Chapter Text
To be fair, he wasn't the first. He was behind somewhere around...most of the people he knew, but before the Annoying Trinity of Bruce, Damian, and Dick, so he was counting it a win in his book.
Although he didn't count it as a win before. Before, he was doing his usual "vigilante entrance" routine. He'd headed in, expecting to bust up the drug ring that he's been following for a while, honestly expected to put a damper on this new branch of this Venezuelan cartel trying to open shop, except his fucking intel was bad and it was actually a weapons deal and it wasn't the cartel but the fucking Russians and...well.
The good news was that he was pretty sure he was only grazed. The bad news is that he was still bleeding.
Jason knew, vaguely, that Tim had gone off for something related to WE in Star City. That he'd haven't been to the Manor yet. Or a while. Which wasn't so unusual, given the Brat was only knife-happy on a good day and shit was still weird between Tim and the Annoying Trinity and...they were still working it out. Him and Jason? Relatively okay. Not, friends, but friendly. Jason was working this case for a while, so their patrols didn't overlap, but...he figured he had a 50/50 chance of either entering the safehouse with a startled Red Robin or not, and maybe having him help with the clean-up and not having Replacement attack him.
Those were good enough chances for him. He could take on Red Robin, startled or not. Plus, Tim had upgraded his Perch to this once-abandoned townhouse, a cozy three storey with an "extended" basement. It was the last of a line of them on the edge of where Diamond District and Upper West meet, a stretch of street that somehow missed the gentrification way back when, and out of the way enough that no one complained about them being an "eyesore." Wasn't the Penthouse or the Theatre House, or one of Jay's own safehouses, but it was alright for recuperating from bullet wounds- Replacement stocked every floor with first aid kits, and had a nice assortment of security measures, even with a specialty "Bat" override to make going through a window a breeze, especially with the breaking dawn helping his vision. He gave a sigh of relief as he entered the safehouse, undoing his helmet, grateful that something about this day was going right.
The immediate hit on his head and the subsequent darkness proved him wrong.
"I'm sorry." An unfamiliar voice, young and childlike.
"I know, honey- he has a thick head, he'll be fine." That voice was familiar.
"I'm sorry."
"You're perfectly fine...Did you use my zip ties?"
"Yes. Like you showed me." Pride.
"...Good Job." Pride in that voice as well.
Jason groans. His head is throbbing, and he's definitely bound. Cautiously he opens one eye. Then the other, staring at the scene in front of him.
Tim gazes down, giving him a tired half-smile-thing that he usually did when he caught Dick pulling immature pranks. He's dressed in a pair of sleeping pants and an oversized Gotham Knights shirt.
There was a child in a sleep shirt next to him. It had one of those Disney princesses on it. A blonde princess.
There was a child in the room.
"Morning sleeping beauty," deadpans Tim. "What a lovely surprise." He took a sip out of a coffee mug clutched in his hand.
"I'm going to make French toast," the small child (there was a child) declares, walking away from both of them.
"Jenna, I need to be able to see you use the stove." Mild, amused eyes met his. "You're lucky her first instinct was to tell me after she zip-tied you. She's used to allies using the front door." Tim crouches back down in front of him. "I'm going to ask you some questions..." Jason is having an out of body experience, distantly responding to Tim's inquiries.
Tim gives him another half-smile. "Looks like you aren't concussed, which is good. You're probably going to be feeling that bump for a while, which, sorry about that Jason. If I uncuff you, try and not fight me. I really don't want to be cleaning bloodstains out of the floorboards this morning."
"I can clean them Mr. Dad!" the child (the little girl) chirps from wherever she was in the kitchen. Tim just nods his head, as if that was normal for a child saying they could clean up bloodstains.
"That's very thoughtful of you, Jenna, but I can take care of any potential bloodstains."
"What’s going on?" he finally rasps, letting himself finally accept that this wasn't a different reality, or a hallucination, or anything else because apparently Tim pulled a fucking Bruce and just adopted a child out of nowhere. Did Bruce know about this? Did anyone? He felt Tim break the ties, helping him to his feet, and looking down, Jason sees that someone had cleaned his injuries- his shirt had been shoved up his chest, beige and pink bandages littering his torso, and neat stitch-work on the grazer.
"She felt bad for whacking you with a frying pan," Tim says, passing him an ice pack. He wordlessly placed it on the central throbbing point on the back of his head. "And I thought it would be a good idea to show her basic medical service, after all it's never too early to learn first aid."
"There's a child in the room." Jason felt stupid for saying that, but. "There is a little girl and she is calling you Mr. Dad. Why."
"Cause I’m Mr. Dad." Another sip from the mug, blue eyes steadfast on him before flickering over to the kitchen area. "I need to watch you use the stove, Jenna, hold on."
"I can do it." It was planative, a little annoyed. It was the motto of all small children. It was his motto, one that he repeated over and over, as a small child. How old was she? Jesus, all of them had probably said that to Bruce or to Alfred over the years. Did Alfred know? Tim had a child.
He just stares as Tim stood next to where the little girl (Jenna, he called her Jenna) had been standing on a stool in front of the stove, a plate of egg-covered bread next to her. Her body was covering it, but Jason bet that the same frying pan that clocked him was on the stove. He still felt like he'd been clocked by a frying pan. That was probably concussion talk. Or not-concussion talk. Fuck.
"Does he want coffee?" Tim looks at her, startled. The silence ticked by. "You have to ask if he wants coffee. It's polite."
Tim turns to him. "Jason do you want coffee?" Jenna drops two pieces of bread onto the frying pan, the hiss of the egg making him blink as he absently pulls down his shirt.
"Sure," Jason says, walking up to the kitchen island and pulling up a stool. He carefully places his own body in the chair as he levels a stare at Tim. "Also, hey Timmers? Why the fuck do you have a kid?" Since last time Jason checked, Tim could barely keep himself alive, let alone a child.
"Language." And wasn't that peachy-keen. Little Timmer's taking a page out of Ol' Alfred' and B's book. (Did anyone else in the family know about this. Seriously. He wasn't- it wasn't that long ago he'd been in Gotham.)
A hot brew of a peace offering is placed in front of him, along with two painkillers. “Jenna is currently living with me," Tim says as he places a plate of french toast with a fork, and a bottle of syrup right of the plate. The kid kept cooking breakfast, and there was a pang of nostalgia, rising to his throat. He’d been there, where she was. Sometimes. Before. With Mom-
He stuffs his mouth before the feeling could fully form. “That doesn’t explain the kid, Babybird.” There was a sense of vindictive pleasure at the slight wrinkle of Replacement's nose when he spoke with his mouth full. Just because he knew manners didn't mean he used them all the time. Especially if it meant annoying certain smart bird-brained dorks.
“I think it perfectly explains it, don’t you agree?” Tim took another sip of his mug as he glances over his shoulder, watching the child cook. “You doing ok, Jenna-bird?”
