Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jonathan woke to the smell of piss and gunpowder.

Not Arkham’s antiseptic reek, not the sour tang of his lab. Just Gotham. The night air pressed heavy with rot and smoke, and when he sat up, his body wasn’t right.

His coat sleeves drowned his hands, his knees sharp as knives where his pants sagged His voice, when he swore under his breath, cracked high and thin like a stranger’s.

Eight. Maybe seven.

He looked at his fingers, small and mostly unscarred, and bile rose in his throat. The mind that had lectured in universities, that had bent Gotham with toxin and terror, was caged in a body too light to even hold a scalpel steady.

Somewhere nearby, glass shattered. A scream cut off too fast. Crime Alley breathing, eating. He knew better than anyone what happened to children here: they disappeared. Into gangs, into alleys, into graves.

And now he was one.

Jonathan forced himself upright, legs trembling from hunger that wasn’t his own, no, it was this body’s weakness, a child’s metabolism screaming for food he didn’t have.

His stomach cramped, loud enough to give him away if anyone was listening. He yanked the coat tighter around him. Too big. Too heavy. But he needed the weight, the cover. Without it, he was just another scrap of meat on Gotham’s streets.

Think, he ordered himself. He'd survived once. He could survive again. But no one could know who he was.

He was Scarecrow, master of fear, breaker of psyches. But in Gotham tonight, he was reduced to nothing.

Nothing but prey in a city that devoured.

Six blocks. That was all it was to the old safehouse on Harlowe Street. Six blocks to supplies, to safety.

As a man, it was nothing. Bit as a child…

By the third block, his lungs burned, his short legs stumbling where a man’s stride would’ve cleared with ease. He stumbled over broken pavement, caught in a pothole he would’ve stepped clean across before. His palms scraped bloody on the ground.

He bit his lip until it bled, refusing to cry. The body wanted to, it had the reflexes of a child, but his mind raged against it. Tears did nothing. He had to get up. To move.

The stairwell to the hideout waited in shadow, its rusted door chained shut from the outside. Once, he would’ve pried it open with leverage and muscle memory. Tonight when he pulled, the chain barely rattled. His small arms trembled. His hands slicked red. Nothing.

He sagged against the door, chest heaving. Above him, a neon sign buzzed, throwing sickly light across the alley. Every second out here was another second someone might see him. A kid. Alone. Prey.

The fear that he had spent his life weaponizing now coiled inside him, raw, animal, humiliating.

He slammed his head back against the metal door. Once. Twice. Pain to ground himself. "Stupid, wretched—" His voice cracked thin and high, like a schoolboy’s.

He curled in the shadow of the stairwell, clutching the oversized coat. The chain mocked him, silent, unyielding. Scarecrow had built hideouts for every contingency. But never this one.

How pathetic.

He tried the window next. A drainpipe, slick with rust. His small fingers slipped, but fury carried him up anyway. Halfway, he fell, barely catching himself on torn nails, his shoulders wrenching, a high yelp tearing free before he could stop it.

Useless.

But the window gave. And his body, weak as it was, was small enough to wriggle through. He collapsed inside, coat dragging behind him like a shroud.

Dust. Old paper. The faint tang of chemicals long inert. The cupboards were empty. The shelves nearly bare. Only fear gas, syringes, canisters, nothing edible.

His stomach growled, sharp and sudden. Loud.

He tore through drawers, cupboards, corners. Dust. A crumpled bag. Stale crumbs.

"Of course" He hissed, voice cracking. "Of course I don't keep food. Why would I? What use is bread when you can manufacture fear?"

The laugh that escaped him was brittle, sharp, too close to breaking.

But hunger was louder. A child’s hunger, raw and demanding. It bent him forward, made his hands shake. Fear never ruled him this way. Hunger did.

So he stole.

The corner store clerk barely looked up from the TV when the door jangled open. Perfect. Jonathan swept crackers and jerky into his sleeve. A candy bar for sugar. He would not feel guilt. Gotham owed him this much at least.

Almost out, then his coat snagged on a rack. The crackers spilled.

"Hey!" The clerk barked.

Jonathan bolted. Legs too short, lungs searing, but adrenaline carried him. He didn’t stop running until his lungs gave out, dragging air like broken glass. He ducked into an alley, collapsed against the bricks, and tore the wrapper open with his teeth.

The chocolate was cheap, waxy. The jerky tasted like salt and ash. He devoured it anyway, shoving it down as if it would erase the gnawing in his gut.

When it was gone, when the wrappers lay crumpled and slick in his lap, Jonathan stared at his shaking hands and felt a wave of fury so sharp it was almost fear.

Scarecrow didn’t eat like this. Scarecrow drowned hunger in euphoria, in chemical brilliance, in terror and control. Hunger had been irrelevant. A problem beneath him.

Now it ruled him.

"Ridiculous!" He shrieked at the wall, fists pounding brick. His voice cracked like a boy’s.

That was when the shadow fell.

Boots on asphalt. A leather jacket shifting.

"Hey, kid"

Jonathan froze. The voice was deep, rough, and horribly familiar. Red Hood. Of course it would be him. Crime Alley’s self-appointed watchman.

He shoved the wrappers into his coat, as if they were evidence. "Go away" Thin, high, humiliating, pathetic.

Hood didn’t move. "Relax. I’m not here to hurt you. You look like you haven’t eaten in days"

Jonathan’s lip curled. "You don’t know shit about me"

"I know what it looks like when a kid’s starving" A pause, then softer: "You wanna grab something hot? I’ll cover it"

The offer struck like a knife. A hot meal. Exactly what his body screamed for. Exactly what he could not accept.

He shot to his feet, glaring up at the red visor with all the venom he could muster. "You think I’m stupid enough to follow a man in a mask into some back booth? You think I’m stupid enough to trust you?"

Hood tilted his head, unreadable. "Trust me or don't, doesn’t matter. I’m offering dinner, not a contract"

Jonathan’s laugh was cracked, brittle, and ugly. "Kindness means nothing. Every hand that reaches out wants something back. You don’t get mercy. You get chains"

For a moment, silence. His small chest heaved, every word shaking him apart.

But Hood didn’t argue. Didn’t step closer. Just stood, steady as stone.

"Alright" He said finally. "No strings. You’re not ready, that’s fine. But if you change your mind…" He set a couple folded bills on the dumpster’s edge, coins weighing it down. "That’s yours"

And then he melted back into the dark.

Jonathan stared at the money, throat tight with something he refused to name. Hunger screamed at him to grab it. Pride screamed louder. He pressed his nails into his palms until skin split.

He wouldn’t take it. He couldn’t. Trust was death.

And yet his stomach growled again, cruel and insistent, as the night pressed colder around him.

Chapter Text

The alley puddle didn’t look like water so much as oil, black, shining, catching the glow of a broken streetlamp. Jonathan almost stepped over it.

But then he saw a face.

He froze.

Not Scarecrow’s hollow-eyed mask. Not Jonathan Crane, doctor of psychology, with cheekbones sharp as glass and eyes that burned like acid. No, this was rounder, softer. Cheeks unscarred. Hair too long, falling into wide, startled eyes.

A boy.

He leaned closer, sleeve dragging in grime, until his reflection trembled across the ripples. Eight years old, maybe. The face he knew from photographs shoved in court files, from nightmares half-buried under decades of work.

His own face. The one that had been laughed at, shoved, broken.

Jonathan’s stomach churned. His jaw clenched until his teeth ached. He wanted to sneer, to tear into the boy staring back at him, but the lips in the reflection only trembled.

"You're pathetic" He hissed. His voice cracked, high and boyish, and the reflection mocked him with it.

He slammed his palm into the puddle. Ripples shattered the boy’s face into pieces, scattering him into nothing.

The splash soaked his sleeve, but the anger was hotter than the cold. He shoved himself upright, coat dragging behind him, and staggered deeper into the alley.

By the time he ducked into a half-collapsed stairwell that stank of mildew, his body was shaking so hard it was difficult to breathe.

The coat pooled around him, swallowing him whole, but it couldn’t keep out the Gotham chill. His bones felt hollow. His teeth chattered loud enough he wanted to clap a hand over his mouth to silence them.

He pressed his head against the bricks. Cold leached into his skin. His stomach growled again, sharp and cruel.

Jonathan forced himself to speak, if only to remind himself he still could. Words tumbled out in half-delirious rhythm, the way he once lectured to cavernous halls.

"Fear response… adrenal secretion… heightened vigilance…" His voice shook with each syllable. "Fear is… adaptive… protective…"

His breath fogged pale in the air. He pulled his coat tighter, muttering faster, as if science could warm him.

"Children— Children are… are reservoirs of fear. Lab rats in school uniforms. I am not—" his teeth clacked hard enough to jar the word, "—I'm not a child"

The bricks didn’t answer. The night didn’t care.

Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut, fury bleeding into exhaustion. He hated how small he felt, how cold. How the city that once trembled for him now seemed ready to chew him down to bones.

Sleep came only because his body demanded it. Uneasy. Shallow. Each breath a fog of failure.

He lasted another few days on scraps, half a candy wrapper pried from the street, a barely intact apple core scavenged from trash. Hunger gnawed louder with each hour, and when his head spun too sharply to walk straight, he forced himself toward another corner shop.

This one wasn’t as careless as the other. The clerk had sharp eyes, and the aisles were narrow enough that Jonathan’s oversized coat dragged against shelves when he turned. He ducked low, slipping a loaf of bread into his jacket.

He made it all but three steps before a hand clamped around his wrist.

"Hey!" The clerk’s grip was iron, yanking him back. "What do you think you’re—"

Jonathan snapped, fury burning through him. No one lays hands on him. He spun, snarling, but what tore from his throat wasn’t a snarl at all. It was a squeak. A high, startled squeal, thin and pitiful as any child’s.

The clerk blinked, surprised, and for one humiliating moment Jonathan saw himself reflected in the man’s glasses: small, dirty, trembling.

