunger anyway, so it’s not like he’d remember.

“Where are your cousins?” He asked.

Her glare increased to about a three out of ten on the Damian Wayne scale. Pretty impressive for a civilian brat.

“Nunya,” She said.

Jason rolled his eyes. “Don’t nunya business me, I invented that shit,” He drawled, “Where are they?”

Ooo, the glare was a five out of ten now, scary.

“Illinois,” The girl bit out, her scowl twitching at the edges, but refusing to show teeth.

Jason choked.

“Fuck, Illinois? Why the hell are you in Jersey?!”

“I don’t gotta tell you shit, old man!” She snapped, shoulders tensing. Coiled tighter than a spring.

“Christ, at least tell me you’re with one of the kiddie gangs,” Jason managed, running a hand through his hair. Marci’s, Stevens’, hell, he’d take the damn JL-themed Little Leaguers. Just please dear fuck, somebody tell him this brat had any goddamn backup whatsoever.

“I’m not in a gang, asshole!” She growled, offended, “And I ain’t a kid!”

“Oh you have got to be shitting me,” Jason breathed, “You’re running solo?” He asked, genuine horror creeping into his voice, “What are you, eight?!”

“I’m ten, you dick! And I take care of myself just fine!”

Ten. Jesus.

“Are you seriously running solo in fuckin’ Gotham? Are you trying to get killed?!” Jason demanded, his grip on the car door tightening.

The girl went bug-eyed. “Gotham?!”

Jason’s jaw dropped. “You don’t even know where you are?!” He asked.

She flung her hands in the air. “It’s not like I have a map!” 

“You’re traveling?! Fuck, are you on some cross country road trip by yourself?!” Jason asked.  

Green flickered on the edges of his vision. Testing the waters. Responding to the concern-fear-horror. Trying to ignite it. Goddamn Lazarus, hell the fuck no.

He shoved it down, ruthless, and it pushed right back.

“What’s it to you, asshole?! It’s none of your fuckin’ buisness!” The girl snarled, eyes flashing.

Goddamn green tint was getting worse. 

“This is m̤̪y̯ ͕ͅter̠r̬i̗̪͕ț̻̹o͍͕r̼̗̞y̠̰͎̥, brat, that makes it my fuckin’ b͈̻͕u̱̰͉̞s̙͎͓̖i̗̳n͍e͕̰s͇̬̗̫s̻̙̟̗̝,” Jason growled back, harsher than he’d meant to.  

He needed to get it the fuck together. He’d held the Pit down for nearly two damn years, why the hell was it acting up now?

“Your territory?!” The girl demanded, “You got a nice car, old man, but you don’t own the streets!”

“I’m the Red Hood, brat, and quit callin’ me old!” Jason snapped.

“Cranky old geezer!” She shouted.

He opened his mouth to spit out a retort, only to be cut off.

A growl. Loud and rumbling, and absolutely from the kid’s stomach.

Jason closed his mouth.

The girl’s face flushed, reddening cheeks throwing her freckles into stark relief. Textbook picture of embarrassment.

Quiet. Breaths and the distant sounds of Gotham’s nightlife. Gunshots and car horns.

The last flickers of green faded into nothingness, and the remaining tension bled from Jason’s shoulders.

“...You hungry, kid?” He asked.

“S-Shut up,” She stammered, “Why the hell do you care?”

“‘Cause there’s a new burger place down the street, and I ain’t had shit since breakfast.” Jason said, with a roll of his shoulders. “If ya wanna join me, I’ll forget all about the tires. Deal?”

The suspicion didn’t fade from her eyes. But once upon a time, Jason had been a kid in mud-caked trainers with stripped soles— and he knew the magic words.

(Absolutely, fucking, karma.)

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll pay,” Jason said.

“...Deal.”

༼╹^╹༽ ༼╹^╹༽ ༼╹^╹༽

The burger place, thankfully for Jason’s sanity, had a solid menu and absolutely zero people in costumes. (Batburger was like walking backwards through hell on his bad days, no matter how good the fries were.)

The dead-eyed college student at the register didn’t even blink when Jason ordered a sweep of the menu. Nor did they blink at the crumpled wad of hundreds he fished out of his pocket. God he loved 24/7 restaurants in Gotham, people actually minded their business.

Jason hadn’t been kidding about not eating since breakfast, and who knows when the hell the kid last ate, so he might as well splurge. Plus he’d be able to stress-test the menu for future visits. Bonus.

The kid did side-eye him, squinting suspiciously at the wad of cash he’d forked over, but she didn’t call him out on it.

Their food came out all brown paper bags white paper cups and no branding, a mark of a Quality Place™, and if this was even half as good as Tia Maria’s bistro Jason would absolutely be back same-time-next-week. But for now, he grabbed the bags and headed over to the corner booth.

It was a window-seater, high visibility, with nice fake leather and even faker wood finishing to match the table. Quintessential hole-in-the-wall vibes, secluded but with obvious exits.

Jason did not want this kid to feel trapped or catered to, or she’d be gone before he could blink. He knew the kind of paranoia the streets gave you. Shit that seemed too easy never ended well.

He slid in one side, and the kid went opposite, keeping an eye on him the entire time, her strawberry shake clenched firmly in her hands.

Jason dumped out the cornucopia of to-go containers and tinfoil-wrapped food onto the table. The kid looked a little overwhelmed at the sheer amount of stuff, so Jason grabbed a burger and a container of fries out of the pile and waved vaguely at the rest.

“Have at it,” He said, shoved a fry between his teeth like a cigarette, and turned his attention to unwrapping his burger.

She took a second to actually reach for something, watching and waiting with instinctual hesitance. Once Jason was halfway through his first burger and hadn’t keeled over dead, she snatched a burger of her own and tore into it with the vigor of someone who had no clue when they’d get a meal again.

Jason knew that feeling. He hated that feeling. He absolutely despised the fact there were hundreds of kids in Crime Alley who knew that feeling. But by god and Diana Prince, this particular kid was never going to experience it again, or so help him he’d, do, something.

Jason wasn’t set on what kind of something. He was barely in the planning stages because all the options were equally terrible.

Plan A was a no-shot straight out the gate. Gotham CPS was a goddamn nightmare and foster care was shit in cities that didn’t have a history of homes using kids as drug-runners or selling them to murder-cults. Not to mention the fucking trafficking. 

Even if things were better than when he’d been in the system himself, he was not subjecting a kid to that shit. Especially not a Meta kid. That was a damn death sentence.

Plan B, Jason could set the kid up with someone he knew personally. Problem being, half the people he knew personally were criminals, capes, didn’t live in Gotham, or some combo of the three— and the rest were the Bats.

And like hell was he letting Bruce anywhere near this kid.

She’d be in a cape by the end of the month.

Plans C, D, and E were also out. The kid was an out-of-towner and the tighter knit kiddie gangs would eat her alive. Doc Leslie would actually throttle him if he tried to dump a kid off at the clinic, and Jim Gordon was a one-way-ticket back to Bruce.

Which left plan F.

Plan F was not a plan.  

Plan F was barely a concept.

It was a totally and completely terrible idea, and as Jason watched the kid eat her damn bodyweight in fast-food, he had a terrifying feeling that it was the only choice he’d be able to live with.

Jason forcibly turned his attention back to his, admittedly delicious, burger. Perfectly cooked, crisp tomatoes, fresh lettuce, pickles and the sauce— 10/10 five stars he was absolutely coming back later.

They ate in companionable silence for a bit, only the sounds of eating and the occasional clank or muffled curse from back in the kitchen to spice up the monotony.

The kid broke it first, clearing her throat pointedly.

He looked up, mid-bite. She pointed a fry at him. “So are you a criminal, or a rich dude with weird hobbies?”

Jason did not choke on his burger, but it was close.

“Jeez kid, warn a guy,” He managed, coughing.

The kid raised an eyebrow, imperious and unimpressed. A stellar impersonation of every snobby rich kid on earth. “No,” She said.

Jason coughed over a laugh, taking a drink of soda to clear his throat. This kid. 

“I ain’t some weirdo rich guy,” Jason replied. That was Bruce’s shtick, and he had the death certificate to prove it. His rich-kid ship had sailed the minute that timer had hit zero in Ethiopia.

“But you are a criminal?” The kid asked, taking a bite of her burger.

Well, yes, but he wasn’t going to say it.

“I’m a vigilante,” Jason countered, shrugging. “Am I a criminal if my whole thing is beating up other criminals?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “The only people who carry ‘round hundreds are rich or dealers, old man, so pick one.”