“I’m doing ok, Mr. Dad. I don't need help.” There was a click, the sound of a knob turning off, and the girl shuffled around on the stool, hopping down as she looked up at Tim, nearly hidden by the countertop. “Mr. Dad, you have a meeting Tuesday at seven thirty. It's in your planner." Tim nods his head, humming a little as he stares bemused at Jason.
“...It’s Tuesday. And it’s six fifteen.” That seems to register something in Tim’s head, because he chokes from where he was taking a sip of his coffee. “The Meeting.” Tim runs out, the child following after him.
Jason just kept eating and icing. The French toast was actually pretty good. And the coffee was just how he liked it. For a moment, he just ate, still processing the events of last night (and how someone is going to get a gun shoved in their face because fuck, no one fucked around with The Red Hood ) and the fact that Tim had a little girl and was really being fucking coy about it.
His eyes flicker over when Jenna had wandered back into the room, wearing a little green dress dotted with cherries, and a matching red headband on top of her brushed hair, holding a familiar red phone. “Mr. Dad says I need to observe you," she says, standing beside him as she absently types on the phone.
“Did he say why?” He took a sip, observing the tiny child. She had light brown hair, long enough to reach the top of her shoulders, a bit of a wave to it. Sometimes, Kori would let him or Roy play with her hair, braiding it into weird patterns, before they would slip out, like water, returning it to its original wave of red. “I’m learning about tells,” she states proudly, looking up at his face. Her eyes were green, not bright green, not Pit, more deeper, and the beginnings of a Bat-Stare on her little face. Kind of reminded him of Artemis' eyes, the unwavering stare of green, unflinching in every occasion. “It would be good for my education, and practicing means proficiency. At least, that's what Mr. Dad and Auntie Cass says."
Ok, so Cass knew, at least. Which meant Babs knew, and Steph, since they knew how to communicate and not just punch away their feelings. Jason shrugs one shoulder, still eating as the girl just stares at him, ever so often typing something on the phone. Notes?
Tim rushes out again, somehow looking polished and pressed even with his long-ass hair, dressed like a corporate asshole in a dark gray suit and red tie, hastily gathering various papers lying around the place as the girl immediately stuck to his heels. He turns to Jason, a gleam in his eye that usually meant Jason would be having regrets.
“I need a favor.”
“No.” swift, automatic. Easy to refuse Bats.
“Can you watch over Jenna until the babysitter comes?”
"No." Because no , Tim, he wasn't- he was the Red Hood , not a babysitter. No. "Absolutely not."
"She'll be here in ten minutes and Jenna is doing her lessons today at her house so you get the place all to yourself. Don't be a baby, Jason." Tim turns to Jenna, ignoring the strangled sound coming from Jason because fuck you Pretender. "I'll call during noon, remember to keep your phone close around then. Be good. I'll be back at 6:27, and we can have take-out for dinner."
"Can we watch Tangled before patrol?" Jenna kept her face on Tim as she hands back the phone. She smiles as Tim kisses the top of her head, bright and yearning.
"Don't make the babysitter cry and we can watch one episode," he says. "I'll be back. Promise." The words were soft. He'd never heard the Pretender sounding so soft (he never knew Tim could sound soft.)
Jenna nods her head, still bright and earnest. "Okay, Mr. Dad. Promise," she waves at Tim as he gives one last look, one last smile, and walks out the door.
Green eyes immediately go to him. He didn't even flinch, like hell he was going to flinch at a child's stare. Even if it did make him feel like Cass' stare, like she was peeling back his skin and looking into his soul.
Jenna smiles at him, an earnest one, even if a little less bright than the one she gave to Tim. "I'm going to do my lessons; Mr. Dad says it's okay to sleep on the couch, sometimes." And with that, she turns away.
He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Wake me when the babysitter is here, yeah?" He calls out, walking over and collapsing onto the couch, the exhaustion of everything hitting hard and fast, still icing his head. Too much information, and too little time to process, or care. He didn't care. He didn't care that Tim had a kid and could sound soft, or that he randomly had a strange urge to text Roy. Listen to Kori's voice. To snipe and snark with Artemis. To feel the comfort of Biz's hand on his shoulder.
He didn't care how he wished he could remember what his mom's voice sounded like, when she would say goodbye before she left.
He did care, as sleep hit him hard and fast, was that he wished he'd grabbed a blanket first.
"It's Tuesday, so we have to go to lunch. And then the library. We need to go. You have to wake up."
Jason groans, blearily waking up, exhaustion lessened but a dull throbbing in the back of his head, and under a blanket he definitely remembered not grabbing. He just blinks at the little girl, still just processing the fact that he was awake.
"What time is it?" he groans, eyes flicking to the blanket, a fuzzy, white, thing that had little eggs dotting the fabric, feeling the soreness finally creep into his muscles. The stitched up grazer was groaning at him.
"It's ten minutes after ten. You need to wear normal people clothes cause Mr. Dad says so, and It takes twenty minutes to get to Lunch and fifteen minutes for the food to arrive but if we get there at eleven thirty five Ana will give us milkshakes while we wait." She's tugging on his arm. "You need to get changed. Mr. Dad has clothes in the second closet. I think they'll fit." Suddenly she stops, squinting at him. He squints back in confusion, still trying to figure out why there was a child- oh. Right. Frying pan. French toast. This was Jenna. Replacement’s new (only) child.
"I mean, yeah they'll fit, that's my usual spot- where's your babysitter?" He distinctly remembered Tim mentioning a babysitter. A babysitter that was definitely not here, and not leaving him alone in a house. Jenna shrugs. "I texted her that she didn't have to come today. Cause you were going to watch me today."
"And she just. Agreed." Somehow, it didn't seem like Tim to get some random babysitter that would let a kid cancel like that. Especially if instead of, you know, a nice, normal and relatively sane person, the kid was being looked after The Red Hood. Fuck. Did she use their real names? Did it matter? Fuck.
"I used Mr. Dad's phone and his texting patterns." Ah, there it was. Little chick was definitely picking up Bat Habits. Still didn't explain why she wanted him to look after her, but hell, it was getting pretty obvious that she was Replacement's kid, and wasn't going to take "no" for an answer. And well, maybe he still had a soft spot for kids, even ones that clocked him over the head with a frying pan and zip-tied him. He could respect that- self preservation skills were practically genetic for a Gotham kid. She continues to tug on his arm. "Let's go. You need to get clean." She yanks some more and Jesus, her grip is solid. "Let's go."
"Shit, alright, alright I'm moving, I'm moving."
"Language."
At eleven-seven, a little girl dressed in a coordinated ensemble of shoes, dress, backpack and headband, wandered out of the townhouse with a civilian-clothed and sunglasses'ed Red Hood (who already taken several painkillers) in tow- he even was wearing the good jeans without the holes in the cuffs and a Gotham Knight baseball cap shoved over his hair. Still felt shabby standing next to the tiny human that had her backpack coordinating with her shoes (red, they were both red, bright as the cherries on her dress, and he felt the hidden gun on the side of his hip.)