He yanked. The arm he pulled with wasn’t strong enough. He kicked, bit, clawed, flailing more like a cornered rat than the predator he once had been.

The clerk cursed, shoving him back. "Get out of here, kid. Before I call the cops"

Jonathan bolted, bread still clutched close. He didn’t stop running until his lungs burned raw, until his legs buckled and sent him sprawling on the cracked pavement.

This time, he didn’t care about dirt or blood. He tore into the bread with his teeth, wolfing it down in ragged bites. The taste wasn’t sweet or savory, just blessedly solid, blessedly something. His body sang with the first real food in days.

But it didn’t last.

"Hey" A voice drawled.

Jonathan froze. Three shadows slid across the mouth of the alley. Teenagers, bigger, older. Street-tough, smirking. One nudged the other. "Look. Little rat’s got himself dinner"

Jonathan curled instinctively around the loaf, the way an alley dog curls over a bone. His glare burned, but his body betrayed him again, too small, too slow.

"Mine" He snapped.

The tallest kid barked a laugh. "Yeah? Not anymore it ain't"

They came at him in a rush. Jonathan lashed out, teeth and nails and fury, but it was useless. His punches landed soft. His body hit the ground hard.

Fingers pried the bread from his grip, ignoring his kicks, his shrill screeches, the sheer desperation in his voice. They shoved him down once, twice, until his head smacked brick and his ears rang.

"Stay in your place, runt" One spat, before tearing into the bread themselves, laughing through full mouths.

Jonathan lay curled against the wall, chest heaving, fury burning hot down his cheeks in tears he couldn’t stop.

Scarecrow would’ve filled their lungs with toxin. Scarecrow would’ve made them scream until they clawed their own throats raw.

But Scarecrow was gone. All that was left was a boy, beaten and starving, trembling in an alley while his dinner vanished in someone else’s hands.

And Jonathan hated that.

Chapter Text

The first time it happened, it ended with that money on a dumpster.

The second time, a paper bag landed at Jonathan’s feet in the alley: sandwich, still warm. He hurled it against the wall, splattering it across the bricks. He ate it anyway. Later. In the dark. Where no one could see.

The third time, Red Hood didn’t even bother hiding. He just leaned against the alley mouth, arms crossed, a plastic bag dangling from one hand. "Coat’ll swallow you whole" He said, nodding at Jonathan’s dragging sleeves. "Got one that actually fits"

Jonathan bared his teeth. "You think I’ll wear your scraps? Y'think I need—" His voice cracked, shrill, humiliating. He clamped his mouth shut, seething.

Red Hood shrugged. "Suit yourself" He dropped the bag on a crate and walked off.

The fourth time was crackers and an apple. Jonathan glared at it for half an hour before hunger twisted his stomach too tight to argue. He devoured it with his hands shaking, furious at every bite.

The fifth, a blanket. "Crime Alley gets cold" Hood said.

"I survived colder" Jonathan spat.

"Doesn't mean you should have to" The vigilante muttered, too quiet for Jonathan to ignore.

That night, Jonathan lay curled beneath the blanket anyway, shaking with rage at needing the warmth.

It became a pattern. Red Hood appearing out of nowhere like a ghost, food or clothes in hand, never pushing too hard but never stopping either.

Jonathan hated it. Hated the way the man never demanded thanks, never asked questions, never treated him like a criminal or a project, just a kid in Crime Alley. That, more than anything, made him dangerous.

Because kindness was a hook. And Jonathan had spent his whole life learning that hooks always came with chains.

So he snarled. He threw things. He laughed too loud, too brittle, tried to make himself monstrous in a child’s frame. Anything to drive Hood away.

But Red Hood kept coming back.

Always with another bag. Always with another way to help that made the other kids jealous. Always with that damned kindness that made Jonathan want to scream.

It was the seventh night.

Red Hood appeared again, same as always, boots crunching gravel, paper bag in hand. Tonight it smelled like Chinese takeout. Steam curled from the top, rich and sharp. Jonathan’s stomach clenched so hard it felt like knives.

And something inside him finally broke.

"Stop it!" He shrieked, voice shrill, cracking like glass. He surged to his feet, coat sleeves hanging past his hands, hair wild in his face. "Stop following me, stop feeding me, stop treating me like I’m some stray you can fix!"

Hood didn’t move. Just set the bag on the crate between them. Calm. Steady. Infuriating.

Jonathan’s hands shook. He clenched them into fists, nails biting half-moon crescents into his palms. "You think I don’t know what you’re doing? That I don’ know how this works?" His breath came fast, ragged. "You give me food, you give me warmth, and then when I’m weak enough— When I trust you, you take everything. You make me small. You make me yours"

His voice twisted into a laugh, high and bitter. "Tha’s what kindness is. A leash. A trick. And I won’t—" his voice cracked into a boy’s shriek. "I won’t be chained again!"

The alley rang with it, his small body trembling like a string pulled too tight. His eyes burned hot and wet, and he hated it, hated the child’s weakness bleeding through the Scarecrow’s venom.

Red Hood stayed where he was. Hands loose at his sides. No threats. No mask-pulling. Just silence, until he finally said, low and even:

"Kid… I don’t want anything from you"

Jonathan froze, chest heaving.

Hood tipped his head slightly. "You don’t owe me thanks. You don’t owe me trust. I just don’t want to see another kid in this alley starve. That’s it"

The words rattled something deep inside Jonathan, something he couldn’t name. His mind screamed liar, liar, liar, but his body betrayed him again, his stomach growled so loud it echoed off the bricks.

The vigilante didn’t comment. Didn’t move closer. Just left the bag there on the crate, warm and waiting.

Then, like always, he turned and walked into the dark.

Jonathan stood there shaking, fury twisting with terror in his gut, and hated himself most of all for the way his feet edged toward the bag anyway.

The nights blurred together.

Sometimes the vigilante showed up with food. Sometimes with clothes. Once, even a rubix cube.

Jonathan nearly set it on fire out of spite. Instead, he shoved it under a crate, only to drag it out later, teeth clenched, devouring every possible combination until dawn.

Every kindness was an insult. Every bag of food a reminder that his body needed what he refused to admit. Every jacket a reminder he was too small to stay warm alone.

And yet… Hood came back.

Jonathan told himself it was a game. That Hood was testing him, waiting for the crack, the weakness, the opening to sink in the chains. That was the only reason anyone came back for a child.

But the truth was worse.

Because Red Hood never demanded. Never cornered him. Never asked his name. Just dropped the bag, left the coat, offered advice, and walked away again with that maddening calm.

It left Jonathan rattling in his own skin. His mind screamed that no one is this selfless, no one helps without a hook. But his stomach twisted, his body warmed under blankets he didn’t return, and every bite of food he ate in the shadows left him trembling with fury and something dangerously close to relief.

He caught himself, once, curling into a coat that smelled faintly of leather and gunpowder, the weight of it grounding him against the chill. He jolted awake, shoved it off, spat curses into the dark until his voice cracked to nothing.

And underneath it all: fear.

Fear that Hood was different. Fear that he wasn’t. Fear that Jonathan, in this fragile, traitorous body, wouldn’t be able to tell the difference until it was too late.

So he snarled louder. Hid deeper. Fought harder against the hand that refused to stop reaching.

But Red Hood kept coming back.

And that held. He could hold. He could keep fighting, keep making himself monstrous.

Everything crumbled with the start of a cough.

Sharp, shallow, scratching his throat raw. He ignored it. He always ignored sickness; he’d carried worse through Arkham winters. But this body wasn’t Arkham-honed. It was soft. It was small.

The cough grew, dragging his chest tight. Hunger pressed in alongside it, he hadn’t eaten more than scraps in days, Hood’s infuriating offerings having been stolen from his grasp by other alley kids. His hands shook, stomach gnawing itself raw.

And then the fear came. Not the kind he dealt in, not the thrill of watching another man unravel. This was the body’s terror: heart racing, vision tunneling, breath stuttering shallow because it couldn’t pull enough air. The child’s brain screaming danger danger danger until his adult mind was drowned out.

Jonathan staggered down the alley, trying to steady himself against the bricks. His coat dragged heavy on his shoulders, sleeves swallowing his bloody hands. His knees buckled once, then again.

"Pathetic" He rasped, voice cracking high and thin. "Can’t even—hold together—"

The world tilted sideways.

He hit the ground hard, curling instinctively against the cold concrete as coughs wracked his chest. His stomach cramped with the force, empty and hollow. His vision swam.

And that was when the boots came.

Hood crouched beside him, red helmet catching the streetlight. A hand hovered over his shoulder, not touching, just there. "Hey. Easy, kid. Breathe"

Jonathan bared his teeth, choking on the air. "Don’t— Don’ tell me what to—" He coughed again, words shattering.

"You’re sick. Hungry. Worn out" Hood’s voice was steady, low, the same kind of calm that made Jonathan’s skin crawl. "Body’s cashing in on you all at once"

Jonathan let out a laugh that broke into sobs halfway through, a shrill, humiliating sound. "You don’t know anything" He spat, wet-eyed, furious. "’M not weak. I’m not—"

But his body betrayed him again, curling smaller, gasping like the child he swore he wasn’t.

Red Hood just stayed there, unmoving, patient as stone. "Yeah. You are. But it’s not your fault"

Jonathan wanted to tear his throat out for saying it. He wanted to crawl into the wall and disappear. Instead, all he could do was wheeze against the concrete, shaking with rage and sickness and hunger all tangled together.

And Hood, damn him, was still there when Jonathan’s eyes slipped shut.

Chapter Text

Hood propped him against the wall, a blanket draped over his narrow shoulders. The takeout bag sat untouched at his side, steam fading into the night.

Jonathan’s breaths came ragged, shallow little pulls that made his chest ache. He hated the sound of them. Hated that his body betrayed him like this. Hated the way Hood hadn’t left.

