Juruot

by Sam_Randy (chips_and_dipp_y)

Summary:

Jason used his big smart brain and calculated how much he could get from those wheels.

It was a very, very nice number.

Jason had only successfully removed the front left tire before someone behind him cleared their throat. Loudly.

Jason froze.

He’s been around enough people (people who were sick with a cold and people who worked within Gotham's underbelly) to identify the connotation of a throat being cleared. Someone with a bad case of post nasal drip didn’t announce to the world that they had mucus in the back of their throat. Someone who just caught their tires being stolen off of a very nice, clean car would want their presence known.

Jason was thankful for this method of being caught red handed as opposed to being beaten and left for dead.

However, his heart began to race as Jason turned around in what felt like slow motion.

His eyes widened almost comically.

Bruce Wayne was staring directly at him.

Notes:

I watched Goodfellas for the first time on a plane and decided it was my turn to write the obligatory Jason-centric batfam mafia fic. Hope you enjoy!

Jason really should have known better than to think he got a lucky break. Jason Todd didn’t have luck. He had two raggedy sweatshirts, fifteen bucks stashed under the creaky floorboard by his mattress, and ten thousand dollars that he had to get to Sionis by the end of next month or else he would be a dead man. 

 

Well dead thirteen year old but same difference. 

 

But Jason was a “smart kid” (Flass’s words not his) and he knew he would figure something out. 

 

And granted, if he were smarter he wouldn’t have gone after a fucking Lamborghini parked in Park Row. If Jason were smarter he would have taken a split second and instead of grabbing a tire iron he would have thought about why a car so nice was parked in Park row. 

 

He would have used his brain.

 

And he did. 

 

Jason used his big smart brain and calculated how much he could get from those wheels. 

 

It was a very, very nice number. 

 

Jason had only successfully removed the front left tire before someone behind him cleared their throat. Loudly. 

 

Jason froze. 

 

He’s been around enough people (people who were sick with a cold and people who worked within Gotham's underbelly) to identify the connotation of a throat being cleared. Someone with a bad case of post nasal drip didn’t announce to the world that they had mucus in the back of their throat. Someone who just caught their tires being stolen off of a very nice, clean car would want their presence known. 

 

Jason was thankful for this method of being caught red handed as opposed to being beaten and left for dead. 

 

However, his heart began to race as Jason turned around in what felt like slow motion. 

 

His eyes widened almost comically. 

 

Bruce Wayne was staring directly at him. 

 

So maybe he would be a dead thirteen year old, just a bit prematurely.

 

The photos in the Gotham Gazette never did Bruce Wayne justice. In print, he was the billionaire philanthropist, the man who kissed babies at ribbon-cuttings and donated millions to the Gotham Pediatric Wing. He looked soft, almost bored, a man whose biggest problem was deciding which gala to fund.

 

But Jason knew better than to claim that Bruce Wayne was just a man from the headlines. He was the man who owned the headlines. He was the man who whispered into the ears of commissioners and bought out the very people Jason was currently hiding from.

 

Under the flickering, sickly orange light of a streetlamp, Bruce Wayne transformed into something else entirely. He was a monolith dressed in a charcoal-grey suit that cost more than Jason’s entire apartment complex. His face was a mask of chiseled, impenetrable coldness, and his bright blue eyes seemed to be pulling Jason apart, layer by layer.

 

Jason wasn’t sure what the number of layers he beheld but he was hoping it would be awhile until Bruce Wayne finished peeling him back. 

 

“Do you care to explain what you’re doing there, son?”

 

Jason looked from Bruce Wayne to the tire iron clutched in his hand to the wheel dislodged from the car back to Bruce Wayne to the almost removed second wheel to Bruce Wayne and back at the tire iron before settling on Bruce Wayne again up until Jason remembered what Bruce Wayne did to those who crossed him and decided the ground was a very nice view.

 

Jason’s mind went to absolute mush. So of course, his mouth took over, "Maintenance, sir.”

 

Bruce Wayne looked baffled. Jason didn’t know mobsters could be surprised by anything. 

 

Jason imagined Bruce Wayne taking the tire iron from him and bashing his skull with it. 

 

“Maintainance?”

 

“Your tires looked like they needed some rotating.” 

 

Jason imagined braining himself out with the tire iron. 

 

If there was only one truly untouchable man in Gotham, it was Bruce Wayne. The man had built his empire himself, leveraging the money from his parents' passing to have one of a kind weapons that were really only rumors Jason had heard about. An average Gothamite didn’t bump into the guy. Fuck, you didn’t even meet the guy unless you were deep in boiling hot lava shit. And if you happened to be the poor soul that did face Bruce Wayne, you didn’t fucking live. 

 

Jason ran the records over in his head. Bruce Wayne had utterly obliterated the Joker’s operations within his first two years of having some decent footing. The man already had public pull, Wayne Enterprises practically owned the whole city. 

 

Jason was so fucking fucked it almost made him laugh. 

 

He waited for a punch--not even from Bruce Wayne, Jason assumed that he had men hiding in every nook and cranny waiting for a sign to beat up anyone who would look at his car. You didn’t get in Bruce Wayne's way and live. 

 

Instead, Jason heard the richest laugh a man was capable of letting loose. 

 

“You took it upon yourself to rotate my tires?”

 

Humored. 

 

Bruce Wayne was…humored. Jason had humored the scariest man in Gotham. 

 

The tire iron slipped from Jason’s grasp, startling the boy to almost run into the brick wall he had cornered himself into. 

 

Jason couldn’t get his arm to reach down. He thought for a moment and decided to abandon that mission, his hands were shaking so badly that he wouldn’t be able to do anything useful with the iron anyway. He nodded. 

 

Bruce Wayne finally took a step forward, directly towards Jason, who did everything in his power to not flinch back. 

 

“You look a bit young to be a mechanic.”

 

“I’m in training.”

 

God dammit Jason.

 

But Bruce Wayne just nodded thoughtfully, taking in Jason’s malnourished frame, the way his shoulders curled inward as if it would hide him from the prying gaze that Bruce Wayne beheld. 

 

“Does your training cover putting my wheels back on?”

 

Jason scrambled to the ground, his knees hit the mixture of broken glass, trash, and Gotham filth as his hands frantically grabbed the tire iron. He opted to ignore the feeling of grit digging into his skin in favor of having a tight grip on the cold steel. Jason felt like he was in a pit crew (which would be fucking awesome in any other circumstance) as his hands fumbled to put the wheel back on. 

 

He tried, he really, really tried to go as fast as possible but having Bruce Wayne figuratively breathing down his neck while Jason reminded himself that he did in fact know what he was doing made the situation just a tad more stressful. His coordination turned into a cruel joke. Every time he went to tighten a bolt, his hand would jerk, or he’d lose his grip, the iron clinking against the rim in a nerve-wracking ring.

 

Being under the microscope of a man who could end his life with a twitch of a finger did wonders for Jason’s cortisol levels.

 

Jason’s breath came in ragged, shallow hitches. He felt a tear of pure, unadulterated panic sting his eye, and he squeezed his lids shut for a fraction of a second, praying to a god he didn't believe in that his hands would just work. He was hyper-aware of everything: the unfamiliar scent of Bruce Wayne’s expensive cologne, the silent static of the alley, and the rhythmic thumping of his own heart, which felt like it was going to burst right through his ribcage.

 

He was a thirteen-year-old kid in a damp alleyway, trying to fix the car of the most powerful man in the city, and his life had never felt more fragile.

“Yeah, I know.”

 

Bruce Wayne’s voice sliced through Jason’s internal panic.

 

“I won’t get back ‘til later.” 

 

Jason realized Bruce Wayne was on the phone. 

 

“I’m not sure,” Bruce Wayne shifted his footing, “I’ll just be back later.”

 

Jason’s fingers slipped twice on the bolts.

 

Which was something that never happened.

 

His hands knew what to do, he was well familiarized with the dance and rhythm of car tires. Twist, set, tighten--quick, efficient, and certainly gone before anyone noticed. He’d done it in the dark, in the rain, with numb fingers and a growling stomach and a special brand of fear that sharpened his efforts instead of dulling them.

 

Jason tightened the last lug nut with a little more force than necessary, like if he just finished fast enough this could all rewind and he could go back to being a nobody with a tire iron and a bad idea and a mountain of debt he still owed. 

 

Jason swallowed as he stood, stepping away from the car all together to physically distance himself from the biggest mistake of his life. He was waiting from the other shoe to drop, for Bruce Wayne to demand a reparation Jason could only pay for with his life.

 

“All done.” Jason choked out, his heart was so far up his throat Jason couldn’t believe he was able to talk. 

 

Bruce Wayne nodded and walked over, unlocking the car with a very expensive beep (Jason didn’t know until that moment that beeps could sound rich), the headlights illuminated the alley with an uncomfortable amount of brightness. 

 

“What’s your name, son?”

 

Jason did not want Bruce Wayne to know his name. Giving a man like Bruce Wayne your name meant it went on a sinister to-do list (in which the “to-do” was killing that person) and Jason preferred to stay as anonymous as possible. His whole life he was told that if he kept his head down and did what he had to then he would live to see another day. Identifying himself to Bruce Wayne drastically derailed that very plan. 

 

But if Bruce Wayne wanted to know who he was, then being cooperative was the least painful way for Jason to tell him. 

 

“Jason.” He kept his gaze on the very expensive shoes Bruce Wayne was ruining the longer he stayed in Park Row.

 

“Where are your parents, Jason?”

 

Jason did not like hearing his name come out of Bruce Wayne’s mouth. It sounded like Bruce Wayne had some kind of mystical power that just put a claim on Jason's life and he really enjoyed having his life (mostly) to himself. 

 

Jason also did not like Bruce Wayne bringing up his parents. Bruce Wayne would have a hell of a hard time going after a ghost and a shitbag, but Jason didn’t want to risk Bruce Wayne figuring out the science of resurrection for the sake of getting back at him. 

 

“My mom’s working a shift.”

 

Bruce Wayne nodded.

 

“Are you hungry, Jason?”

 

“No.” Jason wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Jason didn’t know a lot of the innuendos that the mobster community had, but he figured “dinner” was short for getting lead through his skull.

 

Something tugged upwardly at Bruce Wayne’s lip. It was something Jason didn’t think any mobster in Gotham could feel: amusement. Why in the world would Bruce Wayne be amused by Jason? 

 

“C’mon, you’re what, eleven? Stealing my tires-or at least attempting to, let me get you some dinner.”

 

Jason couldn’t move. He knew where this was going. He had made his bed and now he would lie in it with Bruce fucking Wayne of all people and shit, Jason had done his best to avoid the crowd of people that liked the young boys. Of course it was just his fucking stupid shitty terrible luck to end up trapped with Bruce Wayne. Dinner with Jason wasn’t his charity work he did for the public, it was a prelude before Jason would have to suck him off or god forbid get his guts rearranged by the most powerful man in Gotham. 