It was impressive, he muses, as he followed the girl, how well she navigated Gotham's streets. He was aware that she was carrying mace, and two rebreathers in that backpack of hers. She's steadfast, keeping up with the pace of the street, and he nearly lost her twice because damn she could move, and move fast- and even with her outfit (and the red backpack) she had that uncanny ability (like someone else) to blend into the crowd. It reminded him of all the times when he was younger, of wandering the streets of Gotham, of feeling the hard pavement beneath his worn shoes, harsh and welcoming just as Gotham is.
Gotham always had his heart. The skyscrapers were exactly like their namesake, seeming to scrape and grasp at the sky, as if claws swiping at the heavens. Or trying to claw the heavens down, to keep a piece of it curled tight in the muck and mire of Gotham. He inhales the air, feeling the pollution settle in his chest. He had spent the past weeks before the drug deal, following a lead about another case up and down the coast. He had breathed in greenery, in healthy, clear air, the type that doesn't have the tinge of something acidic, something dangerous. Just trees and blue waters and picturesque coastline. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.
Gotham was grotesque, and familiar. He was grateful for that, at least.
Lunch turned out to be a shitty-looking diner shoved between two corporate buildings in the Diamond District, the “Diner” lettering practically faded off the front. It was a staple of Gotham, nearly every other block had a dingy diner shoved into weird places. The same linoleum floors, the ancient, clean yet dingy fifties style- they all seem to just appear and disappear in strange locations. He remembers going to one of these places, once. Back when.
Back when.
(A cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake, that was his go-to order. Hold the mayo, tomatoes on the side.)
It's in full lunch rush when they arrive, and a waitress, a young woman in her mid twenties, gives him a wary look before her face brightens, smiling at the girl.
"Hi Ms. Jenna, here for your usual?" She says brightly, gathering two plastic menus, but that's it. She directs them to a booth near the back, close to the kitchen. A perfect view of the entire diner, and close to a getaway. "Everything doing ok?" Her voice had that warning tone, one that says "I don't trust you." He tries to not let it bother him but- Jesus.
"I'm going over prospects, Miss Christy," Jenna answers, all solemn and serious and how the hell did she even learn that word? But it made the hard look lessen, a look of understanding softening the tired woman. "Ana will be out shortly." As she passed by, she gave him a wink, smirking lightly.
Suddenly, he felt like something was being horribly, horribly, misunderstood.
The menu was the standard fare- nothing really new. It was the same in this diner from the next from the next. If he didn't know better, he swore that the diners must have some weird franchise thing going on, or more likely, a competition, seeing who could do the best shitty diner meals.
"You want the cheeseburger." He peers over to where she had placed the menu off to the ledge of the table. "And the fries," she keeps looking at him. "Are you the type that just decides to be contrary because someone else knows before you?"
"How do you know what contrary means?" He asks instead, biting back the instinctive fuck you. He could actually control himself, Dick Grayson. The girl shrugs. "I'm eight," she says, as if that explained everything. Which...well, at eight he could pick-pocket the best of them, and cook, so maybe that was enough of an answer.
Just before he could ask one of his questions (all ranging from "Are you sure you're eight?" To "Why the hell Tim Drake?") another waitress appears, this one looking more weary and jaded than the first one, and definitely glaring at him as she balances two waters and two chocolate milkshakes on her tray. Her name tag said 'Ana' and he would bet his guns that Tim and Jenna are regulars. Or Jenna with anyone other than the suspicious looking man in the sunglasses and baseball cap.
Jesus. This was going to get messy.
"Not here with Mr. Dad, today?" She says lightly, already placing the drinks down. She keeps her voice light, her entire body language screaming "protect the kid" which, props for the waitress- most Gothamites wouldn't stick out their necks for an infant on a good day. It was somewhat nice to see that there were people out there who wanted to protect kids. He wasn't even really mad about the glares she was giving him; hell, he would be damn suspicious as well, seeing someone like him with a little girl who looked like she should be in some fancy-ass school, not swanning about in a diner, on a school day.
Jenna just nods, like a damn bobble-head, Jesus. "Lunch meeting with Mr. Dad's boyfriend, Miss Ana."
What.
He wishes he could say that he didn't choke on air, when he heard her words, but Jesus Christ what. No. No. Absolutely No. Why.
The wink made sense, now. The wink made sense.
Ana, horrifically, didn't notice the fact that he's freaking the fuck out because no, and instead nods and smiles, as if she understood. No, no she did not understand, he was Tim's undead adopted brother- but it's not like he could fucking say that. Fuck.
"So, the usual for you, chickadee?" Ana asks instead, as Jason's slowly regretting every single damn life choice that led to this moment. He didn't really listen as Jenna orders for him as well, making a vague noise of agreement as he kept wondering how-
How.
"You know your dad and I aren't dating, right?" He finally asks, once Ana left with their order. He tries his best not to sound like he was still choking, but Jesus, that was out of left field. Boyfriend.
She blinks at him. "Then why did you call Mr. Dad Babybird? And the other nicknames? And you have clothes at our house," she kept pointing them out. "And Mr. Dad wasn't surprised that you came from the window. And he wanted you to look after me. And you only seemed surprised to see me, so." She ends it with a shrug, looking very much like a certain fucking asshole that has the name of a fucking burger chain. "I don't know how long you've been dating, though."
"I'm...no, I'm not dating your dad, I'm your dad's brother," he chokes out, staring at the table. Because he could see it. He could definitely see where the hell she was coming from and that if you looked at all of their relationships, from the outsider perspective, it was definitely less brotherly and more something gross.
She just squints at him, obviously not believing.
"I- look," he places his hands on the table. "Sometimes families have very, very skewed sense of boundaries and convoluted relationships and a lot of weird bulls- malarkey and I'm not saying you should emulate that, just understand that your dad and I are completely platonic and familial." There. Not quite a lie.
"...Is Jason a middle name?"
"No." He wasn't sure where she was going with this line of inquiry. Unless.
"Ah. I'm not Dick. Or- Bruce." The names feel wooden in his mouth, or- yeah, wooden. Like wood, not oil-slick or concrete or beaches and fire and other ways his friends names sound to him. The name is unfamiliar like wood is- blocky, and heavy. Wood isn't familiar with Gotham (unless you're Ivy, and that's different) and he's been unfamiliar with those names for a long time.
She nods, and before she says anything else, a phone rings.
She extracts her phone from the backpack, answering it and replying with a "Hi, Mr. Dad."
He glances over at the clock, Tim was right on time.
She starts talking about her day, careful to remove any mention of the fact that she's currently hanging out with a Vigilante/Crime Lord. As she chatters away, he lets his mind split, listening for Intel and watching the restaurant.
He had his back to a wall. He's facing the rest of the place, while Jenna has her back, and he has a pretty good view of the entire diner. There are booths against the perimeter of the space, tables in the middle, with a decent sized counter-bar as the centerpiece, against the other wall, just like every damn diner in Gotham.
