Chapter Text
Gotham was getting colder. Foster kids always got good coats, though (coats and blankets and stuffed animals, all the trappings of a home without the benefits of people who regarded you as something more than a burden). The coat made the night bearable.
With the more attractive spots all taken up by the adult homeless, she and the other kids who didn’t want to stay where they were supposed to be had to find other places to hang out. Cops would leave adults alone but detain kids, and the next time they picked her up, she was going to an orphanage, or, more likely, juvie. Most everyone was sleeping in the boarded-up storefront that was their current shelter, but she was outside. Couldn’t sleep. She told herself that it was good to have someone on watch, to raise the alarm if cops (or gangsters or henchmen but what was the difference, really) descended on them. Too easy for them to become cannon fodder for the next gang war if the wrong people found them.
Maybe her coat was too warm. Maybe she dozed off, even on her feet, leaning against the wall. But one second she was alone, and the next someone had their hand on her mouth, something hard pressed into her back. “Let’s walk, nice and slow,” they said, and it was a man. “Don’t make a sound, now.”
He pushed her ahead, hard thing still pressed into her back, and she had to hope it wasn’t a gun because if it was she was dead walking, and the second his grip loosened she ran. Behind her, the man swore, and the sound of him behind her gave her an extra burst of wild speed. She darted down the next alley, and there was a fence but she could climb it, and—
He grabbed her and swung her into the brick wall, cursing. There was a flash of distant streetlight glinting off metal. She shrieked, all her senses shutting down, overloaded with fear. And then he was gone.
She took a few shuddering breaths and her hearing slowly came back. There was shouting, shocking in the stillness of the cold night. Too much shouting. She closed her eyes and slid down the wall, hugging her knees to her chest.
A meaningless time later, someone touched her shoulder, and she launched herself to her feet, disoriented, panicked. “Whoa whoa whoa!” someone said. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. He’s gone. He’s gone.”
He had his hands up, and slowly, slowly, she was able to recognize that this person was not grabbing her. And she knew him.
She didn’t know his name, but everyone knew he was good for ten dollars or a tampon (but never a cigarette even when they saw him smoking), and no one had hinted he’d asked for anything in return or even accepted it when offered. She’d never talked to him, but she’d seen him hanging around. Not one of them, too old, but not an adult in any way that mattered (not going to turn them over to the cops for being young and unwanted). He wore a brown leather jacket and black biker gloves. “I’m not going to touch you,” he was saying. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. Are you hurt?”
Did he hurt you? “I – no,” she finally forced out. “No, I’m – I’m not.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding. “Can I walk you back somewhere? To where you feel safe?”
Where could she feel safe? She nodded.
True to his word, he didn’t touch her, didn’t walk ahead or behind. She took small steps, shivering in her foster care coat, back to the abandoned storefront, like nothing had happened. It was just Gotham, after all. There was a motorcycle parked in front, a helmet hanging off the handlebars. He slowed when they were near the boarded-up door someone had jimmied open, like he knew exactly where she was going. He didn’t go in, though, just picked up his helmet. “You good?” he asked, looking her in the face before he put his helmet on.
“Uh, yeah,” she said, forcing back the tears. “I’m fine.”
He hesitated, then hung his helmet back on his motorcycle handles. “It – yeah, it sucks. That guy won’t come back, though. I promise.”
“So what?” she said, face hot, tears hotter. “If it isn’t him, it’s someone else. There’s always someone.” And who will be there next time?
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.” He was quiet, looking away as she tried to get her dumb face under control (because she had to, she had to, because in this life if you didn’t have your dignity you had nothing). She took one more deep breath, frigid air numbing her throat, numbing her feelings, and he looked up. “Here,” he said, pushing a section of his bike, which popped open. “It’s a taser. See the button? Anyone gets in your face like that again, stick this on them and press it. Try to hit skin. It’s only good for one, but it recharges with a regular phone cord.”
“Oh, um,” she said, gingerly taking it. “Okay.”
“The safety is on the side. So next time, you can handle it.”
The taser fit neatly into her hand. It looked tiny against the backdrop of her adrenaline. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know,” he said. “But… if you ever think you can’t, call me.” He pulled a crumpled receipt and a pen out of an inner pocket in his jacket and scribbled a number on it.
She took it. “So do I put you in my phone as Stalker Man or what?”
He smiled, thankfully (if he could laugh, maybe she would again). “My name’s Jason.”
“Leila.”
“I’ll see you sometime, then, Leila,” he said, getting onto his motorcycle.
“Jason?” she asked. “Why were you down here?” Why did he know where the storefront was, where the open door was? Why had he come after her? How had he known?
He hesitated. “Someone needs to look out for all of you,” he finally said. “Stay warm, Leila.”
He put on his helmet and drove away, leaving her alone. And when the others roused themselves in the morning, she told them nothing about it.