"Soup’ll help" The vigilante said, nudging the thermos closer. "Easy on your throat"

Jonathan’s lip curled. "What is this, bedside manner? Play-acting the big brother of Crime Alley?" His voice rasped, breaking into a high-pitched cough halfway through. "Pathetic"

Red Hood stilled. His head tipped slightly, like a predator catching scent. "Most kids don’t talk like that"

Jonathan’s stomach lurched. Too sharp. Too bitter. The words had slipped before he could temper them, the voice of Scarecrow behind a child’s shrill throat.

He tried to backpedal, to sneer, but the cough tore it apart. "Sh– Shut up"

Hood leaned in, helmet reflecting Jonathan’s pale, furious face. "You’ve seen too much to just be another street kid. Who are you really?"

Jonathan bared his teeth, every inch of him trembling with fever, with hunger, with fury at himself. "Just another rat for Gotham to chew on"

The silence stretched.

Then, low and dangerous, he let it slip. Stupid childish body couldn't hold onto itself with the fever rampaging through it. "Jonathan Crane"

"...Scarecrow"

Jonathan’s gut dropped. Hood’s voice carried recognition, not guesswork, not suspicion, but certainty.

He laughed, a bitter, wheezing sound. "Congratulations. The great Red Hood cracked the mystery" His hands clenched weakly in the blanket, trembling. "What now? You drag me to Arkham in chains? Put a bullet in a child’s skull? Make sure Scarecrow never crawls back to haunt you again?"

The vigilante didn’t answer. Not right away. He just stared, and Jonathan hated the way it felt, like the man was seeing him, not just the body.

"Not gonna kill a kid" Hood said finally. "Not even you"

Jonathan let his head thump back against the wall, every bone in his body screaming exhaustion. His laugh came out hoarse and small. "Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought"

Red Hood sighed, steady, unreadable behind the helmet. "Don’t know how the hell this happened to you. Don’t really care, either. From what I see? You're just a sick kid in Crime Alley. And that’s not something I walk away from"

Jonathan’s laugh cracked high and brittle. "You’re blind, then. You see a child because of this—" He jabbed a trembling hand at his chest, as if he could claw the body off himself. "—curse. But it’s not me. You’d flinch if you saw me as I am. You’d put me in chains. You’d treat me like the monster I am"

Hood tilted his head, visor glinting. "You mean Scarecrow"

Jonathan’s throat burned, raw from coughing, but he forced the words out like poison. "Don’t say it like it’s separate. Don’t you dare. That’s me. I am Scarecrow. And if I weren’t trapped in this wretched skin, you’d already have a gun at my head"

For a long moment, Hood didn’t answer. He just sat back on his heels, exhaled through the helmet like he was weighing something heavy.

"Maybe. But that’s not the reality right now. Right now, you’re a kid. And Crime Alley kids don’t get left behind. Not on my watch"

Jonathan’s entire body trembled, not just from fever, but from rage at the simplicity of it, the audacity. "You don’t understand" He spat, tears stinging hot at his eyes. "You can’t fix this. You can’t fix me. And the more you try, the worse it gets. You think I’ll sit there like a grateful little stray, lapping up your pity? I’d rather starve"

Red Hood didn’t flinch. "Then starve with a jacket and a blanket" He nudged the bag closer. "Choice is yours. Always is"

Jonathan curled in tighter against the wall, pressing his face into his sleeve. Bitter, furious, humiliated. He hated the food. Hated the blanket. Hated the steady patience in Hood’s voice.

But more than anything, he hated himself, for the way his stomach still growled, the way his body still shook, the way some small, wretched part of him wanted to believe the man’s words.

Hood left him there, once he finally gave in and began to eat. And even with the warmth of the food, the humiliation somehow burned hotter.

The cough had gotten worse.

Jonathan hated the sound of it: wet, tearing, a child’s lungs rattling like paper. He told himself he could push through it. He’d endured worse. He’d walked Arkham’s halls with broken ribs, starved himself through experiments. But this body didn’t know how to suffer the way he did.

So when the fever spiked, it dragged him down hard.

His steps grew clumsy, weaving as he stumbled out of the alley. Breath rasped, catching sharp in his chest. His head spun, heat and cold chasing each other beneath his skin. His coat, Hood’s damned coat, felt like lead dragging him toward the pavement.

He told himself to stay upright. To stay invisible. To not let the body win.

But the body did.

Jonathan collapsed on the cracked asphalt, his small frame shuddering as consciousness slipped sideways.

The first thing he heard after the blackness was a voice, low and sharp.

"Kid. Hey, hey, don’t you check out on me"

Red Hood. Of course. Why couldn't he ever be left alone?

Jonathan forced his eyes open, lids heavy, vision blurred by fever. The crimson visor loomed above him, distorted in the dark.

"Get off me" Jonathan rasped, though his voice cracked weak and thin. "Don’t you— Don’t you dare—"

The vigilante’s gloved hands hovered, not grabbing, just steadying. "You’re burning up. Pneumonia, probably. If I leave you here, you won’t make it through the night"

Jonathan bared his teeth in a ghastly parody of a smile. "Maybe that’s better" His laugh broke off into a violent cough, leaving him doubled over, trembling.

Hood’s voice went steel-hard. "Not an option"

Jonathan wanted to scream, to claw at him, to fight with every ounce of venom left in his soul. But his body betrayed him again, sagging forward against Hood’s chest. His fists balled in the leather jacket weakly, without strength.

"Pathetic" He croaked, hating himself more than he hated Red Hood. "If I were whole, if I were myself—"

"You’re a kid with pneumonia in Crime Alley" The man cut him off. "And I don’t bury kids in my streets"

Jonathan tried to spit back some retort, something venomous, but darkness rolled over him again. His last thought before slipping under was fury, at his body, at Red Hood, at Gotham, at himself.

Most of all, at the bitter, humiliating fact that if he woke again, it would be because Red Hood hadn’t let him die.

Chapter Text

He woke in warmth.

Not a hospital. Not Arkham. The walls were plain, patched with old plaster. A cot shoved into a corner, a blanket pulled over his shoulders. A desk lamp cast a thin halo of light over the room. Red Hood’s safehouse.

Jonathan sat up too fast. His chest heaved, rattling with pneumonia’s grip. Pain flared sharp. He doubled over, coughing until bile stung his throat.

And then he saw him.

Red Hood sat nearby, helmet on the desk, domino mask doing nothing to hide the exhaustion etched into his face. He didn’t even look surprised. Just leaned forward, steady as ever, a cup of water in hand. "You’re awake. Good. Drink"

Jonathan’s lip curled. "No"

"You’ll cough your lungs out if you don’t"

"Maybe tha’s the point" His voice was raw, shrill, a child’s rasp twisted with venom. "You should’a left me. Should’a let this body burn itself out. But you couldn’t, could ya? Too much of a hero under the mask"

Hood’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Just set the water within reach.

Jonathan’s hands trembled as he pushed the cup away. "What are you waitin’ for, hm? Pull the trigger. End it. You want a win? There it is: Scarecrow, dead in a gutter, wrapped in a child’s skin. Don’t pretend ya don’t want that"

The vigilante’s eyes, sharp and steady, pinned him like a spotlight. "I don’t kill kids"

Jonathan laughed a brittle, half-sob. "Then you’re a coward" His voice rose, cracked. "Do it! Or I’ll find my own way out. I refuse t’ rot like this, stuck, useless, a—" His throat caught, the word strangling itself on a cough. "—a joke"

Silence stretched, thick as the fever haze in the air. Red Hood didn’t move. Didn’t raise his gun. Didn’t even raise his voice.

Finally, quiet, steel-strong: "You’re not dying on me. I don’t care who you were. Right now, you’re a sick kid in Crime Alley. And I don’t abandon kids. Not ever"

Jonathan pressed his fists to his eyes, shaking. Rage. Misery. Humiliation. He wanted the man to strike him, to shove him back into the cold. Instead, Hood’s patience pressed in like suffocation, a kindness sharper than cruelty.

And Jonathan hated him for it.

Hated him, and hated himself more for the way his body curled tighter beneath the blanket, because he was cold and so very tired, and there was nowhere else left to go.

His breath still rasped shallow, but his eyes gleamed with something sharp, bitter, adult. The fever blurred the edges, but not enough to dull instinct. He’d spent his life dissecting fear. And Red Hood was practically dripping with it.

He let the silence stretch, until Hood shifted slightly in his chair. Then Jonathan smiled, thin, venomous, all teeth.

"Y’think you’re different from me" His voice cracked in places, but the cadence was precise, deliberate. "But I know what you are. Little boy dragged into an alley and broken in two. You put on a helmet to hide the cracks, but they still show"

Hood’s jaw clenched.

Jonathan pressed on, voice soft and needling. "You can’t save me. You couldn’t even save yourself. Joker saw to that, didn’t he? Bang, bang, crowbar, laughter, the sound of your own bones breaking. And you came crawling back, furious at the world for letting you die"

Hood’s eyes darkened, but his voice stayed steady. "Careful"

Jonathan laughed, coughing through it. "Careful? That’s rich. You parade around with your ‘rules,’ clingin’ to some pathetic code about children, ’cause if you didn’t, you’d have t’face the truth" He leaned forward, trembling, voice breaking into a shrill hiss. "You an’ me. We both died in alleys, and all that crawled back were monsters"

For a heartbeat, the room froze.

The vigilante’s fist tightened on his knee. He could’ve snapped. Could’ve shoved Jonathan back, shouted him down. Instead, he stood, crossed to the desk, and set another bowl of soup on the nightstand.

His voice was flat, but resolute. "Eat. Or don’t. Either way, you’re not dying here"

Jonathan’s small hands shook against the blanket. His mind screamed triumph; got him, struck a nerve, broke the mask. But the victory was ash in his mouth, because Red Hood still hadn’t left. Hadn’t raised a gun. Hadn’t abandoned him.

And that, more than anything, terrified him.

The fever spiked sometime past midnight.

Hood had just managed to get half a bowl of broth into him when Jonathan lurched forward, gagging. The soup came up in a violent rush, soaking his blanket, his coat, himself. He coughed and retched until there was nothing left, small body curled and shaking, shivering in the mess.