However the tables aren't bolted, and that is also saying something. He could easily flip a table, duck under, or just run out from the kitchen, if things get hairy.
He's done it before. There was a case back when it was Roy and Kori. Biz didn't really enjoy crowds, minus the stint with the circus, and neither did Artemis, and they tended to stick out, but Roy and Kori were extroverts. They loved that stuff. It was when they were following this gang and during a quiet moment, sat down to actually have a meal in this roadside diner and not just take out and eat off the side of the road. Roy kept flirting with Kori, and they were laughing and for a moment, just a moment, everything felt...like a movie. Like one of those memories you come back to when you're dying, those "one of the good old days" memories. And then some fucker from the gang pulled out a gun and started spraying. Ended the moment real quick. They'd ducked under a table, already firing back.
He wonders if that's why Tim goes to this diner. Easy flippable tables.
He shakes his head, just a bit, to dispel that quiet voice. Jesus. He didn't want to know the Replacement's reasoning for picking out a Daddy-Daughter lunch spot.
Though, his eyes flick over to the child, though. It is a surprise. He'd expected something more...classy. Gentrified, at least.
She holds herself. Different. She's still, but not quite like the stillness of a kid that got hit too much, a kid that tries to hide from being hurt. There's always a hint of painfear in the scrunch of their shoulders, the dip in their spines. They'll brace in a pose that they'll know (hope) will make the beating less. Not gone, but less .
Jason used to sometimes do that. He used to still, bracing, waiting, but when he wasn't? When he had Gotham as his entire home he was moving, just like the other kids did in Crime Alley. You move in Gotham, always chasing, running, fidgeting, moving.
She holds herself as if it's been trained out. Her spine is too straight, her shoulders are back. She looks, well, she doesn't look like the street kids of Gotham, eyes dark and wary and prepared. She doesn't look like some random suburban kid either. She has that upper-class look to her, a look as if she was created in the sole purpose of good genetics and upper breeding and all that bullshit for some crappy bloodline. And yet she's been one of the most polite brats he's met, saying please and thank you, and "yes sir" and "sorry, ma'ams." She doesn't have the Gothamite lilt, not yet. High chances that if she stays here, she'll be speaking like a proper Gothamite pretty quickly- especially if she spends any time with Timbers while he's driving, considering Red Robin's road rage.
Jason wonders where Tim found her.
He thumbs his phone in his pocket, tapping a familiar path before finally pulling it out, staring at the text message screen. It's been at least a month since he even spoke to Roy, the last message "Yeah", staring up at him like a glare.
There was a time that he trusted Roy Harper with almost everything.
He quickly taps a Hey. Got a question, sending it and sliding his phone back into his pocket before he regrets it.
Ana is already placing down their orders and-
A cheeseburger, open, with tomatoes on the side of the plate, away from the fries.
(A burger at another diner, talking about classes as a man gives a whisper of a smile.)
"Is there something wrong?" Ana looks concerned, of course she is, she's not used to having people get flashbacks over burgers, Jesus Christ.
"I'm fine," he gives her a smile, trying to look trustworthy. Ana just stares harder. "Thank you." That seems to placate her, and she just walks off, waiting on other tables, other customers.
"Sorry about hitting you."
He really should be focusing more on her, honestly. He chalks it up to the fact that he got slammed by a frying pan.
"It's fine," he takes a bite of the burger, chews, swallows. It still tastes exactly the same. He refuses to give it more thought. "Why the frying pan?"
"Rapunzel uses a frying pan for defense." She's dredging a fry in mustard, popping it into her mouth. He's not too shocked at her choice of meal- it's somewhat relieving to know that she enjoys chicken tenders and fries as much as a normal kid. "I like Rapunzel."
He vaguely remembers her- Roy would put on Disney or Barbies or some other colorful cartoons on a screen after a mission. He said it helped him settle, a reminder of optimism.
He would scoff, but usually settle beside him, if only to rip on the characters and story.
("She's such a flat character! I mean, give us something."
"Let me watch my Barbie Fairytopia in peace, Jay."
"The TV show was better."
"Of course you would like that meta concept, nerd." )
"Which is your favorite princess?"
"My what?"
"Your favorite princess," she repeats. "Disney Princesses. Any Princess. I like Rapunzel. Mr. Dad also likes Rapunzel but he also likes Ariel. Cassie said Wonder Woman, which is also an answer, but I'm kind of wanting to know your favorite Disney Princess. Wonder Woman is everyone's favorite. Which one is your favorite?" She takes a bite out of another fry.
"Belle, probably." He always liked that scene in the library. She nods her head. She talks as she eats, and he learns a bit more about her, such as:
-She has given each of the people she knows a Princess. From Cass to Drake's Titans, each had a special one, and she gives a short explanation for all. And he gets it, understands why Cass is Belle, Babs is Jasmine, why Bart Allen is Ariel. She lists her reasoning although- the fact that she's unsure if he's another Ariel or a Merida is something that makes him ask why the red-heads, which just makes her give a startling copy of Tim's Bitch Face, and continues to ramble on before deciding that he's Merida. He argues he knows a Merida, and he'll gladly take literally anyone else. She just makes the Bitch Face again and tells him to stop being a Merida.
-Somehow that transitions into him talking about Roy and Starfire, and even Artemis and Biz, though those still...hurt. She asks questions about them, and he gives extremely sanitized versions of his... adventures. Not all of them, but the ones he could say he's a bit proud of. Then she asks about his caseload, and says he's not a Merida, but an Esmeralda, which he'll gladly take over Merida.
-Through all of this he gleans that she spent most of her early years alone. Extremely alone- he figures out that "lessons" are actually homeschooling- she takes online courses, as long as she can remember. She speaks as if parents are a job description, and things like friends, are a novel concept, something intangible, idealistic.
-She kept her back to the door, but she arranged the chrome napkin holder to reflect what she couldn't see.
He's finishing the last of his shake, and he's getting an idea of what her past was like. And why Tim is involved. There's gaps, there's plenty of gaps and why's and how's and what the hell's, but he's a detective, a Bat, and there's a theory that's being made, and it's not one that sits right with him.
It makes him think of another time, when he had first entered the Manor, and the shadows seem to be a little darker, a little more unknown than the familiarity of Gotham's streets. Of waiting in his room, under the bed, counting his breaths while he huddled and waited for something.
It makes him think of when he had listened to the breathing of another, listened to his first friend- the first friend that cared for Jason, just Jason.
He misses pale hands and clumsy smiles even more.
Jenna, has been quiet, finishing up her meal and carefully placing her plate and milkshake glass near the edge, wiping up crumbs from the table with a napkin. Jason watches as she pulls out a leather bound book, a small Robin sticker in the center of the red cover. Flipping it open to a page, she peers at Jason, raising an eyebrow as she clicks a matching pen.
"What's your availability during the week?"
Figures Replacement's kid has a planner.
