Work Text:
The first time Jason realizes Jett speaks Spanish, it is because the kid is yelling at him. Not in English, either, which is probably what catches Jason's attention first. He has been half-listening to the television from the kitchen while Jett and Eugene argue over something happening in whatever game they have commandeered the safehouse television for, and then suddenly there is a rapid stream of Spanish coming from the living room, sharp and animated and entirely incomprehensible to Jason.
“No, porque tú literalmente hiciste trampa,” Jett snaps, leaning halfway over the back of the couch. Eugene fires something back in English. Jett switches languages without even thinking.
“¡No me importa! You cheated!”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“Did not.”
“Did.”
“Did not.”
“You literally—”
Jason walks into the room holding a mug and finds the two of them glaring at each other like a pair of cats preparing to fight over territory.
“What the hell are you two doing?” he asks.
Jett looks over his shoulder.
“Winning.”
“You're not winning anything.”
“I'm winning the argument.”
“You're arguing with a thirteen-year-old.”
“And I'm winning.”
Jason pinches the bridge of his nose.
“In what language?”
Jett blinks. Then he grins.
“Spanish.”
“I gathered that.”
“Didn't know you spoke it.”
“I don't.”
“Skill issue.”
Jason files it away.
He doesn't ask about it. That's important. With Jett, there are things you learn and things you are allowed to know, and the difference between the two is usually whether Jett has volunteered them. Jason has figured out by now that if he asks directly about family, the boy gets defensive. If he asks where he was born, Jett makes a joke. If he asks where he learned something, Jett gives him a deliberately useless answer.
So Jason doesn't ask.
He simply listens.
The second time Spanish becomes useful, it saves them from a very awkward situation in a grocery store.
It is supposed to be a quick trip. Jason needs supplies, the kids have somehow eaten nearly everything in the safehouse, and Jett has announced that he is coming along because, in his words, “You shop like a divorced dad.” Jason doesn't know what that means, and he doesn't particularly want to. He lets Jett trail behind him anyway.
They are halfway through the produce section when an older woman stops Jason.
She is speaking quickly, gesturing toward a display of fruit, and Jason gives her the universal expression of someone who has absolutely no idea what is happening.
“Sorry?”
She repeats herself.
Jason tries again. “I don't—”
Jett appears at his elbow.
“¿Necesita ayuda?” he asks
The woman turns toward him, visibly relieved. She answers immediately, speaking quickly enough that Jason can't pick out a single word. Jett listens, nodding along, then points toward the display and starts explaining something to her. The exchange lasts less than a minute. The woman smiles, pats Jett lightly on the shoulder, and walks away.
Jason stares. Jett looks at him.
“What?”
“You understood all of that?”
“Yeah.”
“What did she want?”
“She was looking for the mangoes.”
Jason looks toward the mangoes.
“They're right there.”
“Apparently she couldn't find them.”
“They are directly in front of her.”
“Yeah, well, maybe she was having a bad day.”
Jason squints at him. “You just translated an entire conversation for a stranger.”
“Congratulations, detective.”
“You speak Spanish.”
“I speak lots of things.”
“You speak English and Spanish.”
“I also speak sarcasm.”
“That one I've noticed.”
Jett grins and wanders away.
Jason watches him go.
There is something strangely grounding about it. Jett doesn't speak Spanish like it is a performance. There is no announcement attached to it, no explanation. It simply exists in him, another piece of himself that comes out when he needs it.
Later, while they are checking out, the cashier speaks to Jett in Spanish too.
Jett answers.
Jason watches the boy's face change almost imperceptibly. His shoulders loosen. His smile becomes less practiced. For a few seconds, he looks younger.
Then the cashier says something that makes him laugh.
Jason doesn't understand the words, but he understands the laugh.
It sounds real.
That matters more than the translation.
The third time happens at school.
Jason doesn't know Jett is having trouble until he gets a call.
“Is this Mr. Todd?”
Jason immediately dislikes the sound of that sentence.
“Yes.”
“This is Mrs Ramirez from Jett's school.”
Jason looks at the clock.
“Is he okay?”
“He's fine. Nothing serious. I just wanted to discuss an incident in class.”
Jason closes his eyes.
Of course.
When he gets there, Jett is sitting outside the office with his arms crossed, looking deeply offended by the existence of authority.
“You're late,” he says.
“I came as soon as I could.”