"Jesus" Hood muttered, already pulling the soiled blanket away. Jonathan weakly batted at his hands, muttering nonsense, but his movements were sluggish, fever-slow.

The vigilante sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, then scooped him up. "Alright, Scarecrow. Bath time. Don’t fight me on this"

Jonathan was too out of it to protest much, his head lolling against Hood’s chest as he carried him to the bathroom. The vigilante turned the taps, testing the water with a hand until it was warm, then set the him carefully in the tub.

Jonathan blinked groggily as the water touched him. His fever-flushed face softened for a heartbeat at the warmth, but then Hood tugged his ruined coat off his shoulders and froze.

Raised welts. Pale lines. Faded but unmistakable. Belt scars, crisscrossing the fragile back of a child.

Red Hood’s hand stopped mid-motion. His breath hitched, sharp and sudden.

Jonathan felt it. Even half-delirious, he felt it.

And oh, it was fuel.

He turned his head, eyes gleaming fever-bright, a sharp little smile twisting his mouth. His voice came out soft, almost sing-song, laced with venom. "You like what you see, Red?"

The vigilante stiffened.

Jonathan’s laugh rasped, broken by coughs, but he forced it through anyway. "Go on, then. Stare. Pretend you’re surprised. This’s what children look like in alleys, ain't it? Little canvases for other people’s rage"

Hood’s hands clenched into fists.

Jonathan leaned forward in the water, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes blazing despite the fever. His voice cut sharper, more deliberate now that strength had crawled back into him. "You flinch ’cause you see yourself. Don’t you? Broken bones, blood on concrete, laughter echoing. We’re the same, you an’ I. Little playthings. An’ you—" He let his lip curl "—you don’t get t’save me from that"

The bathroom rang with it, venom dripping from every word.

Red Hood didn’t answer. His jaw was stone, his shoulders iron-tight.

But his hands, careful, steady despite the tremor, dipped a cloth into the warm water and wiped the sick from Jonathan’s chest.

And Jonathan hated him for it.

Red Hood worked in silence, jaw set, washing the fever-slick grime from Jonathan’s shoulders. The water swirled cloudy with sweat and bile. Jonathan sat stiff-backed, eyes sharp and venomous, waiting for the next opening to bite.

Then the vigilante uncapped the soap.

The scent hit him instantly. Jagged, sharp, bitter. Not the soap itself, the memory it carried. A hand gripping the back of his neck. The sting of leather. A voice growling in his ear about fear and punishment. The sound of the buckle being pulled free.

Jonathan’s stomach turned. His chest locked. He tried to shove the image back into the mental box where he’d kept it for years, the box adult him had built with iron locks and brick walls. But the child’s body didn’t have the walls. Didn’t have the compartments.

His breath hitched. His muscles seized, frozen.

Hood’s movements paused mid-swipe. "Kid?"

Jonathan couldn’t answer. Couldn’t move. The scent filled his head, loud as shouting. His nails dug into the porcelain rim of the tub until they split.

And then, to his horror, to his humiliation, tears spilled hot down his cheeks.

He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, but it didn’t stop the trembling. Didn’t stop the small, broken sound that escaped his throat.

Red Hood completely froze, cloth dripping.

Jonathan shook his head violently, voice cracking into a shrill, ragged plea. "Stop— don’t— don’ touch me—"

The vigilante immediately set the cloth aside, hands up, palms out. "Okay. Okay. Not touching. You’re safe"

Jonathan hated the word. Safe. Nothing safe about this. He was trembling like a child, sobbing, chest heaving with fever and fear. He wanted to spit venom, to claw Hood’s face off, to be Scarecrow again. But all that came out was choking, gasping, humiliating tears.

Hood crouched by the tub, his expression tight with something Jonathan couldn’t bear to read.

"You’re not there anymore" He said quietly. "Whoever put those scars on you, they don’t get to keep you here"

Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut, tears sliding down fever-hot skin. "Shuddup" His voice broke on it, shrill and childish. "You don’ know anythin’"

Hood didn’t argue. Didn’t touch him again. Just sat on the tile, steady, waiting.

And Jonathan hated him for that too.

Chapter Text

The sobs burned his throat raw. They came jagged, uneven, wrung out of him against his will. His hands shook so badly he could barely grip the edge of the tub.

Hood didn’t move closer. Didn’t touch him again. Just sat there, steady, like a damn sentinel.

That steadiness was unbearable.

Jonathan’s breath hitched, caught, forced itself into a jagged laugh. His face was streaked with tears, but his eyes glittered sharp. "There. Ya see it now, don’tcha? The trembling little boy under the mask. The great master of fear, reduced t’this"

His voice cracked, shrill, almost a wail, but the venom cut through anyway. "Isn’t it funny? How easy it is t’ break me? Just soap and water. You should be laughing"

Red Hood’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed even. "I’m not laughing"

Jonathan’s smile twisted, brittle and bitter. "Then you’re a fool. Because right now, I’m nothing. Nothin’ but bruises an’ belt marks an’ screams. And if I weren’t in this cursed body, if I were whole—" He swallowed, voice breaking again. "I’d make you ’fraid enough t’ kill me"

Silence pressed in thick as steam.

The vigilante’s face softened, just barely, in a way Jonathan couldn’t stand. "Not gonna happen"

Jonathan let out another ragged laugh, sharp and wet with tears. "Then you’ll regret it. ’Cause I’ll crawl out of this body. Claw my way back. An’ when I do—" His hands clenched, small and shaking. "—I’ll make sure Gotham remembers why they should never pity Jonathan Crane"

The words cost him what little strength he had left. His body sagged back against the porcelain, chest heaving, tears still sliding hot and shameful down his cheeks.

Hood didn’t answer. He just sat there on the tiles, silent, unflinching.

And Jonathan hated him for it. Hated him, hated himself, hated the child’s body that had betrayed him so utterly.

But most of all, he hated the creeping, treacherous thought whispering beneath the fever haze: that maybe, just maybe, Red Hood wasn’t laughing because he understood.

Jonathan’s venom spent itself into the steam, words dissolving into ragged breaths. His chest heaved, eyes burning, but his body couldn’t keep pace with his fury anymore. The fever dragged at him, pulling his head sideways until it thumped against the porcelain rim.

He hated the way his eyes fluttered. Hated the weight closing over him. Hated most of all that he couldn’t stop it.

One last whisper clawed out of his throat before sleep claimed him: "I’ll… make you… ’fraid…"

Then he was gone.

---

Jason sat there for a long moment, watching the tiny frame slump in the tub. The tears still streaked Crane’s cheeks. His fists, balled in defiance moments ago, had gone slack against the water’s surface, sending faint ripples through the tub.

Jason exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight. He reached for the soap, then stopped. The scent hit him too, sharp and floral. He thought of the way Crane had locked up, the panic drowning him.

He set the bar aside.

Rummaging under the sink, Jason found another: plain, unscented, a cheap block left over from some forgotten kit. No perfume, no chemical bite. Just clean.

He worked quietly, methodically, washing the sick away with hands steady despite the tremor of restrained anger in his chest. He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch more than he had to. Just cleaned, rinsed, wrung out a cloth, cleaned again.

When it was done, he lifted Jonathan carefully, wrapping him in a towel and then a clean blanket. The kid, the man, didn’t stir, fever dragging him under too deep.

Jason set him back on the cot, pulling the blanket snug. He sat for a long moment, helmet resting on his knee, eyes fixed on the faint rise and fall of Crane’s chest.

"Afraid, huh?" He muttered quietly, almost to himself. "You’ve got no idea how familiar that word is"

He scrubbed a hand over his face, then leaned back, waiting. Guarding.

Because whatever the hell Jonathan Crane had become, Jason Todd didn’t bury kids in Crime Alley. Not even this one.

Chapter Text

When Jonathan woke, the light filtering through the grimy window was thinner, weaker. Morning. His body ached, fever still simmering in his bones, but the sharp edge of delirium had dulled.

First instinct: check.

Hands. No bruises, no fresh cuts. Wrists, ankles, no rope burns, no restraint marks. Shirt clung damp to his chest, but it was clean. The blanket, too, smelled faintly of detergent, not bile or sweat.

His stomach twisted. He tugged the collar of the shirt down, checked his chest, then his arms, then pressed fingers against his ribs. Tender from coughing, but no worse.

Last, and hardest, his back. He worked the hem of the shirt up with shaking hands, expecting to feel heat, swelling, new lash marks layered over old scars. But the skin was untouched. The belt scars from his childhood remained, pale and ugly, but nothing new had been carved there.

His breath hitched. For a moment, he just sat there, shirt clutched in his fists, trembling.

For a moment, he just sat there, shirt clutched in his fists, trembling. He’d been fever-sick, helpless, trapped in a bath, stripped down. By every rule he knew, something should have happened. Violence. Misuse. Control.

But there was nothing.

No hooks. No chains. Just… safety.

Jonathan hated it.

Because safety wasn’t real. Safety was the bait before the trap. And yet, he couldn’t find the trap.

His gaze slid toward the chair by the cot. Red Hood sat slouched in it, helmet back on, arms crossed, breathing steady. Not asleep, too alert for that, but quiet. Watching.

Jonathan’s throat closed around words that didn’t form. He wanted to spit venom, to laugh, to taunt the man for failing to break him when he had the chance. But all that came out was a whisper, cracked and bitter:

"…Why?"

The helmet tilted, visor catching the light. "Told you before. I don’t abandon kids. Not even ones who spit in my face"

Jonathan clenched his fists in the blanket, nails biting half-moons into his palms. Safe. The most terrifying word of all.