"I'm not going to be your baby-sitter, kid." He rolls his eyes at her frown. Well, more of a pout, really. "One time deal." He settles back, watching her watching him.
He has spent his time the lowest scum, with Rogues, with Batman and even Midnighter. He'd spent his time with some of the most stubborn assholes this side of the galaxy, different multiverses. He could handle a child pouting at him because he didn't have time out of his schedule to visit her. Even if it was obvious that Replacement, who's notorious for being "too busy" could spend time with her. He has plans. Ideas. Machinations. He didn't need to spend time with some. Child.
"Kid, you're nice but- trust me, you don't want to be hanging around me. I'm not great news. And your "Mr. Dad" is aware of that. So drop the idea and move on, ok?"
She still looks unimpressed, but she puts away her planner. "We'll see. Check please."
Instead of his plan on taking her back home, she gives him the slip and he tracks her because he's not letting a damn kid that practically has a sign that said "ransom me" just wander the streets of Gotham, goddamn, and she leads him all the way to Gotham Library, not even raising an eyebrow as she waits until he's beside her before walking in. She- the little shit literally put him on a wild goose chase, several times he almost called fucking Babs to see if she could get an aerial view, who the fuck is this kid? And now they're at the library.
He really should take her home.
He walks through the doors instead.
Walking in is a dream. It still smells the same from his childhood, paper and cleaning products and the hint of dust. Windows streaming in light, walls covered in shelves filled with books. This, to him, smells of safety. He could feel a knot between his shoulders unwinding, as he quietly enjoys the sense of peace, the quiet dim of computers, printers, and people reading.
There had been cases, before. Cases where it was just him and B, spending time in the library, hearing how the building settles in the night. He remembers fighting on the rooftop of this library, bugging Babs at her volunteer stint at the library, hell, just going on day trips because even B had enjoyed walking down the shelves of books.
As usual, he discards the thought. He's tired of this, how Gotham makes him think of past, he just wants to fucking-
Fuck. He isn't sure any more.
She makes a beeline for the languages, avoids the children section. Actually stops, tensing, when two kids run past her.
He takes note of that. He wonders if Tim knows about this, about the way that while it's clear she's heading to the languages, she sticks close to shadows, to the furniture and shelving that can hide her body. She's silent, and several times she had to scuttle out of the way before someone collided with her.
He bypasses the fiction section himself, going over to the literature section- he's a bit surprised that they use the Dewey Decimal system, most other libraries would have switched to the Library of Congress years ago, especially with the size of the library, but Gotham is stubborn. It's not too hard to skim the titles, try and decide if he wants Dumas again, or the collection of Rosalía de Castro poems that keeps on finding its way back to him.
He's sure he once read it at the Manor, and yet he can't seem to find any collection of hers in the library. Bruce might of taken it for his own, and like damn is he going to actually search the bastard's bedroom for a measly book. Weapons, yes. Alcohol, yes. Poetry collections were risking it too much, god forbid Demon Brat or Dickhead found him.
The book is a familiar weight in his hand, the marbled green cover faintly shining from the overhead light. He lets it fall open to a random page, letting his eyes skim over the words.
My house, my home
everyone leaves and I remain
without company or friend
I stay behind, watching
the embers of houses
of those I long for
No, not today, exhaustion and something else curling up inside him. He's not really wanting to go wallowing in Romanticism. And he's a bit tired of Dumas at the moment.
He re-shelves the collection as he grabs Little Women, moving to find out where the little chick flitted off to.
She's in a beanbag, next to a chair with it's back against the wall and a clear view of the library, one of the good chairs, with the right amount of give and support, perfect for reading. The beanbag is one of those blue pleather ones, from the kids section, the ones he swears have been there since he was a kid. Maybe even longer.
He notices several kids hovering close to her, their eyes wary, almost as if they were wanting to interact with her, but they scatter as soon as he sits down. He eyes her; she's not doing anything other than reading, and apparently she's learning Arabic. Well. That's interesting.
"Mind tell me what that was all about?" She looks up at him, face completely open, and blinking a bit, exactly like he used to do when he resurfaced from a good book. "The kids," he clarifies, motioning with his child in the general vicinity of where they were last at. "They were looking at you."
"Oh," she tilts her head. "What'd they look like?"
"Why?"
"There's two that like to call me "weird", and four others that just like to watch me as if I'm an interesting exhibition at a zoo, and make faces at me so they can laugh at my reaction." Her eyes are back to the book, and her voice level, but her body is saying that she doesn't like it, but doesn't know how to fix it. It's...not violent, and they're obviously keeping their distance, but fuck, that's...pretty shitty. He kind of wants to do something. He remembers being stared at by elite brats when he was just adopted, the sneers and whispers that haunted him as he walked past. He had assumed that she would be exempted from that.
Then again, it didn't matter- Kori had dealt with whispers, Artemis as well. Class didn't matter if you were a woman, he supposes. Or, it did- it meant that you could never, ever fall.
From his vantage point, he can see the children section. See where she grabbed the bean bag, see other kids reading, or running around. See them talking to friends or family members.
He looks down and sees her, silent as she quietly studies, her legs curled up underneath her, very prim and proper and alone.
"Do you want to?" She looks up again, startling herself out of her book again. He motions his head over to where the children section is at. She just blinks at him, not even registering his words before:
"Oh. No. I'm not wanted over there," she goes back to the book. "I'm too wrong."
That's. That's too much of a loaded statement for him to deal with, for him to want to deal with. So he returns back to Alcott, and quietly, they read their books together as time passes by.
Somehow he ends up checking out three books.
Somehow his library card still works.
As he marveling that revelation (he's curious about how and why his library card is still active, but he has a hunch it has to go with a certain Bat) he finally gets a reply from Roy, a If it's about what I have a feeling it's about, then I'll call later.
He ignores how his chest is unsettled (how relieved he feels) as he types out a response. What, you psychic now, Harper?
-Lol. No. But I figured you would eventually meet the Baby bird. The newest one.
-Wait, you actually know about her?
-Long story. I'll explain later. Or you can ask her.
He glances down. She has been carefully walking back next to him, keeping his stride. He thinks how strange they must look, side by side, her all bright and new, and him in his old clothes and worn look in life. She had her head straight ahead, but there's that shift in her eyes, the one that everyone gets, eventually- living in a place where crime could be literally around the corner, where the buildings are so tight they block the sun, it's hard to not be on edge when you're outside.
Hers looks a little too familiar on her face.
They stop at the doorway, and she takes out a keycard and key attached to several different keychains- he sees the Flash symbol, Wonder Woman, Superman. A metal engraving of two R's.
He thinks of days crammed into small places, a large pale hand warm on his shoulder. Of red hair, fiery hair, red armor and red arrows. Red axe-handles and pale smiles. He-
"Do you want to see my collection?"
He glances down, staring at her open face.
