Chapter Text
The next morning, they leave for Kansas.
Jason drags himself into the Waynes’ private jet, still half-asleep, and tumbles onto the daybed. He finds a blanket in the cabinet and bundles it around himself, determined to catch a few more hours of sleep. Maybe it’s because he’s so tired, or because the jet simply registers as an extension of the Manor to him—either way, it doesn’t quite hit him that he’s left the Manor until they arrive at Great Bend Municipal Airport. Alfred ushers him to the jet’s stairs, and he stares down them at the wide dark swath of the runway. His heart trips over itself in sudden anxiety.
“Jace?” Dick asks, looking up at him from the bottom of the stairs. “What’s up?”
Jason shrugs his carry-on a little higher on his shoulder and forces his legs to unlock, taking a few short steps down. “Nothing,” he says. “It’s just bright out here.”
Dick reaches up and flicks Jason’s shades from the top of his head over his eyes. “Ta-da.”
Jason rolls his eyes but doesn’t push the shades up again. He follows his brother to the private car, and does his best not to look at the bustling airport that surrounds them. There’s so much open space, and his mind frantically catalogues all the places he could hide if something went wrong—the jet door is still open, and the private car is small and enclosed, so those are two options. Soon they’ll be at the Kents’ farm, and Superman won’t let anything happen to them there. Even if he doesn’t give a shit about Jason, he’d never let anything happen to his parents or Bruce. That thought loosens the uneasy tightness in Jason’s chest, and he forces his shoulders to unwind as he leans against the inside of the car door. He presses his temple against the cool glass, and watches as the vast expanse of nothingness and corn that is Kansas rolls by.
They arrive at Smallville an hour later, and at the Kents’ farm approximately fifteen minutes after that. Jason helps Alfred carry the bags up to the porch, if only to give himself something to do—and a distraction from the open, sunny acres of land around him. Nothing bad is going to happen here. Even if he’s not actually around, Superman always has an ear out for Bruce’s heartbeat. The Joker is still in Arkham (Jason checked this morning, like he does every morning) and no big baddies are on the loose in Gotham. Jason brought bear spray and a taser and his birdarangs, just in case, and he’s pretty sure he saw Dick packing his electric escrima sticks last night. Bruce had, after a month’s worth of begging on Jason’s part, caved and injected a sub-dermal tracker into the side of Jason’s arm a couple of days ago. Now there’s no way anybody can hide him anywhere without his family knowing ever again. Of course, he can’t go anywhere without his family knowing, either, but he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. It’s going to be fine.
So why does he feel like he wants to throw up all over the Kents’ nice front porch?
Martha Kent answers the door a few seconds after Bruce knocks, smiling warmly at the four of them. “Why, hello there, boys. Please come right in. We’ve just started on lunch, but there are snacks if anyone is hungry. Jon can show you where to put your things.”
Martha’s husband, Jon, escorts Alfred and Jason upstairs with the bags and directs them to the guest bedrooms: one that might be an actual guest bedroom, and one that Jason is pretty sure must have been Superman’s old room. There are still posters of pop-punk bands on the walls and tiny Star Wars figurines on the window sill. A hand-knit blue sweater hangs in the closet. Jason sets his bags down in the corner of the room along with Dick’s. He’ll have to poke around more later. He’s met Superman a few times, but there’s a lot about the guy he still doesn’t know. Somebody that powerful—well, it doesn’t hurt to know their weak points. Bruce taught him that.
They go back downstairs, and Jason sits beside Bruce at the dining table while Martha flits around the kitchen. She sets two platters of scones down in front of them—a dozen chocolate, and a dozen in a dark red color that smell faintly of iron. “It’s a family recipe,” she explains, brushing her hands off on her apron. “Really, the ingredients are mostly the same, but there’s a bit of blood in the red ones—just enough to give them a nice flavor. Though Bruce, dear, I doubt you’ll like them.”
Jason reaches for a red scone and breaks a piece off, sniffing warily at it.
“Jason, are you supplementing?” Martha asks, as she pours warm blood into two mugs for Dick and Alfred. Jon slides a mug of plain black coffee to Bruce, who nods gratefully at him.
“Um,” says Jason.
“Do you drink bagged blood?” Martha amends, smiling kindly at him.
“Oh, yeah,” Jason says, nodding. Martha pours him a mug to match the others, setting it down in front of him with a soft clink. “Thank you.”
“Always so polite, you Wayne boys,” Martha says.
“Rest assured, you have Alfred to thank for that,” Bruce says, with a smile of his own. He seems more relaxed here than he has been in weeks—his shoulders a little looser, his jaw softer.
“I should say,” Alfred agrees primly.
