Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hot.

Jason's body felt hothothot all over, like it was a wildfire eating him from the inside out. When he tried moving his arm, a searing pain ripped through his shoulder and chest, and Jason had to bite his tongue to hold back the scream that choked the back of his throat. He winced at the stabbing pain he felt in his side every time he took a breath. One of his eyes was swollen shut when he tried to pry them open, the other blurry with blood and tears.

Hideous, cackling laughter echoed around him, Jason flinching at the shrill sound. His breaths became shorter, stunted, and Jason could feel his vision blurring at the edges and his ears ringing louder and louder—

The sound of metal scraping on asphalt rang out, making Jason's heart stutter. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for what would come, and couldn't stop the scream that was ripped from his throat as he felt solid iron shatter another rib.

Birdie, birdie, birdie...

Another slam of metal on flesh, crunching through the bone of Jason's thigh. He bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood, coughing up the coppery taste as he desperately tried not to choke on it.

Tweet, tweet, tweet...

The impact of tailored leather soles on Jason's stomach sent him sprawling across the floor, knocking wind he didn't have out of his lungs. He coughed up another glob of coppery red.

Oh, didn't that Jaaaaybird laugh...

Jason heard a horrid little melody fall from blood-stained lips, and each line was punctuated with another strike to his arms, his legs, his chest, his back, his stomach.

When I...

Another hit. Jason felt his collarbone shatter.

Picked.

Jason's heart fluttered as it struggled to keep him awake after a kick aimed directly at his face.

Poor.

He tried to get his arms underneath him, but the crippling pain burning through his shoulder had him crumpling back to the floor.

Robin.

Jason cried out as a foot stomped harshly on his leg, enough to shatter.

Clean.

Jason could hear his heart beating in his ears, muffling the sounds around him. His breaths were choked, even as he spit out the blood that accumulated in his mouth.

His heartbeat grew louder, iron connecting to his temple hard enough to snap his neck to the side. Jason tried, desperately, to cry out as his consciousness slipped.

"Dad..." Jason sniffled. "I'm sorry...Sorry, I'm sorry—I'm...sorry..."

Jason saw only darkness.

Chapter Text

"Get him!"

"This is Unit JK091577, reporting from Diamond District—"

"All units, converge on 54th and Park—"

"Stop right there!"

"Set up a perimeter from Thomas down to Main—"

"Somebody shoot him down!"

The sound of radio chatter flooded Bruce Wayne's communicator, and he found himself ripping the damn thing out of his ear and crushing it under his foot as he sprinted across the roof of JK Tower. He adjusted his stride just before leaping off the side of the building, soaring through the air to land right on GCPD headquarters. The heavy footfall of his boots made the building shudder beneath him, making him smile as a chunk of a gargoyle cracked off when he passed by.

Stupid freak statues.

Another gargoyle got its ear chipped off by a bullet barely missing Bruce's cowl by a millimeter, embedding itself into the metal of an HVAC unit. The flimsy metal barely hid Bruce from view as he ducked behind it, glancing around for an escape as bullets and police chatter echoed around him. The click of clips and magazines being swapped out gave Bruce the out he was looking for, and he took it by dashing towards the edge of the roof and leaping off of it. He flared out his wings to catch what wind he could, then brought them together to make one single hook that Bruce latched onto a nearby water tower, using his momentum to swing forward and launch himself up and over two more buildings. His last jump was just shy of being too short, and Bruce strained to hook one of his claws into cinderblock and concrete as he just barely managed to catch the side of an apartment building. The wall crumbled like gravel beneath Bruce's claw, and he heard the awful screech of metal bending too far as he slowed to a stop. Gripping the fire escape next to him, Bruce yanked out his claw to inspect it—and just as he thought, the damn thing was mangled beyond repair.

Those were always a bitch to replace.