 

Jason shook his head because his vocal chords felt like they were glued together and the very notion of saying no to Bruce Wayne again was absurd and would end with Jason at the bottom of the harbor. 

 

His chest heaved for air that his lungs actively fought against. Jason saw two very different paths in front of him. He could either crumple against the dusty brick wall and curl in on himself like a pathetic baby and beg for Bruce Wayne’s non-existent mercy, or he could play along and hopefully convince Bruce Wayne that he wasn’t worth the trouble and too inexperienced to waste the night on (Jason ignored the voice in the back of his mind that said that people like Bruce Wayne enjoyed teaching boys like Jason).

 

The only problem was Jason would have to find a way to compose his mind so that he could form rational sentences again. 

 

Easy peasy. 

 

He just needed to get himself away from any of Bruce Wayne’s line of attention and he’d be able to sprint home and pray that he doesn’t get fucked over by screwing with Bruce Wayne. It wasn’t as soothing as he’d hoped but it was realistic and feasible, and if Jason's so smart then he shouldn’t have an issue getting away from Bruce Wayne.

 

He forced his shoulders to loosen and his hands to unclench and forced his big, intelligent brain to work.

 

“I’m thirteen, not eleven.”

 

A look of shock (which Jason thought he imagined because why would Bruce Wayne ever be surprised or caught off guard in any situation?) flashed in Bruce Wayne’s eyes as the mobster took in Jason’s size. 

 

Jason shifted awkwardly as Bruce Wayne stared at his frame. Jason did not like the way Bruce Wayne took him in. He wasn’t looking at Jason the way the guys in Park Row did. Bruce Wayne wasn’t looking for a weak point he could exploit right away. His gaze traveled slower, which made Jason feel like a lump of coal was growing in his stomach and not settling pleasantly. Bruce Wayne looked like he was filing things away for later.  

 

“All the more reason for you to get a proper meal.”

 

Jason realized that he really didn’t have much ground to stand on. He had managed to avoid incurring the wrath of Bruce Wayne entirely, somehow the mobster was in a charitable mood and Jason would much rather have charitable Bruce Wayne than a vengeful one. 

 

But there was a nagging voice in the back of Jason’s head warning him that he was in danger. Dinner could be getting taken to a place on the edge of Gotham and being put into a trafficking ring. Dinner could be drugs in his food and him being taken back to a hotel room. And while sure, Bruce Wayne had never been implicated in those sort of crimes, he was still the man who had Dick Grayson’s parents killed and then adopted the poor boy. Although, according to what Jason catches between drunk lackeys and even drunker Flass, Grayson is typically too coked out to get revenge on Bruce Wayne for it.

 

To put it simply, Jason was conflicted. And when Jason was stuck, his mouth was the first part of his body to try and get him out.

“I already ate dinner.”

 

“Get in the car, Jason.”

 

No.

 

Because no. Absolutely not. That was how you ended up in a trunk or a basement or worse--somewhere clean and quiet where nobody would ever find you.

 

And that rational, smart part of Jason had been silenced by the fear of telling Bruce Wayne no any more times in the night, let alone having refused the man that much in his lifetime. 

 

So Jason did the dumb thing and got in the passenger seat of Bruce Wayne's very clean Lamborghini. 

 

Jason never considered the possibility of how awkward it would be. 

 

Because yeah, getting kidnapped? Getting murdered? Getting sold off somewhere awful? Jason had mentally prepared for all of that.

 

What he hadn’t prepared for was silence. Thick, heavy, extremely expensive silence. The kind that swallowed up every small sound and made Jason painfully aware of the way his jeans scraped against the seat when he shifted, the way his breath hitched just a little too unevenly, the way his hands didn’t know where the hell to go.

 

So he shoved them under his thighs.

 

Problem solved.

 

Jason’s jeans were absolutely disgusting and he had never been so thankful for the color black in his life. The entire interior of Bruce Wayne’s car was black. 

 

Jason remembered that black was a good cover in case of blood stains. 

 

He felt the gratitude turn into uneasiness.

 

Bruce Wayne started the car and it came to life with a low hum. 

 

Jason began to regret his choice of not trying to make a run for it. It was one thing for him to get into the car of one of Sionis’s men (Jason usually went into the back seat and kept watch) and drive around Gotham until they ended up at one of the many drop spots Sionis had. But this was not the dirty, cigarette smelling, ratty cars that Jason had rode in. 

 

Fuck why in the world would Jason trust Bruce Wayne of all people? Why would he think this would be a good idea? Hi Mr. Wayne sir, I know I just tried to steal your tires and pawn them off, but I am poor and hungry, please have mercy. 

 

Jason was an idiot. 

 

There were kids just like him on every block, and Bruce Wayne was going to make an example out of him! Jason could picture his mangled body at a tire shop, probably hanging off a tire rack with Keep your paws off my car written in his blood. 

 

The very first thing Jason was told was to never be taken to a second location alone. Jason’s mind supplied the vision of him darting out of the car once they pulled out of the alley. He could handle a tuck and roll, sure Jason might get a couple scrapes but he’d taken worse. He could survive. Once he was out of the car, Jason would be able to shake off Bruce Wayne. He was positive he knew the streets better than a rich mobster who drove a stupid fucking lamborgini ever could. One good sprint through Crime Alley and he’d disappear.

 

Unless Bruce Wayne had people tailing them. Unless Bruce Wayne decided to follow Jason with his car that was absolutely faster than Jason. Unless the doors automatically locked because the car was so much more technologically advanced than anything Jason had ridden in before. 

 

Unless Bruce Wayne got offended enough by the attempt to make Jason regret surviving it.

 

“Seatbelt.”

 

Jason flinched so hard he scooted toward the passenger car door. 

“Sorry,” He mumbled before sliding the textured belt across his torso. There was a notably absent stickiness to the polyester. 

 

And then they drove off. 

 

Jason did his best not to dwell on how uneasy he felt watching the familiar buildings around Park Row turn into a blur. 

 

Something tight pulled in his chest.

 

It was stupid.

 

Jason hated Park Row. Hated the smell, hated the noise, hated the way every third person either wanted something from him or wanted him dead.

 

But it was home.

 

He didn’t know why he was feeling…homesick? He’d be back by the end of the night. 

 

Jason swallowed. 

 

He would be back.

 

“So,” Jason blurted, because apparently his mouth’s self-preservation instinct was broken beyond repair, “You do this often?”

 

Bruce Wayne glanced at Jason briefly, an extremely small upward tug of his lip caught the boy’s attention. 

“Can’t say I do.” 

 

Jason nodded and bounced his leg, “Yeah, no me neither.”

 

Say something, he told himself.

 

Something that won’t get you killed, he mentally corrected himself.

 

At least if Bruce Wayne was talking then Jason could keep track of him. Jason didn’t have any crazy talents when it came to reading peoples body language, but he had a pretty decent grasp on when he was fucked and when he could find a way to get out of a situation. Keeping Bruce Wayne talking gave Jason a hint on when his neutral, I-don’t-kill-poor-kids tone was being used, as opposed to the I-kill-those-who-steal-my-tires tone. 

 

Talking would be good. Any sort of distraction from the terrible possibilities his mind was conjuring would be good. Silence always encouraged his imagination to get too loud.

 

“…Just so you know,” Jason pretended to be more nonchalant than he felt and reclined into the leather, “If this turns out to be human trafficking, I’m gonna be pissed.”

 

Bruce Wayne was quiet for a beat.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

The sound of the engine felt like static in Jason’s ears. He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. 

 

He felt uncomfortable. Jason had the tendency to fade into the background of rooms, standing off to the side fidgeting with a lighter while the older guys played poker. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t deaf. Jason heard things, he heard a lot more than anyone really paid attention to. People always talked and drunk people talked in detail. Sometimes Jason knew they were embellishing, for instance, Jason figured that Dick Grayson couldn’t snap someone's neck with his thighs while getting head. 

 

Most Bruce Wayne stories didn’t have the same flare though. 

 

Bruce Wayne didn’t just own half the city. He didn’t happen to just scare the other half into behaving. There were stories layered on top of stories about what happened when someone crossed him and didn’t make it out clean. 

 

When Jason was told how eerily calm the mobster was, that was when Jason tuned out the rest of their rambling. Mobsters and people like Flass and Sionis and every other desperate goon in Gotham were loud with their power, no matter how miniscule it was. Shit, if there was one person to avoid during a fit of rage it was Sionis. 

 

If Jason had attempted to steal Sionis’s tires he’d be dead. 

 

Bruce Wayne had so much money it wouldn’t have been that big of a deal if Jason had gotten away. But he still wanted them back. And he wanted to take Jason to dinner. And he didn’t want to kill Jason. 

 

Jason internally denied his preference for Bruce Wayne’s conflict approach. Most of the pieces of shit in Jason’s life were men that liked to beat him around, but that came with a certainty for a situation. If Jason did something wrong, he could predict where he’d be hit, where he should brace, and how to defend himself as best he could. 

 

Jason didn’t know where to start if Bruce Wayne were to suddenly turn on him. 

 

Maybe he already had. 

 

Jason didn’t like that thought. 

 

His mouth compensated to prevent any additional spiraling, “...Are you going to kill me?”

 

Bruce Wayne let out a heavy sigh. It sounded like something Jason’s mom used to do when he was really missing the point of a conversation. 

 

“No.”

 

Jason frowned.

 

“Okay, but like…” Jason gestured vaguely. “Eventually? You’re not going to come knocking to Sionis and be all, grrr I’m Bruce Wayne and I’ve come to get my vengeance, right?”

 

“You think very highly of your importance to me.”

 

“That’s not--I didn’t mean--” Jason’s face burned, “First of all, I’m no one, I don’t have any stake or-or importance in anything. And I will have you know I am just trying to gauge if I need to get out of Gotham tonight or if I have to-”

 

Jason watched Bruce Wayne press his lips together to hide a smile.

“Are you making fun of me?”

 

“Only a little.”

 

Jason stared at Bruce Wayne. He didn’t know that someone like Bruce Wayne could have the ability to…poke fun at someone. 

 

This was horrible.

 

Nobody had warned Jason that Bruce Wayne might be weird.

 

Everything he knew about the man painted him as Gotham’s boogeyman in an Armani suit. People didn’t talk about Bruce Wayne like he was a person. They talked about him like he was a natural disaster that occasionally decided someone needed to disappear.

 

Mobsters were not supposed to laugh. They were supposed to brood ominously and threaten kneecaps. Bruce Wayne was acting like Jason was some kind of weird stray cat he’d found behind a dumpster. 

 

Jason turned his attention to the window and picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. 

 

His stomach twisted unpleasantly as they crossed into a cleaner part of Gotham. Streetlights actually worked here. Sidewalks looked maintained. There weren’t bars over every window. Jason didn’t know much about this side of Gotham, where every other person wasn’t going to turn out to be a robber.

 

The car turned again.

 

Jason tracked it automatically, even though he didn’t recognize half the streets anymore. His brain kept trying to map them anyway, stubbornly insisting that if he just paid attention hard enough he could stitch Gotham back into something predictable.