Jason tears off a bite of the scone. It’s good: flaky and salty, with a pleasant tang from the cooked blood. But there’s something small and hard in it, and—oh. Jason spits his canine tooth into his hand. How about that? He wiggles his tongue into the gap left behind, tasting his own watery blood. Martha stares at him from across the table.
“Sorry,” he says, automatically. “It wasn’t the scone. It’s been loose for a while.”
“You don’t have your fangs yet,” she says, a little strangely.
Dick said it took almost two months for his fangs to grow in, so Jason actually thought he was ahead of the game. Judging by Martha and Jon’s expressions, maybe not.
“They’re coming in,” Dick says, a bit defensively.
“When were you turned, dear?” Martha asks.
Jason sets his tooth down on the plate, staring at the bloody roots. “April 27th,” he says.
“Why, that isn’t even a month ago,” Jon exclaims. “What are you doing here, boy?”
Jason flinches back. He knows he’s young, even by fledgling standards, but he can control himself. It’s not like he’s going to snap and tear somebody’s throat out just because he’s hungry. But maybe there are unspoken rules about this, too—maybe it’s a faux pas to bring a young vampire with such tenuous control into another coven’s territory. But how the hell was Jason supposed to know that? Dick and Alfred seemed to think it was fine.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dick asks, bristling.
“Dick,” Bruce warns, but there’s a disgruntled look in his own eyes, too.
“I do believe there’s been a misunderstanding,” Alfred says, holding a hand up to calm them. “I was under the impression you knew he was recently turned when I reached out to you.”
“We were,” Martha says, sending Jon a chiding look. “But we were under the impression he was at least old enough to leave the territory.”
Alfred’s brow furrows. “The territory?”
Martha looks between the four of them, then brings a hand up to press against her mouth. Her eyes soften with something like sadness. “Oh, no. It hadn’t occurred to me—please, Richard, sit back down. Let me explain. I meant no offense.”
Dick grudgingly lowers himself back into his chair, though he’s shifted to brace one elbow in front of Jason. Jason glues his gaze to his scone, tearing off tiny pieces and letting them drop onto the plate. Nausea returns to him, making his stomach feel tight and uncomfortable. He can’t help but feel scrutinized, like a particularly ugly bug under a magnifying glass.
“I knew that none of your turnings were ideal,” Martha says, “but I never stopped to imagine that none of you would know how a fledgling is properly raised. So please don’t take what I’m about to say as criticism—how could you have known? Neither of your sires did any good by you. Maybe it’s mean of me to say, but I’m glad they’re out of the picture.”
“Quite,” Alfred agrees. “But please, what do you mean?”
“Most fledglings are kept in the coven’s territory until their fangs come in,” Martha explains, look sympathetically at Jason. “It’s a means to keep them safe, and to keep others safe from them as they learn to navigate the bloodthirst. I’m surprised Richard even let you bring him out of the nest. Sires are notoriously protective for the first few months, and fledglings rarely want to venture out either.”
Ah. Jason had assumed that his desire to stay in the Manor was due to his recent kidnapping and torture—and hey, maybe part of it is!—but apparently it’s also because of his new wonky vampire instincts. “Oh,” Jason says. “That’s why you were so grumpy.”
“I wasn’t grumpy,” Dick snaps.
“It would probably be best if you took them back home,” Martha says, looking apologetically at Bruce. Bruce’s own expression remains completely and pleasantly neutral, which is how Jason knows he’s probably withering away inside. “It isn’t that we don’t like having you here, but they’re unlikely to settle well outside of their territory while Jason is still so newly turned.”
“Of course,” Bruce agrees. “But before we go, is there anything else you can tell us? I’m afraid none of us have much experience raising fledglings.”
“Well, if he’s only a month along, it’s a bit early to be supplementing,” Jon points out, nodding to the blood-scone Jason is picking apart. He sets it down guiltily, dusting crumbs off of his fingers.
“Supplementing,” Bruce repeats evenly, “seems to imply that bagged blood shouldn’t make up most of his diet.”
“Right,” Jon says. “Most little ‘uns drink from their sires or live humans until about three months after their turning. That stuff they put in bagged blood—uh, what’s called, Martha?—well, anyway, those chemicals they put in to keep it alive and anticoagulated sometimes don’t agree with a young vampire. It loses a bit of nutrition in processing, too. It’d be sort of like feeding a newborn pup cow’s milk instead of a proper formula. They can live on it in a pinch, but it’s not what’s best for ‘em.”
Dick takes a slow, deep breath.
“But, um,” Jason says, looking down at his hands and picking a hangnail. “How are you supposed to drink blood from people without biting them?”
“Well, usually your sire bites for you until your fangs come in,” Martha says, “but you can use a knife if that’s what the donor prefers.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to bite people, like, at all.” Jason casts a worried glance at Alfred.