“Nah, you forgot con-men, kid,” He said.

“You’re not a con-man,” She said with complete certainty. “Nobody’d believe you.”

Jason put a hand on his chest in mock-hurt. “You wound me, kid, I could absolutely be a con-man.”

She took a loud, pointed slurp of her strawberry shake.

…Jason was being roasted by a ten year old and she was winning.

“You are a sassy little shit,” He told her, “And I’m offended.”

She grinned at him, toothy and genuine and a lot sharper than he remembered kid-teeth to be.

Elongated, razor-sharp eyeteeth. Fangs. He’d found a whole ass child with fangs. 

Definitely a Meta. All deniability was straight out the window.

Fangs, most-likely super-strength, probably more if the Metas Jason knew were any indication. Speed, maybe? Flight? Powers usually went with a theme, and the teeth were very vampire-y.

“So,” He asked, “How long you been runnin’ solo, kid?”

She shrugged. “Couple ‘a years. What’s it to you?”

“Really? ‘Cause you made some rookie mistakes back there,” Jason said.

The kid made a face at him. “An’ I s’pose you could do better, old man?” She challenged.

Ah-ha, uno reverse card, she has fallen directly into his trap. His claim to fame, the coolest thing he’d ever done according to all kids fifteen and under.

He smirked. “Well when I was your age I stole the tires off the Batmobile,” Jason drawled, “So I’d say so.”

“The Batmobile?” The kid asked, eyebrows raised. She chomped another bite of burger, and washed it down with a drink. “Isn’t that that Bat-guy’s car? The emo dude who works with Wonder Woman?”

Jason burst out laughing.

“Yeah-!” He managed, choking on another laugh. “Yeah that’s— That’s him!” He wheezed, washing the laughter down with a drink of soda.

“‘Prolly wasn’t that hard, he seems like a wuss,” The kid said, shrugging. “The angsty ones always are.” She nodded as though this was sage advice.

Jason choked on his soda. She was killing him. This was assault. He was going to die again. Holy fuck.

“Hell, kid, I’d pay money to see somebody say that to his face,” He laughed.

“Twenty dollars,” She said, sticking out a hand.

Jason snorted. “Ha! Charge more than that, kid, you know how many people are scared of the Bat?”

She didn’t drop the hand. “Two hundred dollars,” She said, a smirk tugging at her mouth.

Jason laughed again. “I’ll take it, kid, deal,” He said, reaching across the table to shake her hand.

They shook on it, a solemn up-down motion that had far more gravitas than needed.  

They’d plowed through the food by now, a small mountain of wrappers and trash in their wake.

All right. Time was up.

Plan F.

…Hell, this was a bad idea.

Jason eyed the kid, quiet and contemplative.

Ten years old and she was on the streets by herself. She was defensive, she was bitey, she was paranoid, and she’d earned every one of those things. She was resourceful enough to get from Illinois to New Jersey by herself.

She was ballsy enough to try and boost the Red Hood’s tires and strong enough to nearly bust his knee with a tire iron. A feisty, witty little smart-alek.

There wasn’t a damn place in this city that could handle a kid like that for long. Jason had been there. He knew that game. Stability was a pipe dream for a kid like that. Trust was a pipe dream for a kid like that.

The only way she’d ever feel safe was if somebody gave her a chance and stuck with it. No bullshit, no backing out, no matter how bad it got.

…Fuck it.

“Got a place to stay, kid?” Jason asked, casually spinning his straw.

The kid tensed. Her eyes narrowed, her leg creeping up to rest her sneaker on the booth-edge.

“I don’t do favors,” She said, drawing out the word.

The second Jason caught the insinuation, the edge of his vision went green.

“I don̦ͅ’t̘͈̩ d͔͈̮o t̬͉ha̼̺t͚͎̪̹̠ s͉̝̗h̦̜i̜̦̳t͇̣͉̪̜.͉” He snapped, the growl of the Pit bleeding into his voice.

The kid didn’t spook at his tone, or the weird reverb that chased the consonants. If anything, she seemed to relax, though she still looked ready to bolt if he so much as twitched wrong.

Jason wrestled the Pit back behind his sternum, a half snarl pulling at his lips. God fucking, if he got his hands on wh͈̥o͕̺ͅe̲͍̗ͅv͖͙̪ͅer̼̦̹͖̠—̳͎̲̫̥

Dammit, keep it together, Jay.

If there were bastards tryin’ that shit in Crime Alley, they’d be getting a visit from the Red Hood, and a bullet to the head. No kids. N͈o̪͕ ̩͈k͈̰i̺̠̲̹d̜̲̯s͕̻̬̫.̼̝̱̥̞ Not for drugs, not for anyt͎̖̠h͙̰͖i̘̥̣̜n̼̜̩’ e̯͚͉ͅl̩̤s̖̣͚̖e̜͖͖̖͓.̟͉̣̙

W̼̘̲a̺̬͚͍͓s͔̼͈͖ ͈͓t͈͕h͙͇̰̣̟a̫͍̯̻̟̺t̪̳̳̭ ̗̱̹s̜̬̠̟̼o̭͈͕͈ ̥͖̬̪̹g̯̤o͍͓̟͇ͅd͕͎͔̣̜d̻̳̞̮ạ̻̖͚m̤̰̻͎̪n͇͙ ̥̪̯͙h̞̤̪̹̠̖a̫̯̗r̻̙̺̖̲̟d̻̬ ͓͉̳̬͚to̖̳ ̰̞̺̺̻ͅu̲̣n̗̳̫̺ͅḏ̩̩̮͍̠e͖̝̣̜͓̼r͕̖̺s͈̙̯̜͙t̝̣͚̺a̲̘̘͎n̩ͅd͇?̳̜

Jason fought back a Pit-filled growl, prying his fingers from the edge of the table. He’d left indentations in the plywood, the plastic wood grain warped and bent around them. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Get. It. Together.

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his breathing to even. Counted backwards from five. Hoped to all fuck his eyes hadn’t gone green. Opened them.

The kid was staring at him, wary blue eyes trained on his face.

“I ain’t askin’ you to pay me back or do anything. I’m offering because I’ve been where you’ve been and it’s fuckin’ December,” Jason said, voice tight. He flicked a hand at the window, the other palm-flat on the table. “It gets cold as hell out there at night, and I’ve got a spare room. Locks from the inside and everything.”

The girl studied him, confusion and something unreadable in her expression.

“Why?” She asked, finally, crumpling a straw wrapper between her fingers. “I don’t even know your name.” 

Jason rolled his shoulders, tapping at the lid of his empty cup. “I don’t know yours, either,” He replied.

“...M’name’s Dani,” She mumbled, flicking the balled-up straw wrapper at the ketchup bottle. “With an ‘i,’” She specified.

Dani, huh? All right. …Dani.

“Alright, Dani,” He said, a tired smile pulling at his mouth. “My name’s Jason.”

He was twenty four. High-school dropout, no GED. He was a crime boss. A vigilante. He regularly hung out with career criminals and prostitutes. He had occult anger issues. He was legally dead. 

Jason Todd was the worst possible option on paper and somewhere in his bones he’d known how this would go the second he caught the brat jacking his tires.

Goddamn karma.

Chapter Text

Jason’s apartment was on the fourth floor of a brownstone that was older than dirt and had been a hideout for a drug ring up until he’d shot the big-boss last month. He hadn’t exactly planned to shoot the guy, necessarily, but shit had happened and now he was out a security deposit and up a very-illegal deed to a building.

The place had outdated wiring, outdated appliances, was somehow not a fire-hazard, and a grand total of one other tenant in the form of an elderly hispanic lady on the first floor. She was somehow convinced Jason was ‘too skinny,’ and kept shoving saran-wrapped food at him whenever she caught him in the hall. Or on the fire-escape that one time.

(Frankly Jason had no clue how she got that idea— he was built like a tank and knew it— but it wasn’t like he was gonna say no to homemade enchiladas.)  

His apartment in the brownstone was originally supposed to be temporary, nothing fancy, not even a safe-house level of effort put in. Just a stall-point to get the bats off his ass for the time being. Dick kept bitching at him about putting down roots, like a lack of permanent residence meant Jason was gonna skip town any second.

Of course, the drug-boss debacle had chucked that plan out a window, so prior to tonight he’d been contemplating flipping the building for funds.

Jason glanced down at the kid trailing behind him.

