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The morning Dick loaded the last box into the car, the manor was empty, as if it had never felt so vast before. Bruce Wayne stood at the door, a faint sadness washing over him as he watched the child he had raised become completely independent.
“You know you don’t have to do this. There are plenty of other rooms in the house,” Bruce said, probably for the fifth time that morning. His smooth, black tail swayed gently behind him, an almost uncontrollable surge of emotion welling up inside him.
Dick Grayson, now twenty-four, was so tall that his spotted leopard tail stood up excitedly, the black spots standing out starkly against his golden fur. “Bruce, I’m not moving to another country. It’s only a twenty-minute drive, thirty minutes if there’s a traffic jam.” He hugged his father tightly.
Bruce hugged him back, taking a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of his son, his cub, though Dick would probably roll his eyes at that name now. The scent carried a hint of bitterness. Dick's body odor had changed over the years, from the sweet, milky fragrance of childhood to a mature, complex aroma, the hallmark of an adult Omega.
"Call me if you need anything," Bruce said, finally releasing him.
"I will. And you—" Dick pointed at him, feigning seriousness, his leopard ears twitching slightly. "You need to take good care of yourself. When's your next heat?"
Bruce's ears flicked back slightly. "About two weeks."
"Are you really going to be ready this time? Instead of locking yourself in your room pretending everything's fine?"
"I'm always ready."
"Bruce." Dick's tone held a hint of disbelief. They both knew it.
Bruce sighed, his tail flicking irritably. "I'm fine, Dick."
Dick crossed his arms, seemingly unconvinced. “Promise me you’ll at least consider my suggestion.”
Dick’s suggestion was actually for Bruce to rent an apartment in town, specifically for his heat, a small, convenient place so he wouldn’t feel so lonely in the empty room. The manor had eighteen bedrooms, seven bathrooms, and was large enough to house a small village. When Dick lived there, the hallways echoed with his laughter and the light footsteps of his children; the manor was always bustling with life.
“I’ll consider it,” Bruce conceded, knowing Dick wouldn’t leave until he agreed.
Dick’s face lit up immediately. “Okay. Actually, there’s a building in Old Gotham, nice and safe, perfect for Omega. I’ve already looked it up.”
“Of course you have.”
“I love you too, B.” Dick gave him another brief hug and got into the car. Bruce watched the car disappear at the end of the long driveway, disappearing between the ancient oak trees.
Ten minutes later, Alfred found him still standing there.
“Master Bruce,” the older Beta said softly, his gray wolf ears perking slightly in sympathy, “perhaps Young Master Dick’s suggestion makes sense.”
“The manor is our home, Alfred.”
“The manor is too big for two people, one of whom is still recovering from hip surgery, and climbing stairs isn’t as easy as it used to be.” Alfred’s tone was gentle yet firm. “You can’t tell me it feels different now.”
It certainly felt different. Bruce’s ears drooped slightly as he admitted it. Dick had left before, of course, to go to college, to travel, to go on missions with the Titans. But this time it was permanent. Dick was building his own life, his own home, and that was how it should be. Bruce had always wanted him to.
But this didn’t make the manor feel any less empty.
“I’ll go see that building Dick mentioned,” Bruce finally said.
Alfred’s tail wagged gently, a look of satisfaction on his face. “Very good, sir.”
Bruce had to admit that this apartment building in Old Gotham was exactly what he needed, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Security was tight, with a doorman and access cards. The apartment itself was a simple two-bedroom unit on the eighth floor, with large windows providing ample natural light and a warm, comfortable layout, rather than cramped.
Most importantly, it included a dedicated room for Omega—a nesting chamber with a soft carpet, a temperature-controlled system, and an internal lock. The room was a good size, providing Omega with both safety and freedom of movement during her heat cycle. For a solitary Omega, it was perfect.
Bruce signed the lease. Three days before her heat cycle began, he moved into the apartment using a rarely used alias. The apartment was sparsely furnished: a sofa, a small table, and some basic kitchenware. Aside from a few soft blankets and towels, his nesting chamber was almost empty. He would bring nesting materials from his estate later.
The first heat cycle in the new apartment was bearable. Bruce had a consistently elevated body temperature. His heat cycles, though intense, were thankfully short-lived—three days of high fever, which he instinctively overcame. Decades ago, he had learned how to get through heat cycles: drink plenty of water, keep the room cool, and wait for it to pass.
However, being alone was far more difficult than he had imagined.
He made it through. On the fourth day, Bruce's temperature dropped, and his mind cleared. He methodically cleaned the apartment. He washed the blankets and towels, ventilated the nest, and replenished supplies. Then he returned to the manor, leaving the apartment empty and silent.