His immediate thought is no. Nothing good out of having a collection. Collections are usually something creepy or horrifying. However, he smiles his best, winning smile and says "sure," following her up the stairs and to a room that Tim had been using as an extra guest room/storage space, since why not? There's still hours left before he needs to get ready for patrol, and so far she's turning out to be at least more interesting than cleaning his guns, and way less annoying than, say, Damian. He hopes, as he takes off the sunglasses, wincing as his eyes adjust, it's something mercifully ordinary, and not indicators that she's a mini psychopath or sociopath.
When they enter the bedroom, he's not sure what he's expecting.
Maybe to see the bedroom as it was- a full bed with an old headboard in the corner, an Ikea dresser, mismatched chairs filled with old computer parts and other miscellaneous items spilling onto the floor. The walls, the same generic gray as half of the place, with some random marks from the various vigilantes and metahumans that had crashed there. Or one of those perfect little girly bedrooms- pink walls and Disney princesses and everything soft and delicate that it makes him feel like some sort of bad spirit, like just his presence alone can destroy the innocence of the room. Even one of those modern looking ones, with all the white and light wood. He would bet on color coordination, at least.
Instead he gets walls that have been re-done, burn marks and bullet holes spackled and painted over, painted in a pink, but more of a reddish pink. A pastel coral, some voice says in his brain, sounding like a familiar chuckle as he continues to look around the room.
Gone was the junk and the bed shoved as an afterthought- there were a couple of tables shoved into an L by the door's wall, with a nice "desk" setting on one side (that computer rig was all Tim and Babs, which, the fuck) with a matching stationery set, transitioning to a chemistry set and microscope, a camera bag against several binders beside them. A bookshelf painted Superman blue and Flash red with bins filled with comic books on the bottom, the rest of the shelves filled with a variety of books, fiction and nonfiction. There was the familiar window right next to the bookshelf, bright yellow curtains with little red birds in flight.
On the opposite wall, there's a closet door that's painted red, and the same logos for all four of Tim's little "Core Four" group are carefully stenciled and painted on. Next to the closet door, is a gigantic panel of corkboard, all with- pictures and pieces of string and just random pieces of trash and other items, stuff that he wouldn't think twice of, but for a kid, means the entire world. The pictures aren't anything incriminating or personal, at least not at first glance; there's a shot of an oil spill there, a blurry one of a Chinese lantern, a small hand the broad expanse back of Tim's favorite gargoyle.
So he's showing her Gotham. That's good.
Her closet door is closed, and there's a short purple dresser off to the side, but what takes the cake is the bed shoved in the other corner, close by the window.
It looked like a slightly elevated twin bed, with a mismatch of bedding. He couldn't really tell from the canopy.
The canopy made up of familiar red and black wings, arranged as if almost encasing everything, hiding the bed in whatever the fuck Tim originally made that thing because that's definitely Tim's cape-glider monstrosity, the same one Steph would crack Vegas jokes. The wings glint faintly, a reminder of how deadly they could be. (He made this a canopy for a child?)
She's underneath the bed, digging out something and she pulls out this old beaten lock box that had a quarter of it melted right off and someone had patched it up with duct tape and bent metal scraps
Jason- he's used to the dichotomy of them, Bats, Outlaws, Vigilantes, Capes. Each and every one of them wear personas over personas to the point that some don't know where the mask ends and the person begins. Fuck knows he understands it. There's been times where he's stared at the Red helmet, just cradled it, and thought how much of his life is now tangled in Hood and Robin and Bats and the Mission, that there wasn't much left for Jason at all. If there ever was.
She pulls out the box and he thinks that maybe Jenna understands personas as well. Because prim and proper little girls don't keep melted lock boxes.
Carefully, she hands him the box, staring up at his face. "You can open it."
Inside is lined with some sort of dark fabric- crushed velvet, actually, nestling an assortment of items.
Several marbles, one cracked. Two earrings, one that was a bright pink hoop with multi-colored rhinestones studded in it, one that was a strange bird symbol in pressed gold metal. Three guitar picks. Some feathers, all in different colors. Three pieces of melted, twisted metal. A birthday card. Some rocks. Two red fletchings, looking exactly what Harper uses. A half destroyed batarang.
A half destroyed batarang.
How.
"I found them after an alien invasion with Arsenal's used arrows," she states, looking up to him. "They were on a ledge of one of the buildings nearby- I climbed and grabbed them. I couldn't bring the...stick part? The shaft? Down with me, but I could take back the feather parts."
"Fletchings," he murmurs, "they're called fletchings." He twists the batarang, watching how the light glints off the black metal, seeing the clean lines warped into a melted mess.
He...he remembers hearing about it. Some alien asshole that decided that Star City was a good idea to conquer, for some fucking reason. He remembers hearing how they called in Young Justice for it, called in the Titans. He remembers thinking of calling Roy, wondering if he patched up with Dinah. He remembers getting sidelined with another mission, another case, another hand on his shoulder, another redhead smiling at him. He misses Roy, he knows. He misses spending time with the loud Archer, how he once always had his back. How Roy would give him smiles, and it would feel like, for a moment, there wasn't a knot of rage that lived in his chest. He turns the batarang over and over in his hands.
He remembers when he got the first one to hit dead center of the target, the pride in Bruce's eyes. His palm was warm and big on his shoulder, and he could feel his own pride rising up at the sight of that impassive face opening up a little, a small smile gracing the face.
"Great job," Bruce said. "Now do it again." And he did. The metal shined starkly in the cave, black spots marring the targets.
"You're wondering how did I climb a ledge, aren't you?" His eyes flick back to her. He'd nearly forgotten her.
"I'm wondering how you know Arsenal," he responds. He's wondering how the hell did she climb a damn ledge.
"Cause he used to be Speedy," she says, not even a bit ashamed. "He's very distinctive."
"Distinctive" would be a word to use to describe Roy Harper, with his red hair and tattoos and propensity for explosives. Roy Harper and that grin that he gives to only Jay, that grin that makes Jason feel like he's actually a good person, that he's not a good person because he feels like a good person at the sight of that grin.
It's a very complicated grin.
"You're from Star City, originally?" He clears his throat, trying to ignore the grit that appears in his throat. Cigarettes. They stick to you. She nods her head as he passes back the piece of memory. "So how did you get here?" He kind of hopes that Tim hasn't finally lost it from overworking and just. Stole a kid. For some reason.
"I'm here for the apprenticeship," she says calmly.
Jason blinks. Continues to blink because that came out of left field.
"What apprenticeship?" Replacement knows labor laws. Replacement works for Wayne Enterprises, and helped update the damn Employee Handbook, he knows this, Replacement was bitching about it during one patrol. And she's fucking eight. She has to be wrong.
"I applied to be Mr. Red Robin's- or Mr. Drake-Wayne's assistant," she says, which. Fuck that's ballsy for her. Also, completely illegal. "He declined." Oh thank fuck. "But he suggested this position instead and so he became Mr. Dad." What the fuck, Replacement.
He's about to just leave and go over to Wayne Corp, to shoot the Fucker, and he. Stops. Looks.
