Work Text:
The zipper’s teeth hang open like a broken grin, the frayed edges of Oliver’s jacket flapping in the January wind as he shivers outside the school’s side entrance. It was an accident—his parents swore—just a slip of the shears while trimming loose threads. But the result is the same: he’s freezing, and the laughter of passing students stings worse than the cold. Bruce Wayne leans against the brick wall, idly spinning a skateboard under his scuffed sneakers. He’s not laughing. His eyes—dark, guarded—flick to Oliver’s jacket, then away.
“You look like a scarecrow,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. Just a fact.
Oliver shrugs, tucking his hands under his armpits. “Didn’t plan the fashion statement.”
Bruce exhales sharply through his nose, almost a laugh. He digs into his backpack and tosses a bundled-up leather jacket at Oliver. It’s worn but sturdy, the lining still thick. “Take it. I’ve got others.”
Oliver hesitates. Bruce isn’t known for charity. But the cold wins. He shrugs it on, the weight unfamiliar but warm. “Thanks. I’ll—”
“Bring it by my place after school,” Bruce cuts in. “I’ll fix the zipper on yours.”
---
Bruce’s apartment smells like stale coffee and something sharper—fear, maybe, though Oliver wouldn’t name it yet. The living room is too neat, like a staged crime scene. Bruce tosses his keys on the counter a little too loudly, as if warning someone.
“Your dad home?” Oliver asks, toeing off his shoes.
Bruce’s jaw tightens. “Not my dad.”
The correction hangs there, heavy, until a door down the hall creaks open. A man—tall, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes—steps out. “Bruce. Didn’t know you had… company.”
Oliver extends a hand. “Oliver Twist, sir. Bruce is helping me with a jacket.”
The man’s grip is too tight. “Alfred’s out,” he says, though Oliver didn’t ask. “You boys stay out of trouble.” He leaves, but the threat lingers in the air like static.
Bruce doesn’t relax until the front door clicks shut. He digs out a sewing kit from a drawer, hands steady. “Don’t come back here,” he says quietly.
Oliver watches Bruce’s fingers, the careful way he threads the needle. The bruises on his wrists are old, faded to yellow. “Bruce—”
“It’s handled.”
---
Oliver texts Annie tomorrow morning. *Can your social worker friend look into something? Not for me.*
Annie Warbucks chews her lip, reading Oliver’s message under the cafeteria table. Pippi plops down beside her, braids swinging, and steals a fry. “You look like you swallowed a frog.”
“Oliver’s being weird,” Annie mutters.
Pippi grins. “Weirder than usual?”
Annie glances across the room, where Harry Potter sits alone, poking at his lunch as if it offended him. “We need a distraction. Something happy.”
Pippi’s eyes light up. She leaps onto the table (ignoring the lunch monitor’s screech) and belts out a horribly off-key rendition of *Jingle Bells*, complete with jazz hands. Harry drops his fork, startled, then snorts, covering his mouth.
Annie groans, but she’s laughing too. “Mission accomplished?”
Pippi bows. “Obviously.”