Chapter Text
The cold of the fire escape was starting to seep through his worn-out gloves. Jason hadn’t gotten around to getting new ones, but that was fine. He didn’t particularly need them.
He leaned back, resting a hip against the rusted metal. The frame creaked and groaned, but held strong. Jason glared through the window, helmet letting his vision cut through the darkened room to watch the Replacement carrying dirty dishes across the room like a fuckin’ sanctimonious jackass.
There was no reason the fuckin’ brat should know how to wash dishes, and Jason’s fingers itched to pull out a cigarette.
“Fuck.” He swore under his breath. Something was weird here, but…
Every time he tried to think about what it was, a swell of irrational green coated his vision. Too close to the kid, and he’d get swamped again, and considering what happened the last time he went under…
Echoing laughter and the cracking of bones under a long length of metal. Jason couldn’t tell which end was his.
He shuddered.
Inside, the kid dried off the last of the dishes. Jason tried to tell himself that he would have noticed someone lurking outside the window when he was Robin, but the truth of the matter was he wouldn’t have made it two steps past Bruce’s goddamn shadow before the man dragged him back by the cape.
And here was a little birdy, flown so far from home.
Jason really needed that cigarette.
The kid was talkin’ to the old veteran, some nonsense Jason didn’t need to know about. He wished he had bugged the room.
The old man reached out to ruffle the kid’s hair and a vicious surge of bile shot through Jason at the nervous, shy smile on the brat’s face. He hated it , he hated that he hated it.
Jason dropped to the floor below as the Replacement slid the window open and left, content to return to his patrol.
The fire escape creaked and groaned again. Then with a twisting shriek of metal, the rusted screws holding it in place finally gave way. The platform under him shuddered, then buckled, dropping Jason almost three stories down and into a dumpster full of half-rotted garbage.
To make matters worse, his plated boots colliding with the metal made a huge clang that echoed through the streets. There was no way a deaf dog would have missed that, much less the old veteran standing less than ten feet away.
A head poked out the window above, looking down at Hood. The helmet gave him an impeccable view of the old man’s unimpressed face. He called down, “You stay right there. I’ve got some words for you, and you’re gonna listen.”
Just to be contrary, Jason called back, “Or what?”
“Or you’re gonna regret it.”
With those parting words, the old man ducked back inside, closing the window.
And the thing was, Jason could leave. There was nothing keeping him here. He could just… go.
He climbed out of the dumpster, flicking off a rotten banana peel as he went, then shoved his hands in his pockets to wait out the cold.
After about five minutes, the old man came down, holding a thermos and a steaming mug. He handed Jason the mug, taking a sip from his own thermos.
Jason did the same. The tea was a watery earl grey. Alfred would have wept .
Jason took another sip.
“McIver.” Jason raised an eyebrow. Then, remembering he was wearing a full-face helmet, he tilted his head questioningly. The man continued, “You can call me Mr. McIver, considering I don’t like you very much.”
“Oh?” He knew his voice had gone cold. But sue him, the man was taking the side of some upstart brat over the original .
(Technically Dickiebird was the original, but his point stood.)
“Hm.” The old man took another sip from his thermos. The tea wasn’t even that good. “I won’t say you ain’t doin’ good things for the alley, because you are. But the things you done to that kid ain’t justifiable.”
Jason snorted, but the man kept talking.
“–and I’m not sure just how comfortable I might be, trustin’ a man who takes his anger issues out on a kid like that.”
Jason couldn’t help flinching. He had no response.
“But you’re basically a kid yourself. It still ain’t right, but I’m gettin’ the feelin’ there’s somethin’ else that I don’t know about.” Mr. Mc Iver fixed Jason with a stern expression that reminded him disturbingly of Alfred after he caught Jason trying to nick Martha Wayne’s old silverware. He’d sat him down very nicely and explained that family heirlooms were important, and if he wanted to take some utensils, could he kindly take the truly hideous ones Bruce had bought during a charity auction.
The memory stung.
“Ya know, the kid tried to defend you.” Jason flinched again, and Mr. McIver looked at him once more as if he was measuring Jason up and had found him wanting. “Tried to tell me it wasn’t your fault. You know what I told him?”
“What.” The fury had drained from Jason like lancing a wound, and in its place he found a still, hollow chill. It was still somehow preferable to the anger.
“I told him I’d make that decision for myself.”
“And have you?”
“Hm.” The old man turned away. “Not yet. But I can tell ya, that kid’s good. And I have a grandkid who idolizes him and a bullet with your name on it if I think you’ve crossed the line.”
Jason didn’t know what to say to that.
“Your tea sucks.”
“Yeah, well it’s not like I’d give you the good stuff.” The man snorted, taking another sip from his thermos. “I’d have ta like you for that.”