“Still late.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
Jason sits beside him.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That's usually what people say right before I hear about what happened.”
Jett sighs.
The issue, as it turns out, is another student. A boy has been making comments about Jett's accent—or rather, the occasional Spanish words he uses around his friends—and has apparently decided that this makes him entitled to make comments about Jett being “illegal.”
Jason's jaw tightens.
Jett notices.
“Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was thinking.”
“You have a very loud thinking face.”
Jason turns toward him.
“Did you tell a teacher?”
Jett shrugs.
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because then it becomes a thing.”
“It already is a thing.”
Jett looks away.
That is the problem with kids who have learned to survive without adults. They mistake being unnoticed for being safe.
Before Jason can say anything else, the office door opens.
“Jett?”
They both look up.
Mrs Ramirez smiles at them.
“I'd like to speak with you both.”
Jason stands.
Jett doesn't.
“I'm not going in there.”
“Jett.”
“Nope.”
“Kid.”
“No.”
Mrs Ramirez crouches slightly, keeping her voice gentle.
“I'm not here to punish you.”
Jett looks suspicious.
Jason nudges his shoe with his own.
“Come on.”
Jett eventually gets up.
The meeting goes better than expected.
Mrs Ramirez speaks Spanish when Jett gets frustrated and slips into it. Not because he needs translating, but because sometimes a familiar language makes difficult things easier to say. Jason notices how quickly Jett answers her in return. He notices that when the conversation turns to the other student, Jett becomes defensive again, but when Mrs Ramirez speaks Spanish, he lets himself explain. Jason follows along somewhat, his Spanish rusty from when Bruce taught him.
He tells her what happened.
He tells her what was said.
He even admits that he has been skipping class sometimes because he doesn't want to deal with the boy.
Jason is quiet through most of it.
At the end, Mrs Ramirez tells Jett that none of this is his fault.
Jett looks down.
“Okay.”
Jason waits until they're outside.
“You should've told me.”
“I knew you'd make it a thing.”
“I am making it a thing.”
“Exactly.”
“Because someone was harassing you.”
Jett shoves his hands into his pockets.
“People say shit.”
“They shouldn't.”
“Doesn't mean they won't.”
Jason doesn't have a good answer for that.
So he says the only thing he can.
“You don't have to deal with it alone.”
Jett doesn't answer.
But he doesn't tell Jason to go away either.
For Jett, that is practically a confession.
The fourth time happens when they need a place to hide.
It is raining again.
Seattle seems to specialize in rain. The city is grey from horizon to horizon, water spilling from rooftops and gutters, streets shining beneath the streetlights. The Titans are chasing a group of smugglers who have been moving stolen technology through the docks, and everything goes wrong within the first twenty minutes.
They lose the target.
They lose their vehicle.
Lian loses her shoe.
Nobody is quite sure how.
They end up sheltering beneath the awning of a closed business while Jason tries to work out their next move.
“We need somewhere dry,” Jason says.
“We're dry,” Eugene points out.
“You're soaked.”
“I'm damp.”
“You're dripping.”
“Semantics.”
Jason looks at Jett.
“Any ideas?”
Jett glances across the street.
There is a small restaurant still open.
He squints at the sign.
“Maybe.”
They follow him inside.
The owner is an older man, suspicious at first, especially when five teenagers and one very wet adult walk into his nearly empty restaurant looking like they've been dragged through a river.
Jett speaks to him in Spanish.
Jason watches the man's expression change.
He replies.
Jett answers.
The man points toward a door at the back.
Jett nods.
A few minutes later, they are sitting in a storage room behind the kitchen with towels, hot drinks and enough bread to feed them all.
Jason stares at Jett.
“You know this guy?”
“No.”
“You've never met him?”
“Nope.”
“You just walked in and talked to him.”
“Yeah.”
“And he let us hide in his restaurant.”
“Yeah.”
Jason looks toward the door.
The owner calls something from the kitchen.
Jett answers.
Jason shakes his head.
“What did you tell him?”
“That we're lost.”
“We aren't lost.”
“He doesn't know that.”
“You lied to him?”
“I simplified.”
Jason sighs.
Jett grins.
“Relax, unc. We got a roof.”
Jason can't argue with that.
Later, when the rain has eased enough for them to leave, the owner refuses their money.
Jett argues with him.
The man argues back.
Jett laughs.
Finally, he accepts a paper bag instead.
“What is that?”
“Food.”