The sound of leaves in the breeze, gently ruffling the kevlar of Bruce's wings as it blew past, told Bruce he was near Grant Park. Bruce could've snuck into the subway station near the park, just down the street, except the Grant Park station had been under maintenance for the past three years, and Bruce wasn't about to start hoping it would miraculously be finished. Instead, he continued past the park towards the church, keeping high to the rooftops knowing there would be cops prowling the streets. 

The Cathedral had long since been closed off, ever since the first time it was leveled and then subsequently rebuilt only for the head priest to die of mysterious circumstances immediately after. No one dared to touch it after that, saying it was cursed, or the home of the Devil—which made it the perfect hideout for Batman. Bruce swung in through the boarded up spire, slipping easily past the long-rotten wooden boards. He hopped down through the caved-in floor, landing with a heavy thump as his boots met hardwood. Dust rose up around him, blocking his vision and choking his lungs as he waded through the darkness of the old church. Like a memory embedded into the back of his brain, Bruce followed a path he knew with his eyes closed; when he felt a stony bump in the wall, he pressed on it to reveal a hidden passageway that he knew was behind the statue of the Virgin Mary in the main chapel. Bruce paid it little mind as he slipped past and further into the darkness, listening to the rumble of stone against stone as the wall moved back into place. The dark path led Bruce deep below the surface, down to an old storm drain system that led out to Gotham Harbor. Bruce went the opposite way, footsteps splashing through musty old rainwater as he navigated the old tunnels. A breeze of stale air made him stop and turn to the side where he was greeted by a ventilation cover. With determination, Bruce gripped onto the edges of the grate, then yanked it right off the wall. He tossed it to the side and climbed into the tight space, bending low to make himself fit. 

 After only a few minutes of walking, he finally found himself in the face of a sweltering heat, heavy with the stench of rotten water and sulfur. Bruce slammed his foot through the grate in front of him and jumped out, landing squarely between the tracks of the Gotham subway. Rats skittered about, the sound of their feet splashing through puddles echoing throughout the abandoned tunnel. The white tiles nestled between hundreds of pale-blue ones blared the name of the station:

CATHEDRAL SQUARE

Bruce followed the tracks until he reached a junction, then switched paths and found himself surrounded by grungy, stained brown tiles. The quiet of the tunnel was broken by the occasional splash of his foot hitting a puddle of old sewer water, staining his boots. The tunnel seemed to stretch for miles, and about halfway through his trek, Bruce heard the muffled blare of a horn above him. The stench of salt water and fish carcass assaulted Bruce's nose; he was mostly likely by Newmarket Pier, then. 

Bruce pressed on, following dirty brown tiles all the way up until he heard the creaking of rusted metal and the smell of petroleum wafted through the air. Drunk sailors and partying teenagers were the only ones at Miller Harbor around this time, but Bruce couldn't take any chances with the GCPD patrolling after his run-in with them earlier. 

His feet slowed to a stop as he heard the hum of activity above him; he crouched low to the tracks, pressing up against the wall of platform edge as he slowly approached. Quiet voices echoed from above, making Bruce pause his breath as he listened.

"...the Bat…Boss wants us to…and the alien, too…"

One voice, louder than the others, came through clear. "The alien?! They'd hafta pay me a fortune to touch that…"

"They say he floats, don't he? And he got freezer breath too or somethin'." 

Bruce's eyebrow twitched when he heard them mention Kal-El, making an aborted movement to yank the steel grate above him down. Taking a deep, slow breath, Bruce steeled himself to continue moving. Now was not the time for him to get into street fights, especially not in a semi-active subway. 

-

Nearly 30 minutes later, Bruce finally found himself at the center of the subway system, marked by an obnoxiously garish sign above him:

WAYNE CENTRAL

A weary sigh escaped Bruce as he closed his eyes, silently wishing misery upon whoever gave the okay to have that sign put up. He remembered when city council members came to ask him and his mother for their permission to honor Thomas Wayne with a dedicated terminal in the subway; he also distinctly remembered him and his mother both saying no. His father would've never wanted something so wasteful to be made, let alone dedicated to him even in his death, when the money making it could've gone somewhere better. 