"Nothin’s free" He rasped, fever-raw but sharp with edge. His gaze cut to the bag of food on the desk, then back to the red visor fixed on him. "You keep bringin’ me things, an’ you never name th’ price. Tha’s worse than if you’d just said it u’front"

Hood didn’t move. "There is no price"

Jonathan barked a brittle laugh, then coughed hard enough to double over. He pressed a sleeve to his mouth, spat wet into the cloth, and glared up with fever-bright eyes. "Don’ lie t’ me. Everyone wants somethin’. Money. Gratitude. Loyalty. Flesh. Fear. Nothin’ comes without strings. And you—" His voice cracked, shrill, "—you’re drownin’ me in chains I can’ even see"

The vigilante shifted in the chair, leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees. "There aren’t any strings, Crane"

Jonathan’s stomach twisted. The blanket itched against his skin, too soft, too warm, too safe. He clenched it until his knuckles whitened. "Tha’s not mercy. Tha’s cruelty. You want me t’ believe this’s free? That it’s safe t’ take? Tha’s the worst trick of all. ’Cause if I believe you, if I let myself think, for one second, that I can eat, or sleep, or breathe without owin’ you, then when the hook finally comes, it’ll split me open. You’ll gut me without liftin’ a finger"

Hood’s silence stretched, heavy and unshaken.

Jonathan’s chest heaved, throat burning. His mind screamed at him to stop, but the fever dragged words past his restraint. "So tell me the cost, Hood. Tell me whatchu want, before I lose my mind waitin’ for the axe to fall"

Red Hood let out a long, slow breath. His voice was low, deliberate.

"I want you alive"

Jonathan froze. Then his fever-bright eyes widened, and a jagged laugh tore from his throat. "Alive. So tha’s it. Tha’s the price. You don’t care ’bout food or coats or blankets, you jus’ want the body. A warm one. A—" His throat caught, and he spat the word like venom. "—a child"

The visor tilted. "What?"

"Y’think I don’t know? Y’think I didn’t learn that trick the first time? Keep them breathin’, keep them fed, keep them jus’ strong enough, ’cause dead things can’t be used, can they?" He shoved at the blanket, trembling, trying to claw it off himself as if it burned. "You want me alive so you can carve me open on your terms"

Red Hood ripped the helmet off, jaw tight, eyes blazing with fury that wasn’t aimed at him. "Jesus Christ, kid. No. That’s not—" He cut himself off, swallowed, then forced his voice steady. "That’s not what this is. That’s not what I am"

Jonathan’s breath hitched, caught on a cough. "Liar. Everyone’s th’ same"

Hood shook his head, hard enough to send dark hair falling into his domino mask. "Not me. Not ever. You hear me? I don’t hurt kids. I don’t use kids. I put bullets in the bastards who do"

Jonathan froze, trembling, fever-slick hair plastered to his forehead. The words hit, jagged and unfamiliar. Not mercy. Not chains. Not the script he expected.

The vigilante leaned forward, voice low but unwavering. "You’re safe here. I don’t want anything from you but for you to survive. That’s it"

Jonathan’s mouth opened, closed, trembling with rage and grief all tangled together. Tears slid hot down his cheeks before he could stop them, humiliating and childish.

"Then you’re insane" He whispered hoarsely. “'Cause no one’s ever meant that ’fore"

Hood didn’t argue. He just sat steady as stone, while Jonathan shook apart beneath the weight of a truth he didn’t know how to carry.

Chapter Text

Crane’s body couldn’t hold up under the strain anymore. His fury burned out, his trembling slowed, and the fever dragged him under. He slumped sideways on the cot, small hands curled tight in the blanket even as his breathing rattled uneven but steady enough.

Jason sat frozen, helmet heavy in his lap.

The words still echoed like broken glass. So that’s it. That’s the price. You just want the body. A child.

He’d heard rage in Crane’s voice before. Madness. Monologues dripping with ego and venom. But this hadn’t been Scarecrow. This had been something else, raw, frantic, and cornered.

And those scars. Belt marks carved across a child’s back. The way Crane had flinched at a bar of soap. The way he’d braced for pain after unconsciousness.

Jason rubbed a hand across his jaw, teeth clenched tight. He knew abuse when he saw it. He’d lived it, heard enough echoes in Crime Alley to recognize the sound. But he hadn’t expected it from Crane. The Scarecrow was a monster, a manipulator, a man who weaponized fear.

Yet here he was. Fever-sick, too small for his own rage, curled under a blanket like every other Crime Alley kid Jason had ever sworn not to bury.

"Jesus, Crane" Jason muttered into the quiet, voice low and raw. "What the hell did they do to you?"

The cot creaked as Crane shifted in his sleep, a half-whimper caught in his throat before he stilled again.

Jason set the helmet aside and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Anger simmered in his gut, not at the boy in the bed, not even at the monster he’d fought so many times, but at the world that carved children down to nothing and left them to rot.

He swore under his breath, vicious and quiet. Then he stayed put, eyes never leaving the fragile rise and fall of Crane’s chest.

Because however fucked this was, one thing was clear:

Scarecrow or not, Crane was his kid as long as he stayed in Crime Alley.

And Jason Todd didn’t abandon his own.

The call came near dawn, a coded signal crackling through his comm. League business. Ugly enough that they wanted the Hood, not just Batman.

Jason swore, sliding the comm back into place. He glanced at the cot. Crane still slept, small frame swallowed in the blanket, fever sweat clinging to his brow but breathing steady.

"Figures" Jason muttered. "The one time I’ve got a house guest"

He moved quietly through the safehouse, stocking the desk with food like he was prepping for some reluctant bird in a cage. Crackers, canned soup, bottles of water. A pile of clean blankets. Enough that Crane wouldn’t have to risk the streets while he was gone.

On a whim, Jason dug through the storage bins, pulling out odds and ends; cups of fruit, little snack packs, the kind of stuff alley kids could pocket when they couldn’t take a full meal. He stacked it all on the nightstand.

The rustle woke Crane. Fever-bright eyes cracked open, narrowing instantly.

"…Stockin’ up for the apocalypse?" His voice was hoarse, but the edge was there.

"League called" Jason said, tugging his helmet on. "Gotta step out. Supplies’ll last if you ration"

Crane snorted, tugging the blanket tighter. "An’ if I don’t?"

"Then I come back and find you passed out again" Jason shot back. "Don’t test me"

He was halfway to the door when a sharp crack made him pause. Crane was wrestling with an applesauce cup, tiny plastic spoon clutched awkwardly in his hand. His scowl didn’t match the way he slowed after the first bite, savoring despite himself.

Jason leaned against the frame, arms crossed. "Applesauce, huh?"

The kid froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. Eyes snapped up, furious, cheeks flushed hotter than fever. "I’s soft. Easy t’ eat. Nothin’ more"

Jason chuckled under the helmet. "Sure, doc. Whatever you say"

Crane slammed the cup onto the nightstand, glaring daggers. But when Jason left, the cup was empty, spoon licked clean.

The mission itself was chaos.

Metropolis skyline burned with green light, League members scattered across rooftops, Jason ducking laser fire while unloading pistols. Normally, he’d be locked in, calculated brutality, matching pace with gods.

But even as he drove a boot into some alien grunt’s face, part of his brain ticked down a list.

Soup. Antibiotics. More blankets. And—

Jason ducked behind cover, reloaded, and smirked faintly inside his helmet. Applesauce. Lots of it. The good kind. Not the bargain-bin stash back at the safehouse.

Another grunt charged. Two clean shots dropped it before it hit the pavement. Batman’s voice snapped through his comm.

"Stay sharp, Hood"

"Sharp as ever, B" Jason drawled, even as he catalogued grocery aisles in his head. Cinnamon applesauce. Maybe strawberry. Hell, he’d clear the shelf if it meant the kid wouldn’t look at him like he’d poisoned the food.

Superman thundered past overhead, crashing into a ship. Jason holstered his pistols, muttering, "Christ, I’m making a shopping list in the middle of an alien invasion. What the hell happened to me?"

Still, when the dust settled, Jason knew his next stop wasn’t Wayne Manor.

It was the grocery store, cart loaded heavier than bullets. And at the very top of the haul? Applesauce cups. Half a dozen packs of them.

Jason came back late, safehouse door creaking on tired hinges. His boots were caked in grime, his jacket reeked of smoke, and the paper bags cut into his fingers.

Crane was awake, barely, curled on the cot with a book open in his lap. His eyes narrowed at once when he saw the bags.

'Don’t tell me" He rasped. "More soup"

Jason smirked beneath the helmet, setting the bags on the table. "Soup, yeah. Crackers. Some meds. And…" He set a stack of cups onto the desk. "…your favorite"

Crane’s eyes flicked to the labels: cinnamon, strawberry, classic. Foil-topped cups gleaming in the lamplight.

His face lit up before twisting instantly into a scowl. "Yer mockin’ me"

Jason shrugged. “Could’ve brought pudding, or chips, or neon gummy crap. But you didn't eat that junk, and this—" He tapped a cup "—you ate. So yeah, applesauce it is"

Crane flushed, fever-pink and furious. "I’s practical. Easy on th’ stomach. Nothin’ more"

"Exactly" Jason said evenly. 'Practical. Which is why I stocked enough to last until your fever breaks"

Crane snatched one, tore the foil, and shoved a spoonful into his mouth like he was proving a point. His glare didn’t fade, but his eyes fluttered shut for one soft second at the taste.

Jason leaned back in the chair, relief untwisting the knot in his chest. "Good. Beats watching you choke down saltines like gravel"

Crane slammed the empty cup on the nightstand. "Don’t need your commentary"

Jason chuckled low. "You’re welcome, doc"

The kid turned away, hiding his face in the blanket. But when Jason got up later to stash the groceries, he noticed a second cup already torn open, foil licked clean.

Jason smirked behind the helmet. Finally, something that wasn’t a fight.

Chapter Text

It happened gradually.

Jason caught himself reminding Crane to finish the whole bowl, not just the broth. Noticed he automatically put the applesauce cups on the lowest shelf so the kid could reach them without climbing. Found himself double-checking meds, adjusting blankets, keeping track of how many days the fever had lingered.

Parenting habits he hadn’t even known he had, surfacing now in the most surreal possible way.