For all her defensive posture, hands shoved in the center-pocket of her hoodie— Dani’s eyes were flicking around the street with undisguised curiosity, tracing up the worn brick steps and cast-iron rails like they held the secrets of the universe and not bullet-scrapes and the withered vines of a half-dead rosebush.

…Maybe he’d spring for that new couch, after all.

He had to go shopping anyway. He was getting low on flour. And hand soap, come to think of it. Should probably make a list or something. Look at him, adulting. Alfred would be proud.

Fuck he had no clue what he was doing.

Somewhere in the course of Jason’s quietly rising panic, they’d arrived at the door to the apartment. Determinedly not acknowledging it, he fished the key out of his pocket and popped the lock, waving Dani inside first.

It was a nice place in terms of square footage, decent living area open to the kitchen, two bedroom one bath, but Jason hadn’t really done anything with it since he’d moved in. Couple books on the shelves, a teapot from Alfred, the inexplicable aloe plant Damian had given him last Tuesday, and that was about it.

The walls needed new paint, the warped countertops were the bane of his existence, and he’d had to duct tape a leg back on the coffee table. Half the furniture came with the place, and the only reason there was a bed in the guest room was because Jason learned from his mistakes and was not dealing with a concussed Dick Grayson falling off a couch again.

Idiot wouldn’t stay still if he was dead. Sleep was no exception.

Dani spun in place, assessing the room. She stopped once she was facing him again, clicking her heels together.

“Soooooo,” She said, rocking back on her heels. “Bachelor pad?”

“Kid, do you even know what those words mean,” Jason asked dryly.

Dani shrugged. “That you’re single and you live here?”

There was no good answer to that.

“Ohhhkay!” Jason said, clapping his hands. “Quick tour, kitchen, living room,” He pointed at each, before heading towards the hall. “Bathroom’s down at the end there— I’ll scrounge up some spare clothes for ya in a sec, aaand,” He stopped in front of the door on the left, turning the handle. “The guest bedroom.”

Dani poked her head in, humming curiously. Wasn’t much to look at, really. Just the bed and a nightstand.

“All yours, kid,” Jason said softly, “S’not much, but we can fix that later.”

Dani paused to look up at him.“...Later?”

Jason nodded. “Later.”

“How… much later?” She asked, brow furrowed.

That was the question, wasn’t it.

He hadn’t put it in words yet. Definitely hadn’t said it out loud yet.

“This ain’t a one-night deal, kid,” Jason replied, softly, “It’s up to you when it ends, if it does.”

Genuine surprise crept onto her face. “What do you mean?” Dani asked, eyes narrowing. “Like, if I break a rule or, your TV or somethin’ you’ll kick me out?”

Jason snorted. “If you break the TV I’d be impressed, honestly, that shit’s Wayne-tech. Built to handle Gotham Rogue bullshit.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You know what I meant, old man.”

“You’re killin’ me, kid. I’m twenty four, that’s not old,” Jason complained.

“You’re old and you’re talkin’ crazy. Goin’ senile,” Dani said, poker-faced. “And not answering my question either.”

“I’m not kicking you out, Dani. Not over a TV, not for callin’ me old, I’m not kicking you out, period,” Jason said, leaning back against the doorframe. “You can stay here as long as you want to stay here. A week or a month or forever. Ball’s in your court, kid. It’s up to you.”

And it was. He wouldn’t keep her here if she didn’t want to stay. He didn’t have that right. Nobody did. …He’d just… do his best to give her a reason to.

Dani opened and closed her mouth, but no sound came out. “I— You’re weird,” She managed, eventually. “So weird. Why?”

He shrugged. “Feel like it. Do I need a reason?”

Dani frowned. “People’ve got plenty’a reasons to not want me around. They always find one. You’ll find one.”

Jason smiled, carefully reaching out to ruffle her hair. She made an affronted noise, but let him do it, batting the offending hand away after a moment.  

His smile widened. “Nah, don’t think I will, kid,” Jason said, pushing away from the doorframe. “I’ll grab those clothes for ya. Go get cleaned up, and get some sleep, all right?”

“...You know, you’re pretty okay, for a criminal,” Dani said.

Jason laughed. “Go to bed, brat. I’ll make breakfast tomorrow.”

༼╹^╹༽ ༼╹^╹༽ ༼╹^╹༽

Free of the suit and safely in a t-shirt and a set of Wonder Woman pajama bottoms, Jason sagged onto the couch and opened the notes app on his phone. He propped his heel up on the coffee table to stretch out his knee, grimacing at the stiffness.

The kid had got him good with that tire-iron. Might even have to break out the knee brace for a few days. Reduce his patrol hours, too. The thought grated, but he’d set up contingencies for this. Overworking an injury was only bound to make it worse, and… well, he had some more immediate things to focus on.

At least it wasn’t swelling. He’d been concerned when he got a look at how bad she’d dented the suit’s kneepad. He’d need to replace it, but, for now…

Jason took a measured breath. Let it out, slow.

Dani was asleep, or at least supposedly asleep, holed up in her room. Her room. Fuck that was going to take some getting used to.

He’d get used to it. If she stayed. Hopefully she’d stay. He’d plan for it, even if she didn’t.

Good fuck, Jason needed to focus. His emotions were all over the place. The world didn’t stop spinning. It was bullshit that it didn’t, but it hadn’t. He’d just have to sort out his shit on company time.

Right. So. Shopping list. Adulting.

Jason hit the little check-mark bullet-point feature and tapped in the usual grocery staples, milk, flour, the works. New section, title, household items. Handsoap, cleaning supplies, detergent? Could use more. Cool. Cool cool cool.

New section. Title. Dani.

Jason’s thumbs hovered over the keyboard. He let out a short, careful breath. Okay. Okay. 

Dani had the clothes on her back, a tire iron, and jackshit else. Unless she had a stash somewhere in the Alley she wasn’t willing to mention yet. He’d had a couple when he was her age. Hadn’t gone back to a single one ‘till after the Pit.

He’d operate under the assumption she has nothing.

Okay. What did kids need?

Toiletries probably, new sheets. Clothes for damn sure. The ones she’d been wearing were threadbare and saturated in dirt, the result of wearing the same thing for weeks or months on end. Jason could probably salvage the hoodie, and the beanie, maybe the jeans if he covertly asked Alfred for tips, but the rest was not gonna hold up against heavy duty cleaning.

He’d found a couple things for the short-term, an old shirt and a pair of shorts that probably belonged to Roy, come to think of it. Fuck knows how they wound up in the back of his drawer, but they’d do for now.

Better than one of Jason’s shirts, anyway. Even Roy’s stuff was too big on the kid, and Jason was a helluva lot bigger than a twiggy archer-boy. So. Clothes. She’d need them.

He didn’t exactly have kid-clothes laying around, or shoes, she definitely needed new shoes, and even if she fought him on everything else she’d be getting new shoes. A good, solid, sturdy pair to replace the ratty red trainers that were beyond salvaging.

Hell, that’d been the one thing he hadn’t fought Bruce on, back then.

A good pair of shoes was the only real defense against wet socks and discarded needles. Good shoes meant you could run longer. Didn’t have to watch your step as closely. And when the only defense you had was getting the fuck out before you got caught, a good pair of shoes could be the difference between relative safety and a knife in your gut.

She’d be getting new shoes.

Jason uncurled his fist, fingers brushing over the crescent indents in his palm.

He let out a slow, careful breath.

This was insane. This might just be the most insane thing he’d ever done and he’d dumped a bag of severed heads on the doorstep of the GCPD. God what the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t— he wasn’t—

Jason was stuck squarely between not knowing why the hell he was doing this and knowing exactly why he was doing this and the dichotomy between the two was tearing him the fuck apart.

He’d essentially kidnapped a kid off the street to adopt her. That was a Bruce thing. That was Bruce’s thing.

Was he fucking— god Jason wasn’t going to be Bruce. He wasn’t. Couldn’t. Bruce was too— Bruce. 

The image of Dani in a Robin’s suit, bruised and bloody flashed into his mind, unbidden. Red blood and a too pale face. Green. So much green. Jason wanted to punch a wall. Scream. Wanted to s̗͔h̲r͚e̙̘d̫̤ ̖̠̟so̠̼͖̮̭̻me̻̻t̩h̻̺i̖̟͔̞n̖͙̹̮͈̞g͎͖͇͕̭̗.͓̳͕̖͓̪

He was not going to be Bruce. He was not going to be Bruce. He wasn’t. She’d never set foot in a cape ‘till she was fuckin’ thirty. 