The past was in the past, anyway.

Wayne Central branched into several different paths, each denoted by the absurdly colorful walls they sported for each corresponding line. Half of them looped back around to Downtown, while the other half would take Bruce all the way up to Crime Alley. The problem was that there was a fifty percent chance Bruce would get ambushed going through the Bowery.

To be fair, he had an equal chance of getting ambushed any other way.

The red of the Uptown Line led Bruce to Coventry Junction, a quiet terminal that saw little activity except for rush hour during the day. It was also relatively clean, especially compared to some of the other subway lines. Hooking the good claws of his cape to the platform edge, Bruce hauled himself off the tracks and up onto the platform, his boots thudding against the old stone tile. Water dripped from the ceiling, the steam and heat of the underground tunnel condensating on the grates above that lead to the street. A high-pitched humming resounded throughout the tunnel, and Bruce pressed himself into one of the divots in the wall just in time for the Uptown A train to pass him by. As it slowed to a stop, Bruce hoisted himself on top of it and watched as a few late-night stragglers filtered out and headed up the stairs to the exit. With a final call for the next stop, and clarifying that it was running Express, the train departed from Coventry. The train sped through the tunnels, and Bruce saw light at the end of the tunnel as the train emerged from the underground, giving Bruce a clear view of the Ark M facility as they passed it by. The enormous structure seemed to loom over the entire city of Gotham like a shadow, a dark promise of the future it will bring. The sight of it made the hair on the back of Bruce's neck stand on end, and he couldn't tear his gaze away as the train passed over Endsbury bridge and dove back underground.

-

The train slowed to a stop at Memorial Ave, denoted by the enormous plaque that adorned the station wall listing the name of every victim of the Gotham City Zoo incident. Bruce hopped off the train, landing directly in front of the massive monolith, and stared quietly at the name in the center of it: Thomas Wayne.

The feeling of his chest tightening like a vice-grip spurred Bruce to finally leave the station, leaving the slab of granite behind. The subway exit brought Bruce out between Old Gotham and the Bowery, where Bruce heard the tell-tale crash of a window being broken and saw the glowing orange of a nearby dumpster fire. The full moon was bright, lighting the streets with a meager light that barely added to the dull and flickering street lights. A group of street kids were fighting in the alleyway Bruce was passing by, noting the distinct red hoodies they wore, some adorned with spray-painted symbols and some covered with denim vests adorned with the same painted designs. The red, bird-like design reminded Bruce of a phoenix, the way the paint dripped down in tendrils like the tails of flame on a bird flying up towards the sky. The kid it was painted on also reminded him of a bird, but a much rowdier one, and one that was about to have not only a knife but also a gun—that was most likely loaded—pulled on him.

The wind cut against Bruce's face as he launched himself through the air, planting his heavy steel-toed boots square in the chest of the assailant with a gun—he crushed the thing to pieces, then whipped his fist out to back-hand the one holding a knife, watching him fall back and knock his head on a garbage can behind him. The wind howled through the alleyway as Bruce locked eyes with a smaller kid crouched to the ground, right next to Bruce's motorcycle. He gripped a socket wrench half as big as his body that was locked onto one of the bolts meant to hold the tires on Bruce's bike; the others were scattered on the ground around him, the back tire already laying on its side behind the kid. 

The sound of metal crashing to the ground ripped through the alleyway as Bruce watched his bike tip over. Tireless. The kid didn't even flinch as it happened; he kept his eyes locked on Bruce, his body tense as he held the wrench in front of him tightly.

Neither moved for a long moment. Bruce took a cautious step forward, but stopped short when the kid flinched back, hard. Bruce had no idea how to deal with this, with kids; they were always more his better half's specialty. Bruce knew what he looked like—what Batman looked like—to a kid no more than 14, clearly committing a crime in front of Gotham's most ruthless crime-stopper. The silence roared through Bruce's blood, the kid's shaking shoulders anchoring Bruce where he stood—it reminded him a little too much of himself, trapped behind a steel door with the shrill squeaks of bats above him as gunshots rang out just beyond the door. Something slammed into the dumpster beside them—a cat, Bruce noted, white and grey with blue eyes—and the sound set the off kid running.