“We have food.”
“This is better food.”
Jason peers inside.
Empanadas.
He looks at Jett.
“You know, you could have told me you knew people around here.”
“I don't know him.”
“You know his language.”
“That's different.”
Jason looks at him for a long moment.
Maybe it is.
The fifth time is the most ordinary.
It happens on a Tuesday.
There is no mission.
No criminals.
No school trouble.
No rainstorm.
Just Jason standing in the kitchen at nearly eleven at night, attempting to make dinner while Jett sits on the counter despite being told approximately six times not to.
“You're going to fall.”
“No, I'm not.”
“You are literally sitting on the counter.”
“Yeah.”
“People sit on chairs.”
“Chairs are boring.”
“You're impossible.”
“So I've been told.”
Jason puts a pan on the stove.
Jett watches him.
“What are you making?”
“Dinner.”
“Helpful.”
“Food.”
“Also helpful.”
Jason opens the fridge.
“We have chicken.”
“Boring.”
“Rice.”
“Boring.”
“Vegetables.”
“Disgusting.”
“Then starve.”
Jett considers this.
“Can I make something?”
Jason pauses.
“You know how to cook?”
“No.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Because I have confidence.”
“That is not the same thing.”
Jett hops off the counter.
“I can make rice.”
“You just said rice was boring.”
“I changed my mind.”
Jason hands him the rice.
Jett takes over with surprising competence.
Not professional competence. Not anything remotely close to that.
But he knows what he's doing.
He adds seasoning without measuring it. He moves around the kitchen like he has done it a thousand times. When Jason asks what he's making, Jett says it is “just rice,” as if that explains anything.
Then he starts humming.
Jason recognizes the tune only after a moment.
He doesn't say anything.
Jett keeps humming.
For once, there isn't a mission happening. Nobody needs to be saved. Nobody is asking where Jett sleeps. Nobody is asking about his parents. Nobody is asking why he never goes home.
He is just a kid in a kitchen.
Jason realizes suddenly that he likes this.
He likes having Jett here.
He likes the noise.
He likes the way Jett steals pieces of chicken from the pan and pretends Jason doesn't notice.
He likes the Spanish muttered under the kid's breath when the rice sticks to the bottom of the pot.
“Carajo.”
Jason snorts.
Jett looks up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You laughed.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Keep cooking.”
“Sí, señor.”
“Don't start.”
Jett grins.
And Jason thinks, fleetingly, that perhaps this is what it means to belong somewhere.
Not dramatically.
Not with speeches.
Not with paperwork.
Sometimes it is just someone knowing how you take your coffee.
Sometimes it is a blanket thrown over you while you're asleep.
Sometimes it is someone complaining because you stole food from the pan.
Sometimes it is a language you don't understand but recognize as home.
And then there is the sixth time.
The time Spanish doesn't help.
It happens months later.
There is a knock at the safehouse door.
Jason knows immediately that something is wrong.
It isn't the sound itself. It's the time. The weather. The fact that Jett has gone completely still beside him.
They are supposed to be leaving for a mission in twenty minutes.
Instead, Jett is staring at the door.
“Stay behind me,” Jason says.
Jett doesn't move.
“Jett.”
Nothing.
The knock comes again.
Jason approaches carefully.
“Who is it?”
A voice answers.
Government.
Jason's stomach drops.
Jett whispers something.
Jason turns.
“What?”
Jett's face has gone white.
“Don't open it.”
The others have noticed now.
Lian gets up.
Eugene looks confused.
Jason puts one hand out, stopping them.
“Everyone stay back.”
The person outside identifies themselves.
There are documents.
There are names.
There are questions.
And suddenly Jason understands.
Not everything.
But enough.
Jett has been afraid of this.
For years.
Maybe his whole life.
Jason turns toward him.
“Is your name—”
Jett shakes his head violently.
“No.”
“Kid.”
“No.”
The knock comes again.
Jett backs away.
“Jason.”
His voice is different.
Not sarcastic.
Not irritated.
Not cocky.
Terrified.
“I can't go.”
Jason's heart twists.
“I'm not giving you to anyone.”
“You don't understand.”
“Then explain.”
“I can't.”
“Jett.”
“I don't have papers.”
The room goes silent.
Nobody moves.
Nobody breathes.
Jason understands what that means.
The open secret finally has a name.
Jett has no parent to call.
No guardian.