She's closing the box, the one with the half batarang, heading back to crawl underneath her bed. The bed with the glider cape and the bedding in the room that obviously Tim made to make her happy.
Tim isn't. Nice. Sure, people think he's nice, but in reality he's smart, just shy of condescending and acts like a know-it-all creep, exactly like Batman, except Replacement knows when to back off- usually. He'll move the goddamn mountains for you, but he's fucking selective. He had to be. They all had to be. And if someone asked Jason yesterday if Tim would be a good potential parent, Jason wouldn't believe it for a damn minute. But maybe that thought, that Tim couldn't be a parent, is a bit off. Because in his mind, Tim wouldn't make up a room for a child he didn't care about. Tim wouldn't have given her clothes or babysitters or even make phone calls during lunch time to check up on her. Tim's weird like that- he'll bend over backwards if he cares for you, otherwise he's just absently polite, if you're normal. But this isn't normal. And the girl- Jenna- something inside is off, he has to admit. Because normal girls don't keep melted batarangs and know when vigilantes changed masks. They also don't lie to their foster fathers to hang out with known Crime Lords. They do things like, play with dolls or go to actual school and have friends and a family that cares for them. They have a bedroom and a home. And they certainly don't climb ledges near battlefields to grab souvenirs.
They had wandered back into the kitchen, and he's watching blankly as she navigates her way through familiar cabinets, appliances. The stove and countertops are pristine, as if breakfast didn't happen- there's not even a single plate in the drying rack. He watches as she pours both of them two glasses of ice water. For a kid, she knows how to be hospitable.
"Are you okay?" She has a crease in between her eyes. "You don't have to stay, if you need to go."
Frankly, he would punch himself before leaving a child alone, even a well-behaved one, even if she could easily handle herself. It just wasn't right. "I'm fine, just, you know when- Tim is coming back?" He almost said Replacement, he had it on the tip of his tongue, and the memory of lunch reminded him that he should cool it for the nicknames for a while.
"Mr. Dad will be arriving at 6:27, give or take five minutes due to traffic. Then we have dinner, and watch an episode of either Star Trek or Tangled before he suits up for patrol, and then a safe person arrives to patrol the house while he does his regular patrol," she looks a bit proud, puffing up a bit as she continues, "Only now I'm allowed to stay on comms with Ms. Babs until 10, unless it's deemed "too dangerous" and I can put myself to bed. Mr. Dad gets home around 2, from what the sensors tell."
So they have a routine. That's good. The fact that she's tucking herself into bed is kind of shitty, but also, he's the fucking Red Hood so what the fuck does he know. He's also realizing that the reason why other Bats have been blowing him off or asking to for him to cover their patrols is also probably because of "patrolling the house" or more likely, "night babysitting duty." They're probably in a roster somewhere.
He's literally been asked from everyone except the Annoying Trinity to cover patrols, to cover cases, which is why he was damn behind on his own cases, and maybe part of the reason he nearly got shot, which means that everyone else knows, except those Three. And. That kind of stings.
He knows him and Tim aren't friends, but he also thought that with the blood and bullshittery and just being a Bat and a Wayne, it would mean that he would at least get a fucking text about major life events. Like gaining a kid.
But. They aren't close, he amends. They're friendly, not friends. They patrol, they fight together, they work cases- but it's been a long time since he and Red Robin ever stepped out together outside of masks. He had the Outlaws and other missions and dealing with losing Biz and Artemis. Tim had WE and Young Justice and fuck knows what else. There would be a priority list, somewhere, on who would know first. And barely-allies are probably way down the list.
It's been a while since he's been in Gotham.
He glances down at the girl, quietly drinking her water as she sits properly in her chair, eyes carefully ahead. She's not fidgeting, she's still and quiet and that means something.
"Why-" He stops, considers. "Why Red Robin?" That's the question that has been dancing on the edges of his mind. Batman he can understand. Nightwing he can understand. Hell, there's been some times where he ends up caring for a child or two under alias at various safehouses because a parent needs a quick babysitter.
She squints at him. "Why Red Hood?"
"No, seriously, why Red Robin?" At her silence, he sighed. "I'm not going to get him in trouble, or hurt him, or harm him or anything like that. I'm just curious why on Earth did you choose Red Robin over, an Arrow or someone else." He waves a hand, keeping a façade of blasé.
"Oh," she pauses, looking down at her glass before staring at him again, her face screwed up with determination. "I have a question."
"I asked first," he challenges, raising an eyebrow.
"And I'll tell you once you answer my question," she responds, fast. He leans back. "Fine. Shoot."
"Do you hate the LGBT community?" It's sudden, harsh. She's looking at a particular spot, not him anymore, at least, not directly. Her posture had changed, away from sitting up ram-rod straight, and curving more into something that's sickeningly familiar.
"No. No I do not," he says, quiet. He watches her take a shaky breath, a nod that seems more for herself than for him. He's. Surprised. He shouldn't, but yet that question came from nowhere except.
She is not looking at him, but she is also not backing down.
"My name is Jenna," He doesn't move, doesn't blink. "This is my name, and no one can take that away from me. I chose my name. And I am a girl but." She stops, shrinking into herself. "But."
Things click into place.
Jason's a Bat, adopted by Wayne. But he's not from the suburbs, from Bristol. He's from the East End, from Crime Alley. He's used to seeing more than cookie cutter looks, cookie cutter identities. There was a transwoman that used to give him a cookie or a sweet ever so often, back when it was just him and his Mom. Sometimes she would ruffle his hair, her bright fake nails barely grazing his scalp, her smile tired but real, fond. She was a hooker by trade, but everyone knew- it was in the hint of shadow that was on the underside of her square jaw, the prominence of her Adam's apple. Everyone knew, but no one cared, not even when she ended up dead from a Joker attack.
There was also this trans girl that used to sleep in the alleyway beside one of his safety houses. She never spoke a word to him, but every so often he would hear her voice mumble to gang members, to Bats, that she hadn't seen him at all. She kept her mouth shut and in return he would leave takeout boxes, or in some cases, bottles of estrogen from pharm busts in places where she would find it. Eventually, she had disappeared, either due to opportunities or death, he's unsure.
There's a group of queer youths that squat in one of the warehouses, around five to fifteen, and maybe he gives them a hint when he hears some chatter about a Rogue planning something near the dock. Nothing really, just making sure that the civilians are kept away from the life if they want to. They usually give him a nod as they pass, scattering or keeping their mouth shut when one of them gets caught by police- as if anyone of them would be squealing to pigs. They give him wary eyes, but for the most part keep to themselves, their clothes a mismatch of purloined items that they could fit and run with, their bodies hunching over to hide in shadows.
Jenna isn't any of those. She's a proper little girl who wears dresses and has manners and still calls herself wrong. She hides in shadows and keeps a wary eye. She would willingly walk the streets of Gotham, but avoid the children's section of a library.
Avoid other kids and parents and prejudices.
Jason is getting a nasty feeling in his gut.