Jason let out a sharp breath, scrubbing at his face.

Thirty. Hell. He’d really, she was ten, that was twenty years. Two decades. He’d be what, forty four? He was— this— this wasn’t the kind of thing you backed out of. Never. Jason couldn’t. He wasn’t Bruce. He was not going to be Bruce.

He’d stolen a kid and he was a parent now. Going to be. If she let him. That was a commitment. That was a lifetime commitment. A forever commitment.

He didn’t, he knew how to handle street kids. He knew how to handle victims. He didn’t, Jason didn’t know the first goddamn thing about actually raising a child.

How the fuck did you raise a kid? Jason— Willis had never really been a father, Catherine had tried until she broke, Bruce was Bruce and the less said about Talia the better. How did happy childhoods even work? Jason knew what not to do, he had a veritable tapestry of what not to do painted in his bones starting with a bruise and ending with his own damn gravestone. That did fuck-all to tell him what he should do.

Jason didn’t really have happy childhood memories. He had some, a few, from before Catherine had gotten properly hooked. He’d supposedly had some with Bruce. According to newspaper clippings and photos. He didn’t remember much of those, all of it clouded in a film of murky green and f̼̣̼̘̝̥ụr̳̯̳͚̲̞ͅi̟͉̤o͓̞̗̻u̬̦̦̪̪͚͈s̼̦͍ ͈b͚̤̺̥̟̰̺e̗̣t̬̝r͍̞a̺̪̗͚̘̱ͅy͉a͔̤l̪̱̤̭̝̭.

Jason grit his teeth, nails digging into the armrest. Fuck, even poking at them made the Pit flare. There was so much anger there. H͕͓a̠̟̯̘̘t͈͍̣ṛ̙̩̜͇ḙ̠d̞̤͉̙͙ͅͅ.

He’d known Dani for all of a day and the thought of her hating him made him want to vomit.

Jason was not Bruce. He was not going to be Bruce.

He̪̳̥͔͙ͅͅ.̲̪̩̥ W̻͚̮a͎͔̖̘̫s̮.̣̲̰̥ ̺̻͕̦̞ͅN̘̣̭̲ọ͍̗̰̝t͕̲̲͎.̜̹̝̪͖͇͍ ͉̩G̣͈͖͈̼̬o͉̠̤͉̙i̲͎̯n̞͍͈̗̗g̜̮̟̘̗.̩ T̙̲ͅo͖̼͓.͔̩̜̬̮͖ ̬̩̫̩͉̜B̪͓̝̯͍̝e̲.̫̙͓̰̘̣̦ ̙͍Ḇ̝̠͙̻r̫̫͙̖͈̥͖u̳̝̞͍c̠͔e̻͓̦̻.͕̘̞

Jason took a deep breath. Tried to shove the Pit down. Wrangle it back. He was not going to lose it. He could not lose it. He had a goddamn kid now, and he was not going to—

F̗͇̭̪̦e͉̙a̻r̦.̤̭ ̪̤̦̯̭̳͕D͓̝̝̳a̗̦̹̰͎͓̜n̜̲̥͙̙g̤̯̼͎e̟̮̱̯͖r̮̣̘̰̬.͖͕̺̰ͅ

That. Was not Jason.

P̻̜̞̞̯̭ḁṋ̮̤̣i͚̯̻̤͉̝͓c͍̗ ̦͍̗̝͈F̫̙͓̦͖̹e͇̞̪͖͍a̭̥r̞ ̺̺̘̫̖̲̖̭H͔̹̲͎̬͇̹͍e̻͍̼͙͉l͕̪̰̟̱̪͇p̘̠̦̭̞̱ H̼͇̳̦̰̩́ͅe̩͟l̝͝p̸̰̥̥͚̪̺̪M͚e̶͍̝̣ D̦̲̹͟a̺̗͇̤͈̼̮͙n̨̧̯̤̖͚̳̘ǵ̱̗̩̼̫̣̗̺e͎͘͞͡ṛ̡̪̜̯͓ Ḓ̶̵̷̨̛͓̣̥̪̳͉̝̥̬̹̟ͅA̵̢̰͇̙͔͉͔̬̰͖͢͜͠Ń̛̛̛̹̗͎͚͈̞͓̩͚̻̤̫̀ͅG̸͢͏̜͓͖̗̝̼̜̙̼̱̀͞E̶̷̢̨̨̜̙̣̝͇̱̝͖͇ͅͅͅR̩͇̥̳̣̖̗̤͔̩̗͢͢

What the fuck was that, who was that where—

F̬̙̱͘e̮̯̱̻͕͈a͚͈̹̣̦͎͘r̸̛̫͕̘͖ ̶̢̫̟͓͍̦͕̞F̣̱̼̜é̶̘̳̰̻̝͜a̫̲͟r̖͉̦ ͉̬͉͞F͙͇̗̮͚͕̣̻e̞̻̣͕̣a͏̪̫̜ͅr̢̮͕̬͓͕̦ ̧͍̪̼͙̳̬͇N̸̢̢̬͎̳ǫ͕͖̳̗̤̣͍̹́͡ ̫́͜P̜̟̰̯̺͝l̛̠͇̻̹͡e̩̭̻a̢̳̱͞ș͉̩͈̥͚̦̀ę̸͓̬̥̬ ̜̬͠͝N͏̮o͖̖͔̲̱̘͚͘͢͝

Dani.

The Pit surged in his gut, vision tinting green with a sharp clarity he’d never experienced before. Bone-deep screaming at him one word blood rushing in his ears—

P͖̪͔̜̲͇̺ͅR̠̤O͇͙͚̩̻͈̗̹̫T̼͎̥̩͙̗ͅE̩̲͙̞̜̰̲C̱̤̘̝̞͕͖̼ͅT̼̦̻̳̦̮͖̝

—and Jason was already running down the hall.

P̹̰r͖͔̼̜̹̯̺̬̥o͙̩͔̬̙͈̟̭t̘͚̹e̱̖c̻͚̜͍ͅt̩̙̝̖̜̰͈͎-̭̳̻̹̰f͖̰͙̜̻̲ͅr̗̺͓̦̹̜̹o͓͎͓͎̳͓̦m̰̮ͅ-̖̬d̪̳̬̲a̟̺͈̦̠͉͉n̫̞̰̘g̯̤͙̗͕ḙ͓͈͎̝̜r̥͙̹͉̝̩.͓͓͉͖͍͎ͅ   E̵͖͔̭̞̦̦͉̕͘͠l̴̡̛̥̻̮͈̩̪̗̣̜͢i̳͓̻̻͍̰̼̬̯̕͡m̨̙̩̦̪̙̹̗̺͝͞ͅͅí̴̶̸̛͕̭̼̹͍͇̩͈͈̘͎ņ̧͍͓͉̰͎̮̯̼͜à̢̕͏̻̗̻͕̥͉̠͉t̖̹̺͍̟͖̩͕̦̪̦̀̕ͅe̬̳͙̜̗̫̫͡͠ͅ ̥̖̖̹̪͔̣͇͘͝ḍ̡̧̝͉̺̬͍̭̰̥̜̹̝ͅa͏̸̡̲̪͖͍̭̦̤͉͔̩n̵͙̙̭̗̻͈̹̣̤̻͡͠g̀͏̜̻͙̩̣̬̬̙̯̝͍͍͢e̸̡̬͖͓̤̳͎͜r̨̼̮͙̻̞͓̮̥̹̯̗͖̥̻͝͝͞.̨͚͓͚̞̲̺̭̬͚̘̳̝

Everything was sharper, goddamn night vision crystal in the dark luminescent emerald and liquid and very much the Pit yet nothing like it at all.

He’d flung the door of the room open before he’d even processed the movement, skidding to a stop in the doorframe, burning in his chest, adrenaline in his veins.

Dani was tossing and turning, tangled in the sheets, sharp pulling movements, putting out a subaudible buzz of something that was so deeply terrified Jason could feel it in his bones.

That was the danger. The threat. A nightmare. Night terror? He’d never been sure of the difference. Not important.

You weren’t supposed to wake someone from a nightmare. Something about talking? Soothing tones. That all became a moot point the second Jason stepped into the room.

The moment he crossed the threshold, Dani shot upright, her hands pressed to her mouth, muffling a harsh, strangled sound.

The buzz grew louder. Felt louder. He couldn’t really hear it.

Everything was green. Clear green. Like tinted shades. The Rage blurred everything, miazma and haze. This was clear. 