He didn't return for two whole weeks, distracted by Wayne Enterprises' business and a complex merger. He returned late at night, intending only to check on the apartment and deliver some supplies for the next heat cycle.
He knew something was wrong the moment he opened the door.
First, a stench hit him—not his own, but a childlike, fearful scent, mingled with the unique sweetness of a tiny child in pain. Bruce's ears perked up, his tail stiffened, and all his instincts were awakened.
Someone had been to his apartment. A very small person. A very, very small child.
Bruce moved cautiously through the room, all his senses on high alert. Nothing seemed missing or damaged. The furniture was untouched, and his few belongings were still in their places. But the smell was pungent, concentrated in the kitchen.
He found the evidence there: the bag of ordinary cookies he had left in the cupboard was open, several cookies were missing, and crumbs were scattered on the floor, as if hastily eaten by clumsy little hands. The intruder was hungry but young, hence the mess.
Bruce processed this information, his ears still pounding. It was a child, a very small child, hungry but who had only taken what was easily obtainable. No canned food requiring a can opener was taken. No complicated packaging was taken. Only a cookie tin with a pull-tab lid.
He checked the rest of the apartment and found some more clues. A bedroom window had been pried open clumsily; there were scratches on the frame. Several tiny, almost invisible handprints were on the glass. Inside the den, his carefully folded towel had been moved.
Bruce picked up a towel and gasped. The towel was infused with the scent of a baby omega—a sweet, milky fragrance with a hint of cinnamon spice and the musky scent of a raccoon. Moreover, the towel had clearly been rolled up and wrapped around a small body. The child had deliberately allowed himself to be imbued with Bruce's scent.
Bruce realized this wasn't just a child seeking shelter. This was an omega cub trying to smell like it had parents. Trying to absorb the scent of an adult omega so others would think it had parents. That way, it wouldn't be a target. That way, he could pretend, even just for a moment, that he wasn't alone.
The survival rate of orphan Omega puppies was heartbreakingly low for Bruce. Too fragile, too easily trusting, too easily lost. On the brutal streets of Gotham, a child alone wouldn't survive long. But what if a child exuded some kind of mysterious aura, as if an omega parent were protecting him? Perhaps he could be alone. Perhaps he would be safe, at least temporarily.
This baby was clever. Clever despite his despair.
Standing in his den, holding the towel that smelled of the frightened child, Bruce made a decision.
He moved the apartment out untouched. He bought another bag of cookies, that was all, and put them in the same cupboard. He also kept a few boxes of juice, the kind with straws, so the child could drink easily. He left the bedroom window only a crack big enough for a child to squeeze through. Then he drove home, his mind racing.
Two weeks. He would wait two weeks before returning. He was prepared for the child's return.
Bruce was inherently impatient, though his years of carefully cultivated business acumen might give the impression. The next two weeks were agonizing. He threw himself into his work, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the towel, to the child's sweet scent, to the tiny handprints on the glass.
Maybe a six-year-old. Maybe younger. Certainly no more than seven. But surely he should have some survival instincts. Too young to need help with basic necessities. Alone in Gotham.
The thought sent a painful groan down his spine.
"You're definitely planning something," Dick said on the weekly call. His voice was static-filled; he was probably at the gym, with the clanging of equipment in the background.
"I'm always planning something," Bruce replied, glancing at his upcoming orders: coloring books, crayons, and a plush toy or two.
"Bruce."
Bruce sighed. There was no need to hide it anymore. He explained the burglary, the cookies, the towel stained with the cub's scent, and all the terrible consequences.
Dick was silent for a long time. “How old is he?”
“Not a baby, about six. Big enough to break in, find food, and think to use omega scent for protection.”
“That’s still a baby,” Dick snapped. “Too young to be left alone. What are you going to do?”
“Help him if he comes back.” Bruce paused. “I’ve ordered supplies. I’ll wait in the apartment.”
“Are you going to catch him?”
“No. I’m trying to earn his trust.” Bruce wagged his tail. “If I catch him, he’ll run. If I make him feel safe… maybe he’ll stay.”
“Be careful,” Dick said softly. “A child this young, if frightened… he might not understand you’re helping.”
“I know.”
Over the next few days, supplies arrived. Bruce carefully and methodically carried them into the apartment. More food, not just cookies, but also soft bread, cheese slices, small boxes of juice, and applesauce cups with pull-tab lids. All things a child could handle themselves. He also bought children's medicine, band-aids, and a soft blanket with cartoon characters on it.
At the upscale chocolate shop in Old Gotham's business district, after much deliberation, he bought a small box of Gianduja chocolates. These hazelnut chocolates were a favorite among children and one that Bruce's mother had given him when he was a child. He placed the chocolates, untouched, on the counter, in a prominent spot.