 

After what felt like an eternity, Bruce Wayne pulled the fully tired car up to a valet stand. The exterior to the restaurant didn’t appear to be anything special (not that Jason thought Bruce Wayne would take him to a five star restaurant, he just figured that those were the only places Bruce Wayne dined at). 

 

The exterior looked homey, inky black awnings hung over the entrance door, which was wooden with darker stained handles. 

 

Jason waited until Bruce Wayne killed the engine before stepping out of the car. He took a sweeping glance of his new surroundings. 

 

It was so…not Gotham. Sure, Jason had overhead people talk about the new, gentrified side of the city, but Gotham wasn’t a family city. The appeal of living in the beautiful shithole was to pay $500 a month in rent and get entry level work experience so you could move out of the aforementioned beautiful shithole. 

 

Nobody stayed in Gotham because they liked it.

 

Not unless they were crazy, trapped, or rich enough to pretend the city’s rot stopped at their doorstep.

 

Jason shoved his hands deeper into his sleeves as he watched Bruce Wayne speak with the valet. He was much…friendlier than Jason thought mobsters were. The valet chatted with Bruce Wayne like he was a regular face he saw, not the man who ran the city. 

 

The entrance opened, startling Jason. The worker wore a simple white button down, black tie, and black slacks. 

 

Jason took inventory of his ratty clothes and ripped the thread free. Uniforms meant nice establishments. Jason was not a frequent visitor to upscale restaurants. He didn’t understand why Bruce Wayne would take him to a place that he wasn’t dressed for. 

 

“Thank you, Larry.”

 

Jason followed Bruce Wayne inside. 

 

Warmth was the first thing that hit Jason. It wasn’t unbearably cold outside, but Jason didn’t have regular heating in his apartment and he was beginning to think he was missing out. 

 

The host stand was off to the right of the entrance, made of polished, dark stained wood. The hostess recognized Bruce Wayne immediately, gathering two menus as he approached closer. 

 

“Good evening, Mr. Wayne.”

 

Bruce Wayne nodded in greeting, “The usual table is fine.” 

 

The woman’s eyes flicked toward him briefly, and Jason had the sudden horrifying realization that he probably looked like Bruce Wayne had picked him up out of a dumpster.

 

Well…it wasn’t exactly that far off. 

 

Jason tried not to look too awestruck as they were led to the back of the restaurant. It wasn’t decorated with lavish, golden chandeliers above every table. There was a clean simplicity that leaked from the dark wood, soft lighting, and tables spread far enough apart that conversations stayed private. 

 

Bruce Wayne’s usual table was in one of the booths against the far back left wall. There were high separators that extended almost high enough to the ceiling. 

 

Jason felt an inkling of claustrophobia.

 

He suddenly became hyperaware of how alone he was.

 

No one here knew him. No one would look twice if Bruce Wayne walked out without him. Hell, most people probably wouldn’t even remember Jason had been there in the first place.

 

Jason opened up his menu and shut it immediately.  

 

“I can’t pay you back for this.”

“That’s not an issue.”

 

Jason’s stomach grumbled, thankfully not loud enough to be audible but it vibrated in his torso. 

 

Most of the menu items were things Jason hadn’t heard of. In Jason’s mind, he figured most rich people ate made up food just to separate themselves further from those with less money. Because most rich people were dicks. 

Jason almost sighed in relief when he saw a burger. 

A twenty-five dollar burger but hell Bruce Wayne wanted to pay for it. 

 

“You should try to relax, son.”

 

And Jason really wanted to. He wanted to sit back and eat his burger that came with whatever the hell truffle fries were and tell Bruce Wayne that he wished he could’ve successfully ran off with his tires. 

 

But no matter what Bruce Wayne claimed, Jason didn’t believe this was supposed to be an act of good will. If it were, Bruce Wayne wouldn’t have forced Jason to come with. Even if the signs pointed away from Jason giving Bruce Wayne head, there was no such thing as free lunch (or dinner in Jason’s case) with Bruce Wayne. 

 

Shitbags like him collected debt like it was candy on Halloween. 

 

Jason just had to be realistic. 

 

“…You’re gonna ask for something,” he said, “Later. That’s how this works.”

 

Bruce set his menu down and folded his hands loosely on the table, “I do not need a debt from a thirteen year old.”

 

Jason was getting tired of dancing around the topic and pretending, “Listen man-”

 

“Jason.”

 

Jason shut his mouth. If Bruce Wayne wanted to play the long game with him then fine.

 

He felt Bruce Wayne stare at him, waiting for the boy to make eye contact. Jason found the burger topping description to hold more interest than anything else. 

 

“A kid should be able to get dinner without needing to steal tires.”

“I’m not a kid.”

 

“Who put you up to it?”

 

“I told you, I’m a mechanic.”

 

“Try again.”

 

Jason clenched his jaw, “People like you always tell people like me to relax,” he muttered. “Easy to relax when you’re not one missed payment away from getting your teeth kicked in.”

 

The second the words left his mouth, Jason wanted to shove them back in. That was too much and too far.

 

Before Bruce Wayne could respond, a waiter came over to take their orders. 

 

Bruce Wayne ordered a sandwich named after someone named Alfred. Jason got his burger. 

 

The two ate in silence. 

 

---

 

Jason had hoped that that would have been his first and only encounter with Bruce Wayne. After Jason was returned to the alley they met in (Jason refused to tell Bruce Wayne where he lived), Jason had all but sprinted back to his apartment. 

 

And the first three days after that were…rough. Every car that slowed too long near his building made his stomach drop. Every unfamiliar face lingering near Crime Alley had Jason rerouting instinctively. He started checking over his shoulder more often, sleeping lighter, second guessing himself on if he wanted to go after tires. 

 

Bruce Wayne was not the type of man who simply had dinner with someone and forgot about them, Jason knew that much.

 

But then nothing happened. No goons grabbed him off the street, no threats were left on his table, no severed horse heads in his bed or whatever rich psychos did.

 

Life kept moving.

 

Which honestly felt more suspicious.

 

Jason was on his way to the closest gas station to scrounge for groceries. He was hopeful for a couple days worth of food. 

 

Bruce Wayne was standing outside the door of the building. If Jason was smarter, he would have had many ways to handle this situation. He could have kept walking. He could have turned and walked the other way. He could have pretended he forgot something and hid in his room until Bruce Wayne left. 

 

Instead, Jason froze like he was caught stealing from a cookie jar. 

 

Play it cool.

 

“What’s up big guy?”

 

Idiot.

 

“I have a job for you. Are you interested?”

 

“Nope.”

 

Jason was not getting involved in anything Bruce Wayne was associated with. It was bad enough Jason had to be one of Sionis’s lackeys, but getting anywhere close to people Bruce Wayne knew was like signing an early death sentence. 

 

Bruce Wayne didn’t seem very affected by Jason’s denial. In fact, it looked like it spurred him on. The man pulled out his wallet and pulled free 10 bills.

 

It was two hundred dollars. 

 

Jason had to fight against his instinct to snatch it away.

 

No. 

 

No, it was too dangerous to work for Bruce Wayne. Jason valued his life too much. Men who did a bad job working for Bruce Wayne ended up falling off the face of the earth. They were locked in basements and had their kneecaps busted in, repaired, and then busted in again. 

 

Jason heard that if Bruce Wayne thought someone was a rat, they were left in a room with toxic gas and asphyxiated. And then Bruce Wayne ate their tongue. 

 

Jason assumed that the last part was fabricated. 

 

Jason also didn’t want to find out if it was true. The best course of action to avoid finding out anything regarding Bruce Wayne was to not take the fucking job. 

 

"I don't do deliveries," Jason snapped, though his eyes didn't leave the Jacksons. "Find a guy with a bike."

 

"I don't need a guy with a bike," Bruce Wayne shrugged, completely unphased by Jason’s defiance, "I’m having some trouble with my boys giving away too much too soon. I need someone who doesn't look like he belongs to me.” Bruce Wayne pulled out an envelope, “They draw too much attention sometimes, and I get it, it’s good to have me as a friend. Unfortunately, I do need someone who can walk through the East End without attracting a second glance.”

 

Jason stared at the blank manilla envelope. 

 

“People don’t know your name or your face, son. You’re kind of like…” Bruce Wayne tilted his head in thought, “You’re like a ghost, Jason. I like ghosts.”

 

“I’m clearly not a good enough ghost if you found where I live.”

 

Bruce Wayne nodded, “Even ghosts can have trouble hiding from me.” He sighed and leaned his shoulder against the building's wall, effectively obstructing Jason from the street ahead of him, “Especially when those ghosts owe ten grand to Sionis.”

 

The world went very cold. Jason had the instinct to sprint away, to leave everything behind and and go. If Bruce Wayne knew about the debt, he knew everything. He knew Jason was a dead kid walking. 

 

"Is this some kind of charity thing?" Jason hissed, his pride stinging. "Because I don't need a pity handout from some billionaire Don who thinks he’s playing Santa in the slums."

 

“You take this envelope to the Iceberg Lounge, tell a guy with a scar on his upper lip that the job’s done, and give him this,” Bruce Wayne waved the envelope, “That’s the job.”

 

“The Iceberg Lounge is closed during the day.” Jason crossed his arms.

 

“You’ll do two short knocks, one long knock, and then two more short.” Bruce Wayne demonstrated on the brick wall, “This is two hundred for the walk, I have three hundred waiting for you if you meet me back here in an hour.”

 

Jason almost threw up over how casually Bruce Wayne talked about money. Five hundred fucking dollars would change Jason’s life. He pictured not feeling hungry for a week--for two weeks! He could get some new clothes. He could pay for electricity. 

 

Half a grand for a walk across town. Jason could practically feel the weight of Sionis's hand lifting off his neck. If Jason were to do this job for Bruce Wayne, he’d pay Sionis back in no time.

 

It was too good to be true. 

 

It was a trap. It had to be. But Jason was a smart kid, and smart kids knew that when the devil offers you a ladder out of hell, you don’t ask if the rungs are slippery.

 

“A guy with a scarred lip and I tell him the job’s done?”

Bruce Wayne nodded and repeated the knock on the wall. 

 

Jason walked off with the cash and envelope.

 

The $200 in Jason’s pocket felt like a lead weight and a golden ticket all at once. He didn’t put the bills in his pocket; he shoved them into his sock, then tucked the envelope under his sweatshirt, pressing it flat against his chest so it wouldn't crinkle.

 

As he walked, Jason’s "big smart brain" was doing overtime. Which just meant he was finding increasingly creative ways this could end horribly.

 

Scenario one: the envelope contained drugs that would somehow enter his blood stream and kill him.

 

Scenario two: the envelope contained money that was laced with some kind of substance that would kill him and the envelope wasn’t sealed fully, leading to the mysterious substance to rub against his skin and kill him.

 

Scenario three: the envelope contained something wildly illegal and Bruce Wayne picked Jason specifically because if things went south no one would care if a thirteen year old got hauled off by the cops.

 

Scenario four: bomb.