Jason didn’t know what the fuck it was but right now all he could focus on was the kid staring into the middle-distance with terrified green acid-green Lazarus-green eyes.

She wasn’t focusing on anything, barely registering anything, breathing quick and short.

“Kid, hey—” Jason began, stepping further into the room. “Hey, can you hear me?”

Dani didn’t respond, her hands creeping up her arms. She managed a high, strained whine pitched with static.

“I’m going to get closer, okay?” He said, slowly edging toward the bed, no sudden movements.

The only response were quick, stuttering breaths that soon stopped altogether.

Not good. Shit.

“Kid, Kiddo, Dani, Dani-dot, breathe,” Jason managed, crouching down to eye-level. “Can you do that?”

She shook her head rapidly, folding inward on herself, knees up to her chest, shoulders curving forward. Shit, fuck.

“Okay, hey, hey now, you’re safe kiddo, it was just a dream, okay?” Jason said, carefully setting a hand on the edge of the bed. “Wasn’t real, wasn’t even knockoff fear-gas or somethin’ Scarecrow cooked up— that straw-shit would have ta make like some kinda boogieman ta get in here without us noticin’— the guy’s a’lotta things but he ain’t fuckin’ subtle,”

Jason’s accent was thickening by the second, words tumbling out of his mouth in the rounded vowels of the streets he’d grown up in.

“I don’ think Ol’ Crane could fit under the bed— prob’ly give himself a concussion tryin’ ta get that dumb burlap-sack down there, that’d be an embarrisin’ fuckin’ way ta get caught an’ sent to Arkham—”

Dani laughed, a wheezing, broken sound.

She took a shuddering breath, and something in him eased. The pressure to p̯̖̣̹̫r͖͔̼̜̹̯̺̬̥o͙̩͔̬̙͈̟̭t̘͚̹e̱̖c̻͚̜͍ͅt̩̙̝̖̜̰͈͎ loosening its grip around his lungs. Good. Okay. Okay. Progress.

“A’right, there we go, you with me, Dani-dot?” Jason asked, forcing his voice as level as he could manage. The world was still green, the not-Pit still humming in his ears, tense and freaky as hell, but he needed calm right now. Even breathing. “What’s your favorite color?” He asked.

Two short breaths. “Red,” Dani answered, automatically. Her voice was fried. Staticky.

Jason nodded. “Good pick, that’s mine too,” He said, “Cats or dogs?”

Two more breaths, a little longer than before. Still shaky. Less static.

“...Dogs,” Dani managed.

“Dogs are great. Had one when I was a kid, her name was Ace. She was a sweet ol’ girl.” She really had been. Jason still missed that dog. “Okay, can you tell me five things you can see?”

“Bed,” She managed, “Lamp. Window. Door.” A pause. “…You.”

“That’s great, kiddo. Four things you can touch?”

“Sheets. Clothes. Pillow.” Her hands ran through the ends of her hair, curling them around shaking fingers. “M’hair.”

Her breaths were almost completely steady now. Thank god.

The green began to fade from Jason’s vision, tension bleeding from his shoulders.

“Good, three things you can hear?” He asked.

“The city. The heater. My voice,” Dani replied, quieter, all static gone from the words.

“Two things you can smell?”

“My breath. S’not great.” She wrinkled her nose, face scrunching. “…Detergent?”

Jason shrugged. “Yeah, I get the scented stuff. ‘Fresh linen’ or something, don’t remember, I just look for the right color at this point,” He said. The world finally faded the rest of the way back to regular color, dimly lit by the night and a broken street lamp outside. He’d forgotten the lightswitch on the way in.

“One thing you can taste?” Jason asked.

Three even breaths. She licked her lips. “...Citrus.”

Weird. Question it later.

“Better, kiddo?” He asked, softly.

“Mmph,” Dani managed, accented with a tense shrug.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jason asked.

A short, sharp breath. “No.”

“Then we won’t talk about it,” He said.

“Why? Why— I don’t,” Dani looked at him, face crumpled, confusion and exhaustion written in her frame. “Why’re you so, so nice?”

“S’called bein’ a decent human being. I want to, kiddo, tha’s all.” Jason replied, gentle and honest.

Dani managed a shaky breath, tucking her legs beneath her. “You’re weirder than my cousin. An’ he’s really weird,” She said, scrubbing at her eyes. “Almost nobody just, wants to,” Her breath hitched. “‘specially not for me,” She said. Her voice shook. “I’m, it’s dangerous. M’not good to be around. People get hurt.” She paused. Sniffed. “…I get hurt.”

God all Jason wanted to do was hug her. Wrap her up in blankets and give her tea. The thought was so vividly Alfred-like, he half-expected the man to manifest from nowhere with a teapot.

“Nobody is going to get hurt,” Jason said, gently, mentally waving away the image of Alfred tutting disappointedly at his apartment. “I’m the Red Hood, remember? Whatever happens, I’ll handle it. It’ll be okay.”

Dani shook her head. “Won’ last,” She said, hesitant, picking up speed, “Never lasts, they always, it always ends, s’mbody always finds me an’—”

“You’re safe here, you understand me?” Jason stated firmly, cutting her off. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” Dani said, voice cracking. “They’ll, he’ll—” She stopped, choked, as tears chased thin trails down her cheeks. “I’m a monster,” She whispered, and Jason wanted nothing more than to find whoever put that idea in her head and rip the̙̲i̠̖̜r̟͇̜͈ ț̮̫h̺̩̻ṛ̫̻͙͙o͉̼a͙t̞̹͖ ͖̺̰o̝͎̹̫̯͎u̯̘̬̹t̯̯̯͙̘.̦̖

“Well so am I,” Jason said. “I don’t know what you’re running from, kiddo, and it ain’t my business unless it catches up to you,” He met her eyes. “And if it does I’ll put ‘em six feet under.”

Dani stared at him, eyes wide. Tearstained. Her shoulders shook, fingers tensing around her arms. “You— You mean that,” She managed. Quiet. Uncertain. A terrified thread of hope in her voice.

Jason smiled. Maybe a bit toothier than he’d meant to. Dangerous.

“Honest to Wonder Woman,” He promised.

Dani hurled herself at his chest. He caught her as she crashed into him, arms instinctively wrapping around her as she buried her face in his shoulder.

The Pit rumbled beneath his sternum. Warmth. Not the burning heat of the Rage— warmth. It felt like sipping Alfred’s hot-chocolate in fall, curled up and reading under a blanket. It felt c̙͈o̯̬̦̘̠n̦̪te̮̣͈n̫̪͕̬̬̫ṭ͙̱̥. 

He wanted to question it. Should question it. Needed to at some point. But right now?

Right now there was a little girl who needed him, and his existential crisis could fucking wait.

He tucked his face in her hair, tightening his grip just slightly as he rocked to his feet, Dani secure in his arms. Her breath hitched, and Jason shifted his hold, pulling her closer. The collar of his shirt was getting damp. He didn’t care. She was silent. 

You didn’t cry silent unless you’d learned to.

Jason stepped back out into the hall, into the living room. Walked over to the couch. Flipped on the TV, something inane, Looney Tunes? Sure.

Bugs Bunny popped on screen, and Jason settled onto the couch, the little girl curled in his arms.

He tucked her head beneath his chin. Shifted position, careful, one hand supporting her back. Hesitated, for a moment. Slowly settled his other hand on the back of her neck.

“This okay?” Jason asked, softly.

Dani nodded into his chest. Made a quiet sound at the back of her throat, and tucked her face deeper into his left shoulder.

He let out a quiet breath. “...Okay.”

༼╹^╹༽ ༼╹^╹༽ ༼╹^╹༽

Twenty minutes in and Dani had fallen into a light doze, tucked into Jason’s side.

Something warm and complicated burned in his chest.

He retrieved his phone from the coffee table. Opened up his chat with Roy. Tapped out a message. Five words.

— — — — — — — — — —

Me: You have a kid, right?

— — — — — — — — — —

The response was instant.

— — — — — — — — — —

ArrowBoy: I am immediately concerned as to where you’re going with this

Me: I can explain

ArrowBoy: Jay

ArrowBoy: Jaybird

ArrowBoy: Did you steal a kid

Me: I didn’t steal her she jacked my tires

ArrowBoy Is Typing…

Arrowboy: …

Arrowboy: Did, didn, w h at

Me: But that’s not important—

ArrowBoy: It is a little hold up

Me: no

Me: Anyway how the fuck do you parent

ArrowBoy Is Typing…

ArrowBoy: Don’t do what your old man did, read at least three parenting books, and make sure you have like, a shitton of fruit in the house for bribery purposes because it’s that or candy and the second one is a one way ticket to a sugar high

ArrowBoy: also what the fuck Jay

Me: thanks

ArrowBoy: Your welcome

Me: *you’re

ArrowBoy: …first, fuck you, second, when do I get to meet this kid?