Bruce returned to his apartment with his luggage bag. He was prepared to stay for a few days if necessary. He first checked the apartment's security footage; the manager, owing him a favor, granted him access without hesitation.
Okay. 3:17 AM. A small figure appeared in the hallway, so small it seemed a strong wind could blow him away. He wore obviously ill-fitting clothes, hanging loosely on his thin frame. Even in the blurry image, Bruce could clearly see the boy's signature bushy raccoon tail dragging on the ground.
The boy went to his door, tiptoed to the doorknob, and after several minutes, pried open the lock with what looked like a bent wire. He slipped inside.
Fourteen minutes later, he emerged, clutching something tightly to his chest. Bruce realized it was the towel. He was going to take him. Envelop himself in Bruce's scent, creating a false sense of protection.
Bruce clenched his fists tightly. This boy was intelligent and brave, yet so lonely and desperate.
He returned to his apartment, his heart pounding faster than in years. The evidence was conclusive: another cookie was missing, the juice box was gone, and this time, he gasped. On the counter was a small drawing, as if made of ash or mud. A crooked house with a simple sketch of a little person. What was the boy trying to do? Express gratitude? Leave a trace? Proof that someone had lived here?
Bruce carefully placed a box of crayons and a coloring book next to the drawing. Then, he began to wait quietly.
He had saved up some annual leave; now he would use it. He stayed in the apartment, concealed, waiting patiently.
Four whole nights passed.
Bruce was in his bedroom, the door slightly ajar, when he heard a sound: a soft scratching on metal and the gentle sliding of a window opening.
He remained motionless, his breathing steady and slow. Through the crack in the door, he watched.
A small figure gracefully fell through the window; raccoons are naturally adept climbers, and this instinct was clearly very strong. The child landed crouching, and even in the dim light, Bruce could make out details that pained him deeply.
So small. Incredibly small. He was wearing adult-sized clothing, tied around his slender waist with something that looked like a rope. His dark hair was disheveled, hanging down in front of his eyes. The child cautiously approached the kitchen, like prey in peril. He opened the cupboard and reached for a box of juice.
Then he froze.
He saw the chocolate.
The child stared at the box for a long time, his tiny raccoon ears, carrying a strange scent, curiously leaning forward, seemingly excited, slowly reaching out his hand as if wary of a trap, gently touching the box.
Then he looked around, his ears twitching, alert for danger. After confirming no one was around, he picked up the box and clutched it tightly to his chest. But he didn't open it. Instead, he carried it into his den like a precious treasure.
Bruce waited five minutes, then slowly got out of bed. He went to the door, looking outside, his heart pounding in his chest.
The child was there, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He spread out a towel—the same one from before, now smelling even better—arranging it into a small den. The hazelnut chocolate box lay before him, unopened, as if afraid that touching it would make him disappear. Beside him lay a dirty backpack containing a few treasures: a broken toy car, a torn picture book, and Bruce's old towel, now filthy and worn beyond recognition.
The child reached out and gently touched the chocolate box again. Then, he whispered something, so softly that Bruce couldn't hear it.
Bruce's shadow fell in the doorway.
The child jerked his head up, his eyes wide with terror. In an instant, he grabbed the towel and ran, faster than...Bruce was startled, though he'd expected it. Before he could even raise his hands to reassure his father, the boy had already dashed out the window and run up the fire escape.
"Wait—" Bruce shouted, but he was gone, vanished like a ghost into the Gotham night.
The chocolate box lay abandoned on the floor. The coloring book and crayons were still untouched on the kitchen counter. But the backpack was gone, and the child was gone too.
Bruce stood there, ears drooping, face full of sorrow, watching the little nest the child was trying to build. He had felt safe here, able to sit down, spread out his few belongings, and touch the chocolate with wonder.
And now he had scared him away.
Bruce picked up the hazelnut chocolate box, placed it back on the towel, and added one more thing: the softest blanket he'd brought, the one with little stars on it.
The child would come back. He would definitely come back. Bruce had food, he felt safe, and he had chocolate. He would definitely come back. He just needed to wait patiently.
And next time he had to approach him more cleverly.
---
Bruce's next heat arrived as scheduled, accompanied by the usual signs, but this time it felt unusually urgent. He prepared carefully, bringing extra supplies, extra water, and everything extra plentiful. Because this time, he held a sliver of hope.
No. He couldn't hold onto hope. Hope was dangerous. The child might never return.
But he still didn't lock the windows. He put hazelnut chocolate spread on the towel in the kennel. He put the juice box in the kitchen where the child could reach it.
