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Living in Gotham isn’t for the weak - not physically, but mentally. Emotionally. Every day a new horror, a new injustice and evil. Just getting out of bed some days was a atruggle you barely had energy for. Everything was a battle - and you couldn’t afford to lose. Even now, shrugging on your jacket and slipping your boots on, you grab the mask with the renewed filter (Scaregrows fear-gas always smelled sour) and shoving your keys in your pocket. One last look around the apartment before you’re out the door.
The grief is heavy. There’s no fancy words or flowery poetry - this was your home, and now it was hell. Sure, the Batman did what he could, fighting for the city and making sure people like you got home to loved ones. But you were alone - had been alone for a while now - and Batman was just that. A man. You’d met him once - in an alleyway. His armor cracked and his blood staining the concrete, and you’d helped him. Opened your door to him - let in the last bit of light Gotham truly had. It’s a moment you think about now, everytime you see the Bat Signal.
There’s another sound in the alleyway as you pass by, it makes you stop just past the mouth of it. Stopping is dangerous in this new Gotham - vulnerability gets you killed. But you'v always been soft, you’ll die soft. No matter how cruel this world is, your kindness will be your end - and you'v made peace with that. The soles of your boots crunch against unkept gravel and a new sound fills the air as you creep closer. Whining. A dog’s whining. No-
Puppy whining. Small, afraid, lost, cold. Damn your soft heart, you curse yourself as you step deeper into the alleyway. And there it was. There he was. You knew that armor, that helmet. Hell, everyone knew the Arkham Knight - it’s how you survive, knowing the real threats. The armor looks like it’d been ripped off, cast away in some desperate struggle. And just beside the helmet.. was a dog.
He wasn’t small, he wasn’t pretty, he wasn’t a puppy. He was young, though. Young, thin, scarred. His fur was thin and his body trembled; from the fear or cold, you didn’t know. What broke your heart the most was the jagged 'J’ across his left cheek - wild, haunted blue eyes staring back at you. His lips curl back in a vicious snarl, the faint points of a glasgow smile on either corner of his maw. Hell, it seems, made it’s own devils - and belied them cruelty to share, so that their pain wouldn’t be alone.
He’s an ugly thing, by all accounts, but he’s alive. His body trembles with every breath, his eyes wild and his puppy-whines filling the air. He’s not small, but he’s so obviously young. Your heart cries out for him. You can’t leave him. Even when every rational part of your brain screams at you to not do this, you’re already shrugging off your jacket to toss over him to safely pick him up. At this point - if you get bit, it’s your own damn fault. His whines and snarls grow in volume as you approach, body trembling more and more until it looks like he’s vibrating - and then you drop the jacket over his head.
The sound that escapes him makes you wince - a yelp like he’s been shot. You’re quick to move, scooping hin up and keeping his head covered so he can’t bite. He wiggles and writhes, whining and blindly snapping at the fabric over his head - and then, he seems to give up. You know what this is - learned helplessness. Like he knows even if he fights, you won’t let him go. It raises questions you don’t want answers to, just like that 'J’ scar.
He’s limp the rest of the way back to your apartment, gives a whined growl when you shift your hand to grab your keys from your pocket to unlock the door. The bathroom is the safest place to put him right now - especially the bathtub. A lockable door, a physical barrier between the two of you. Is it a smart idea? No. None of this is smart, just purely instinctual. Are you going to regret this? Most definitely. He gives a other wiggle, another deep whine - and then he’s still. You’re not stupid. You know he’ll explode the second you let go, so you’ll have to move fast. And fast you can do.
Thank god the door opens inwards - another would-be barrier for later when you try to sneak a water bowl in here. Moving towards the tub, you inhale deeply and set him down in the bowl of ceramic - dread already setting in when he goes completely, utterly still. You don’t want to drop him, but you also don’t want to literally be bitten by your heart-lead decision. He lands in the tub with a thump and you jerk back, just barely missing how he paws the jacket off of his head and whirls around to snap at you - all teeth, whale-eyes, and fear. You back-pedal quickly and slam the door shut behind you, air escaping your lungs in a slow exhale as silence fills the air.