“I was also under that impression,” Alfred says, a bit stiffly.
“Well, you can’t go around biting people willy-nilly,” Jon admits. “But there’s plenty of donors on the registry who’re signed up to donate immediate blood, rather than the bagged stuff. ‘course there’s testing to be done on everyone first, just to make sure they’re healthy, and rules about how long you can drink and how often. It’s not super common, being as most adult vampires get along just fine with the bagged stuff, and it’s easier to come by anyway. Fledglings are the exception, or vampires recovering from any kind of illness or injury.”
“How much have you been drinking, Jason?” Martha asks gently.
Jason tears the hangnail off and watches blood bead up.
“Eight bags a day,” Dick says flatly. “He hasn’t had live blood since he turned.”
Horror blanches Martha’s face, though she quickly smooths her expression into one of careful neutrality. “Well, now we know,” she says. “We can start him on a proper diet right away.”
“How am I—I mean—” Jason swallows thickly. “Taking eight pints from a single person would kill them.”
“Oh, you bet it would,” Jon agrees. “Eight pints is a lot, even for a fledgling. You’re probably drinkin’ that much ‘cause you’re hungry all the time, right?”
Jason shrugs. “I guess.”
“He was losing weight,” Alfred says. “It was our family physician’s recommendation that he increase his intake.”
“Luckily, live blood’s richer in nutrition and easier to break down, so you need a lot less of it. It’ll make you feel less hungry, too, since you’re actually gettin’ what you need. Most fledglings can get by on a pint a day for the first few months, and reduce down to a pint every few days after that—about like an adult vampire. Double that if they start drinking bagged blood.”
“It’s alright to supplement with a bit of bagged,” Martha adds, “once your fangs are in and you’ve started gaining weight again. But for the first few months, you really ought to be drinking live.”
“We’ll make it happen,” Bruce promises.
Martha and Jon talk a while longer, but Jason has already started zoning out. It’s hard to focus on anything for more than a few minutes, these days—maybe it’s the trauma, maybe it’s the malnutrition, maybe it’s a fun combo of both. Jason doesn’t guess it matters. He slouches down in his seat and sticks his tooth into his pocket. What’s he even supposed to do with it? He doesn’t remember what his mom did with all his baby teeth. Alfred had taken a few of them under the guise of the ‘Tooth Fairy’ and Jason wonders, now, where they all went. Is there a box of baby teeth in the Manor? That’s freakin’ creepy.
“—okay, Jason?” Martha asks.
“Okay,” Jason says, because he’s tired and he doesn’t want to be part of this conversation anymore.
Alfred ushers them through their goodbyes, and shoos Jason away when he tries to go and get his bag. Bruce helps him carry their things back to the car, instead. Dick slides into the back seat with Jason and won’t look at him. Guilt lodges like a stone in Jason’s throat, and he curls up against the door until the seatbelt presses uncomfortably against his shoulder. Dick is too nice to say it, maybe, but Jason knows this whole situation is his fault. If he hadn’t run away from Bruce, the Joker wouldn’t have caught him and he wouldn’t have almost died and Dick wouldn’t have had to turn him. He wants to apologize, but he gets the feeling it wouldn’t go over very well right now.
By the time they make it back to the jet, Jason is starving again. He doesn’t say anything, or reach for a blood bag in the fridge. He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself or to the things he needs. Maybe they can figure out some other way for him to get blood—Bruce is smart like that. Maybe he can just add some vitamins or whatever to the bags, and they won’t have to go through the whole hassle of finding a live donor for Jason every day. They must have done something else for Dick when he was a fledgling, right?
Only—
Only Jason knows they didn’t. Alfred hadn’t had a sire to teach him how to raise a fledgling properly. They wouldn’t have known that Dick needed live blood instead of bagged. That was why Dick lost weight the same way Jason has been, when he was a fledgling. He had been just as hungry, and nauseous, and miserable, only there hadn’t been anyone else to help him. Bruce hadn’t reached out for advice. Martha hadn’t stepped in. Even as an adult, Dick is lean and stands barely more than five foot seven. Jason wonders how much of that is genetics and how much is leftover from a childhood of starvation and unmet need.
“Dick,” he says.
“Yeah, c’mere,” Dick says. He sits on the couch next to Bruce, reaching for their father’s wrist.
“What are you doing?” Jason asks, except he already knows; it doesn’t take a detective.
“You need to drink. Bruce is offering.” Dick’s fangs slice through the thin, milk-white skin of Bruce’s wrist. Blood beads up and spills down the lines of Bruce’s palm. “C’mere.”
“I don’t—” Jason takes a step forward, lured by the scent of salt and warmth.