Just in case.
Tuesday night, a heatwave hit, and a high fever made him retreat directly to the kennel. He'd experienced this too many times and knew the pattern all too well, but for some reason, this time it felt completely different. More lonely. The apartment was eerily quiet.
During heat, time seemed to stand still. Time was blurred; only the cycle of fever and restless sleep could distinguish its passage. Bruce drifted in and out of consciousness, his omega instincts reassuring him in the safety of his den, while his mind wandered.
He was immersed in a feverish dream when he suddenly felt something cool on his forehead.
Bruce groggily awoke, his wolf ears twitching slightly. Someone had entered his den. His feverish, confused mind couldn't immediately grasp the information; something felt wrong, yet he didn't feel danger. The scent was familiar, but he couldn't immediately recall where he had smelled it before.
The cool touch moved, gentle yet uncertain, like a damp cloth lightly patting his cheek. Then, a small, fearful voice whispered, "Sir? Sir, you're sick."
Bruce struggled to open his eyes. His vision was blurry, but he vaguely saw a small figure kneeling beside his den. Raccoon ears. Striped tail. It was the child.
“You’re back,” Bruce said hoarsely, with difficulty.
The child flinched but didn’t run away. He clutched a damp towel tightly in his small hand—Bruce’s towel, soaked with water he’d gotten from the bathroom. “You’re hot. Really hot. Like…like my mom used to.”
Past tense. Even in heat, Bruce’s heart clenched.
“I’m fine,” he tried to say, but his voice was as hoarse as his throat. “Just…a little hot; that’s normal.”
“You need water,” the child said firmly. He grabbed a bottle of mineral water from beside the nest. Bruce had placed several there, and his little hands struggled to twist the caps.
“Thank you, just give it to me,” Bruce said, slowly reaching out. The child recoiled sharply, then hesitantly handed him the bottle. Bruce opened the bottle with trembling hands and gulped down a large mouthful. The water cleared his head a little.
“Thank you,” he whispered, handing the bottle back. “What’s your name?”
The child clutched the bottle tightly, ears drooping, looking bewildered. Bruce hesitated for a moment before realizing the child wouldn’t answer. Then, the child whispered, “Jason.” The voice was so soft Bruce barely noticed.
“Jason,” Bruce called tentatively, and it felt right. “I’m Bruce. Nice to meet you, Jason.”
Jason didn’t respond, only staring at him with his still-childish eyes.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” Bruce continued, his voice soft and calm despite the fever of his heat making him dizzy. “I won’t hurt you, and I won’t call anyone. I promise.”
“Adults always say that,” Jason muttered, but he didn’t leave.
“Okay.” Bruce shifted in his nest, trying to make himself more comfortable. “But I’m telling the truth. You can stay here. Chocolate, food, anything you want, you can take it.”
Jason’s ears perked up slightly. “Chocolate?”
“It’s all yours, all of it.”
Jason glanced at the hazelnut chocolate box still on the towel, then at Bruce. “Why?”
“Because you’re hungry. And you’re all alone; you shouldn’t be like this.”
“I’m not alone,” Jason blurted out. “I have—”
“Jason.” Bruce’s voice was gentle. “I know you’re pretending. I know you took my towel to smell like your parents were around. I know you’re surviving alone.” He paused, his wolf ears tilting forward with pity. “I know how hard it is.”
Jason’s lower lip trembled. He looked down at his small hands and the water bottle still clutched in them. “My mother died. She died of illness. Then someone came and took me away, but I ran. I won’t go to those shelters. Never.”
“Okay,” Bruce said simply, “you don’t have to.”
Jason jerked his head up. “Really?”
“Really. But Jason… you can’t stay on the streets forever. You’re too young, too dangerous.”
“I’m fine,” Jason protested, his tail standing on end. “I was careful.”
“You broke into the apartment during an Omega’s heat. That’s very dangerous. I might have accidentally hurt you. Some Omegas get very aggressive during their heat cycle.”
Jason bit his lip. “I smelled you were in heat. That’s why I came. You needed help, and… and you left me some chocolate. I thought maybe…” His voice trailed off.
“You’re right, I really wanted to help you.”
“Why?” Jason’s voice choked. “You don’t understand me at all.”
Bruce smiled, despite his fever. “I know enough. I know you’re brave enough to survive on your own. I know you’re smart enough to use adult scents to protect yourself. I know you’re kind enough to help a sick stranger. That’s enough.”
Jason remained silent, processing these words. Then, he slowly put down the water bottle and picked up a towel. “You’re still very hot. My mom used to use a cold towel on her face when she had a fever. You want me to…?”