One evening, he walked in to find Crane perched stiffly on the cot with a book balanced in his lap, applesauce cup on the nightstand, spoon sticking out. His hair was a tangled mess, his face still pale, but he looked up with that same sharp-eyed glare Jason was used to seeing behind a mask.

Jason dropped a grocery bag on the desk. "Picked up meds, soup, more applesauce. Got cinnamon this time. Figured you’d complain if it wasn’t efficient enough"

Crane rolled his eyes, but his hand shot out to claim the cinnamon cups immediately. "Competent, at least"

Jason leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You know you’re basically letting me parent you, right?"

Crane froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. Then, slowly, deliberately, he ate the bite of applesauce anyway. His face was unreadable, but his voice was clipped. "If tha’s what you need to tell yaself"

Jason huffed out a laugh, rubbing a hand down his face. "Unbelievable. I’ve got Gotham’s fear doctor in a safehouse, living off grilled cheese and applesauce, and I’m acting like somebody’s dad"

Crane didn’t look up. "That ain’t my problem"

But later, when Jason stepped out to patrol and came back hours later, he noticed the blanket was pulled higher, the empty applesauce cups stacked neatly on the nightstand, and the corners of the grocery bag folded down as if Crane had… organized them.

He’d never admit it out loud, but Jason caught the faintest trace of something different in the man’s posture now. Less coiled, less bristling. Still sharp. Still venomous. Still Jonathan Crane.

But maybe, just maybe, not hating the care as much as he wanted to.

Later, when the safehouse was quiet, save for the sound of Jason cleaning his guns at the table, he found himself watching the kid. Crane sat propped on the cot, applesauce cup in hand, spoon scraping the bottom. The fever still clung to him, but he was sharper now, words less slurred, glares more pointed.

Jason sighed. "Gotham’ll rot your stomach if you keep eating this city’s food. Can’t believe you’ve lived this long"

Crane snorted, spoon swirling around the empty cup. "Didn’t grow up here"

Jason froze, mid-click of a magazine. His head turned just enough to catch Crane’s profile in the lamplight. "What?"

Crane didn’t seem to realize what he’d said. He tugged the blanket tighter around his narrow shoulders, eyes unfocused with exhaustion. "Born down south. Fields, dust, heat that'll soak int’a your bones. Gotham was… later"

It took a beat before his expression shifted, realization hitting, too late to take it back. His mouth snapped shut, eyes narrowing into their usual mask of steel. "Irrelevant" He spat quickly. "Forget I said anythin’"

But Jason didn’t.

He leaned back in the chair, studying the small, fever-worn figure bundled in the blanket. The sharpness, the clipped words, the venom, all still there. But the accent that brushed the edge of those words when he was too tired to hide it? That lingered.

"Huh. Explains a lot"

Crane glared daggers at him, heat rising in his cheeks. "It explains nothin’"

Jason smirked. "Explains the way you curl up with soup and applesauce like comfort food. Explains the edge in your vowels when you’re too feverish to think about it. Southern boy chewed up by Gotham. Makes sense"

Crane bristled, shoving the empty cup aside. "I ain't your charity case. Don’tchu dare make me a story you can pity"

Jason held his hands up, still smirking. "Not pity. Just facts. And maybe a little context"

Crane turned away sharply, burying his face half into the blanket. But Jason caught it, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, not quite a snarl.

For the first time, Red Hood had cracked a piece of Scarecrow’s armor not with force or fear… but with a simple truth. And hours later, Jason still caught himself staring at the memory of applesauce cups stacked in a neat little tower. 

He caught himself staring at it longer than he meant to. The smallest habits, the faintest accent, all the cracks in Scarecrow’s armor bleeding through. He told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself it wasn’t his problem. But later, sitting in Wayne Manor’s too-bright, too-clean dining room for the mandatory family dinner, it was still gnawing at him.

Wayne Manor was always loud. Damian griping about table manners, Tim trying not to nod off into his plate, Bruce doing the brooding statue act at the head of the table. Jason usually scarfed something down, made a jab or two, then ducked out before the atmosphere suffocated him.

But tonight, he lingered.

Alfred caught it first, the way Jason was pushing crumbs around his plate instead of bolting after dessert. When the others finally filtered out, Tim with a coffee, Damian muttering about patrol, Bruce back into the shadows, Jason cleared his throat.

Alfred arched a brow. "Something on your mind, Master Jason?"

Jason leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "You got any southern recipes lying around? Real ones. Not… whatever Bruce thinks counts as barbecue"

Alfred paused, studying him carefully. "May I ask what sort of southern cuisine you’re after?"

Jason waved a hand, suddenly awkward. "Comfort food. Stuff a kid might’ve grown up on, if… you know. Bread, biscuits, that kind of thing. Nothing fancy. Just..." He paused, jaw tight. "comforting"

Alfred’s expression softened, almost imperceptibly. "Indeed. Fried chicken, biscuits with gravy, collard greens, perhaps a peach cobbler. Or cornbread, if you’d prefer something less sweet"

Jason’s mouth twitched into a half-smirk. "Yeah. That. All of it. You, uh… think you could write a couple things down? Maybe scale ‘em for one?"

Alfred’s smile was subtle, but genuine. "Of course, Master Jason. Though you are welcome to bring this mysterious young gourmand to the Manor should he wish to dine more formally"

Jason barked a short laugh. "Yeah, not happening. He’d bolt faster than me"

Alfred tilted his head. "Then you shall have your recipes. I won’t pry further"

Jason nodded, a little too quick, grabbing his jacket as he stood. "Thanks, Alfie. You’re a lifesaver"

Alfred watched him go, the faintest glimmer of understanding in his eyes. Jason Todd never stayed late after dinners. And he certainly never asked for recipes. Whoever this was for… it mattered.

Chapter Text

It started small.

One night after patrol, Jason swung by the Manor, helmet tucked under his arm, leather jacket reeking of smoke and gunpowder. Alfred was in the kitchen, alone as always at that hour, wiping down the counters. Jason leaned in the doorway, awkward, scratching the back of his neck.

"You, uh… got time to show me that fried chicken thing?"

Alfred blinked at him, then gave the faintest smile. "Of course, Master Jason"

From then on, it became a pattern.

Jason would come in late, sometimes bruised, sometimes bloodied, sometimes just bone-deep tired. And instead of disappearing back to his apartment or roaring off on his bike, he’d slip into the kitchen. Alfred would already have ingredients out, as if he’d expected him.

Cornbread one night. Collard greens another. Biscuits and gravy, fried chicken, peach cobbler. Jason grumbled through the measurements, scowled at the mixing bowls, cursed when he burned himself on a skillet. Alfred corrected him gently, without commentary, letting him find his rhythm.

And Jason, Jason didn’t snap, didn’t storm off, didn’t vanish. He stayed.

Alfred never asked who the food was for. He didn’t need to.

At family dinners, the others started to notice. Jason would slip in late, still in half his gear, and sit through a meal without storming off halfway through. Afterwards, when Bruce tried to corner him for some stilted father-son moment, Jason would already be gone, back in the kitchen with Alfred, sleeves rolled up, flour dusting his hands.

Damian raised a brow once. Tim made a comment. Dick smirked knowingly. Jason ignored them all.

The only person he spoke to after dinner was Alfred. And the only thing he asked about was recipes.

Now, back at the safehouse, Crane sat on the cot, blanket wrapped around his narrow shoulders, watching with narrowed eyes as Jason set a plate down in front of him.

Biscuits. Gravy. Collard greens on the side.

Crane eyed it like it was poison. "…You made this"

Jason smirked. "Damn right. Don’t look too shocked, I had help"

Crane’s scowl deepened, but he took a bite anyway. His shoulders stiffened, then eased, the faintest crack in his armor as the flavor hit.

Jason leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. "Better than soup, huh?"

The kid didn’t answer. But the plate was nearly clean by the time Jason went back for his own.

---

The plate was empty.

Jonathan sat stiffly at the little table, fork set neatly on the edge of the dish. The biscuits were gone, the gravy scraped clean, the collard greens picked through until not a shred remained. Applesauce cup empty, spoon resting inside.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, maybe in his entire adult life, he was full.

Not just "not hungry." Not the dull ache of survival rations. Full.

His stomach pressed comfortably against the fabric of his shirt. His body was heavy in a way that wasn’t weakness but… satisfaction. His limbs slackened, his shoulders easing.

And then his throat tightened.

Jonathan blinked sharply, fingers digging into the blanket pooled in his lap. His eyes burned, wet and stinging, and before he could stop it, tears welled and slid hot down his cheeks.

"Wha—" His voice cracked, shrill. He swiped at his face furiously, glaring at his own hands. "Why—"

Hood looked up from across the table, leaning back in his chair. "Kid? What’s wrong?"

"Nothing!" Jonathan snapped, too fast, too brittle. His chest heaved. More tears slid down, unstoppable. "I’m not sad, ’M not injured, there’s no toxin, so why? Why’s this happenin’?"

He slammed a hand against the table. The sound was sharp, but his strength lacking. His small frame trembled, fury and confusion tangled together. "It’s jus’ food. Just—"

Red Hood tilted his head, quiet for a beat, then said softly: "Yeah. Sometimes being fed can hit harder than starving"

Jonathan froze, breath caught in his throat.

The vigilante didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Just sat there, steady as stone, letting Jonathan rage and cry and choke on the strangest, most humiliating feeling of all: being cared for.

Jonathan scrubbed his face raw, furious with himself, furious with Jason, furious with this ridiculous child’s body that wouldn’t stop betraying him.

But deep down, beneath the tears, his stomach was warm. His chest ached with something dangerously close to comfort… and he didn’t know how to survive that.

He forced his tears away with sharp, angry motions until his skin burned. His mouth twisted, ready to sneer, to spit venom. He could feel the insults clawing their way up his throat, words sharp enough to rebuild the wall between them.

But his stomach was warm.

His mouth still hummed with the ghost of biscuits and gravy.

And the heaviness in his limbs wasn’t weakness, it was peace.