 

Jason immediately shifted the envelope slightly away from his ribs.

 

Then he felt stupid.

 

If Bruce Wayne wanted him dead, there were easier ways to accomplish it than elaborate mail-based assassination.

 

Probably.

 

After a short twenty minutes of Jason trying to convince himself that he was not going to die (at least not at the very moment), the looming building of the Iceberg Lounge shadowed over Jason. 

 

The Iceberg Lounge sat near the water on the nicer edge of the East End, all dark windows and polished stone meant to look classy instead of criminal. Everybody knew what it actually was. Penguin’s territory, expensive drinks upstairs, shady shit downstairs.

 

Jason had never been inside.

 

Kids like Jason usually only ended up near the Iceberg Lounge when they were dumping bodies into the harbor. Or if they were the body getting dumped into the harbor.

 

He circled around to the back. The air smelled less like Gotham’s usual brand of exhaust and nicotine and more like salt water and rotting fish (the harbor’s greatest hits).

 

The main door was left abandoned, as the public wasn’t supposed to know the cesspool of crime was operating all hours of the day. Jason awkwardly shuffled closer to the two large doors and raised his fist.

 

Two quick knocks.

 

One long knock.

 

Two quick knocks.

 

The sound seemed to echo through the alley, and for a terrifying five seconds, Jason was sure he’d messed up the rhythm and was about to be shot through the door.

 

Then, a small rectangular slot slid open. No eyes appeared, just a dark void that seemed to be judging him. Then the slot slammed shut, and the heavy tumblers of the lock groaned.

 

A man stepped into the gap. He was built like a brick wall and wore a suit that cost more than Jason’s life, but his face was the real giveaway. A jagged, white scar cut vertically through his upper lip, pulling his mouth into a permanent, lopsided sneer.

 

The man didn't say anything. He just looked down at Jason with the kind of bored, lethal indifference usually reserved for stepping on an ant.

 

Jason did his best impression of nonchalance as he pulled the envelope out and handed it to the guy. 

 

“The job’s done.”

 

The man took the envelope from Jason with a hand that was about the size of Jason’s face. He weighed it briefly, nodding once whatever criteria was satisfied. 

 

“Scram, kid.”

The doors shut in front of him.

 

Jason really didn’t need to be told twice. 

 

Jason wouldn’t go as far as to say that there was a skip in his step on his trek back to his apartment. However he hadn’t been trafficked, killed, or arrested, he was already up two hundred dollars, and he had another three hundred waiting for him. 

 

So he was feeling pretty good about his life for once. 

 

Bruce Wayne was standing in the same spot. He was on the phone. Jason had never found a phone call to be intimidating until that moment. He slowed his pace, slinking over to Bruce Wayne but doing his best to maintain distance to ensure he wasn’t appearing to be eavesdropping. 

 

“I already made it clear that it’s expected for you to come.” Bruce Wayne nodded in acknowledgment at Jason, “It is one night, Dick. You will survive.”

 

Bruce Wayne sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and tapped the screen to end the call. He slipped the phone into his suit pocket and turned his full attention back to Jason.

 

The transition from annoyed parent to unreadable underworld kingpin was so fast it gave Jason whiplash.

 

“Any problems?”

 

Jason shook his head and held out his hand, palm up. He tried to look like a hardened professional, but he was entirely aware that he was still vibrating with residual adrenaline. “The other three hundred, please.”

 

He half expected Bruce Wayne to have hit his limit with Jason and shoot him for the insolence. Instead, Bruce Wayne smiled and easily handed Jason the rolled cash. It felt like lead in his palm. 

 

“Great doing business with you.” Jason almost wanted to bow, realized that would be ridiculous, and stuffed the cylinder into his pants pocket. 

 

He thought if he looked away, Bruce Wayne would vanish into thin air. Jason half tested the theory by inching his hand towards the handle into the apartment.

 

Bruce Wayne was still standing, in the flesh, when Jason glanced back. 

 

It felt more eerie that he didn’t vanish. 

 

“Is your mother working?” Bruce Wayne asked casually, like he was great friends with the late Catherine Todd. 

 

A familiar burn of bile threatened the back of Jason’s throat as he nodded. If his mom was alive and in the apartment, Jason would have stuck with the lie. If someone like Bruce Wayne could get in contact with your family, you were royally fucked to the nth degree. No matter what he needed, that guaranteed Bruce Wayne to have leverage against you for the rest of your life. 

Jason tried his best not to think about the leverage Bruce Wayne already had on him (his home, his debt, the metaphorical debt Jason was already racking up in Bruce Wayne’s portion of what’s fucking Jason over).

 

He internally shoved it to the dark corners of his brain. For all Bruce Wayne was concerned, Jason lived in Park Row with his hard working mother and that was it. 

 

“She’s got a double today.” Jason added, in case Bruce Wayne wanted to see proof she existed anymore. 

 

“A double,” Bruce repeated, stepping away from the brick wall. “Good. That means she won't be expecting you back anytime soon.”

 

Jason’s heart did a violent tap-dance against his ribs. That was not an I’ve got an open schedule explanation. It was supposed to be a Leave me alone, I have a family, people will notice if I’m missing explanation. 

 

Jason’s brows furrowed slightly as he ran his hand through his hair, “I was actually just about to go inside and do some homework.” He gestured toward a window, trying to mime to Bruce Wayne where he was supposed to go after grabbing his groceries, “I’m very studious, and-and big on education. My mom’s really strict about it.”

 

At least that last part wasn’t a lie.

 

Bruce Wayne let out another one of those low, rich chuckles that made Jason feel like he was losing his mind. “You’re a terrible liar, Jason.”

 

Before Jason could defend his personal or academic honor (or even pinpoint what Bruce Wayne was accusing him of lying about), Bruce Wayne walked over to the driver’s side of the Lamborghini and clicked the key fob. The sleek machine hummed to life, a deep, throaty purr that vibrated straight through the pavement and into the soles of Jason’s ratty sneakers.

 

Bruce Wayne leaned his arm on the roof of the car, looking across at Jason over the sleek black metal. “Be honest, would you rather do work for the afternoon or take a drive?”

 

Bruce Wayne unfortunately had a point. 

 

Even if the homework was fictitious. 

 

Jason pressed his lips together. Going along with whatever Bruce Wayne wanted to do only would ensnare Jason further into his web. However he knew that refusing a mob boss twice in the span of an hour was a fantastic way to test how fast someone could disappear from Gotham’s census records.

 

He was balancing not giving himself the worst dicking in the history of mankind and not getting himself on Bruce Wayne’s bad side. 

 

Even with zero acrobatic experience, Jason would rather actually walk a tightrope than be faced with a metaphorical one. 

 

Jason lifted his shoulder in a halfhearted shrug, “I guess a drive.”

 

Bruce Wayne’s eyes brightened, “Well I’m heading out past the city line to check on a shipment. The turnpike is completely empty this time of day.” He opened the driver's side door, his eyes locking onto Jason's. “You should come with me.”

 

Despite the offer being classic mob behavior, Jason felt less threatened this time than compared to the restaurant offer. Jason had pieced together with his genius of a brain that Bruce Wayne did not hold a grudge against him for the attempted tire-napping. He also figured that guys like Bruce Wayne liked to be fawned over by up and coming mafia dreamers, and clearly Jason was supposed to be the one fawning over Bruce Wayne (except he hardly knew the guy enough to do so but Jason figured if he was on Bruce Wayne’s good side that was enough). Third, Bruce Wayne had given Jason a very simple job that Sionis would have bestowed maybe ten dollars for, and Jason had gotten five hundred. 

 

Somewhere in Bruce Wayne’s jagged heart was a warm spot for Jason. And if that meant an eventual target on his back or a single shot to his head as a form of retaliation, it had gotten so far out of Jason’s hands that the fear was distancing itself. He couldn’t control what Bruce Wayne did, all he could do was his best attempt at reaping the benefits. 

 

So Jason nodded and pulled open the passenger door like he owned the car and slid into the seat. 

 

Bruce Wayne turned on the radio and pulled out of the non-existent parking spot in front of Jason’s apartment.

 

Bruce Wayne glanced over at him. "Ever been out of the city, Jason?"

 

"Once," Jason lied, keeping his eyes glued to the dashboard. "My mom took me to a beach. It sucked, too much sand."

 

In reality, the furthest Jason had ever been was the shipping yards at the edge of the docks, which barely counted. The world outside Gotham always felt fake to him, like a movie set that someone forgot to take down.

 

As the car maneuvered itself to the outskirts of Gotham, Jason was once again half mesmerized by how small Park Row was to the rest of the city. All his life, Jason had spent in that shitty apartment, strolling the uneven pavement, and thinking up all the ways he could get away. 

 

If he was serious about it, about starting a life for himself that could actually amount to something, Bruce Wayne would be that ticket. If each job was five hundred (even if it was less, money was money and Bruce Wayne was flowing with it), it wouldn’t be that long until he was off the hook with Sionis. 

 

Once Jason was free from him, he’d need to save some and make sure to lay low, but within a couple of months Jason could do it. He could try Blüdhaven, or a long train ride to Central City. 

 

He could see the light at the end of the tunnel. All he needed was Bruce Wayne to give him the financial push.

 

Jason tried to think about what Bruce Wayne liked about him. To be frank, he didn’t really understand what was so comedic about Jason’s impulsive back-talk, but if it was what worked then Jason wouldn’t stop.

 

“So, what’s it like being a dad?”

 

Bruce Wayne looked a bit startled at the question, clearly not expecting Jason to ask anything about his personal life (Jason made a mental note to be cautious about those types of questions upon realizing that it sounded like he was prying), “It depends on the day.” He ever so slightly cocked his head to the left, “Dick can be a pain in the ass sometimes,” An earnest, found smile graced Bruce Wayne’s face, “But I can’t say I’d want him any other way.”

 

Yeah isn’t that why you had his parents killed?

 

Jason held back his tongue and looked over at Bruce Wayne. Jason wondered if he felt any remorse for killing the Graysons. He wondered if the potential guilt was outweighed by Dick Grayson’s presence in his life. The man gave away nothing visually. All Jason could read was the expensive watch on Bruce Wayne’s wrist. "You don't worry about it?" Jason asked, his voice coming out sharper than he intended. "Having a kid around? Someone who could... see too much?"

 

Bruce Wayne’s eyes flicked to him, then back to the road. The humor had vanished, replaced by a terrifying, calm intensity.

 

Jason needed to stop asking prying questions.

 

"I try not to worry about much.”

 

That did not really answer Jason’s question but he was accepting the proverbial out of the conversation that Bruce Wayne was offering. 

 

Jason figured he could try and lighten the mood, “That’s super ominous for a mobster.” He sucked on the back of his teeth, “Y’know?”

 

Bruce Wayne did not look amused. 

 

Jason internally furrowed his brows. He thought Bruce Wayne liked when Jason spewed bullshit that could get him killed. Was Bruce Wayne getting sick of it? Had Bruce Wayne been pretending this whole time to like Jason?