“Yes, thank you,” Bruce said excitedly. “This will help a lot.”
Jason carefully placed the towel on Bruce’s forehead, his small hands gentle yet hesitant. Bruce closed his eyes, accepting this care, trying hard not to cry, because the person caring for him was a six-year-old child who had once been homeless.
“Jason?” he asked after a while.
“Hmm?”
“Would you like to stay? If not, you don’t have to stay here all the time. Just… just until my heat is over. Only a few days. I’ll let you know it’s safe here.”
Jason hesitated. Bruce could almost feel the child’s inner struggle, the yearning for safety intertwined with the fear of trust, the desire for comfort conflicting with the concept he had been instilled with since childhood that he “could only rely on himself.”
Finally, Jason said weakly, "Okay, just a few days."
"Just a few days," Bruce agreed, then let the high fever pull him back into sleep.
---
When Bruce woke up again, he smelled the aroma of chocolate.
He blinked, opened his eyes, and his mind was clearer than before. His fever had subsided slightly; he was in the eye of the storm, a brief respite before the next hurricane. Jason, wrapped in the blanket Bruce had left behind, sat in Bruce's bed.
The child finally opened the hazelnut chocolate and ate three pieces in one go. Chocolate smeared his lips, and he held half a piece in his small hand, eating intently, as if unaware of when he would have another.
"Is it good?" Bruce asked softly.
Jason jumped, almost dropping the chocolate, then nodded vigorously. "It's really good. It's the best thing I've ever eaten."
"That's good." Bruce shifted his position and slowly sat up. “Want more?”
Jason immediately handed over the box, his ears drooping, looking guilty. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eat so much, I just—”
“Jason, it’s all yours. It’s all yours. I asked if you were full, not to take it away.”
Jason stared at him, then slowly pulled the box back to his chest. “Really, it’s all mine?”
“It’s all yours.”
Jason took another piece, this time eating slowly, savoring it. Bruce watched him, noticing details he’d missed in the darkness. The boy was skin and bones, his small face marked by hunger. His clothes were not only too big but also dirty and tattered; he was barefoot in the nest, and Bruce could see the scrapes and bruises on his calves.
“When was the last time you had a proper meal?” Bruce asked softly.
Jason shrugged, focusing on his chocolate. “I eat. There are cookies here, and sometimes I can find something at the food service.”
“Jason, how long has it been since you had anything hot? Would you like soup or pasta?”
Jason’s ears drooped, and he didn’t answer.
“Okay,” Bruce said calmly, “how about this: when I feel better, I’ll make us something to eat. Something warm and filling. Would you like some?”
Jason nodded, still avoiding Bruce’s eyes.
“Okay. But now, I need your help.”
This caught Jason’s attention; he perked up his ears. “What can I do for you?”
“I need to get up and get some water, but I’m dizzy. Can you help me?”
Bruce was indeed dizzy, but more importantly, he wanted to see how Jason would react when he was needed. The boy immediately put down the chocolate and quickly stood up.
“I’ll help. My mom used to need help too.”
Jason was very small; even kneeling, he only reached Bruce’s chest. But he tried his best. When Bruce stood up, he placed his little hands under Bruce’s elbows, as if he could really support Bruce’s weight. The scene was both adorable and heartbreaking.
“Thank you,” Bruce said earnestly, as if Jason’s help had truly worked. “You’re very strong.”
Jason wagged his tail, but after a brief moment of joy, he immediately realized his excitement and stopped.
They walked together to the kitchen, Bruce slowing his pace to match Jason’s. The child’s hands remained on Bruce’s arm, steadying him, or rather, trying to steady him; Bruce could feel the tiny fingers trembling slightly. Jason was scared, but he did it anyway.
Brave. Incredibly brave.
In the kitchen, Bruce poured himself a glass of water and looked at Jason. “Have you had any water today?”
Jason shook his head.
“Would you like some…juice? I have apple and orange juice.”
“Apple juice,” Jason said immediately, then added quietly, “thank you.”
Bruce poured him a glass of apple juice, watching Jason drink it all in one gulp, leaving a faint trace on his upper lip. Without thinking, Bruce reached out and gently wiped the trace away with his thumb.
Jason froze.
Bruce froze too, realizing what he had done. “I’m sorry. I should have asked first, I—”
But Jason didn’t pull away. He stared wide-eyed at Bruce, his small body motionless. “My mom used to do this when she could get up,” he whispered, “when I got dirty.”
“Really?” Bruce asked softly.
Jason nodded. Then, almost without Bruce noticing, the child leaned forward abruptly, pressing his face against Bruce’s chest, right at his heart. His little hands gripped Bruce’s pajamas tightly.