No paperwork that will magically make everything simple.
His mother is dead.
His father is gone.
And the country he has lived in for years has no record that says he is supposed to be here.
Jett's eyes are shining now.
“I'm not going back.”
Jason steps toward him.
“You're not going anywhere.”
“You don't know that.”
“I'll figure it out.”
“You can't.”
“I can try.”
“They'll take me.”
“Not if I can stop them.”
Jett laughs once, brokenly.
“You don't get it.”
“I get enough.”
“No, you don't.”
Jett wipes at his face angrily.
“They don't care that I speak Spanish.”
Jason says nothing.
“They don't care that I grew up here.”
Nothing.
“They don't care that my mom lived here.”
Jason's chest tightens.
“They don't care that I don't have anywhere else.”
The knock comes again.
This time, Jett flinches.
“I don't have a home to go back to,” he whispers.
Jason finally understands the question Jett had been asking all those months ago.
Are you leaving?
Will you leave too?
Can I stay?
Jason had thought it was about the safehouse.
It wasn't.
It had never been about the safehouse.
Jett had been trying to find out if there would be somewhere to go when everyone else went home.
Jason moves in front of him.
“You're staying with me.”
Jett shakes his head.
“You can't promise that.”
“I can promise I'm not walking away.”
The others gather around them.
Lian takes Jett's hand.
Eugene stands beside him.
Nobody says anything.
For once, there is no joke to make.
No clever answer.
No language that can turn this into something easier.
Jason wishes there were.
He wishes Spanish could fix it.
He wishes knowing the right people could fix it.
He wishes Jett's mother were still alive.
He wishes his father had stayed.
He wishes the kid had been given something as simple as a home and a door he could open without fear.
But none of those things can happen.
So Jason does the only thing he can.
He stays.
The officials eventually leave.
Not because Jason has solved anything.
Not because Jett's circumstances have magically changed.
They leave because the situation has become complicated, and complications can buy time.
Only time.
Jett remains silent until the door closes.
Then his knees buckle.
Jason catches him.
The kid grips the front of Jason's jacket with both hands.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers.
Jason's throat closes.
“For what?”
“For lying.”
“You were scared.”
“I should've told you.”
“You don't owe me your trauma.”
Jett laughs wetly.
“That doesn't even make sense.”
“Didn't say it did.”
Jett presses his face against Jason's shoulder.
For once, Jason doesn't tease him.
He doesn't tell him to stop crying.
He doesn't tell him he's fine.
Because he isn't.
Instead, Jason wraps both arms around him.
The boy is shaking.
“I've got you,” Jason says.
Jett's fingers tighten in his jacket.
“You promise?”
Jason closes his eyes.
There are promises he knows better than to make.
He cannot promise what the law will do.
He cannot promise the future.
He cannot promise that everything will work out.
But he can promise one thing.
“Yeah.”
Jett breathes in shakily.
“Okay.”
And Jason holds him tighter.
Because five times, Spanish had helped.
It had helped Jett find people.
It had helped him communicate.
It had helped him connect to pieces of a culture that he had carried quietly with him.
It had helped him make strangers into allies and unfamiliar places feel a little less foreign.
It had helped him cook dinner in a tiny kitchen while pretending he didn't care about anything.
But this time, it wasn't enough.
His heritage could not make paperwork appear.
His mother's memory could not become legal documentation.
His father's absence could not be undone.
And speaking the language of a country did not mean the country considered him one of its own.
Jason hates that.
He hates it with the kind of anger that has nowhere useful to go.
So he does what his younger self had needed someone to do.
He stays.
When the other Titans eventually fall asleep, Jason finds Jett still awake on the couch.
The kid is curled beneath the same blanket from months ago.
“You should sleep,” Jason says.
Jett looks at him.
“Are you leaving?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
Jason sits down.
“Yeah.”
Jett watches him for a long moment.
Then he shifts sideways, making room.
Jason sits beside him.
The television is still playing quietly.
Outside, Seattle is dark.
For a while, neither of them says anything.
Then Jett mutters, almost too quietly to hear, “Gracias.”
Jason looks over.
“You're welcome.”
Jett smiles.
It's tiny.
Barely there.
But real.
And Jason realizes something.
Maybe Spanish didn't fix anything tonight.
Maybe it couldn't.
But Jett had said thank you in the language that belonged to him.
And Jason could answer in the only language that mattered.
Stay.
So he does.