 

It was like playing a game of chess, except Jason didn’t know how to play chess and was attempting to play checkers with a bunch of randomly shaped pieces. 

 

“I’m not a mobster, Jason.” 

 

Jason swallowed and tried to relax into the sticky leather. He didn’t know how exactly Bruce Wayne deluded himself into continuing on with his risky lifestyle, but that didn’t really concern Jason. 

 

“Right, of course. My-”

 

“Mobsters are people like Sionis, or Falcone, or anyone who likes to cause rackets for attention. They like to be seen and heard and busted by the cops so they can do it all over again and again.”

 

Jason knew first hand that Sionis in fact did not like the cops in his business, but Bruce Wayne’s speech sounded like something he practiced in the mirror and Jason didn’t want to be rude and interrupt. 

 

“I am not in the business of causing problems for money. I like to help people who struggle to help themselves.”

 

Jason wasn’t sure how much of a help Bruce Wayne was to the average Gothamite but he had literally given Jason five hundred dollars for going for a walk so Jason was trying to reel in his judgment. 

 

“I also like to help those who could use a little push in the right direction.” Bruce Wayne added when Jason didn’t respond to his short monologue.

 

While Jason wasn’t completely well versed in how Bruce Wayne liked to curate debts, any person in Bruce Wayne’s line of business could turn a simple boost into owing ten grand. In Jason’s opinion, someone like Bruce Wayne couldn’t play the brooding “not mobster” and the philanthropist. He was skeptical (and intrigued) on why Bruce Wayne wanted to have it both ways, “How so?”

 

“You know how, Jason.”

 

The weight of the cash in his pocket and shoes felt like hot coals. 

 

Before Jason could object or shoot himself in the foot or even get a thought out, Bruce Wayne continued, “Open the center console.”

 

And well shit, Jason opened the center console.

 

Inside (Jason was really expecting a peashooter) was a burner phone.

 

“This doesn’t have to be a one time thing, Jason.” Bruce Wayne pulled the car onto a backroad that would lead them to the docks.

 

Jason looked at the phone, then back at Bruce Wayne, his heart skipping a beat. "What's this for? You tracking me?"

 

"I’m giving you a way to contact me that doesn't involve loitering outside your building," Bruce Wayne pulled into a parking spot, "And it’s a way for me to contact you when I have another job. Five hundred dollars is a fair price for a delivery. But there’s more I can have you do, if you’re interested."

 

Jason reached out, his fingers hovering over the plastic. He looked at the phone--the gateway to more money, more danger, and more time spent in the orbit of the most dangerous man in Gotham.

 

Bruce Wayne wanted to give Jason a boost. It was the first time anyone had actually tried to help Jason get out of his shithole.

 

He’s a mobster, Jason reminded himself, gripping the door handle. He kills people. He ruins lives. He’s looking at me like I’m a stray he can train, not a human being.

 

The car turned off.

 

“Wait here. You don’t have to make a decision today.” Bruce Wayne got out of the car, “Keep the phone, I already put my number in. Call me if you’re interested.”

 

Bruce Wayne shut the door, leaving Jason staring at the burner. 

 

Going back to his life and not using the phone would be pointless. He would give four hundred to Sionis and then what? He’d have a mountain of debt to chip away at, no prominent source of income aside from whatever job no one else wanted to complete, and be stuck in Gotham until he could pay everything off. 

 

It wasn’t like Jason had any real loyalty to Sionis anyway.

 

Sionis had never tried to feed him. Sionis had never taken him to a restaurant where the bread was warm and the napkins were cloth. Sionis had never asked him what his name was outside for the intent to put a face to the debt.

 

He didn’t owe anything to Sionis (besides the money).

 

Bruce Wayne was at least making an effort.

 

Bruce Wayne was a predator, that much was for fucking sure. But he was a predator who had just looked at a starving, impoverished kid and decided to hand him a lifeline instead of a shovel.

 

Jason reached out, his hand hovering over the device. He didn't pick it up. He just let his fingers graze the edge, feeling the cool plastic.

 

“Fuck my life.”

 

---

 

Jason and Dick were spread out on the floor of Bruce’s office. Dozens of papers were strewn between the two.

 

Jason had been to the absolute fortress that was Wayne Manor a handful of times now. He had stayed over for dinner, ate the butlers cooking (Jason had a theory that there were secret shadow maids that were instructed to stay out of sight because there was no possible way one man was in charge of maintaining the entire manor), been offered (and rejected) to stay the night.

 

He was a proper chum of Bruce fucking Wayne.

 

And Jason was waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

 

Sue him, his life had never run so smoothly. Jason was eating better, sleeping better (because he didn’t have to do late night bitch work for Sionis now that Bruce Wayne was giving him hundreds of bills at the drop of a hat), and feeling a suspicious amount of comfort.

 

He knew that soon his world would shatter and he’d lose a liver or something, but it was getting more and more difficult for Jason to find any fucks to give.

 

“Look through these too.” Dick placed a freshly printed stack of papers besides Jason’s already decently sized pile.

 

That was another thing. 

 

Dick Grayson was nothing like the rumors and Jason couldn’t believe that he believed any of them. 

 

When Jason was initially brought over for dinner by Bruce (who neglected to tell him it was Friday night family dinner), Dick had been a tad bit icy. He pretty much ignored Jason’s entire existence, stayed quite aside from murmuring jabs at Bruce that Jason didn’t really understand, and excused himself before the butler could serve them dessert.

 

It still wasn’t the worst dinner Jason had attended.

 

Bruce still apologized for it after.

 

But then he kept putting them together. Instead of Bruce taking Jason somewhere to drop off a note or cash or a ring, Dick had started picking Jason up.

 

Jason figured Bruce wouldn’t be chauffeuring him around all the time, but at first Jason felt like he was being dumped onto Dick. Which, at the time, was not the first impression Jason wanted to have on the guy.

 

Dick didn’t talk a lot at first. Aside from delivering instructions and responding to whatever Jason reported from a job, he sat in his own little world. 

 

That was until after a late night delivery that involved the two moving boxes across a warehouse for an hour. It had left Dick in considerably terrible condition, despite the man having enough muscle in his body to (allegedly, but Jason couldn’t buy it after knowing the guy) to snap a captive’s radius in two. 

 

Dick had been sweaty, winded, and pale seemingly out of nowhere. 

 

Jason went to the car while Dick made a very agitated phone call. He watched Dick pace back and forth until Dick ended the call by smashing his phone against the pavement and stomping on it repeatedly. 

 

Jason had made a mental note to be on his better behavior.  

 

When Dick got back into the car, he swiftly turned on the engine before turning to Jason, “I have to run an errand. Do you need me to drop you off first?”

 

Jason didn’t want to aggravate Dick further, so he shrugged, “My moms not back for another couple hours.”

 

They sat in silence for five minutes. 

 

“Don’t mention this to Bruce.” Dick ran a hand through his dark hair, “I mean, it’s not like he’ll bother you if he wants to know why we’re getting back later, but he doesn’t need to know we took a detour.”

 

Jason nodded, “Yeah sure.” 

 

Dick knit his eyebrows slightly together, like he was surprised Jason didn’t question the sudden change in mood or even where they were going (granted Jason forgot to ask that question almost every time he got into a car with Sionis’s men). He didn’t bother pushing further, “Thanks.”

 

The silence in the car felt lighter as they made their way to the mysterious destination. 

 

It had ended up being a personal errand for Dick. Jason waited in the car (a lot of his jobs with the Waynes involved him waiting around) for Dick. When he returned, he shoved a prescription bottle into the glove compartment. 

 

Jason always had trouble with elephants in a room, “What’s that?”

 

Dick sighed as he started the car. Jason watched quietly as Dick visibly debated telling Jason the truth or not. Jason didn’t plan on pressing further either way, but he was always curious about the reality of Dick Grayson’s drug addiction.

 

“It’s just Oxy.” 

 

“Cool.”

 

Jason wasn’t exactly sure what the correct response to Dick’s admission was. Asking if he needed help was definitely too personal and Jason didn’t really know what effect opioids actually had on the takers besides blocking pain signals.  

 

“Don’t do drugs.” Dick leveled a hard stare at Jason.

 

It was a more serious side of Dick that Jason had yet to be exposed to. Even when Dick pretended Jason wasn’t sitting across from him at the dinner table, if the two happened to make eye contact, the most Dick would do was an inward grimace. 

 

“I don’t.” As if Jason needed another problem to add on to (what he has dubbed) Jason is fucked mountain. “Is it…better than coke?”

 

“I don’t do cocaine.” He snapped.

 

Well shit.

 

Jason felt his face heat up, a prickle of genuine shame rising under his skin. He hadn't meant to imply anything--well, he had, but he’d expected Dick to laugh it off or give him some cynical mobster reply. Instead, he’d just poked a bruise that was clearly much deeper and more jagged than he’d realized.

 

"I-" Jason stammered, suddenly failing to find a way to pivot. "I just meant--that's what I’ve heard people say. They say you guys are all on it. I didn't mean you specifically."

 

Dick looked unconvinced.

 

Jason bit down on his tongue. He wanted to apologize properly. He wanted to say, I’m sorry I judged you, I’m just used to everyone being a piece of shit, and I thought maybe you were just a different flavor of piece of shit. For some reason, Jason decided that none of that should be spoken out loud to someone with a history of lashing out aggressively when provoked.

 

“Whatever.”

 

Jason physically couldn’t handle sitting in any more uncomfortable, weird, cold silence. He wasn’t trying to judge Dick. In fact, Jason really didn’t care what drug the guy decided to take. He was only attempting to lighten the atmosphere after watching Dick have his frustration get the better of him. 

 

Maybe you could’ve made a phone joke.

 

Jason took a deep breath (and ignored his inner monologue about all the ways he screwed himself), “I don’t really believe them," Jason said quietly, his gaze fixed on his own hands. "And I don't care what they say. I know who I'm sitting next to."

 

Dick finally turned his head. He looked at Jason for a long, heavy beat, as if trying to figure out if Jason was being earnest or just another person trying to unsuccessfully con a Wayne.

 

Jason had hoped that Dick would settle on the former.

 

Eventually, the tension in Dick's shoulders dropped just a fraction. He didn't smile, but the hard, defensive edge of his expression softened into something merely guarded.

 

And that’s how Jason had now amassed a grand total of two contacts on his burner.

 

“Is this going to take all day?” Jason dropped the printed email he was scanning into the useless pile.

 

Dick circled something on the document he was reading, “Depends on how quickly we can find something good.”

 

Jason grabbed the top paper from the pile Dick had added, “What even is considered good?”

 

The only instructions Bruce had left them with was to keep every piece that was dated between July eighth through July tenth. But there were so many documents to go through and Jason hadn’t been in school enough to fully develop his speed reading skills.

 

“Anything sloppy looking. Could be a high number on payroll, could be a coded message, could be a ‘I’m stealing this week's shipment’. It’s all the same to B.”

 

“And you do this every day?”