Bruce very, very carefully cradled Jason's small body in his arms, holding him gently, giving him enough time to struggle free.
Jason didn't struggle. He curled up even tighter, the raccoon tail wrapped around his legs as if to soothe himself. Then he began to cry, not a loud, exaggerated sob, but a soft, intermittent whimper that made his body tremble slightly.
"It's okay," Bruce said softly, raising a hand to gently stroke Jason's hand. His hair was disheveled. "You're safe now."
"I missed Mommy," Jason sobbed. "I don't know why, but I missed her so much."
"I know, I know you miss her."
"And I've been so scared. I've been trying so hard to be brave, but I'm always tired, hungry, and cold."
Bruce's eyes also welled up; hearing the child's pain was almost unbearable for him. “You’re brave, Jason, really brave. Much braver than you should be at your age. But you don’t have to bear all this alone anymore.”
Jason’s tears finally stopped. He pulled back slightly and looked up at Bruce with red, swollen eyes. “Your pajamas are soaked and covered in snot.”
“I have other pajamas,” Bruce repeated what he’d said countless times to Dick over the years. “Don’t worry.”
Jason hiccuped again and wiped his nose with his wide sleeve. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how… how to stop being alone.”
“How about we start small?” Bruce suggested gently. “You said you’d stay with me for a few days when I’m in heat. Let’s start from here.” We’ll figure out the rest together.
“Together,” Jason repeated as he ate the pasta Bruce had made, tentatively understanding the meaning of the word.
“Together. I’ll help you, Jason. But I need your help too, okay? My body temperature will rise and then fall. You need to bring me water and make sure I don’t get too hot. Can you do that?”
Jason nodded eagerly, clearly relieved. Finally, there was something to do, something concrete to do. “I can do it.” “I’m good at helping.”
“I can tell.” Bruce smiled at him. “Thank you, Jason.”
Jason’s tail wagged gently; this time he didn’t try to stop him.
An hour later, Bruce felt another wave of heat, blurring his vision, and had to return to the nest. But this time, he wasn’t alone. Jason, wrapped in his star-shaped blanket, stayed nearby, watching him with concern. Every now and then, the child would quietly approach, placing a cool towel on Bruce’s forehead, handing him a bottle of water, or simply sitting in the nest, whispering about trivial things.
“My mother’s name is Catherine,” Jason said during a moment of brief lucidity. “She used to sing to me a lot when she wasn’t sober,” Jason said. “I don’t remember all the songs, but I remember some.”
“Could you sing me?" Bruce asked, his voice hoarse from the fever.
Jason hesitated for a moment, then began to sing a lullaby in his childish, off-key voice. The song was simple and sweet, and Bruce felt his eyes well up again because the little guy was trying to comfort him in the way his mother had once comforted Jason.
When the song ended, Jason moved closer to Bruce. “Did that help?”
“It did,” Bruce said honestly. “It helped a lot.”
Jason’s face lit up with a bright smile, and he was filled with joy.
Over the next two days, a regular pattern gradually formed. Jason would bring Bruce water and juice, cookies, and applesauce. He would sit in his “nest” and read. Or finish a coloring book, or chat with Bruce about things he saw on the street, or books he had read before, or questions about the apartment.
“Since you’re so rich, why do you need to rent an apartment?” Jason asked suddenly.
“How did you know I’m rich?”
“Your clothes are beautiful, your soap is nice, and…” Jason looked around. “Everything here is new. Nothing’s damaged or worn out. That means you’re rich.”
Bruce chuckled. “You have a keen eye. I have a big house outside the city, but it feels too spacious. So I bought this apartment… well, just to deal with situations like this.”
“Oh.” Jason was silent for a moment. “Is your big house very lonely?”
“Yes, very lonely.”
“I feel lonely too,” Jason admitted. “Always lonely.” “Even with so many people in the city, I still feel lonely.”
“Then we won’t be so lonely together,” Bruce said, “at least not now.”
Jason smiled at this, a genuine smile that revealed the gap left by his missing baby tooth.
Three days later. Bruce's heat cycle was finally over. He emerged from his den and found Jason curled up on one of the mats, wrapped in his blanket and quilt, fast asleep. The child's face was buried in the pillow, a tiny hand tucked under his cheek, and his raccoon tail wrapped around him.
Bruce stood there, gazing at the small, brave, and incredibly adorable child. He had cared for him through his heat, stayed when he could have escaped, and given him a precious, vulnerable, and utterly undeserving trust.
---
Jason awoke to the aroma of food. Someone was cooking.
He sat bolt upright, his raccoon ears darting toward the kitchen, his stomach rumbling. Bruce stood there by the stove, looking much better than he had these past few days. His eyes were no longer bloodshot, and his hands were no longer trembling. He looked…safe.
