Chapter Text
Jason wasn’t just angry, he was pissed. The Lazarus pit rage causing his eyes to glow a deadly green.
It sat under his skin like a live wire, buzzing hot and sharp, begging to be discharged into bone and blood. His hands yanked at the straps of his armor with more force than necessary, teeth grinding as he geared up. Every motion was fueled by the same thought, the same name he refused to say out loud.
Tim Drake.
His replacement had taken his place, dressed as a traffic light. Acting like the grave was just a bad memory instead of a fucking reality. Jason had died, rotted and clawed his way back from hell after his mt dew baptism with Talia, and Bruce had replaced him like a broken tool. Like he hadn’t mattered enough as a son or Robin to mourn properly.
Jason had been minutes away from leaving to correct his mistake when Gotham reminded him it never cared about his plans.
Ivy. Of course it was Ivy. Crime Alley was his territory, and she had the nerve to turn it into a botanical war zone.
Vines exploded through brick and concrete, tearing buildings apart like they were soft tissue. The air shimmered with pollen, glowing faintly under shattered streetlights, thick enough to taste. It clung to skin, slid into lungs, whispered promises of comfort and compliance.
Jason registered it distantly. One of Ivy’s emotional blends, though he couldn't pinpoint which one it was.
Didn’t matter. The filter in his helmet was top of the line, tuned and modified by his own hands. Whatever she was pumping out, it wasn’t getting to him.
An hour-long fight and one thoroughly destroyed building later, Ivy was finally subdued and hauled away, still snarling promises of retribution. Jason barely listened. His plans were shot, his night ruined, and his patience long gone.
Jason stood in the wreckage, chest heaving, armor cracked, hands still itching for violence.
And Bruce still hadn’t paid.
He turned to leave, boots crunching over glass and rubble, when something shifted in the alley beside the destroyed building.
Jason froze.
The alley was narrow and suffocating, shadows clinging to the walls like oil. It smelled wrong, blood and damp concrete and something coppery-sweet underneath. His instincts flared immediately.
He hadn’t had time to check the building earlier. Too busy fighting Ivy’s plants. Too busy not caring.
Now he did.
He stepped into the alley.
The kid was crumpled on the ground like trash someone had forgotten to finish throwing away.
They were small. Too small. Curled in on themself in a dark, spreading pool of blood, arms locked around their own torso like they were trying to keep their body from falling apart. Their breaths were shallow and uneven, each one trembling out of them like it hurt.
Jason’s anger didn’t fade.
It collapsed.
It dropped straight through him, leaving something cold and hollow behind.
“Hey, kid,” he called softly, the modulated growl of the Red Hood echoing faintly in the alley as he approached slowly, deliberately. He didn’t want to scare them.
They looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes and tried to scramble backward. The movement was brief and panicked—and then they cried out, clutching their leg as pain ripped through them. A deep, angry gash marred their skin, blood still seeping through torn fabric.
The kid folded in on themself again, shaking. Desperate for contact, yet terrified of it.
Jason swore under his breath.
The sight made his chest hurt in a way he didn’t have words for.
He ripped off his helmet and let it drop to the ground. Cool night air hit his scarred face, carrying the stink of blood and pollen. The domino mask didn’t hide much, but it was better than being a faceless red monster.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, baby bird,” he said, forcing his voice low, steady. “I swear.”
The kid stared at him, breathing ragged, fear fighting exhaustion. Slowly, oh so slowly, they stopped scrambling away.
Jason knelt and carefully took their injured leg.
The reaction was instant.
The kid sagged into his touch like a switch had been flipped, muscles trembling before going boneless. They made a small, broken sound in their throat and leaned closer without even realizing it.
Cuddle Pollen, Jason thought darkly. Of course.
Ivy’s brand of poison. Emotional dependency. The kind that latches on fast and hard.
Bruce would’ve called it “unfortunate.”
Jason called it a fucking tragedy.
He cleaned the wound with practiced hands, jaw tight, heart pounding harder the more he looked at them. It didn’t need stitches. Luck. Rare and cruel.
He wrapped it quickly and firmly, and suddenly the kid launched themself into his chest.
Hard.
They clung to him like he was the last solid thing in the world keeping them alive, fingers digging into his jacket, face pressed against his armor. Jason stiffened in surprise, then slowly wrapped an arm around them.
They were so light. Too light.
He could feel every rib, every sharp edge of bone under too-thin skin. The streets clung to them, dirt ground into pores, old bruises blooming beneath grime.
This was what Gotham did.
This was what Bruce pretended he was fixing.
Jason swallowed hard.
“Easy,” he murmured despite himself. “I’ve got you.” The kid melted further into him, trusting him with a blind, terrifying certainty.
This is how he did it, Jason thought bitterly. This is how Bruce found me. Cold. Broken. Alone.
And then Bruce had wrapped him up in warmth and lies and rules and expectations Jason never asked for.
Jason’s grip tightened slightly.
“I’m not him,” he muttered, more to himself than the kid.
“Let’s get you somewhere warm, baby bird,” he mumbled sweetly.
The vibration of his voice rumbled through his chest, and the kid sagged against him completely, trusting him without reservation.
Jason stood carefully, keeping the kid cradled close, and headed for his safehouse.
It took longer than usual—he adjusted his pace to keep from jostling them—but eventually, he made it inside. He locked the door behind him and flicked on the light.
He carried them back to his safehouse, steps careful, jaw locked the whole way.
When he turned on the light inside, his chest clenched painfully.
The kid was pale, sickly pale. Curly silver hair matted with blood and filth. Pale yellow eyes dulled by pain and exhaustion. Thin as a stray. Fragile in a way that made something savage coil in Jason’s gut. He pulled them closer without thinking.
For a brief, dangerous moment, he thought about Bruce. About how he’d been found. About whether this was how it had felt—this sudden, overwhelming need to protect something broken and burning bright all at once.
He shoved the thought aside and headed to the kitchen.
Food was scarce, but he managed to find a container of applesauce. He grabbed a spoon and returned to the couch, sitting down and settling the kid carefully in his lap.
Jason fed the kid the applesauce, carefully spoon-fed while they clung to him like letting go meant dying.
Once the applesauce was gone, Jason wrapped them in a warm pale red blanket and tucked them securely against himself. He grabbed the book he’d been reading earlier, a worn collection of Brothers Grimm fairytales and flipped it open. He figured it was more age appropriate than Pride & Prejudice.
As he reads The Princess and the Frog, he gently runs his fingers through the kid’s hair, slow and steady.
One story turned into another, and eventually he felt their breathing even out, their grip tightening reflexively in sleep. They were still holding onto his shirt like letting go wasn’t an option.
Jason stared down at them, chest aching.
The pit seems to have retreated for the most part, the blind green rage no longer present.
He didn’t know their name.
But Gotham had already taken too much from this kid, and Jason would burn the city down before he let Bruce, or anyone else, get their hands on them.
No more replacements.
No more graves.
No more lies.
And God help anyone who tried to take this kid away from him. No, he wasn’t attached.