With Bruce's tire.

Gravel crunched beneath his feet as Bruce's naturally wide stride quickly closed the distance between him and the maybe-12-year-old hauling a 40 pound tire by himself. The kid's red hoodie stretched in Bruce's grip as he snatched it, hauling the boy off the ground. 

He barely flinched as the kid thrashed around, growling at him. "Put me down! I said put me down!"

Fiery blue eyes glared at Bruce, and if looks could kill Bruce would maybe get a paper cut at best. He twisted his wrist this way and that, observing the kid who was about a third of his height, scrunched up like a cat. A really pissed cat. The socket wrench was still in his grip, his arms too short to reach Bruce even as he swung it around wildly. On the upswing, Bruce stopped it with his hand and grabbed it, snatching it out of the kid's hand and sticking it into his toolbelt for safekeeping.

"That's mine!" The kid thrashed around more wildly, making desperate grabs for Bruce's belt that was just too far away. "Give it back, asshole!"

Bruce huffed, amused. "That's some mouth you've got, kid."

"Go to hell," the kid spat. Then literally spat at Bruce, the glob of saliva landing directly on Bruce's pants.

Bruce closed his eyes and took a deep breath, pointedly ignoring the warmth on his thigh. "What's your name?" Bruce was met with silence. Lovely, a brat with attitude and authority problems. A voice in the back of Bruce's head sounded all-too-familiar as it said, Sound familiar?  "Do you have somewhere to go?"

The kid scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Obviously," he said without looking at Bruce, "I'm just out on a job."

Bruce knew the look on the kid's face; he knew what it meant when the kid wouldn't meet his eyes, glancing around for anything to talk about other than the conversation they were having. With a sigh, Bruce made an executive decision.

Without warning he swung the kid up and over his shoulder. Little hands pelted at his back, feet kicking and nearly smacking him right in the face as the kid yelled in protest. Bruce felt his lips twitch up in the corner as the kid's hands beat a soothing massage into his sore back.

 "Keep that up and I just might pay you to be my personal massage therapist," Bruce joked. Bruce felt the kid go tense, then thrash even harder. The hits were actually starting to hurt a little. "Okay, okay—stop, stop it." Bruce pulled the kid down, holding him out in front of himself like a misbehaving cat. His little chest heaved as he scowled at Bruce, clearly winded from the fight he'd been putting up. "I'm going to take you somewhere that you can get food, and maybe a change of clothes, and definitely a proper shower because you smell like the subway and sewer got mixed in a blender full of shit."

The kid's jaw hung open as he stared at Bruce, wide-eyed and flabbergasted. "You can't just say that to a kid, man."

Okay, so maybe Bruce's childcare skills left something to be desired. "You called me an asshole."

"You're literally kidnapping me!"

Bruce grunted, securing the kid on his shoulder with far less protest this time. "I'm not kidnapping you, kid. I'll throw you back outside as soon as I see you've eaten and showered because right now you look skinny enough to snap in half."

The kid made an offended noise. "Rude. And stop calling me 'kid'."

Bruce had a smile on his face he knew was smug as he asked, "Is there something else I should call you?"

A mumble came from beside him that he couldn't make out.

"Mind speaking up, kid?" Bruce felt his grin grow wider. "My hearing's not what it used to be."

The kid heaved an annoyed sigh, smacking Bruce's back in retaliation. "I said my name's Jason!"

Bruce hummed, noting the pink tinge to Jason's ears as he settled the boy under his arm rather than over his shoulder. While the shifting of weight didn't affect Bruce much, Jason seemed much calmer tucked safely under his arm rather than haphazardly tossed over his shoulder. Silence passed between them as Bruce scaled the side of a building with one hand, hooking one of his claws into the cracked bricks and launching himself high enough to hook it again, until he reached the top of the building. From his vantage point, Bruce could place them around Hurst Street, which was only a few blocks away from where Bruce was planning to go. He followed the rooftops until they reached a tall building, unfinished and covered in neon orange netting that spanned the height of it. He set Jason down on the ground, who quickly scurried away from him.