"Good morning," Bruce said, noticing Jason was awake. "Hungry?"
Jason nodded vigorously.
“I’m making eggs and toast; is that alright?”
“Mmm.” Jason hurriedly stood up, the blanket slipping off. He tiptoed into the kitchen, his bare feet making no sound on the floor. “Are you feeling better?”
“Much better.” “Thank you.” Bruce placed the scrambled eggs on a plate, along with the buttered toast and a glass of fresh apple juice, on the small table. “Sit down and eat.”
Jason climbed into a chair, barely able to reach the table. He grabbed a fork and immediately began to wolf down his food, eating like a child who hadn’t eaten in ages.
Bruce looked at him gently, then sat down opposite him with his own plate. “Jason, I want to talk to you.”
Jason looked up warily, his cheeks bulging with food. “What is it?”
“You stayed to keep me company during my heat. You’re so kind; I’m so grateful.” “But now it’s my turn to help you.”
Jason swallowed hard. “How can you help?”
“Hmm…” Bruce said softly, “When was the last time you took a bath?”
Jason’s ears drooped. “I took a bath in the fountain last week.”
“That’s not the same as a proper bath with warm water and soap,” Bruce said gently. “And you… your clothes are all tattered. After breakfast, we’ll help you wash up and find you something more comfortable, okay?”
“I don’t have any other clothes,” Jason mumbled, looking down at his plate.
“I know. But I have a few shirts here; you can wear those for now, and we’ll go buy you something suitable later. If you don’t mind.”
Jason poked at the eggs on his plate. “Why are you so kind to me?”
“Because you deserve good things, Jason. Because you’re a kid who’s been through terrible things, you need help. And…” Bruce paused. “Because I want to continue helping you. Not just today, but for a long time. If you’re willing.”
“For how long?”
“That’s up to you.” Bruce took a sip of his coffee. “But I was thinking…would you like to come live with me? It’s that big house outside town. There are lots of rooms, the food is great, and you’ll have your own bedroom.” “You can stay as long as you want.”
Jason stared at him. “You want me to live with you?”
“If you want.”
“But you don’t know me at all!”
“I know enough. And we can get to know each other better.” Bruce smiled gently. “How about it? Want to give it a try?”
Jason’s tail twitched, revealing his hesitation and hope. “What if…what if I don’t behave well? What if I do something wrong and you change your mind?”
“Jason, I promise, that won’t happen. Everyone makes mistakes. That’s how we learn. I won’t kick you out just because you make a mistake.”
“Really?” Jason’s voice was very soft.
“I promise.”
Jason thought for a moment, his little face scrunched up, thinking seriously. Then: “Okay. I’ll try. But just to see if I like it.”
“That’s fair.” “Just to see.” Bruce’s heart was pounding in his chest. “Now, how about a bath?”
---
Getting Jason into the bathroom was easy, but getting him actually into the bathtub was much harder.
Bruce filled the tub with warm water and mild shower gel, making sure it wasn’t too hot or too deep. But Jason hesitated when he saw it.
“So much water,” he said nervously, his ears drooping.
“It won’t hurt you. See?” Bruce put his hand in the water. “It’s just warm. It feels nice.”
Jason slowly moved closer, his tail standing on end impatiently. He touched the water with one of his little hands, then quickly pulled it back.
“That’s good, isn’t it? It feels nice to have a warm bath.”
“I think…” Jason looked down at his dirty clothes, then at the tub. “Do I have to take my clothes off?”
“Yes, you have to take them off for a bath. But if you want privacy, I can turn around. You can go into the tub first, and then I'll help you wash, okay?”
Jason nodded slowly. Bruce turned around, giving the child some privacy, and heard the rustling sound of clothes being undressed. Then, Jason gently plopped into the tub.
“Okay,” Jason said, “I’m in.”
Bruce turned around, suppressing a grimace. Seeing Jason remove his ill-fitting clothes revealed his thin frame, his ribs clearly visible, his small body covered in bruises and abrasions. But Bruce tried to maintain a calm expression, not wanting Jason to feel uncomfortable.
“Good job,” Bruce encouraged. “Now we’ll help you wash up.” “The soap’s here; it’s mild and won’t irritate your eyes. We also need to wash your hair. When was the last time someone washed your hair?”
Jason shrugged, sinking deeper into the water until only his eyes and ears were above water. “I don’t remember.”
“Then I’ll wash it for you now. Is that alright?”
Jason nodded, his body still mostly submerged.
Bruce knelt by the bathtub, his knees slightly aching. He wasn’t as young as he used to be and began washing Jason’s hair. His hair was tangled, requiring patience to wet and soap, his fingers gently combing through the knots.