— — — — — — — — — —

Jason looked down at the little girl curled beside him. Listened to the soft, steady breathing.

He rolled his lip between his teeth.

— — — — — — — — — —

Typing…

Me: She’s been through some shit and I’m not springing people on her until I’ve got a better idea of her triggers.

ArrowBoy: Shit, fair.

ArrowBoy: Gonna try to keep the fam out of it?

Me: They better fuckin stay out of it

ArrowBoy: …They’re gonna find out eventually.

Me: I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it, Roy

ArrowBoy: did you or did you not literally just rebuild said bridge

Me: It’s duct tape it’ll burn

ArrowBoy: If you’re sure.

— — — — — — — — — —

He was sure. Jason was well and goddamn sure. Bruce was not getting within a mile of Dani. None of the Bats were getting anywhere near her. Screw the truce, screw the progress, if they got her hurt Jason would throw it all away in an instant.

History would not repeat itself. He’d die again before he let it.

And if the godd͖̬̠̠ͅa̻̪̞m̟͇n̗͕̟̤͚͎̖ c͙̠̜͚̩ḻ͓̟̣o̯̹̣w͚̱͍̲̩̺n̘̻̜̠̳͇͉̣ͅ—̘̪̥̱̯

The chat buzzed again.

— — — — — — — — — —

ArrowBoy: I do wanna meet my goddaughter, tho, once she’s ready

— — — — — — — — — —

What.

— — — — — — — — — —

Typing…

Me: When the hell did you become her godfather?

ArrowBoy: Well, you’re Lian’s, so,

— — — — — — — — — —

What.

When did wh— him? How th—

What?

— — — — — — — — — —

Typing…

Typing…

Me: I’ll text you.

ArrowBoy: Sweet! 😎

— — — — — — — — — —

A sunglasses emoji? Roy was a dork. What an idiot.

Jason let his phone drop onto the coffee table, and pretended he wasn’t smiling.

Chapter Text

“Is there a reason, you are calling at two in the morning on my personal line,” Batman asked flatly.

He had a meeting today. A very important Wayne Enterprises meeting he had planned for, cleared his schedule for, made actual effort to manage sleep for. In an astounding level of restraint he desperately hoped Tim would emulate, Bruce had actually abstained from patrol last night in the hopes of managing at minimum an Alfred-acceptable amount of REM sleep.

“Well good morning to you too, Bats, lovely to see you. That a new cowl?” John Constantine drawled, an unlit cigarette hanging from his teeth.

[Odd. Constantine had no compunctions about smoking indoors or around others.]

A dimly-lit section of cheap crown molding and beige argyle wallpaper in the background of the shot suggested a hotel. The faded, vaguely-plaid bedding behind Constantine’s chair confirmed as much. American, low-budget, and at least twenty years out-of-date.

[More typical. Third party involvement likely. Consultant, someone with a dim view of substance abuse. Someone Constantine respected enough to acquiesce to.]

Constantine bore the Bat-Glare with the unimpressed nature of a man who had seen far worse, dark circles and five o’clock shadow clear at 1080p high-definition 200fps on the Batcomputer screen— as helpfully specified by the thin line of white type in the upper right corner that indicated one of his children had borrowed it to play video games again.

Batman’s scowl deepened. “Answer the question, Constantine.”

Constantine rolled his eyes, twisting the cigarette between his teeth. “Keep your hair on, Bats,” He said, “You’re not the only one I’m waitin’ on. I’d rather not have to go into all o’ this twice.”

Batman frowned further, eyes narrowed.

Plastic sealing released with a sharp hiss, a faint grind of metal and a familiar crackle of static as something red and broad-shouldered darted into frame.

[Sliding-glass door, through the fire-escape— ah.]

There were precisely two people in the world who could manage to look fluffy-kitten-harmless with a frame like a heavyweight wrestler, and Clark had been off-world for the past week.

“Constantine! You said there was an emerrrrrrrrrrr—” Captain Marvel stopped, cape briefly swishing past his still form. He managed two deer-in-the-headlights blinks, eyes wide.

“Uh,” Marvel said, glancing between Batman and Constantine. “Hi… Batman? ...Am I late?”

Constantine waved a hand, shifting to rest an ankle on his knee. “Nah, right on time, Cap. Or close enough, anyway.”

“Unless there is anyone else unaccounted for, Constantine,” Batman said, bone-dry, “Why are you calling my personal line, and what have you done this time.”

Constantine made a face. “I haven’t done anything, Bats, it’s a matter of bloody idiots gettin’ into things that don’t concern them or anybody else among the living,” He said, gesturing towards the camera. “Like you half the time.”

[Light camera-shake at the movement, League-issue laptop, likely on a hotel-desk. In the open and unsecure. Lighting indicated that Marvel had not even closed the door behind him.]

[…He was going to have to schedule another security-protocol meeting.]

“Better unborn than untaught, for ignorance is the root of misfortune, as you well know,” Batman replied.

“Don’t quote Plato at me, the man was a twat,” Constantine said, narrowing his eyes. “When it comes to magic, sometimes it’s better to leave well-enough alone.”

Marvel cleared his throat awkwardly. “What exactly happened, John?” He asked, slipping briefly out-of frame. A soft plastic-metal hiss and the tinkling of curtain-rings. The footage warped briefly to adapt to the change in lighting.

[Should have been addressed earlier, but at least Marvel remembered.]

Constantine pulled the cigarette from his mouth, twirling it between his fingers.

“You know that whole debacle at the Louvre last month? The one Diana got right pissed at the lot of us for?” He asked.

Bruce remembered. Unfortunately.

Some idiot had attacked the area with magic-fueled automatons meant to obliterate the museum under some philosophical delusion that destroying the collection was necessary for the progression of humanity.

The League had managed to defeat the automatons and apprehend the villain, but the collateral damage had not been insubstantial— in no small part due to Clark being hurled directly into a glassworks exhibit.

Diana had been livid.

“When Cyborg was puttin’ their systems back together during cleanup, he found some security reports that waved a red flag or two.” Constantine twirled his cigarette again, moving to put the filter back into his mouth.

Marvel shot him a spectacularly kicked-puppy frown.

Constantine grimaced and shoved the cigarette into his coat.

The demigod brightened, settling into a criss-cross position on the bed behind the magician. He deftly swept his cape out of the way, leaning forward a bit to remain on-camera.

Grumbling something about ‘bloody boy scouts,’ Constantine clicked his tongue, and continued, “Point being, one thing led to another, the case got handed to JL Dark, and I’m callin’ the both of you in on it.”

[Oh you had to be fucking kidding.]

“And you didn’t feel the need to take this through the official channels instead of my personal line?” Batman demanded. He could feel a nerve twitching in his eye. He could have been asleep right now. He was supposed to be asleep right now.

[Paperwork. So much paperwork. He was going to drown Constantine in paperwork. Six pages, in triplicate, for every hour of sleep he’d just prevented.]

“This line is for emergencies. This is not an emergency.” Batman stated, bluntly. “Filling out two pieces of paperwork will not kill you, Constantine.”

“This is an emergency, Bats,” Constantine began.

Batman cut him off. “If it was an emergency you would have called a full meeting of the Justice League, as per protocol.”

Constantine groaned. “Always with the bloody protocols, could you lighten up for once in your—”

“The protocols are there for a reason, they were ratified in the membership contract you signed—”

“Ohhh-kay!” Marvel said, clapping his hands. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation for this, but we’re not gonna get there by arguing about it. We’re already here, anyway, so,” He shrugged half-heartedly, his trademark grin wide and stiff.

“Thank you, Cap,” Constantine said, glancing over his shoulder.

“Marvel, do not make excuses for Constantine’s behavior.” Batman stated firmly.  

Constantine scowled. “I’ll behave you in a minute, Batsy,” He groused.

“Guys, the point?” Marvel asked.

“If you insist on being completely unprofessional,” Batman began, cape swishing around his shoulders as he leaned closer to the Batcomputer. He settled his hands on the desktop palm-first.