 

Dick snorted, “B would get a migraine.” He pushed away his looming stack of rejected papers and started a new one, “This is all just…very specific circumstances.”

 

Jason figured that was all the background he was going to get and set his mind to figuring out the fastest way to skim the pages.

 

Jason realized he hadn’t experienced true boredom in a very, very long time. He should’ve known even feelings of ennui were only meant for the rich. At least when he was fighting to not drown in the ocean of Sionis’s bullshit he had something to do. 

 

Reading emails was fucking boring.

 

Jason’s eyes were starting to cross. He had already read four memos about "office supply requisitioning" and three complaints about the quality of the coffee in the breakroom in an office building he’d never heard of.

 

He and Dick continued on in silence for what felt like years before Jason found anything useful. And useful to Jason was beginning to feel much more subjective since he started working for the Waynes.

 

His next sheet was a standard shipping manifest for a company called 'GCPD Evidence Storage,' but something about the signature made Jason’s brain snag. It wasn't a name. It was just a set of coordinates followed by a timestamp that was three hours after the warehouse would have been locked for the night.

 

The subject line was a vague Transit adjustments and the date was July 10th.

 

"Hey," Jason said, his voice sounding flat in the echoing silence of the study. He pushed the paper toward Dick with his thumb. "This looks... wrong."

 

Dick shifted, crawling over the expensive rug until he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Jason. He looked at the document, then back at Jason. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the timestamp.

 

“Evidence storage doesn’t move at midnight on a Tuesday.” Dick murmured to himself, “And B had a meeting with some of his supply movers the day after this.”

 

“Is someone trying to frame him?”

 

“A real shitty attempt at it, yeah.” Dick looked through the next couple top papers of Jason’s stack before pulling another sheet out. A sly grin spread slowly across Dick’s face as he skimmed the page, “Fucking got you, bastard.”

 

Jason turned the paper in Dick’s hand towards him so he could read the page too.

 

It was an email written in a coded language that Jason didn’t quite grasp. The sender wrote about buying gardening supplies, a couple different shirts, and a grocery list he was meaning to finish off. Clearly, Dick understood what was being conveyed enough to practically prance around the study in celebration.   

 

“Fucking Waterson.” Dick laughed gleefully, “I always hated that guy. This is great Jay!”

 

Dick sent a rapid-fire text on his phone (probably scheduling a parade of some sorts). Jason sat back on his heels, watching him. It was jarring to see the guy who could snap a man's arm like a twig acting like a kid who’d just scored a touchdown. It made the whole Wayne mob thing feel less like a dark, smoky cabal and more like a birthday party scavenger hunt.

 

"Isn’t he the guy who manages the shipping logistics for the south docks?" Jason asked, leaning in. "The one who’s always on the news talking about how much he loves Gotham’s 'economic revitalization'?"

 

"That's the one," Dick said, still grinning as he tossed the phone onto the plush rug. He looked at Jason, his eyes bright with a dangerous kind of electricity. "He’s been skimming off the top of Bruce's shipments for months, then hiding the discrepancy in the transit logs. We thought he was just being greedy, y’know? We get that people need some money from time to time, but this? This email? He’s not just skimming. He’s selling the manifests to Falcone. He’s trying to sell Bruce out from the inside."

 

Jason nodded but he struggled to lie to himself that he was following Dick’s progressively manic explanation. 

 

“What a fucking idiot.” Dick fished out an amber liquid from behind Bruce’s desk and poured himself a drink.

 

Jason wanted to share Dick’s glee, he really did, but there was a strange feeling of guilt beginning to form in the pit of his stomach. Sure, Jason didn’t really know the guy, but based on the ecstatic energy coming from Dick (who Jason was sure beheld a handful of sadistic tendencies), the guy was royally fucked. 

 

A lot of people in Gotham need money. And sure, the sky is blue and everything but some people had to do what they had to do. That’s what Jason was doing, wasn’t he? He couldn’t find it in himself to find a reason to celebrate after being the one to practically sentence the guy to death. 

 

No one stole from Bruce Wayne and sold it off without severe repercussions. Especially if it was the guts of the business itself. 

 

“So what,” Jason tried to keep the unease out of his tone, “You guys go over and bust his kneecaps or something?”

 

Dick gave a hearty laugh, “I mean, we’ll start with his kneecaps sure,” He sat down on Bruce's desk chair, “Waterson’s going to have a very long, very unpleasant conversation with some of us in the basement. And by 'conversation,' I mean Waterson is going to be explaining his career choices while he realizes he’s never leaving that basement.” 

 

Jason couldn’t help but blame himself. He was the one who found the sheet and couldn’t decide for himself if it was important or not. He was the one who showed it to Dick. He was the reason the guy was going to get a grade A beating by the prince of Gotham’s underbelly.

 

He swallowed around the stony feeling in his throat.

 

"Hey," Dick said, his voice losing that manic edge, becoming something softer, more observant. He set the glass down on the desk. "You look like you just saw a ghost, Jay. You okay?"

 

“Yeah,” Jason wasn’t even convinced by his performance, “I just um…y’know what if it’s not actually like a good piece of evidence. What if it’s a fluke or something and it’s a dead end somewhere.”

 

"Jay," Dick said, his voice dropping to a low, steady hum that seemed to vibrate through the desk between them. "If this were a fluke, Waterson wouldn't have used his personal email to sign off on the transit shifts. He wouldn't have been this careful. This is real."

 

Dick stood up and walked around the desk, lowering himself to a crouch in front of Jason. It felt like Dick was comforting a cornered animal. 

 

"You're worried about the morality of it," Dick stated, not as a question, but as a realization. He didn't sound condescending; he sounded oddly impressed. "You're thinking: Waterson’s just a guy, maybe he has a family, maybe he’s just desperate."

 

Jason felt his chest tighten. He hadn't realized how transparent he was. "Is that wrong?"

 

"In this city?" Dick let out a short, humorless puff of air. "No. It just means you’re not a sociopath.” He patted Jason’s shoulder.

 

When Jason’s expression didn’t change, Dick sighed.

 

“Look, he made a choice. He knew who he was dealing with when he took the job, and he knew exactly what the price of betrayal was. He chose the money over his life. That’s not on you. That’s on him.” Before Jason could protest, Dick raised a finger, “And, you need to stop being so hard on yourself. You found that, it would’ve taken someone else days to go over everything four different times before they noticed something was off. That is great.”

 

Jason tried to pretend that Dick’s praise didn’t leave a nice warmth in his heart. He tried to tell himself that he was a hardened survivor, that he didn't crave the approval of Dick Grayson of all people. He tried to ignore that he was weighing the Wayne’s approval to be worth more than his moral compass at the moment.

 

But it was a lie, and he knew it.

 

The moment Dick’s eyes crinkled at the corners in that genuine, approving way, Jason felt his internal resistance crumble. It was an addiction of its own, this sudden, desperate need to be the person Dick wanted him to be. If Dick said it was 'great,' then the unease in Jason's gut had to be wrong. If Dick said Waterson was expendable, then Jason’s conscience was just being naive.

 

He swallowed his reservations, the words of protest dying in his throat like a wilting flower. He wanted that warmth to last just a second longer. He wanted to keep that look of pride on Dick's face.

 

He nodded.

 

Dick gave a less threatening smile than the one he had donned before and ruffled Jason’s hair, “Bruce is going to be one happy camper when he comes back, you should stick around for dinner.”

 

---

 

Jason seriously needed to figure out how to install better locks on his door. He’d been gone all day, so like a sane person in Gotham he knew he shut it tight and twisted the key extra hard.

 

Jason locked it.

 

It was not locked when he got back to his apartment. There was no resistance when he turned his key to the left. Jason did not like that.

 

The lights were still shut off when he tentatively peered in. Jason waited a beat before stepping across the threshold, just in case an assailant wanted to reveal themselves too early. 

 

When Jason wasn’t met with a gun shot or knife to the neck, he flicked the lights on.

 

Bruce was sitting at his table.

 

“Jesus fuck.” Jason put a hand over his heart (which gave the appearance of him clutching his pearls like a grandmother in the 1940’s) and pressed himself against the wall on instinct. 

 

He knew that Bruce wouldn’t hurt him. Jason knew that Bruce wouldn’t be here for the sake of harming him (it would be a messy cleanup and the guy already had like fifty different alternate locations he could use if he wanted to beat Jason up). The only nagging thing Jason didn’t know was Bruce’s reason for breaking into his apartment and sitting alone in the dark like a vampire.

 

“Sorry,” Jason apologized (flinching like you thought you were going to die at the sight of someone could be perceived as quite rude) and cleared his throat, “What’cha doing here?”

 

Jason didn’t bother with how did you get inside? Because the answer was simply Bruce could do what he pleased and breaking into any of the rooms in Jason’s apartment didn’t exactly require a special set of skills.

 

“I wanted to have a conversation with your mother.” Bruce stood.

 

Jason nodded and pretended not to feel his stomach drop into the center of the earth, “Yeah, she’s working right now but I can talk to her about setting up a meeting or something.”

 

Jason did his best impression of a totally casual person and grabbed a water bottle from the cabinet that thankfully located the farthest away from Bruce.

 

Bruce said nothing.

 

He stayed silent until Jason leaned against the unplugged refrigerator and made eye contact. 

 

“Why didn’t you want to tell me she’s dead?”

 

Why did you lie to me?

 

Why did you think you could get away with lying to me?

 

That’s what the spoken question sounded like to Jason.

 

The air in the kitchen, already thick with the smell of stale dust and damp plaster, suddenly felt completely devoid of oxygen.

 

Jason didn't move, he couldn't. The water bottle in his hand was slick with what felt like his own sweat, and he gripped it so hard he was sure he was going to crush the plastic. The sound of the city outside--a distant siren, the rumble of a subway train--seemed to mute, leaving only the sound of his own pulse, thundering in his ears like a drum.

 

Bruce didn't step forward, he didn't yell, hell, he didn't even look angry. He just watched Jason with that steady, terrifyingly calm gaze that made Jason feel like he was being dissected alive.

 

Jason would rather be dissected alive than continue forward with their conversation.

 

You couldn’t get away with lying to Bruce Wayne. It was a fundamental truth of the universe, as certain as gravity or the corruption of Gotham’s PD: Bruce Wayne knew everything, and he was always three moves ahead of you. Standing in the suffocating dimness of his own apartment, Jason felt the weight of that truth pinning him to the spot.

 

Jason tried to force his lungs to expand, but his chest felt like it was encased in iron bands. He had spent weeks basking in the glow of Bruce’s favor, riding the high of being useful, and he had let himself forget the most basic lesson of the streets: don't confuse a wolf’s patience with his kindness.

 

Now looking at Bruce, Jason came up with nothing. He already struggled to get a proper read on the man, and it was that blurred, uncertainty that dug Jason’s panic deeper and deeper.

 

Jason’s knees felt weak. He looked at the floor, at the scuffed linoleum he’d spent half his life staring at, wishing he was anywhere else.