“Ouch,” Jason groaned, troubled by a particularly stubborn knot.
“Sorry. I’m trying to be gentle.” “Your hair is tangled.” Bruce carefully and slowly separated the strands of hair. “If I hurt you, tell me, okay?”
“Okay.”
He found a comfortable rhythm, and Bruce helped Jason bathe, who gradually relaxed and sank into the warm water. The boy’s raccoon tail, stiff with anxiety, began to soften and sway gently in the tub.
“That feels so good,” Jason admitted after a while. “The warm water feels so nice.”
“See, bathing isn’t so bad.” Bruce rinsed the soap off Jason’s hair, carefully avoiding his eyes. “Now wash your hands. Give me your paws, I mean, your hands.”
Jason was amused by Bruce’s slip of the tongue and actually chuckled. “You meant paws.”
“Really? It must be my wolfish side.” Bruce picked up one of Jason’s little hands and gently scrubbed it, revealing clean skin beneath the grime. “All done.” “Look, your fingers are all hidden under the mud.”
“I’ve always had fingers,” Jason protested, but a smile remained on his face.
“You really fooled me. Let’s go take another bath.”
After the bath, the water had turned into a grayish muddy mess, and Jason looked completely different. His once jet-black hair was now clean, with slightly curled ends. His skin was pale, covered in freckles, no longer concealed by grime. His eyes… his eyes were bright and blue-green, gleaming with an unprecedented alertness.
“You’ve finally appeared,” Bruce said softly. “This is the real Jason.”
“I’d forgotten I had freckles.”
“Beautiful freckles.” Bruce held up a large, fluffy towel. “Come on, get out of the tub. I need to dry you off quickly so you don’t catch a cold.”
Jason stood up, water droplets sliding down his small body. Bruce immediately wrapped him in the towel. The child was too small; the towel completely covered him, leaving only his face and ears exposed.
“Warm?” Bruce asked.
Jason nodded, his teeth chattering slightly. Bruce quickly dried him with a towel, then picked him up. He was small and light, so they went into the bedroom.
“I have a shirt here you can wear for now; we’ll find you something more suitable later,” Bruce said, gently placing Jason on the bed. “This shirt might be a little big for you, but it’s clean and soft.”
He took out a T-shirt, a soft gray one. When he pulled it over Jason’s head, he found it was indeed too big; the hem reached Jason’s knees, and the sleeves had to be rolled up several times. But Jason seemed to like it, sniffing the shirt and twitching his nose.
“It smells like you,” Jason said.
“Is this okay?”
“Hmm…it’s fine. It’s reassuring.” Jason looked down at himself, then up at Bruce. “What about pants?”
“I haven’t bought any that fit. But if you want, we can go buy some later. Or you can wear this shirt for now; it’s basically a dress on you.”
Jason chuckled again. “A very fashionable dress,” Bruce said seriously, which made Jason laugh even harder.
That cheerful, innocent, and so natural laughter warmed Bruce’s heart. This was the sound a six-year-old should have: happy, carefree, and safe.
“Jason,” Bruce said gently, “can I help you comb your hair? It’s a little messy.”
Jason climbed onto the bed, sat cross-legged, and nodded. Bruce sat behind him, took a soft-bristled brush, and began carefully combing his wet hair. Jason’s ears twitched uncomfortably at first, but he gradually relaxed as Bruce’s movements were gentle and steady.
“My mom used to comb my hair,” Jason said softly, his voice a little hoarse. “It would be so nice if she were lucid, but she’s just… sick, and I can’t help her anyway.”
“You’re still a child. You don’t need to help. You just need to be her little puppy and let her love you.” Bruce put down the brush, smoothing out the last knot. “I’m sure she loves you very much.”
“Yes,” Jason whispered.
Bruce carefully pulled Jason back into his arms, holding the little boy close. “Do you want me to tell you every day?”
Jason was silent for a long time. Then, he said in a weak voice, “Yes.”
“Okay. Then I’ll tell you every day.” Bruce gently kissed the top of Jason’s head, between his raccoon ears. “Jason, I’m so glad you came to my apartment. I’m so glad you stayed. I want you to know that I care about you very much.”
Jason turned over in Bruce’s arms, burying his face in Bruce’s chest, his little hands clutching Bruce’s pajamas tightly. “Can I stay? Not try, but really stay?”
“You really can stay,” Bruce said firmly, his eyes brimming with tears. “Stay as long as you want. You can stay forever if you want.”
“Forever sounds good,” Jason murmured to Bruce’s chest.
They sat on the bed, embracing each other.