God. This was such a big mistake. You really hope you don’t live to regret this.
—
Two days. That’s how long it takes before you let him out of the bathroom, move him to your balcony. The balcony itself is completely fenced in, so there’s no chance of him jumping or getting hurt. Except now… he sits at the glass door and he.. stares at you. There’s no doubt in your mind he’s still, well, him in there. Even when he’s shivering from the cold, his ears pin back and lips curl in a snarl you can just barely hear through the only physical barrier keeping him from actually attacking you. Not that you can blame him - if your situations were reversed, you’d be pissed too.
You offer him three meals a day - a raw diet, he refused the kibble and you weren’t going to push it. His water is refilled hourly and you'v tossed out a few of your heavier blankets for him. If the Arkham Knight has a civilian identity, you don’t know it, and he doesn’t answer to 'Knight’. He doesn’t answer to anything. Just sits and stares at you. He is ugly, he is scarred, he scares you. Yet still your hand unlatches the door and you shove another disposable plate onto the balcony. He only eats when the door is latched again.
This cycle continues another week. He sits, he stares. You feed him, keep his belly and water bowl full. When Sunday arrives, it’s your cleaning day. Turning on a movie for your favorite slasher, Jason Voorhees, you almost miss his reaction. Almost. When Pamela Voorhees’ voice fills the air -
'Kill them all, Jason. Find them. and get your revenge. Make them remember, Jason.’
His head snaps to the TV, almost instinctively. You pause as your hand reaches for the blanket you were about to fold, watching as he trembles - not just shaking from the cold, but trembling. Jason. Was that his name? Jason, Jason, Jason. His eyes snap back to yours and the two of you freeze like stone. Something in the air shifts - what, you don’t know, but something. He averts his gaze first, ears pinning back but no snarl, his claws scraping against the concrete balcony before he flomps himself down on the heaviest blanket you’d had to offer. He is still, the silence is heavy. Neither of you want to make the first move that ignites the sudden static in the air.
Those hauntingly human eyes continue to observe you, occasionally flicking to the TV when 'Jason’ is mentioned, but he makes no further move to leave his blanket or interact. Somehow, this is the scariest moment of your life.
—
There’s a cold front moving in - if he stays on the balcony, he’ll freeze. You know this, he seems to as well. He - Jason, you remind yourself - Jason is already waiting by the door, sitting on his haunches and muscles bunched; like he’s ready to bolt inside the second you open that door. That’s exactly what he does. More like a blur than a living creature, he streaks into your apartment and settles by the couch. His lips curled back in a snarl - he won’t go back to the bathroom. You exhale slowly, deeply through your nose and raise your palms in a silent acceptance.
It’s a quiet affair after that. He’s still suspicious, still skittish and not afraid to expose his teeth when you get too close. The world’s already noticed the absence of the Arkham Knight - they’d noticed after the third night he’d been in your home. Distantly you wonder if he’ll ever be human again, what turned him in the first place. Sneaking a glance at him, you know - he’s stuck like this. He has noone, nothing. He is as alone as you are - and despite all the evils and terror the Knight has brought.. you can’t leave a dog out in the cold.
—
Where you go, he shadows. Sitting in empty doorways, keeping his back to a wall and never taking his eyes off of you. Jason you call him, he doesn’t answer - but you know he’s listening. You’re scrounging up a towel and sleep-clothes, he’s at your heels. There’s no point in closing the door, so you leave it open before turning your back to him and stripping before settling in the hot water of the tub. His paws shift under his weight as he eyes you warily before slowly creeping closer. His nose twitches and you can see his mind working as he slowly, hesitantly lays his head on the edge of the tub. His tail is tucked between his legs and his eyes remain on you, prepared to bolt away at the slightest movement, but you just watch him back.
The longer the two of you sit there, the more he seems to relax. It’s nothing grand, but it’s like the strings are cut and his body goes limp. His belly settles on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, his head still on the rim of the tub and those blue eyes staring right at you. Maybe he’s finally realized you’re not going to hurt him. Maybe he just doesn’t care anymore. You simply enjoy your soak in the hot water a little longer before you stand up, grabbing the soap and lathering yourself before rinsing off. There’s still water in the tub - and he’s filthy. If he’s getting on any of your furniture, he’s getting a bath.