"Weirdo," Jason yelled from a good few feet away. He glanced up at the building towering in front of them. "What are we even doing here?"

When Bruce didn't answer, Jason looked over at him. Bruce still didn't move, but spoke softly. "If you're going to come with me, climb on. I can't carry you while we cross buildings."

Jason scoffed. "Oh, so now I get a choice?" Bruce watched as the kid hesitated before taking a reluctant step forward into Bruce's space. "Don't make me regret this, old man."

Bruce was more than a little offended. "Old man? I'm not even 25 yet."

"Who's the one who said his 'hearing isn't what it used to be'?"

Jason squawked as Bruce simply picked him up by the hood of his jacket, reaching behind himself and depositing Jason onto his back.

"Shut up and hold on, brat."

Without warning, Bruce dropped them off the edge, tipping forward with one of his claws outstretched to catch on the ledge of the next building. Balancing them both carefully on one rebar claw, Bruce engaged every muscle in his upper body to haul them up and over the edge. Being down one claw made it all the more challenging to carry both him and Jason—he felt something strain dangerously tight in his chest, then relax as he dropped them down. The concrete beneath them shuddered with every step Bruce took, lunging just a little bit further the second time to reach the next building. The arms around his neck tightened a fraction, just barely loose enough to not crush Bruce's windpipe. 

Bruce took long, arduous strides as he hauled his own weight plus Jason's across the rooftops. Jason's face was pressed into the back of his neck; Bruce felt the flutter of his eyelashes against his nape as Jason kept his eyes firmly shut. With a huff of laughter, Bruce stepped into a run, which jolted Jason into awareness just in time to see Bruce catapulting them off their current building, a bloodcurdling scream ripping through Jason's throat. 

Served the little shit right.

His scream was cut off by his face being thrown against Bruce's back as Bruce caught himself on the side of a half-finished tower, his claws digging into the concrete floor above them. With all of his might, Bruce hauled them up and over, holding them still in the air—on his remaining claws, several feet off the ground—making Jason scramble to hold onto him tighter. With a smirk, Bruce finally dropped them to the ground with a heavy thud. Jason's whole body shook, trembling against Bruce's back as he refused to loosen his deathgrip around Bruce's neck. Okay, maybe Bruce almost felt a little bad about teasing the kid so much. Almost.

Unfastening his cape from the rest of his suit, Bruce dropped it unceremoniously to the ground. He would worry about the broken claw tomorrow. The quiet scuff of shoes echoed against the concrete as Bruce kneeled down, allowing the kid to unwind his arms that were nearly strangling Bruce and settle to the floor.

"That was the worst thing I've ever done," Jason said shakily, his legs trembling like a newborn foal. It was a little cute, making Bruce’s lips twitch up slightly.

"But fun, right?"

A grin so bright it could light up half of Gotham stretched across Jason's face as he nodded his head enthusiastically. Bruce shucked off his suit, hanging it properly on its designated ceiling chain, as Jason ran over to Bruce's discarded wings to examine them. "How the hell does this support your weight? It looks like a bunch of chicken legs."

Bruce wasn't certain he wouldn't throw the kid right off the edge. In fact, he considered it for a long moment before remembering he was a grown adult, and the fact that someone would not like it if he punted a child off a 30-story building

"Physics." 

"Bullshit," Jason scoffed. "You weigh, like, a literal ton."

He didn't feel like explaining the complicated math and calculations that went into the logistics of his claws, and instead opted to tuck Jason under his arm again, making the kid yelp as Bruce stepped toward one of the building's windows. 

