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Jason turns seventeen without fanfare.
He’s not sure if he expects anything more than nothing from his family, but somehow he’s still disappointed when the only person who’s in the house to greet him when he gets up is Alfred. He’s in the kitchen with two plates Jason’s favorite breakfast and a melancholy smile.
“Happy birthday, Master Jason,” he says and holds his arms out for a hug. Jason goes to him and sags against his chest. He remembers doing this when he was little, when he reached just above Alfred’s waist and clung like he was scared someone was going to rip him away. He’s still not that big and when Alfred’s arms come around him, it still feels like the world can’t reach him.
“Where’s everyone?” Jason asks. He doesn’t really want to know, but he feels like he needs it. Deserves it, maybe.
“Master Bruce and Master Damian are both off-world at the moment,” says Alfred. “Master Tim is on a mission in Belgium as of last night, and Master Dick is with the Titans.” Jason nods against his shoulder. He feels heavy, and there is a bitterness in his mouth that coats the ridges of his hard palate and makes his tongue numb in a way that is almost painful. “I’m sorry,” Alfred offers after a moment, “Master Bruce and Master Damian send their regards.”
Jason tries not to linger on why he leaves out Dick and Tim’s names.
They eat together and, despite the absences that hang over him like ghosts, it’s nice. They used to do this a lot when Jason first came to the manor. Bruce, even after raising three other boys, never knew quite what to do with Jason. He grew up on the streets of Gotham and bore her marks like scars. Bruce tried, but he didn’t know how to raise a child who carried hurt like Jason did. He was awkward, unsure of himself and his attempts to reach Jason, and it only got worse after Jason figured out the whole Batman thing.
When the fighting and the cold silences got too much, Jason would seek out Alfred. They would sit alone in the kitchen over tea and whatever sweet thing was at hand and Jason would talk. Alfred was—still is—the only person Jason can talk to without fear of judgment, even when all Jason can think about is how little any of them are doing to change Gotham.
“What are your plans for today, Master Jason?”
Jason puts his fork down and pushes his plate aside. “I dunno, Alfie. Think we could maybe just—be together? I was kinda hopin’ for the whole family, but—y’know.”
Alfred takes his plate to the sink. “Of course, Master Jason. What did you have in mind?”
…
They go to a museum first. Jason’s been to the Gotham Museum of Art before, many times, but they were having an exhibition of local romantic revivalist painters. He drags Alfred around for a couple of hours, telling him everything he knows about the style. Alfred definitely knows most of it, but he indulges Jason nonetheless.
They stop to talk to some of the artists and Alfred buys one of the paintings Jason shows the most interest in—it’s a scene from Frankenstein, depicting the Creature disappearing into the snowy horizon of the arctic. It’s lonely and terrifying, but the soft pink light in the sky beyond him is hopeful. Jason is lost in it until Alfred rests a hand on his shoulder and asks the artist for a price. He pays her more than she asks for and has the painting delivered to the Manor.
Jason is a little quieter as they go through the rest of the museum, lost in thought, but it doesn’t matter because they’ve been through the main part a dozen times before.
Outside the museum, Jason holds the chili dog Alfred bought him from the stand on the corner and says, “Should I stay here, Alfred?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Master Jason.” Alfred sits next to him on the front steps. Gotham is hot in August, hot and humid and stinks like sewage. Alfred stands out in his three-piece butler’s uniform, but he looks as comfortable as ever.
Jason frowns at his chili dog. “When I turn eighteen, I mean. Should I leave?”
Alfred turns to him, face inscrutable. “I’m afraid that is your decision,” says Alfred after a moment, “but I can say that, should you leave, you’ll be greatly missed.”
“I know you’ll miss me, Alfie,” says Jason. He takes a bite of his chili dog to stall. He wishes he hadn’t started this conversation. “I dunno about the others.”
“Master Jason,” says Alfred. “You know very well your father loves you.”
“Yeah, but—”
“And you know your brothers do as well.”
That’s just it, though. Maybe he knows his brothers love him, but it rarely feels like they do. More often than not, it feels like he’s still an eleven-year-old who’s just moved into a house full of strangers. He gets why Damian’s so distant and he appreciates it when his eldest brother tries to connect with him, but Dick and Tim are so different from Jason, lighter, sweeter, less damaged. He didn’t know how to relate to them when he first came home, and now it feels too late. He feels like an intruder and wonders sometimes if they agree.
Alfred takes his hesitation for what it is. “They do love you, Master Jason, you shouldn’t doubt that. This family has a terrible habit of suppressing feelings to everyone’s detriment, this is true, but you should not for a moment doubt your place in it.”
They eat in silence for several minutes. “I don’t always feel like I belong here,” he says eventually, “but I know I don’t belong anywhere else.”
Alfred reaches around and tugs Jason into his side. It’s bolder than Alfred would usually be in public, but Jason is glad he does it. “You will always belong with the family, Master Jason. I won’t stand for anything else.”
...
He’s not supposed to go on patrol alone, even if he is more than capable of handling himself out there, but tonight he goes out anyway. He stops a few muggings, knocks around a drug dealer selling to a girl who’s clearly underage, and beats an attempted kidnapper so badly he wonders if they’ll have trouble identifying the guy.
Now he sits on the roof of an apartment building in the Narrows, his legs swinging over the edge. He’s high up, about eight stories. Up here it smells like damp smoke and gas fumes. It’s familiar, comforting like the Manor can’t be. It smells like the home he grew up in rather than the home he’s displaced in.
“Happy birthday, kid.”
Robin doesn’t turn; he knows that voice, doesn’t fear it as much as he should.
“What do you want, Slade?”
Slade leans his hip against the roof’s ledge. Like this, Jason boosted up half a foot and Slade losing a couple of inches to the ledge, they’re almost the same height. “Just wanted to give you your birthday present.”
Jason turns to him now. His expression must be visible under the domino because Slade, maskless, smirks. “You? Bought me a gift for my birthday? Are you a clone?”
“Brat,” says Slade. He reaches into one of the pockets in his suit and pulls out a book. Jason gapes when Slade holds it up.
“How did you get a first edition Frankenstein?”
“The usual means,” says Slade. He moves the book out of the way when Jason makes a grab for it. “Ask nicely.”
“Gimme the book or lose the hand.”
Slade laughs at him and relents. Jason holds it reverently, running his thumb lightly over the cover. He turns it over, looks inside, and finally looks up at Slade. “Why?”
The question makes the humor in Slade’s face drain away. “Figure it out, kid.” He pushes a hand through Jason’s hair, holds the back of his head in one big palm. “The answer is right in front of you.”
Jason watches Slade leave, then turns back to the book. He knows the answer.