The sneer faltered. His shoulders sagged. He slumped back in the chair, arms limp at his sides, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

"Don’t look at me like that" He rasped, though there was no heat behind it. "I’m not… I’m not broken open for ya"

Hood didn’t argue. Just leaned back, arms crossed, quiet as stone.

Jonathan’s gaze burned away, shame prickling. He should be clawing back distance. Should be spitting threats. Should be building walls brick by brick.

But his body betrayed him, dragging him toward something dangerously close to peace. His stomach gurgled contentedly, his eyelids grew heavy, his jaw slackened.

And for the first time in years, Jonathan Crane was okay.

That was the worst thing of all.

Because "okay" meant safety. Safety meant trust. And trust was the sharpest knife in the world.

He hated it. He hated Red Hood for giving it to him. He hated himself for wanting to sink into it.

And yet, against every instinct screaming inside his skull, Jonathan’s head tipped sideways against the chair, his eyes slipped shut, and he drifted into sleep.

Fed. Warm. Safe.

The most terrifying state he’d ever known.

---

The Manor kitchen was quiet, lit only by the glow over the stove. Alfred stood at the counter, carefully wrapping scones in parchment, when Jason slipped in. Boots still dusty, jacket slung over one shoulder, helmet tucked under his arm.

"Evening, Master Jason" Alfred said without looking up. "Back for another recipe?"

Jason leaned against the counter, a grin tugging at his mouth. Not his usual sharp smirk, but something warmer, almost boyish. "Nah. Just… reporting in"

Alfred raised a brow. "Reporting?"

Jason nodded, tapping the helmet against his thigh. "Biscuits and gravy went over well. Clean plate. No complaints. Hell, I even got a side-eye when I didn’t put seconds down fast enough"

Alfred’s hands stilled. He turned, studying Jason’s expression: the light in his eyes, the proud little tilt of his chin. A look he hadn’t seen since Jason was half this age, bringing home good marks from school.

"So the subject," Alfred said delicately, "is eating more than before?"

Jason chuckled, shaking his head. “"More than that. He’s… actually eating. Not picking, not just enough to shut me up. Eating. Like he wanted to"

Alfred’s mouth curved into the faintest smile. "That is very good news indeed"

Jason rubbed the back of his neck, grin stubbornly clinging. "Feels weird, y’know? Seeing him sit there with a plate like it’s not a battle. I didn’t think I’d… give a damn" He blew out a breath, then added quieter, "But I do"

Alfred set the scones aside, then laid a gentle hand on Jason’s shoulder. "You’ve given a great deal more than you realize, my boy. And judging by that grin, I daresay it suits you"

Jason huffed a laugh, pulling away, but the grin didn’t fade. "Don’t get all sappy on me, Alfie. Just keep the recipes coming"

"As you wish" Alfred said, turning back to the counter, though his eyes lingered fondly for a moment longer.

And Jason, for once, left the Manor not brooding, not storming, but still smiling.

Chapter Text

Jason stared across the table, arms crossed. Crane was out cold, slumped sideways in the chair, hair a tangled mess, small frame curled in on itself. His breaths came steady, soft.

Jason muttered under his breath, "You’ve gotta be kidding me"

He stood, careful not to scrape the chair, and scooped Crane up. The kid’s head lolled against his chest, feather-light in his arms, small hands twitching faintly in sleep. Jason carried him to the cot and tucked the blanket around his shoulders.

Then he froze.

Crane’s face, lightly flushed, softened by sleep, looked like nothing Jason had ever seen. No sneer. No scowl. No glare sharp enough to cut glass. Just… relaxed. Content.

And at the corners of his mouth, faint but real, was a smile.

Jason let out a quiet laugh, incredulous. "No way" He shouldn’t find this funny. Shouldn’t find it sweet. But he did. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering. This is insane. This is Scarecrow. And he’s—

He snapped the picture anyway.

The screen lit with the image: a child, bundled in blankets, sleeping peacefully with a little half-smile like he’d just dreamed of something good.

Jason stared at it, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ, you’re adorable" He scrolled once, twice, then tucked the phone back into his pocket. The photo stayed.

Because whatever Crane said when he woke, however venomous he got, Jason had proof. Proof that, for at least one night, the master of fear was just a kid who’d eaten his fill, smiled in his sleep, and looked… okay.

It was later in the week when Jason dropped by the manor again. Dinner had ended, the family scattered, and Alfred was in the kitchen, wiping down counters with his usual quiet precision. Jason leaned against the doorframe, helmet tucked under his arm.

"You’ve been by often, Master Jason" Alfred said mildly, not looking up. "I trust the recipes are serving their purpose?"

Jason’s grin was crooked, uncharacteristically warm. "Oh, they’re doing more than that"

Alfred finally glanced up, eyebrow raised. "Indeed?"

Jason pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb flicking across the screen. "Figured you’d appreciate this. Just… don’t ask too many questions"

He turned the phone toward Alfred.

The photo glowed: a small boy, bundled in blankets, dark hair sticking every which way, fast asleep on a cot. His cheeks were flushed, his skin soft. And, impossibly, there was a faint, dreamy smile tugging at his lips.

Alfred’s eyes softened instantly. "Oh, my" He took the phone carefully, studying the image with quiet reverence. "He looks… peaceful. Content. I can see why you’ve been so diligent"

Jason rubbed the back of his neck, muttering, "Yeah, well. That’s applesauce and your biscuits and gravy at work, Alfie. Kid cried after eating. Then passed out smiling like… that"

Alfred handed the phone back, smile subtle but genuine. "I daresay you underestimate your own role, Master Jason. Recipes alone do not produce such a picture. It seems he feels safe"

Jason’s throat tightened, though he covered it with a smirk. "Safe’s not usually the word I’d use around me. But… yeah. Maybe" He tucked the phone away. "Don’t worry. I’m not dragging him here. He’d bolt faster than Flash. Just… figured you should see the results of your cooking lessons"

Alfred inclined his head. "I am honored, then. And, Master Jason?"

"Yeah?"

"Do remember to pick up more applesauce on your way back. Clearly, it is most effective"

Jason barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah. Applesauce and biscuits, that’s what keeps Gotham’s nightmares at bay"

---

Jonathan sat cross-legged on the cot, absently turning the spoon in his hand. Applesauce clung to the edge, golden and glossy. He licked it off with a scowl.

He wasn’t sick anymore. The fever was gone, the cough barely a ghost in his chest. The bruises had faded. His body was fine. He could leave. Should leave.

But instead, here he was.

The safehouse was quiet except for the hum of the heater. A jacket two sizes too big hung from the chair. Hood’s jacket, tossed there carelessly earlier. The man had left on some vigilante errand, muttering something about "business" and "don’t burn the place down."

Jonathan hated how still the place felt without him.

He scraped the last of the applesauce from the cup, swallowing it down with a little hum he didn’t even realize escaped until it was too late. He froze, glaring at himself, furious at the slip.

Pathetic.

He could leave any time. No one was keeping him here. But if he left… there’d be nothing waiting. No warmth. No food. No one showing up with bags of groceries and that infuriating crooked grin.

His fingers tightened around the spoon until it hurt.

Fine. He’d stay. For now. Just for the food. Nothing else. Not because it was safe here. Not because the stupid warmth made his chest loosen. Not because he maybe liked the way Hood checked in on him without expecting anything back.

Definitely not.

He shoved the empty cup aside. "…Just… the food" He mumbled, though his body was already sinking into warmth.

And when he curled up under the blanket anyway, letting his body relax despite the voice in his head screaming at him to get out, he told himself the same thing.

Just the food, he reminded himself as he drifted off to sleep.

A nightmare snapped him back awake with a gasp, sharp and panicked. For a moment, Jonathan didn’t know where he was, cold walls, dark corners, shadows pressing in, until Hood’s hands landed steady on his shoulders.

"Easy, kid. You’re alright. Just a dream"

Jonathan wanted to spit something back, some sharp word to keep the distance, but his throat was raw and his chest still heaving. His body shook against his will, small and trembling and far too young for his own mind.

Hood sighed, not unkindly. He didn’t press. Just scooped him up like it was nothing and carried him down the hall.

Jonathan twisted in his arms, indignant. "Put me down—"

"Nope" Red Hood’s voice was firm, almost bored, like it wasn’t up for debate. "You’re not going back to the cot after that. You need real sleep"

Jonathan’s protests died when the vigilante shouldered open a door and set him down on a king-sized bed that practically swallowed him. The mattress was soft, the pillows cool, the blanket heavy in a way that grounded instead of trapping.

It was embarrassing, mortifying even, how fast his body sank into it. How quickly the tension bled from his shoulders.

"This’s…" His voice cracked. He stopped himself before the word nice could slip out. He turned his face away, glaring at the pillows as though they were the enemy.

Hood just chuckled low in his chest, tugging the blanket up. "Yeah. Comfy as hell. Don’t worry, I’m not charging rent"

Jonathan scowled, willing himself to stay stiff and ungrateful. But his eyelids were already heavy, his body already betraying him. For once, he didn’t feel like he had to keep one ear open for footsteps, didn’t feel like the dark corners were waiting to swallow him whole.

Safe. He hated the word. He hated that his body believed it.

Still, as sleep dragged him under again, the last thought that lingered was simple and soft, no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

This feels… safe.

Chapter Text

Jason stirred awake to the faint weight pressed against his side. For a split second, instincts screamed gun, knife, threat, until his vision cleared: a small, soft bundle curled up like a cat against him.

Cran— Jonathan.

Arms tucked in, hair sticking in every direction, the usual sharp little frown smoothed into something almost, almost, peaceful.

Jason froze, staring. It was… adorable. He hated to think it, but there it was. The kid who’d spit venom at him since day one had burrowed in like he belonged there.

Carefully, carefully, Jason reached for his phone. One picture. No flash. Just proof. Click.

And then, scrolling his gallery, the realization hit: there were now… multiple. Half a dozen, maybe more, if you counted the one with the applesauce smile.

