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It was a dark and stormy night.
Well, actually, it wasn’t. In fact, for winter-in-Gotham standards, this could almost be considered good weather. However, what might be considered “good” in terms of Gotham winter weather was still cold, with the constant biting wind, and the pervasive drizzling that seemed to only exist to cause annoyance.
So, maybe it wasn’t a stormy night, but it still was pretty dark, though. Even for Gotham standards. Though, that might have something to do with the way Jason was ducking and weaving through the city’s ubiquitous alleyways, most of which weren’t lit by the weak glow of the intermittent streetlights.
Just a left, then two rights, and through-
Jason’s inner Google Maps was abruptly cut off by his foot catching on a raised stone, sending him careening towards the (unfortunately) solid ground. Without thinking, he threw his hands up in front of him, tire iron clattering noisily to the ground, trying to not let his face have a close-up conversation with the ground, and his wrist screamed in pain, reminding him all too clearly what, who, he was running from.
He swallowed back a scream, biting his lip hard enough that he could taste blood, took one deep, quick breath, and used his good arm to push himself up to his feet, staggering over to his only mean of defense, his only weapon, his tire iron, picking it up and holding it gingerly in his bad hand. He’d need his good hand if he tripped again, because he did not want to land on his most-likely-sprained wrist. Again.
Casting a glance behind him, he paused again, just long enough to listen out for the tell-tale sign of pounding footsteps that would let him know if he had managed to ditch his pursuers. Other than Gotham’s common, yet comfortable cacophony of horns, sirens, and, if he listened close enough, distant church bells announcing yet another hour gone by, he heard nothing.
Letting out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, he sighed, then started to make his way through the alley, figuring that it was batter to go through rather than back in the direction of his chasers, before suddenly stopping short, because, well-
That’s the fucking Batmobile.
He paused, just staring for a moment, incredulous. Why would the Batmobile just be sitting in a random Crime Alley alleyway? Wouldn’t Batman know better than to leave such an expensive car here?
Taking a step closer, almost awestruck at the Bat’s stupidity, he could feel the warmth radiating from the car. Normally, he would be more suspicious, as a warm engine should indicate recent use, and Batman could come back at any time, but Jason was weak. It was chilly, his hoodie was threadbare and soaked by the persistent drizzle, and every gust of wind just made him shiver more.
Almost as if in a trance, he took another small, shuffling step towards the car, close enough to touch, when his foot ran into brick. This brick, unlike the stone that had caught his foot only minutes before, was small, unobtrusive. He barely even stumbled over it. But as he glanced down, glanced at the car right in front of him, then glanced back at the brick at his foot, an idea made itself known.
He wouldn’t miss a tire or two... Would he?
The answer, obviously, was yes, but Jason’s stomach rumbled, and he was hit with a particularly strong gust of wind, and the drizzling seemed to pick up its frequency, and he decided that no, Batman probably would not miss a tire or four, because Batman probably has a sugar daddy financing everything behind the scenes, and Batman probably wouldn’t even care if he even noticed the tires were gone.
(He would, but Jason was too cold, too tired, too hungry to think about that.)
Biting his lip, trying not to feel too guilty for this little crime, trying not to think about what would happen if Batman caught him, trying not to think about the last time he got caught stealing, he sank to his knees, hissing when he put pressure on some scrapes he hadn’t realized he had, and started to remove the first tire.
-(*•*)-
Jason felt the air shift behind him, heard the whisper of a cape in the wind, felt the imposing presence of the vigilante, yet he didn’t turn, still working on the last tire, trying to peek-a-boo the Bat.
If I can’t see him, he can’t see me.
“What are you doing?”
Shit.
Jason kept his back to Batman, refusing to turn, refusing to acknowledge that yes, he has been caught red-handed stealing from Batman, refusing to admit to himself that he maybe might be in a little bit over his head. He just kept spinning the tire iron with his good hand, wishing the tire would come off faster, even though it would do him no good now.
“What are you- Are you stealing my tires in front of me?” Batman’s rough, deep voice came again, but this time with – was that humor? - coloring his tone. Jason didn’t respond, still trying to pretend the looming vigilante wasn’t there.
Then he felt the air shift again, felt the Bat move closer, felt the air move as the vigilante’s hand moved for his arm, his bad arm, and nope, not gonna happen, no siree, no thank you, he moved, turning faster than (he hoped) Batman could, spinning away from the tire, from the car, ducking under the approaching arm, swinging the tire iron into Batman’s ribs, and running for the entrance of the alleyway.
At least, he would’ve, if Batman hadn’t moved faster than Jason could track, snagging his arm, his bad wrist, and squeezing.
Jason screamed.
It hurts it hurts it hurts it-
His vision whited out, pain blinding him, nerves overloading his brain with pain-pain-pain in his wrist, his arm, his entire body. Distantly, he registers the clatter of the tire iron dropping to the ground, a deep, soothing voice tell him to calm down, lad, you’re okay, the wetness on his cheeks that probably was just rain, the lack of a hand squeezing his wrist, but the damage has been done. He tries to move, to get away from the imminent danger, but he’s hungry, tired, and cold, and his body is refusing to listen, refusing to move, shutting down.
Later, though he’s not sure how much later, Jason comes back to himself. Sometime between before and after, Batman has found his way in front of Jason, kneeling, one hand on each of Jason’s shoulders, firm and unyielding yet not trapping, and he’s speaking calmly, his voice deep but without the roughness that everyone associates with the vigilante.
Once he seems to notice that Jason is back to himself, Batman smiles – Batman can smile? – gently, and leans back away from Jason, as if to give him more space, as if to make him feel less crowded, less boxed in, less trapped, and moves until he’s kneeling on one knee in front of the twelve-year-old.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that your wrist was injured. I wouldn’t have reached for it otherwise.”
Pause. Hold up. Time out. Batman was apologizing? To Jason? Jason, who had just been trying to steal his tires? Shit, he was still talking.
“-parents? Or are you in a foster- “
“No! No foster home!” Jason was not going back there. “I’m not goin’ back to a foster home, I don’t wanna be trafficked!”
Batman looked surprised – didn’t he know about the trafficking? – but concerned. He raised his hands placatingly, and his tone was gentle as he spoke.
“Alright, lad. No foster homes. But I can’t just let a child roam these streets. It’s not safe. You deserve better.” He seemed genuine, but Jason didn’t trust him.
Batman paused, thinking, then he sighed, stood up, brushed himself off, and offered Jason a hand.
“How about a burger?”