Dressed down in a black shirt and sweatpants after taking off his suit, Bruce dropped them onto a fire escape below, clattering down the steps until he reached a window with a blue sticky note attached to it: Gone fishing. See you tomorrow. The familiar scrawl made Bruce smile as he chose to ignore the flailing child tucked beneath his arm. Gripping the edge of the window, Bruce tugged it open and swung himself inside, boots tapping softly on the plush carpet of the living room. He slammed the window shut behind him, flicking the curtains shut before dumping Jason on the floor.

"What the Hell, asshole!" Jason rubbed the back of his head, flipping Bruce off. 

The thought of getting into a fistfight with a 12 year old mortified Bruce, knowing he'd never hear the end of it from Kal or his friends. Especially Waylon. Instead, he shuffled through the cabinets and fridge until he found some semblance of food he could make. White dust scattered across the countertop as Bruce placed a bag of flour on it, followed by the colder ingredients, then finally potatoes and a comically large sack of shredded cheddar cheese.

Jason blinked owlishly. "Why do you have a gigantic sack of cheese in your fridge?"

"Biscuits." 

The look Jason gave him was priceless as Bruce simply set out the ingredients he needed. Bruce first set two pots of salted water to boil on the stove, chopping up his potatoes into reasonably sized chunks and dumping them in the lukewarm water to heat. Then, with very little grace, Bruce dumped several cups of flour into a metal bowl, cutting half as many sticks of butter into tiny pieces before tossing them in along with an egg and two whole containers of sour cream. Jason watched quietly, brows furrowed, as Bruce tucked the bowl securely under his armpit and then shoved his hand into the mixture. Flour dusted his shirt as he mixed everything together, butter and egg and sour cream smoothing out the dusty flour. The sensation of cold butter squishing in his grip was immeasurably unpleasant, but he powered through it as he pressed it into the mixture. 

When everything came together into a smooth ball of dough, Bruce set the bowl down and glanced up at Jason. The kid was perched on one of Bruce's barstools, eyes shining with wonder as he peered over the counter and into the bowl of dough. Something tugged at Bruce's heart, just a little, and without a word he turned to the stove and removed the potatoes from the pot. He dumped them into a separate bowl, mashing them with a fork and covering them in a good helping of salt before upending nearly the entire sack of cheese into the bowl and mixing it roughly with a wooden spoon.

"That feels like way too much cheese, dude," Jason said a little nervously.

"Never too much cheese."

It was something Eddie always said, despite being severely lactose intolerant—not that it ever stopped him. He was always the one ordering extra cheesy pizza and ice cream sundaes and triple cheeseburgers. Bruce frowned at the thought of his friends, feeling another tug in his chest—different, this time—that was a little too familiar.

Focusing back on the task at hand, Bruce grabbed the ball of dough from its bowl and smacked it onto the counter, pressing it down firmly with his fists. When it was flat enough, he grabbed the rolling pin from one of the cabinets and rolled the dough out even thinner. Bruce could recognize the proper thickness of pierogi dough like the back of his own hand; when it was ready, Bruce grabbed two glasses from the cabinet, filling one with water and handing it to Jason—who muttered a quiet thank you—before flipping the other still in his hand upside down and pressing it into the dough. He cut out several circles of dough that he collected to the side before rolling the scraps into a smaller ball of dough, then flattened it the same way and cut out more circles. Bruce repeated the process until there was no longer enough dough to roll out, then he systematically placed all of the dough circles neatly across the counter. With practiced efficiency, he grasped the bowl of filling under his arm, now only slightly warm to the touch, and a spoon in the other and placed perfectly-sized spoonfuls into the center of each dough circle.

Jason watched, mesmerized, as Bruce worked his way through the dozens of little pieces of dough in minutes. When his bowl was empty, Bruce tossed it into the sink and began folding each piece of dough in half and pinching the edges together so they formed little crescent moon shapes. He set them gingerly on the wooden spoon he'd placed aside earlier, then dipped them into the pot still boiling on the stove. He packed the pot until it was crammed with little moon-shaped pierogi from edge to edge. With a sigh, Bruce leaned back against the counter across from the stove, quietly watching steam rise from the pot and get sucked out by the microwave's vent. Something clattered behind him, and Bruce turned to see Jason flinch as he knocked over his cup of water while trying to lift himself further over the counter. Bruce simply grabbed the rag next to him and reached over to wipe up the mess, only to freeze as Jason practically fell out of his chair with the way he jerked back. Bruce's heart dropped to his feet.