 

“You kept asking about her and-and,” Jason wiped the back of his hand across his nose, I didn’t want it to look like I was pity farming, “I didn’t know what to say.”

 

Bruce looked unimpressed, “Try again.”

 

Jason’s chest heaved. He knew what happened to people trying to pull on over on Bruce, but a white lie didn’t deserve that consequence! It couldn’t possibly lead to Jason joining the other bodies in the harbor.

 

But when Jason caught Bruce’s unwavering gaze, he figured it absolutely could.

 

And sue him but Jason didn’t want to get beaten within an inch of his life and have the last thing he felt before death be his tongue getting cut out over a fib Jason told because he didn’t want to think about how alone he was.

 

“At the time-” Jason was cut off by his lungs hiccuping for air, “It felt like I was pretending to-to be the poster child or something of Gotham. Street-street rat, orphan, indebted, I thought you’d think I was faking it for more money.”

 

Bruce tilted up Jason’s face (Jason swore he didn’t see him get up from his seat but apparently billionaires had the ability to teleport) and used his thumb to brush away the trickle of tears that had breached Jason’s typically iron strong defenses against crying. 

 

The touch was so unexpected, so shockingly gentle against the grit and grime of Jason’s skin, that it forced a ragged sob out of his chest before he could stop it. It was the worst kind of touch, the kind that broke down the final wall of defense Jason had built around his throat.

 

“Look, I’m sorry I lied about it.” Jason dragged the palm of his hand across his eyes, “It was an overdose last year and it’s been hard on my own and-”

 

Jason couldn't bring himself to speak anymore. He just shook his head, his breath hitching in a way that made his ribs ache. He felt exposed, stripped of every scrap of dignity he had fought so hard to maintain.

 

I miss her.

 

Jason pushed the thought deep, deep down. He locked it and threw the key into the Gotham harbors deepest pit and mentally exploded it. 

 

Now was not the time for him to relieve his grief. Now was not the time for him to be weak in front of Bruce. 

 

Jason did his best to compose himself. After the longest fifteen seconds of his life, Jason stopped his sobbing and heaving breaths. All that remained was the tears that stained his cheeks and burned his eyes. 

 

Once Bruce had deemed Jason to be calmed enough, he stepped out of his personal space and took in the state of Jason’s apartment. 

 

Jason did not want to know what Bruce Wayne thought of his living situation.

 

“Pack your things.”

 

Jason thought he was hearing things.

 

“What?” He croaked, his voice trembling over the syllable. 

 

"Wayne Manor has fifty rooms, staff, and a security system that doesn't rely on a deadbolt a toddler could pick. You’re coming home with me."

 

Maybe Bruce had shot Jason and he had woken up in some warped hell.

 

Bruce didn’t offer a second chance for Jason to process the words, nor did he look like he was waiting for an invitation. He moved with unsettling, predatory grace, his presence alone making the apartment feel even smaller. He waited by the door, not voicing any additional explanation. 

 

Jason felt a sickening lurch in his gut. He realized with a jolt of clarity that he wasn't being 'rescued.' He was being curated. He was a project that had just been moved from the dusty, dangerous shelf of Park Row to the climate-controlled security of the Manor.

 

"I'm not a stray you can just take home," Jason said, his voice gaining a sliver of its usual, sharp edge. It was a reflex, a desperate attempt to maintain some sense of autonomy before he was fully swallowed up by the Wayne machine.

 

“Jason,” Bruce sighed, as if Jason was being unreasonable, “I won’t repeat myself.”

 

Bruce wasn’t doing this to make sure Jason was safe. If he was attempting to help Jason he would have let Jason choose, have time to process what Jason wanted. Bruce sounded more like he had already made up his mind and was willing to wait out any internal obstacles Jason was wrestling with.

 

Jason didn’t want to leave the apartment. It was his mom’s. No matter how little money they had, she always made Jason happy in the cramped rooms. She used to pretend the fridge could be a portal to Alaska, or the empty cabinets could be a good hiding spot during hide and seek. Even when Jason had seen through her attempts to shield him from their dire financial state, he liked to imagine she had purposely left their fridge bare for the sake of make believe.

 

When Jason saw the mattress with a ratty blanket, he could picture how his mom would wrap him in the blanket and hold him close during winters when they didn’t have heat. The emergency money under the floorboards wasn’t even Jason’s idea, his mom had told him she did it so that they could play pirates.

 

The shitty, small, gross apartment held much more sentimental value than anyone could ever see on the outside. 

 

It was the last of what Jason had that felt like his mom was still with him.

 

But he couldn’t say all of that to Bruce. On the one hand, Jason wasn’t sure he was capable of physically voicing those thoughts. On the other, Jason was in the room with a lion he most certainly did not want to poke.

 

Jason had three different plans of action surface in his mind.

 

“I’m not leaving.” He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots, “I don’t need to. I’m fine here.”

 

Maybe if he could persuade Bruce into buying that he didn’t need any more help than the man had given him, that the amount of money and food and connections was sufficient, perhaps Bruce would back off. 

 

“You have been living in the wreckage of a life that ended a year ago, and you're doing it in a building that is structurally failing, in a neighborhood that would be safer if it were actively on fire." Bruce’s voice was devastatingly calm, devoid of any attempt at comfort or persuasion.

 

Well that was strike one.

 

Jason (understandably) skipped over any response that involved angrily calling Bruce a pompous, know it all, asshead, and switched his tactic to bargaining. 

 

“I know it looks bad but-”

 

“Enough.”

 

The word cut through the room like a physical barrier, stopping Jason’s breath in his throat. Bruce didn't raise his voice, but the sudden, absolute finality in his tone made the air feel electrified, heavy with the weight of someone who was no longer playing the part of a benefactor.

 

He opened the small closet by the door and pulled out a backpack Jason didn’t know he still had. 

 

How Bruce knew it was there, Jason didn’t know (he assumed that when Bruce broke in there was an initial snooping of the two rooms).

 

“Pack, now.”

Jason’s eyes welled up with fresh tears. 

 

He didn’t want to leave his mom.

 

He didn’t want to be owned by Bruce.

 

The only reason he had gotten those stupid debts from Sionis was because his mom took out loans for drugs. The only reason he stayed in contact with Bruce was so that he could live a normal life once the debt was paid. 

 

He couldn’t do that if he was living with Bruce.

 

But it was becoming even more obvious that this was not a choice for Jason and he was in fact going to move in with the Wayne’s. He did his best to put on a brave face, only to last approximately nine seconds when he grasped the strap before breaking down again.

 

“Please don’t make me leave.”

 

The room fell deathly silent, the only sound the frantic, hitching gasps of Jason’s breathing.

 

Bruce crouched to Jason’s level, “You can either take some of this place with you, or you can be brought back without any of it.” His voice softened, losing its sharp, mobster edge at the sight of Jason being genuinely upset at the order as opposed to being rebellious, “But you’re not staying here, son.”

 

Jason’s hands were shaking so hard the backpack straps rattled against his knuckles. He looked at Bruce and saw that for all the man's terrifying, calculated authority, there was a strange, grim patience in his expression. Bruce wasn't gloating. He wasn't enjoying Jason’s breakdown. But just because he wasn’t smug on the outside didn’t mean Jason couldn’t see the flash of victory behind Bruce’s eyes.

 

Jason briskly made his way to his room.

 

His tears fell faster as he shoved in the other sweatshirt he owned. He sobbed soundlessly as he packed the stashed money into one of the smaller compartments of the bag. 

 

He wanted to stay. 

 

Staying meant that he didn’t have to acknowledge how little he actually needed to take with him. Staying meant that Jason didn’t have to see how useless most of his items were in the face of the Wayne fortune. 

 

Bruce would buy him better clothes. Bruce would buy him jeans that fit him properly. Bruce would buy him bedsheets and towels and anything Jason could need. 

 

So Jason left his already sparse closet mostly untouched. He didn’t take any socks with holes at the big toe and heel.

 

When he was finished, all that filled his bag were the sweatshirt, the books he’d read to death (even though he was sure that Bruce had copies of his own), some underwear, and a small picture frame of him and his mother.

 

Jason almost wanted to laugh at how little he deemed to be important in his life. 

 

Instead, he slung the bag over his shoulders and meekly walked back over to Bruce.

 

“All set?” Bruce asked, as if Jason was packing his bag for a regular day at school. 

 

Jason failed to fight off the impulsive, “Please let me stay here.”

 

Bruce said nothing, opting to flick off the main light switch and open the door for Jason.

 

He felt a fresh prickle of heat behind his eyes, not from crying anymore, but from a sudden, sharp flash of resentment. He hated that Bruce had just stood there and waited for him to strip his own life down to the bone. He hated that he had just complied, walking out of his own history because a man in a tailored coat had decided it was for the best.

 

The car ride to the manor was silent, save for Jason’s occasional sniffle (because of all the times he couldn’t keep his emotions in check, his body chose now to be the optimal moment to unleash the floodgates).

 

When Jason couldn’t take the stifling quiet, he took a deep breath, “I’m sorry.”

 

Bruce furrowed his brow, “What for?”

 

“Just…” Jason hugged his bag tighter against his chest, “Being difficult.”

 

Jason swallowed the hard lump in his throat. He was playing Bruce’s game, and it could already get overwhelming when he was relatively removed from the mobster’s proximity. Now, Jason wasn’t sure what to expect (or how to act) if he was living with the guy.

 

He figured he started on a pretty shitty note.

 

“You don’t have to apologize, Jason.” Though his face was on its typical stoic setting, Jason imagined he saw sympathy pull at his mouth, “I asked you to do a hard thing. And it’s not easy to trust that I know what is good for you.”

 

Jason wouldn’t really call moving into Wayne Manor a request but he didn’t think it was the right time to get smart with Bruce.

 

The car turned off the main road and onto the winding, private drive of the estate. The iron gates loomed ahead. They swung open silently, the first thought that came to Jason’s mind was that he felt like a prisoner being processed into a high-security ward.

 

He clutched the backpack straps until his knuckles ached. The manor was beautiful, it managed to catch Jason off guard every time he saw it, like it was something out of a Victorian picture book.

 

"I don't expect you to settle in easily," Bruce said, his voice breaking the silence. He didn't look over, his hands steady on the wheel as he navigated the long curve toward the front entrance. "I don't expect you to be happy right away.” Bruce grimanced slightly, obviously hearing how fucked it sounded to be in Jason’s position, “I just want you to have a good life, Jason.” 

 

Jason blinked, surprised by the candor. He leaned his head against the cool window glass, watching the trees blur past.

 

The worst part was that Bruce thought he was the one to be Jason’s savior. That Bruce could save Jason from Sionis and potential drug addiction and even himself.

 

Scratch that, the worst part was that Bruce was probably right. 

 

Jason would have been fucked if Bruce hadn’t given him bands for running messages. Jason would have been fucked if Bruce didn’t feed him well rounded meals multiple times a week. Jason would have eventually lost his running water and electricity if Bruce didn’t give him an atom’s size amount of his money. 