“Come here, Jaylad,” Bruce says. “Take what you need.”
Jason is helpless to do otherwise. He’s so fucking hungry. He stumbles onto the couch cushion on Bruce’s other side and grabs his wrist, blood smearing his fingers. He latches on and drinks in deep gulps—the blood is fresh and hot and it doesn’t make his stomach turn unpleasantly the way bagged blood so often does. Dick grabs a napkin and wipes the excess from Bruce’s forearm and elbow. Jason snarls when his hand gets too close, though the sound is garbled through a mouthful of blood.
“Easy, tiger,” Dick says. He sounds more sad than amused. “I’m not stealing him.”
Bruce’s fingers card through his hair, pushing soothing lines against his scalp. Jason tolerates this, if only because shaking off the touch would mean unlatching from his current favorite food source. They let him drink for several long minutes—until the angry cramping of his stomach has eased and his head swims pleasantly. Then Dick hooks a finger between his teeth to break his bite, pressing towards the back of his throat and threatening to gag him if he doesn’t move away. He reluctantly unfastens his teeth and yanks his head back, wiping blood off on the back of his arm. His eyes skitter up to meet Bruce’s, and Bruce smiles sadly at him. Alfred presses a clean square of gauze to the bite mark on his wrist.
“Better?” Bruce asks.
Jason nods. His head feels full and cotton-y. He licks blood from his lips.
“You can feed from me tomorrow, and Alfred the next day,” Dick says, staring out the jet’s window. “In the meantime, we’ll get connected to the live donor registry. We won’t let you go hungry again.”
“Okay,” Jason agrees, too warm and full to bother worrying about that right now.
Dick, it seems, is doing enough worrying for all of them. The crinkle between his brow doesn’t ease even when the jet lands and they make their way back upstairs. He disappears into his room and doesn’t come out for the rest of the day. At Alfred’s urging, Jason takes a nap, and when he wakes again his head feels a little less fuzzy—but to his amazement, he’s not hungry. How novel. He makes his way down the hall to Dick’s room and hears the rabbit-fast beat of his brother’s heart. Is he having a nightmare again?
This time, Jason knocks.
“What?” Dick calls.
“It’s me,” Jason says, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Can I come in?”
Dick grunts, which Jason takes as a yes. He pushes the door open and finds Dick curled up in his bed, buried under a pile of blankets. It reminds Jason of how he bundles up when he’s feeling terrible, which has been most of the time this past month. Dick’s heart is still jack-rabbiting, but he’s not dreaming. Jason takes a seat in the desk chair, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them. For a long time, he doesn’t say anything.
“What?” Dick mutters, when the silence stretches too long for his tastes.
“How come you never told them?” Jason asks.
“Told who what? I’m not a mind-reader, Jason.”
“How come you never told Alfred and Bruce you were so hungry, when you were a fledgling?”
“How come you never told?” Dick fires back, which is fair.
“I thought it was normal, I guess,” Jason says. “That it was just part of turning into a vampire and I should suck it up and get over it.”
Dick rolls over so he doesn’t have to look at Jason anymore. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I should have known. I should have said something. I—” Dick’s shoulders hunch. “I thought it was normal, too.”
Jason moves to sit on the side of the bed. “Sit up.”
Dick groans.
“Sit up, jackass.”
Dick reluctantly drags himself upright. Jason leans over and bunts their head together like an enthusiastic cat might, his instincts purring sire-sire-sire. When Dick doesn’t return the gesture, Jason reaches up and tugs his hair until he does. A shudder wracks him, and he rubs his cheek against Jason’s hair.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, his voice wet. “I don’t know how to take care of you.”
Jason hugs him. “It’s not your fault. Your stupid sire didn’t teach you.”
Dick hugs him back, squeezing so tightly it aches in Jason’s patchwork ribs. “He killed my parents. I think he turned me just because he thought it was funny.”
“Fuck him,” Jason says vehemently, and thinks I’ll kill him for you if I get the chance. “Who cares about him? We’ll figure it out ourselves, me ’n you ’n Alfred ’n Bruce.”
“I hope you’re right,” Dick whispers against his hair.
“I’m always right,” Jason boasts, with a confidence he doesn’t truly feel. But hey, fake it ‘till you make it, right? “So, is there any other weird stuff that happened to you as a fledgling we should talk about because it might happen to me?”
Dick shakes his head.
“Cool,” Jason says.
“Is there anything else that’s been going on with you you want to talk about?” Dick asks. “I may not have all the answers, but we can always call the Kents or ask Alfred.”
Jason thinks of the phantom pain of a crowbar, and the cackling laughter of his nightmares, and the curve of his dead mother’s eyes when she betrayed him.
“No,” he says, and smiles. “I’m okay.”