"Kid," Bruce started, breathless. With a sharp inhale, he slowly placed the rag back on the counter, Jason tracking his every move with wide eyes. "Jason," Bruce said softly. When there was no reaction, save for the tension in Jason's shoulder, Bruce continued. "I'm just going to clean up the spill. Can I?" Jason shook his head, pressing even further back into his chair, trembling. With a quiet sigh, Bruce slid the towel forward, just far enough for Jason to reach. "Do you mind doing it, then? Please?"

The quiet tension between them lingered as Jason kept himself as far back into the barstool as he could go, limbs coiled tightly to his body like he was staying constantly braced for something. It was a long moment before Bruce saw those limbs relax, just barely, and just enough for Jason to reach out and snatch the rag away from Bruce and hastily wipe up the puddle of water next to him. Bruce saw his little head of black hair disappear under the counter as he hopped down from the chair and—presumably—wiped up the water that had inevitably dripped onto the floor.

Bruce felt his shoulders sag, a wry smile on his face as he turned back to the stove and found the pierogi finally floating. Grabbing a slotted spoon from next to the stovetop and a plate from the cabinet above it, Bruce carefully scooped out each little dumpling and placed them on the plate. He clicked off the stove, then placed the plate of steaming pierogi on the counter just in time for Jason to pop back up. Bruce didn't comment on the lack of towel being returned to him, and instead simply placed a fork on the plate and pushed it towards Jason.

"Eat up, then shower." With that, Bruce set about cleaning off the countertop, discreetly pulling out another rag from a drawer and wiping off the flour and dough stuck to it. Used pots and bowls were placed in the sink and Bruce scrubbed them fast enough to make a hummingbird do a double-take; when they were spotless he placed them on the designated dish towel next to the sink to dry. In the few minutes it had taken him to clean the kitchen, Jason had already managed to make his way through the entire plate of pierogi. The last few stragglers on the plate were quickly stabbed with a fork and then disappeared in the time it took Bruce to blink. The plate reflected the light above it perfectly as Jason wiped it clean, then set down his fork. "I take it you liked them, then?"

Jason's cheeks flushed as the boy cast his gaze to the side, jumping down from his stool. "They were kinda good." With a sly smile, he added, "Definitely needed more cheese, though."

Bruce rolled his eyes as he rounded the counter, shoving at Jason's face, making the boy scowl and shove at his hand. Bruce heard him mutter, "Asshole," under his breath, so he grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and marched him to the bathroom down the hall, depositing the boy on the floor like an unruly cat. Jason muttered a few more swears under his breath, sending a glare at Bruce that made him smirk.

Bruce pointed to the closet across from the bathroom, "Extra towels," he gestured to the vanity under the sink, "Soap and toiletries." Without a word he disappeared into one of the bedrooms, throwing open one of the wardrobes and pulling out a few small sets of clothes that he and Kal kept on hand for child-related emergencies. It was one of the few habits he and Kal picked up from the Kents, who were never able to have a child themselves but always cared for Kal and the local kids like they were their own. With piles of clothes in hand, Bruce returned to the bathroom and heard the water already on. He knocked on the now-closed door.

"Jason? I brought you some clothes to change into." 

Bruce was met only with silence as the sound of water hitting tile droned on behind the door. Bruce heaved a deep sigh. "Jason?" 

After a brief pause, Bruce sucked in a breath and twisted the doorknob. "I'm coming in."

The door creaked open as Bruce entered the bathroom, only to be met with a face full of steam, and the sound of cheap blinds flapping in the wind as a cold breeze filtered in through the open window.

A world-weary sigh left Bruce.

"Damn brat."