Shit. That was already more than he had of Damian.

Jason groaned into his hand. "Christ. I’m gonna have to delete these before demon brat finds out"

But when he looked down again, Jonathan shifted in his sleep, nuzzling deeper into the blanket like it was the best thing in the world.

Jason didn’t delete a single one.

---

Jonathan woke groggy, heat still clinging to him, and blinked at where he’d ended up: warm blankets, soft mattress, luxury, and Red Hood, sitting at the headboard scrolling through his phone like this was normal.

Jonathan bolted upright so fast he nearly toppled. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?" His voice cracked, stuck between rasp and panic.

Hood didn’t even twitch. "Relax, Shortstack. You had a nightmare. I moved you. You’re welcome"

Jonathan’s face twisted. "I didn’ ask—"

"Yeah, yeah" Hood waved lazily. "Save it. You can sulk on the couch if you’re that desperate to keep your rep"

Jonathan glared, clinging to the blanket like armor. His body betrayed him, heavy with warmth, craving the safety he’d never admit to.

The vigilante visibly bit back a grin.

"Don’t" Jonathan snapped.

"Don’t what?"

"Don’t look at me like that. Like ’m… some kid"

Hood leaned forward, elbows on his knees, finally letting the grin slip. "Newsflash, Crane: you are some kid. Doesn’t mean I’m treating you like one. Just means you’re shit at hiding the fact you like a good mattress"

Jonathan turned crimson, sputtering. "I do not—!"

Hood laughed outright, low and rough. "Sure you don’t, Applesauce"

He scowled, looking away. The vigilante snorted before slipping off the bed and leaving to get ready for the day.

The mirror was fogged by the time he got into the bathroom, but Jonathan leaned close anyway, toothbrush dragging mechanically. The reflection was all wrong: too small, too soft, too harmless.

The kind of face people hurt.

He spat, rinsed, and stared.

The knowledge was all still there: psychology, chemistry, the science of fear. He could recite it like scripture. But the mirror didn’t care. It showed a boy who couldn’t reach the top shelf without climbing on the counter.

Maybe none of it was real.

The thought was poison, seeping in. Maybe he’d dreamed it: the doctorates, the toxin, the power. Maybe he’d never been Scarecrow. Maybe he’d always been just this: a boy too weak to survive without someone like Red Hood frying eggs in the next room.

And god, the smell hit him then. Bacon, toast, normal food. The scrape of a pan, Hood humming something tuneless under his breath.

Jonathan pressed his forehead to the glass, chest twisting. He couldn’t tell if he was about to be sick or cry.

He shuffled out, drowning in one of Hood’s shirts, hair sticking up in ridiculous tufts. Hood slid a plate across the table. Eggs, bacon, toast. Nothing fancy.

"Eat"

Jonathan sat stiffly, picking at the toast without tasting it. His eyes were locked, guarded, like the food might attack first.

Hood watched for a beat before speaking. "You’re somewhere else"

"Am not"

“Kid, you’ve been chewing the same corner of toast for five minutes.” Hood set his fork down. "What’s eating you so bad you can’t eat bacon?"

The words tore out of him before he could stop them. "What if none of it was real?"

Hood stilled. "…None of what?"

"The PhDs. The toxin. Scarecrow" His voice cracked, low and furious. "What if I dreamed it? What if I was never him? And ’m just—" His hand flung at his body. "—this"

Silence. Hood didn’t laugh. Didn’t sneer. Just folded his arms and leaned in.

"You think you dreamed up that much trauma?" His tone was quiet, but it hit like a hammer. "Hate to break it to you, kid, but you’re not that creative"

Jonathan blinked, thrown.

The vigilante shrugged. "It was real. You were real. Still are. Body doesn’t change that. And you—" He tapped the plate. "—still gotta eat breakfast"

Jonathan’s throat closed tight. He wanted to scream, or laugh, or smash the plate, but instead he stabbed the eggs and shoved a bite in his mouth.

"Happy?"

Hood hummed, returning to his own plate. "Good"

Jonathan scowled, but he kept going. The food was warm, annoyingly good, and every bite loosened something knotted deep inside him. By the time his plate was half-gone, the tremor in his hands had eased.

"Feel a little better?"

"No" Jonathan snapped.

"Then keep eating"

Jonathan stabbed another bite, cheeks hot with anger, shame, and, god help him, relief.

Because for the first time since waking up in this cursed body, he wasn’t fighting anything. And that terrified him more than the hunger and fever ever had.

Chapter Text

Hood shoved another hoodie into the cart. "You'll thank me when it's winter," He said, ignoring Jonathan's look of barely-contained murder.

"I don't need that many" Jonathan's voice was sharp, defensive, like he could cut down the absurdity with words alone.

Hood just raised a brow. "What, you planning on wearing the same pair of jeans every day? Thought you were supposed to be smart, professor"

Jonathan bristled at the nickname, fists tightening around the cart handle. His mind screamed that it was all too much, too indulgent, too permanent. But his body, this traitorous, ridiculous child's body, warmed under the layers Hood tossed in.

Sneakers. Socks. A sturdy pair of boots. Two jackets. A hat. Even toothpaste that didn't burn like fire in his fever-raw mouth. Jonathan wanted to scream that he could get by without all of it, that survival didn't require comfort. But Hood didn't look like he was negotiating. He looked like he was building a wall of safety around him brick by brick, and Jonathan didn't know how to stop him.

So he followed sullenly, pretending he wasn't noticing how soft the hoodie felt against his fingers, or how the sneakers fit better than anything he'd worn in years.

And then, because the universe hated him, Hood caught him staring at it.

A ridiculous little stuffed crow, perched on a clearance shelf between a pile of discount bears and rabbits. Jonathan had frozen when his eyes landed on it, and that split second was enough.

Hood smirked, tossed it into the cart without hesitation.

Jonathan snapped out of his daze immediately, face burning red. "Absolutely not"

"Already in the cart"

"I don't need it"

"Sure you don't" The vigilante didn't even look at him, just pushed the cart forward.

Jonathan huffed, furious at himself for the lump in his throat. He couldn't remember the last time anyone bought him something so pointless, so stupidly sentimental. His hands itched to snatch it out and throw it away, but his chest, traitor that it was, ached with the desire to hold it.

So he said nothing, burning in silence, while Hood pretended not to notice the way Jonathan's eyes kept flicking back to the stupid stuffed crow.

The safehouse was quiet when they returned, the hum of the city outside softened by thick walls and heavy curtains. Hood was in the kitchen, rattling around like he was trying to break the stove just by looking at it.

Jonathan tugged at the drawstring of the new pajama pants, muttering under his breath. The cotton was too soft. The fit was too comfortable. Everything about them screamed indulgence, and he hated how his body immediately relaxed in them.

The stupid crow sat on the bed, black button eyes staring at him like it knew.

Jonathan scowled at it. "You're ridiculous" he whispered, venom dripping from every syllable. He turned away, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

And yet, his chest ached. His throat tightened. The warmth of the meal still sat heavy in his stomach, and he felt so unbearably small in this body, in this moment.

With a low, frustrated growl, Jonathan snatched the crow off the bed and squeezed it tight against his chest. The softness sank against his ribs, and despite everything, despite his pride, his fury, his certainty that he didn't need comfort, his eyes burned hot.

He buried his face in the plush feathers, shoulders trembling.

From the kitchen, Hood called out casually, "You good in there, professor?"

Jonathan flinched, whipped around to glare at the door, crow hidden behind his back like a guilty secret. His voice cracked when he barked, "Fine!"

The vigilante didn't press.

Jonathan stood there a long moment, breathing unevenly, before slowly pulling the crow back into view. He glared at its little stitched beak, muttered, "Traitor" and hugged it tighter anyway.

---

Jonathan had shuffled into Jason's room without a word, crow clutched under one arm like it was smuggling him through enemy territory. He climbed into the massive bed, settled himself stiffly, and within ten minutes the tension bled out of his small shoulders.

Jason leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. The kid had burrowed into the mountain of pillows like a little fortress, the stuffed crow tucked protectively against his chest. His scowl had finally slipped, replaced by something quiet and, damn it, almost innocent.

Jason pulled out his phone. Click. One photo. Then another. Then a third, because Jonathan's little frown twitched in his sleep and his grip on the crow tightened like he was daring the universe to take it.

"Kid, you're killing me" Jason muttered, grinning helplessly. He flicked through the shots, Jonathan, bundled in blankets, hair sticking up in a thousand directions, crow squished beneath his chin. Adorable. Blackmail material. Heartbreaking. All at once.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, eased the light off, and climbed into bed on the far side. Jonathan didn't stir, just snuggled deeper into his fortress.

Jason lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, thinking that this was the strangest twist his life had taken yet. And maybe, just maybe, the best. 

---

The morning light crept in through the blinds, soft and accusing. Jonathan blinked himself awake slowly, warmth cocooned around him. Too soft. Too warm. Too safe. His eyes shot open.

He was in Hood's bed.

Worse, he was in Hood's bed hugging the stupid stuffed crow like his life depended on it.

Jonathan sat bolt upright, hair wild, blanket slumping off his narrow shoulders. He looked down at the crow in horror, then at Hood, still sprawled half-asleep beside him, one arm draped over his stomach, looking obnoxiously at peace.

Jonathan's face burned. "No" He shoved the crow under the blanket like he could erase evidence. "Absolutely not"

Hood cracked one eye open, lips twitching. "Mornin', sunshine."

Jonathan glared daggers. "Say one word about this and I'll—"

The vigilante yawned, cutting him off. "Relax, kid. I didn't see a thing."

The problem was, he had seen. Jonathan could tell. The amusement in his voice, the smug edge of his grin, it was unbearable.

Jonathan turned away, arms crossed tight, muttering under his breath. "Should've let the pneumonia kill me..."

Hood chuckled, ruffling his hair before rolling out of bed. "Yeah, yeah. Breakfast in ten. Don't forget your crow"

Jonathan wanted the ground to swallow him whole.