“I’m perfectly professional, I’ll have you know,” Constantine said, uncrossing his legs. He tugged his coat away from his body, reaching in and producing a silver hip-flask.

“Consumption of addictive chemicals while on duty, refusal to do paperwork or comply with official channels, active dismissal of onground orders—” Batman listed, eyes narrowing.

“Are we—?” Marvel asked, slightly raising a hand.

“I ignore orders when they’re liable to get people killed,” Constantine said, raising a finger from the flask to point at him. “If the lot of you would quit running headfirst into curses—”

Batman steadfastly ignored him. “I have half a mind to put your Justice League membership under review—”

“Under review?!”

“Is this—” Marvel began.

“You’re a liability in the field,” Batman said.

“Oh and your paranoid ass isn’t?!” Constantine demanded, “Mr. Killswitch contingency?!” 

Bruce carefully did not flinch.

“First of all, that isn’t the name, secondly, we have already had this discussion with the Justice League as a whole—”

“Um,” Marvel tried.

“I’m sorry if letting some emo shut-in in a glorified fursuit carry on with the ability to merc the entire damn League, including me, makes me a mite uncomfortable!” Constantine snapped.

“We have discussed this. Those protocols are for emergencies only. There are multiple contingencies should I be compromised. If Superman stops getting mind controlled, I will consider retiring the project.” Batman stated, leaning back. “And this is off topic—”

“You’re the one who bloody started it!”

“—If a mission actually requires my input, send the information through the correct channels before you bother me about inane aspects of Justice League Dark’s missions.” Batman finished, expression hard. “Contact someone in the correct jurisdiction and leave me out of it.”

“Wow, okay,” Marvel said.

“Oh for f—” Constantine cut himself off, throwing his hands in the air. “The only reason I’m bothering you about it, Bats, is because of your fuckin’ policies! Suspect number-fucking-one is your League of Assassins!” He snarled, snapping a hand toward the camera. “You wanna stay out of JL Dark’s missions, you keep your zombie father-in-law out of the real weird shit!”

The day Bruce called Ra’s Al-Ghul his father-in-law would be the day he consigned himself to Arkham. 

[Calm. Down. Reassess. Batman cannot afford to act irrationally.]

Bruce took a deep breath. Let out a steady stream of air, just too soft for the mics to pick up. Blinked once, slow. And then he was Batman again, tension present, but looser on his frame.

Captain Marvel looked like he was praying for patience.

“Can, can we not call each other names? Like five year olds?” Marvel asked, voice strained.

“You’re one to talk ya fetus,” Constantine grumbled.

Marvel’s mouth thinned.

“I am a grown man, Constantine,” He said, voice a bit deeper than before.

Constantine rolled his eyes.

“Sure don’ look like it half the time,” The Magician countered, taking a large swig from the flask.

Marvel frowned, nose wrinkling in distaste. “Are you feeling all right?” He asked, brow furrowed. “What are you even drinking—?” 

He reached for the flask. Constantine deftly moved it out of reach.

“Vodquila,” Constantine replied, petulant. “And I’m perfectly sober,” He said, twisting the cap back on the flask.

“I highly doubt that,” Batman said, ignoring Marvel’s whisper of “What’s a vodquila?”, as the man made a second attempt to relieve Constantine of his liquor.

“Fuck off, Bats,” Constantine snapped.

Batman crossed his arms. “You have my attention, Constantine. Elaborate.”

He sneered. “‘Elaborate,’ you and your fuckin’ word-a’-the-day calendar bullsh—”

“John, please,” Marvel begged.

“Fine,” Constantine huffed, and shoved his flask back into his coat. “In the past three months, some chucklefucks decided it’d be a bloody fantastic idea to hunt down every single book on the Senfinaj Sferoj they can get their grubby little hands on.”

[Senfinaj Sferoj? Unfamiliar term. Etymological makeup indicative of a constructed language. Esperanto?]

In the space of a blink, Marvel’s eyes flashed gold. “The Senfinaj Sferoj?” He asked, brows raised. “That’s never a good idea. Most of those are seriously cursed,” He said, “Like, get-possessed-and-start-an-apocalypse cursed. I didn’t even know there were any on Earth, still.”

[Fantastic. Already bad.]

“Yeah, well, that’s what they want you to think.” Constantine drawled, “I’d chuck ‘em all in the Sferoj if I could, but the ones we do toss in just come back. Like the world’s second-worst boomerang.”

Marvel’s brows furrowed. “Second-worst?”

“Captain Boomerang.” Constantine said.

Marvel grimaced. “Ah.”

“Hm.” Batman said.

(He was not going to think about Jack Drake, he was not going to think about Jack Drake)

“Anyway,” Constantine continued, “The typical deal for Sferoj bullshit is to make sure it’s contained, then leave it the fuck alone. If it starts gettin finicky, we call in Deadman,” He waved a hand vaguely.

[Deadman? The Sferoj must have a connection with death magic. Definitely something Ra’s would covet. Damn. He needed more specifics.]

“‘Course, ain’t no point callin’ Deadman now, seeing as he’s been AWOL on a personal mission for the past two months,” Constantine said, mouth pulling to one side. “Which makes this entire thing my problem, and now that we know the League of Assassins is in on it, it’s also your problem.”

Marvel’s gaze was sharp. Determined. “And since this could threaten the balance of Magic, It’s my problem too.” He nodded decisively. “What are we looking for?”

“Right now? A motive,” Constantine said. He leaned back in his chair, settling an ankle on his knee. He threw an elbow over the wood, leaving the other hand to rest on his crossed leg.

Constanine huffed, irritated. “They’ve stolen about twenty seven different tomes on the Sferoj— all sorts of topics— and even some we didn’t have tabs on ‘till after they were swiped.” He flicked his hand in a vague shrug, dropping it to tap on the chair back. “They’re researching something, that’s for damn sure, but there’s no way to tell what ‘till we put together the why.” 

[Indiscriminate murder, knowing Ra’s. Anything that gave him power. If it was magical in nature, all the better. The man was well aware The  Batman had little specialty in that realm of knowledge.]

“What information do these tomes contain?” Batman asked.

Constantine shrugged, grimacing. “A right hodgepodge. Profiles on the Antikvuloj, shit about artifacts, old legends about fucking everything— theories of reincarnation, the Multiverse, the Fantoma Reĝo, the goddamn Unua Morto—”   

Finally something recognisable, if morbid.

“Unua Morto… The First Death?” Batman questioned.

Marvel hummed. “It’s another term for the Big Bang. The beginning of magic, the beginning of life, the start of time, the formation of reality.” He said, drawing a circle in the air with a finger. “To begin something, something else has to end. Like the circle of life, it’s all cycles. Loops.”

“...With something that cosmic, there’s power.” Batman said, tapping on his arm. “Ra’s is obsessed with death and immortality.” Gross understatement. “What does the legend tell of?”  

Constantine wrinkled his mouth, brow furrowed. “Half those books were written in mortlingvo— nothing living can parse it all. Something-something death, rebirth, fuck knows wh—”

“When life began to live, death died,” Marvel recited, eyes shimmering gold.

The demigod’s voice echoed, layered in deeper pitch and a subsonic bass hum. Wind tousled Marvel’s curls, powerful enough to ruffle Constantine’s hair, the fabric of their clothes rippling.

“The Unua Morto, the point between the living and the dead, neither, yet both. The balance, the bridge, the twelve of the clock, where all things end and all begin, the join of the Ciklo De Ĉiuj.” Marvel intoned, “In the birth of death, a passage made, time unwound, shards of what lie in-between fallen to form that which marks the guardians of the Senfinaj Sferoj.”

The wind dispersed in a final burst of air. Marvel blinked twice, gold fading to blue.

He shrugged. “...It’s not a very long legend?”

Constantine stared.

“Well fuck, that’s cryptic and terrifying.”

Cryptic, existential, entirely too philosophical— this is why Bruce didn’t get involved in magi—

Batman froze. “Shards.”

Constantine frowned. “What?”

“If the word ‘shards’ refers to ‘artifacts,’” Batman said. His heart-rate was accelerating. Dread.

The magician paled. “Then the fucker is looking for shit spawned from the formation of existence, fuck—”

“Oh that’s not good,” Marvel hissed, “If— those artifacts, things like that— they’re powerful— like, like God-killer weapons. Tools of Creation. They exist outside of time and space and, don’t,” He fumbled for words, hands fluttering. “Rules don’t always apply because they were here before rules.”

“Ra’s cannot be allowed to gain that level of power.” Batman stated.