He seems to reach the same conclusion, a huff of air from his nose and half-hearted growled protest as you step out of the tub to dry yourself off, towel wrapped tightly around yourself. He doesn’t need coaxing, doesn’t need help as he steps into the tub and stares up at you reproachfully. There’s not many 'dog’ safe products in your bathroom, so you hope your body-wash is enough. A nearby shower cup to carefully pour the water down his back - and then you get to scrubbing. His fur is indeed thin, and you can feel the scars that mar his flesh underneath - he shifts from paw to paw when your fingers brush against his ribs. But he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t snap or snarl.
It’s a quiet, uneventful process - which, all things considered, is in and of itself a miracle. Jason even gives a quietly content groan when you use the shower cup to rinse away the soap, leaving his fur soaked and clean of Gotham’s grime. His face is another issue entirely - your hand grabbing a rag to run under warm water so you can at least rub down his snout and under his eyes. Even still, he doesn’t pull away - his eyes remain trained on you. Your mind jumps hack to how you found him in the alleyway. Those puppy-whines he’d made. God - he’s so young.
The rest of the bath goes by quickly - rinsing him clean, drying him with a thorough towel-rub. “Jason” you finally speak, your voice barely above a murmur, but you know he hears you. “That’s your name, right? Jason?”. He gives a quiet chuff in response, jabs his nose against your forearm and gives you a look that so clearly says ’Yeah? What about it?’. You can’t help but subtly roll your eyes at the attitude - but, given how he’d been the first week in your care, this was a glowing approval - and move the towel to rub at his neck. Jason flicks an ear, shifts from paw to paw, and then his tongue flicks out for the quickest of seconds to brush against your skin.
That single action is what solidifies the choice your heart has already made. Noone loves him - so you will love him. Pulling the towel away, you stand up and lean over, arms wrapping around his middle and hoisting him up like a teddybear. It’s a testament to his acceptance - of you, the situation - or simply his choice that he’s staying here that he’s limp in your arms. His ears pin back and tail curls between his legs, but he doesn’t growl or wiggle, simply hangs limply in your arms and resigns himself to whatever fate you'v decided. His fur is still a little damp, but you stopped caring - at what point, you can’t say.
The journey to your bedroom is short - and he sprawls out on the bed as soon as you set him down. This is the furthest he’s ever been in your apartment - and you can’t help but find a faint amusement at how he shoves his nose to the bedding and visibly inhales deeply. With his exhale, he completely relaxes; going limp to the point you reach out a hand to gently poke at his shoulder in concern. A tired grunt is the only reply, and you content yourself with that. You very slowly shove him to the side so you can settle on the bed yourself - and almost immediately, he shifts closer.
You observe him for a moment longer before settling on your stomach, arms wrapped tight around your pillow and cheek squished to the material. It’s a subconcious movement when you tense - his weight settling over your back like a blanket, his nose pressed to your neck and the hot huffs of every breath a subtle comfort. Some part of you still expects him to snap, to wait until your guard is lowered to attack you - and maybe he feels the same; but the two of you simply lay there. It’s warm, dark, quiet - safe.
Slowly, hesitantly, you unwind one arm from around your pillow and snake a hand back to brush against his fur. Jason grunts in response, his back paws kick against your legs as he snuggles closer - a quiet rumble in his chest that’s about as much of a purr he can manage. Despite his scars and his anger, who he was - he’s here now, and he’s warm. This is the safest he’s felt in a long, long time. There’s nothing that can pull him away from you now; not when he’s become so attached.
Just like that stupid movie you had watched, when you figured out his name.
'Kill them all, Jason. Find them. and get your revenge. Make them remember, Jason.’
And he would. Against Batman, against Scarecrow. Against every system that failed him, that left him to rot in that abandoned wing of Arkham Asylum. But for now - when he was here, with you - he would let himself be loved. He would let himself be gentle, be bathed with kind hands and fed fresh meats. Even when you were afraid of him, of what he could do, you never let him starve. You never hurt him. This whole city would burn, Jason would make sure of it.
Everyone but you.