 

Bruce had been looking out for him. But Park Row was a pain to drive to from the manor and realistically it was easier for Bruce to look after Jason if he was under his roof.

 

Jason hated that it all was logical. 

 

Jason hated that he had been such a pussy about the whole thing. 

 

In a pair of months, Bruce had gotten Jason’s debt paid, well fed, and a safer job. 

 

(Bruce had practically bought Jason but neither liked to think of it that way)

 

He told himself that he should be excited for what was in store now that he was living with a billionaire. All that was left was for the excitement to hit Jason. 

 

He hoped it would be soon. 

 

The car rolled to a smooth, silent stop under the grand stone driveway. Jason stared at the sprawling, darkened mass of the manor. It looked like a fortress. An impenetrable, formidable fortress. His reflection in the window was faint, ghost-like against the immensity of the estate, and he felt a sudden, sharp pang of mourning for the apartment. It hadn't been much, but it had been his.

 

Bruce finally turned the key, the quiet click signaling the end of the journey. He didn't rush to get out. He just sat there, his hands resting on the wheel, his profile illuminated by the pale, artificial glow of the security lights.

 

"This is the start," Bruce said, his voice quiet. He wasn't talking about the move-in. He was talking about the life that was supposed to replace the one Jason had just left behind in a garbage bag.

 

Jason shifted, his muscles feeling stiff and leaden. He looked down at his bag, his fingers tracing the frayed stitching of the strap. He still didn't feel the excitement. He didn't feel relieved. He just felt small, and very, very exposed.

 

Jason felt like he was staring down the edge of a cliff with the only choice being to jump.

Jason took a breath, he didn’t want to fall, but he was so tired of fighting gravity.

 

He reached over and opened his own door, the interior light flooding the car and washing out the shadows. He stepped out, his tall, imposing figure framed by the massive oak doors of the house.

 

"Come on," Bruce called back, his tone shifting back into that firm, unyielding cadence. "Alfred has dinner waiting."

 

---

 

Jason checked his watch and had to stifle a yawn. Him and Dick, along with a couple of other lackeys, had been at a random guy's apartment for almost an hour, trying to get the guy’s password so they could stop whatever progress he had made on hacking into finance logs. 

 

And all the guy did was bitch and whine and cry and not give them the passcode. 

 

How many broken fingers did it take to remember a fucking password?

 

Jason successfully withheld his smile at that internal quip.  

 

The guy--some mid-level systems administrator named Wilson--was currently slumped against the radiator, sobbing into the floorboards. The only other person in the room who shared Jason’s boredom was Dick, who stood over Wilson with the apathy of someone who had done this a thousand times. 

 

Jason leaned against the doorframe, idly spinning a pocketknife. He felt entirely detached, as if he were watching a movie where the volume was turned down low. A few months ago, this would have made his stomach churn. He would have been calculating the odds of a rescue, or the morality of the violence, or wondering if he could somehow intervene.

 

Now? He just wanted to get home. He wanted to shower, maybe have a late-night snack in the Manor’s ridiculous, marble-countered kitchen, and finish the book he’d started that afternoon.

 

But no. Wilson had to drag the shit show out and inconvenience everyone by not remembering one highly notable and relevant fucking password. 

 

Jason made a mental note to give Wilson a hard kick to the ribs on their way out.

 

“The whining is getting old.” Dick whined to himself, he looked like he was close to stomping his foot like a toddler, “Tell us the code and we can be done.” His foot found purchase on a shattered ring finger and grinded down on it.

 

Once Dick eased the pressure (and Wilson stopped crying, Dick had a point, Jason had never been so sick of hearing sobs), Wilson choked out, “If I tell you, they’ll-they’ll kill me!”

 

“Well, think about it like this,” The smile on Dick’s lips was audible, “If you don’t tell us within the next five minutes, we’ll kill you!”

 

Wilson looked up at him, and the sheer terror in the man's eyes was almost pathetic. Sure, Jason didn’t take nearly as much pleasure in doing this sort of thing as Dick did (to be honest he didn’t think anyone would ever enjoy this like Dick did), but there wasn’t a flicker of pity that crossed through Jason’s heart. Why should he feel bad? This guy had been trying to compromise the accounts that kept the city running--or, well, the accounts that kept the Waynes running, which, in Jason’s mind, amounted to the same thing.

 

Wilson started begging, again, however the pain was clearly getting to the guy because aside from his pleas for mercy, the rest was a string of unintelligible nonsense that was really fraying the last of Jason’s patience.

 

Jason watched with a very detached gaze as Wilson’s arm was bent in a direction an arm absolutely should not be bent. 

 

“This is like a terrible hangman variant.” Dick chuckled, turning back to see Jason’s reaction. When Jason offered an amused nod, Dick’s face brightened and he set his eyes back onto the whimpering form below him.

 

“C’mon,” He nudged the limp arm with his shoe, “Do something.”

 

“Dick,” Jason groaned, “Stop playing with your food and get him to fess up.”

 

“Sheesh, someone’s having a bad day, right Wilson?”

 

Wilson wailed in response.

 

Dick sighed, a sharp, dramatic sound that cut through the cramped room. He leaned down, grabbing a handful of Wilson's hair and hauling his head back, forcing the man to stare directly into his own, utterly placid blue eyes.

 

"See? You're annoying my brother," Dick’s voice dropped into a register that was almost conversational, "And you know how he gets when he's tired. He's not as patient as I am. And honestly? I'm not even that patient anymore."

 

Jason wasn’t actually going to do anything. Bruce had some weird rule about Jason not being involved with the actual violence part of their livelihood so he had to pretend to be the bad cop to Dick’s (comparatively not much better) good cop. Jason felt like he learned a lot when he was observing off to the side, for example, simply being an ominous presence did wonders for interrogations. 

 

“Last chance man,” Dick waved over one of their lackeys (who brought in a baseball bat) with his pointer finger, “What’s the password?”

 

“I don’t know!” 

 

What a broken record.

 

Dick signaled at Wilson’s knee.

 

The man only raised his steel bat halfway before Wilson frantically screamed, “It’s in the book!”

 

Dick’s face contorted into the picture of displeasure as he stopped the lackey from shattering Wilson’s patella. 

 

“Which book?”

 

“Top-top right, all the way up!”

 

Jason, being the closest to the bookshelf in the room, plucked the brown spined book from the shelf and opened it to the table of contents. On the blank left page, Jason thought he was hallucinating as he felt what he could only describe as pure astonishment, “What the fuck is Polly_wants_a_quater24?” 

 

He listened to one of their lackeys type in the code and held up a thumbs up. 

 

“Fucking finally!” Dick stretched his arms over his head like he did after a long work out. He completely abandoned the fractured body of Wilson and clapped Jason on the shoulder, “Nice work, Jay.”

 

Even though Jason didn’t feel like the praise was really warranted, his heart felt like it was being wrapped in a warm, soft hug. Dick’s approval, while it was easy to come by in Jason’s case, nestled deeply into a corner of his mind he didn’t know existed until the first time Dick high fived him. 

 

Wilson was still whimpering on the floor, clutching his mangled arm to his chest, but neither of the brothers spared him a glance. To them, he had transitioned from a 'person' to a 'solved problem' in the space of a heartbeat.

 

Dick walked over to the window, pulling the heavy curtain back just enough to peer out at the street below. "The car's ready. Let's bounce before the GCPD decides to be useful for once and wander by."

 

They peeled out of the room, leaving the rest of the men to handle cleaning up and figure out what to do with Wilson (probably take him to the harbor and shoot him there, but that was beyond Jason’s responsibilities). Jason didn't miss the moral qualms he used to carry around like a lead weight. He liked the weights he carried now, a thick wad of cash, his pocket knife, his burner and cell phone. His former guilt and ethical worries had been replaced by the quiet, cold satisfaction of knowing where the strings were pulled, and having the closest connection possible to who pulled them.

 

Outside, the city of Gotham was alive with the chaotic sprawl of lights and shadows that used to intimidate him. Now, looking out at the skyline, Jason just saw his own backyard. He walked out into the cool night air, the familiar scent of rain and ozone filling his lungs. He spotted the black sedan idling at the curb, its lights cutting through the darkness like twin beacons.

 

Jason stood for a moment on the sidewalk, letting the city’s hum wash over him. He watched a flickering neon sign across the street, its buzzing rhythm somehow syncing up with the steady, controlled beat of his own heart.

 

A year ago, he would have been scanning the shadows for a mugger or checking his pockets to ensure he still had his meager earnings. During the time between, the shadows morphed into familiar territory, and his pockets were heavy with the weight of his last name’s reputation and capital. He realized, with a strange, detached clarity, that he hadn't just changed his address; he’d fundamentally rewritten his own DNA. He was no longer the boy who feared what lurked dark; he was the one who defined the parameters of it.

 

The Gotham skyline, once a jagged wall of indifference that seemed designed to grind him into the pavement, looked like a map of opportunities. Every high-rise, every alleyway, every precinct was just another node in the web he was now a permanent part of. He felt a weird, intoxicating sense of invincibility. He had managed to evade the deep clutches that death dragged everyone around him into by sneaking his way into the side of the winners. Of the people who punched back at what Gotham threw at them.

 

He looked down at his hands, they were clean (not figuratively of course), steady, and capable of handling weapons of different shapes and sizes. He thought about the man left behind in the apartment (the broken, whimpering mess of a human being, soon to be laid to rest in the Gotham harbor, accompanied by all the other pieces of filth that tried to cross people like Bruce) and felt absolutely nothing. No surge of righteousness, no shudder of disgust, no lingering doubt. Just a mild, pragmatic relief that the task was finished.

 

He felt a smile similar to Dick’s tug at his lips. There was a time where Jason had yearned to feel nothing. He had wished to leave the fear that used to plague him in an alley and bask in some form of relief. Whether that relief came in the form of death (he only wished for death on especially cruel nights) or pretending he didn’t owe more money than he’d ever seen in his life, it was always ten thousands steps out of his reach. 

 

Jason had no debt to pay. Jason had clubs to make appearances in, and gala’s to politely smile at, and a family.

 

The boy who felt everything was left behind to cling to broken picture frames in his unheated apartment in Park Row; in his place stood someone much more useful, someone much more durable, someone better. 

 

"Jason?" Dick called out, his voice cutting through the ambient noise of the city. "You coming?"

 

Jason nodded, “Yeah.”

 

He took one last look at the skyline, letting the breeze push his hair to the left and felt a wave of calm wash over him. Jason was exactly where he was meant to be.

Notes:

I like to imagine Bruce got Jason a custom red Cartier Roadster for his birthday. Show of hands who noticed that the names I used for rando’s were the last names of characters from tawog? Anyways, contrary to what the universe believed, I am alive and capable of writing. I am revived and exams did not defeat me and this is my freedom from writing purgatory. I hope you guys enjoyed it, I do plan on writing more for this au, most likely Dick or Tim next, but feel free to let me know your thoughts and thank you so so so much for reading (also lmk if I missed any tags)! Have a great rest of your morning/afternoon/night!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Batfam Mob