“No shit Sherlock,” Constantine replied, running a hand through his hair.

Batman fought the urge to pace, turning the desire for movement towards the Batcomputer. He tapped at the keyboard. “We need more data. A list of possible targets and locations. From there we can extrapolate where they’ll strike.”  

“Research-phase, then?” Marvel suggested, rubbing at his chin. A faint crackle of magic sparked over the speakers as he began to hover, still cross-legged. “I think… there are a few things I can look into at the Rock of Eternity. John, do you think you can get a list of—?”

Constantine waved him off. “I’ll get it handled. I’ve got a couple’a old contacts to dig up.”

Marvel nodded, and turned back to the camera. “Batman, there should be at least a few things on the internet about it— if, I think, if I remember right, there was a traveling history exposition that had an artifact in it…?” He asked, uncertain.

“Hn.” Batman said, “I’ll research with the Batcomputer. We’ll reconvene in 67 hours.”

He ended the call without further preamble, the application closing to reveal the blue-grey bat-patterned desktop bat-ground. Background. Dammit. Bruce took a deep, bracing breath.

Ra’s. It just had to be Ra’s.

He didn’t want to deal with this. Even now, Tim had barely said a word about what had happened while Bruce had been lost in the time stream. Damian was just starting to settle in, settle down, and adapt to a world that was not in constant danger.

Jason…

He still didn’t… there was so much Bruce didn’t know about his son’s time in the League. Things he would likely never know. Not unless they became vitally relevant. Life or death.

Jason didn’t talk about it. It was half a miracle Jason talked to Bruce at all. He… they managed, now. Conversation. Sometimes. Business, small talk. Newer, rawer moments that felt like an echo of the relationship they’d had before. It had… For the first time in years it felt like they were making progress.

Whatever Ra’s was planning, threat to the world, the universe… Every damn time that arse of a man showed his face, whatever fragile stability Bruce’s family had risked shattering.

Bruce turned from the computer, lifting his face toward the roof of the cave. Measured breaths. 1-2-3-4, count. Faint chittering and movement amidst the stalactites as the bats settled in for the day.

A longer breath.

He’d need to order an Esperanto dictionary. He had a feeling there would be more unfamiliar terminology.

Bruce took another, careful breath.

Board meeting. Nine am.

…Well. He was awake. Might as well review his slides.

༼╹^╹༽ ༼╹^╹༽ ༼╹^╹༽

Shades of green whorled in fractals, threaded in purple, an ever-shifting ever-changing expanse of void. The Zone was gorgeous, if you were willing to look at it right. Got stale after a while, of course, everything did, but when you had eternity to burn you got good at finding beauty in the small stuff.

Like a motorcycle going full-throttle through the expanse, jets of green dust spiraling flawlessly back into the air of the Ghost Zone, tearing down a track of nothingness like a bat out of hell on a highway.

Johnny 13 banked around a floating chunk of rock, close enough to skim his hair and ruffle his girl’s scarf, eliciting a whoop of excitement and a giggle from Kitty. He grinned, devilish, and pushed ectoplasm into the engine.

The exhaust lit up in a roar of green flame, and their surroundings blurred into smears of color and laughter.

Kitty was between his arms on the front seat of the bike, instead of behind, all cute and dolled up, occasionally grinning up at him like the world was theirs and he was just her ticket to it.

She’d been doing that more often, since they caught that flick in Amity. Some romcom thing Kitty had seen on a poster around January last year— she’d ragged on him for half a month about taking her to a showing for Valentines.  

It wasn’t a drive-in or nothing like their Before, but the popcorn had been ecto-saturated enough they could actually eat some, though half of it had ended up on the floor anyway after they started flinging it at the screen because the film’s boytoy was himbo idiot.

It’d been nice.

Nobody’d bothered them, even. That was weird enough on its own. Not as much as it used to be, considering how desensitized Amity Parkers were to them by now, but it’d still been off.

Usually the geek-squad ghost-hunters would’ve shown to ruin things, as always. Interrupt their date, wreck the theater, whatever the most destructive thing was in the moment. Never when he was doing shit, only when he was behaving. It was like those walking danger-signs could tell when Johnny was actively trying not to cause trouble.

They’d found out a month later that Phantom had spent most of the day running his folks on a wild goose chase so Johnny and Kitty could have their date in peace.

The hero-brat wasn’t so bad, really. Arguably. Ugh. Even thinking that made Johnny want to barf a little. Goodie-two-shoes little shit.

Johnny let up on the ecto-nitro as they neared a thicker field of debris, banking hard around a larger Zone-island. As they rounded the edge and cruised straight into a clearer expanse of void, something caught his eye amidst the usual doors and hunks of Zone-rock. Something off. Different.

It was like some kinda, reverse portal? It didn’t look right, that was for damn sure, whateverthehell it was.

“What is that?” Kitty asked, leaning forward a bit. “That is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen, god,” She said, leaning back against his chest, head tilting back to look at him. Cute as fuck, damn. “Hey Johnny, think we can get a bit closer? I wanna check that out.”

“Sure thing, Kitten,” Johnny said, and punched the throttle.

A quick hairpin turn later, and they were rolling up to an outcropping of island. Johnny popped the kickstand of his bike, the intent holding it in place more than any respect for gravity. The Zone didn’t exactly do physics.

Kitty hopped off and flew right up to the weird not-portal, frowning curiously at it.

Johnny leaned forward on his bike in a casual straddle, resting his forearms on the handlebars. The island was close enough to the thing to get a good look at it. He would’ve followed Kitty, really, but—

The freaky thing looked even freakier up close, off and W̺̗r̻o͓̘n͎g̠̣ in a way that had chills spinning down Johnny’s spine. Goosebumps. Not a lotta shit did that anymore.

Ghosts and fear were bread and butter. It took a lot to freak them out. But this shit? This shit was f̻͕r̭̮͕̮͈̪e̻̭̞a͉͖̥͓̩ḵ̜y̼͇

A pinpoint flow of ectoplasm, thick and rich with the smell of earth, dirt and gravel and shale and tar, something else underneath. Almost funnel-warped, the Zone around the point pulling towards it, even as the flow pushed outward. Something about it, something didn’t feel right.

Shadow curled up tighter around Johnny’s boots, compressing as small as they could manage. They wouldn’t manifest here. Core-deep fact. Which meant Johnny 13’s shit luck was all his own for once. Peachy.

“Wow that is fucky,” Kitty said, flicking a ring of curls from her face with a red-painted nail. “What is this thing?” She breathed in deep, letting it out in a wide-eyed rush. A quick way to cycle ectoplasm. Get a taste for it. “Fuck Johnny, that’s some power,” Kitty breathed, pupils blown wide.

“I dunno, babe,” Johnny said, hesitant. “Somethin’... it ain’t got great vibes, Kitten.”

“Are you kidding?” Kitty said, whipping around to stare at him. Her curls bounced with the motion. “Ten minutes ‘round here and we’d be boosted like we spent a decade in the Riptides,” She flicked a hand vaguely in the direction of that particular hellhole.

Those things were rolling currents of pure ectoplasm, some of the wildest in the Zone. If you kept solid in them long enough, you’d come out stronger, more powerful. But if you lost focus for a single second, you’d wash away into nothing. Not many ghosts were willing to take that bet. Johnny sure as hell wasn’t.

“Vibes or no vibes, this is somethin’ special,” Kitty breathed, spinning in place.

Johnny fought back an honest-to-fuck shiver. “I ain’t arguin’ that, Kitty, but somethin’ about this thing just ain’t right…”

“Oh quit bein’ such a wuss, Johnny,” She said, waving a hand at him. “We can make a date out of it! Maybe set up a picnic or someth—”

Kitty stopped.

Johnny’s brow creased. “Babe?”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t move.

Something wasn’t right. Something was very, very w̯̻͔̞̗̖̫r̲͎͚̗͉o̼̠̙̤̮̰͍n̙̙̬̰͚͖̞g̜͙̰̬̠ͅ.

Kitty turned, slightly. Her eyes were different. Off. A glare of light obscured them, but they were—

Ghosts didn’t get full-eye glow ‘till they were halfway Ancient.   

She growled, low, and in any other circumstance that might’ve been hot.

“Uhhh, Kitty? …Babe? Wh— oh fu—”

The underlying smell hit him half a second before everything went green.

R̝̞͓͍ọ̥̪̞̻͎̲̤̦t̜̲̥̰͕̳͕̦̹̗.