"I am a girl," she starts again. "Even if the Parents didn't see me as that," she says. He raises an eyebrow. "What did they see you as?"
She shrugs. "Replaceable."
Ice. Theres. His veins are ice as he numbly listens to her speak.
Of anger and positions and how she was wrong because she couldn't be a tool , she couldn't figure out how to just be useful, only worthless. She spoke of hands, and hisses. Of glass and stone and silence, of unpredictable schedules, unpredictable rules, and knowing that her time was running out. How to hide and climb and escape, just for a moment, to watch the Arrows, sometimes. Watch how they work. Saw other superheroes, even got saved by one, once. An out-of-towner that was helping Speedy.
He had red wings.
Listening to her talk about Red Robin is surreal. Listening to her gush about Tim is surreal. This Kid- this kid talks about scrapbooks and printed articles and is such a little fangirl for Red Robin.
He listens when she realized that he was a Bird not an Arrow and more importantly a Bat had people helping, and she thought-
She thought-
She thought she could be by his side. As an assistant. Because the Parents-
"I mean, they said they had plans for a real child, that I would be leaving soon, and the foster system- there's stories online," her face is filled with worry. "And the statistics show that I had an increased chance of getting assaulted or worse. So I took my chances and asked him for a job." He stares numbly at her. Just.
She talks about how Red Robin got her this apprenticeship. And she's excited for it. How Tim, how Tim-
"Kid, child labor is illegal." And morally reprehensible. "You can't- it's not an apprenticeship."
She looks uncertain now. "He said he couldn't hire me," she repeats, "But he says this is an apprenticeship. Which means he's legally obligated to care for me, and provide me with housing and meals, and provide for my education as he prepares me for the real world." And that sounds less like an apprenticeship and more like the basic requirements of parenting in his book. "He also says he's fostering me, but."
"But?" He prompted.
She shrugs. "It doesn't make sense why he would want to foster me. We don't share the same blood type, and maybe we're a match for organs or blood marrow, but it's harder for organs to be transferred if the blood type-"
"People don't foster children for their organs, " he spits. People foster children for other horrible reasons, but he knows that somewhere, some families foster children 'cause they want to, you know, help.
"Not usually, no," she says. "But Red Robin is a hero, and works for a multi-billion corporation, so it's not like he's doing it for the usual circumstances." She cocks her head. "He doesn't want to hurt me, he spends time with me, he doesn't need the money, and any of the usual reasons…" she makes a face and says nothing about it. He grimaces, only letting the thought of some of his old foster homes flash across his mind. Tim isn't like that. No matter what, Tim will never be like that. "So, obviously, he needs organs, but he got me instead," she finishes, a small frown on her face. "I want to help more. So I have this apprenticeship and it's going pretty fine so far. I'm learning vigilante stuff along with civilian regular knowledge."
Jason hums, non-committal, because hearing how she speaks about herself, about her past- fuck, he's barely dealing with his own bullshit. He's definitely not equipped to handle the fragile mess someone has to be when they're a child and preferring to live with a vigilante, especially one like Tim.
And that's the kicker.
Dick, Roy, Kate, hell, Babs or even Bruce would be good. Jason thought about kids a couple of times. Really it just comes down to simply two facts.
The people he listed? Are fans of having children. Want children. Have children.
Tim? Isn't on the list.
Tim isn't a kid fan.
He never was. Maybe it's because he spent most of his life alone or with half-assed parents-and yeah, maybe Willis liked using his fists, and Catherine was a druggie, but some of the stuff that Tim had casually mentioned that Jack did, or the lack of what Janet would do, it made Jason's stomach curl. The worst is that Tim didn't seem to even notice or care. Or perhaps just with everything, he couldn't bring himself to care about old scars, more worried about the newer ones. But whatever the reasons, it also made him be cold. Sharp. He could research the best ways of parenting, but the idea of actually parenting a child seems to escape him. Jason's spent time watching him deal with de-aged superheroes a handful of times, and Tim isn't good with kids. If you told Jason that Tim would pull a Bruce and adopt a kid, he would laugh his ass off before going to punch some sense into the fucker because what?
But as he looks around the safehouse, the place that Tim had usually called his "façade," there are elements of life in the place. The cool, minimalist design has been replaced with more warmer tones, of wood, of cloth. A bit more security at the perimeters. There's two analog clocks already added to the open floor plan, in visible sight for a kid to see. He sees the calendar on the fridge.
Tim wouldn't let things like scheduled or pictures be out where anyone could see- their lives are too dangerous for that. Too bloody. But he would make it so that someone was happy. Bend over backwards to make people happy.
Tim's obviously trying to make her happy. He's going at it a weird way, with the "apprenticeship" but it did make sense. She sees herself as a broken tool (god that, that's just fucking wrong) and there's a lot more reasoning, but it makes sense. Call it an apprenticeship, an internship- she obviously knows those definitions. She doesn't understand what things like "parents are supposed to unconditionally love you" that much is obvious.
There's more he's missing, he's sure; maybe it's time for him to stick around a bit longer in Gotham, figure out the missing pieces, make sure the Rep-Tim doesn't fuck up, doesn't accidentally leave this chickadee alone. You know. Lend a hand with the patrol.
Maybe it's the fact that he still needs to talk to Roy, hear a familiar voice. Maybe it's the stitches in his side. Maybe it's the fact that it still fucking hurts to even think about Biz and Artemis and outside of Gotham, everything reminds him of them.
That's a lot of maybes. He taps against his glass, watching the condensation slide down the glass.
He'll need a steady income. Maybe a new project. He's been hearing rumors that Penguin is maybe getting a bit reckless, a bit too arrogant. There would be something amazing, destroying Penguin's network. Or not destroying.
Taking it, like the fucker did to plenty of innocent victims of his. Molding it, reshaping it into something that truly becomes his own, something that Jason could use to his own advantage, to help. All of them know business, and it would be easy enough to-
"So, you're coming back next Tuesday, right?" He blinks and she's not looking at him, but there was a hopeful tinge in her voice.
"No." Because he is not going to bend over to a kid. Not even Tim's kid. Not even if she has a shitty childhood under her belt, and thinks that being with Bats is better than what she had. He has a life, a choice.
Her eyes flit over to his as she raises an eyebrow. "Why not? You enjoy the library, and I go there every Tuesday."
"Well-"
"And I know about your other lifestyle, and I have done my research. I also live with a vigilante, a Bat. If it's about the fact that I live with a Bat, then why do you work with them sometimes? And it's not like you're a monster, you don't hurt children, there's proof ."
"Well-"
"And I'm apprenticing. I'm supposed to learn a variety of skill sets that can help me once I enter the workforce. And you have a variety of skill sets that can help me survive Gotham and not die, like an idiot."
"Now hold on-"
"And I would listen. To your instructions."
He pauses. Looks at her. Considers.
"You aren't at the moment," he says, eyes narrowing. All she does is give him an innocent look. He doesn't believe it for a second.
"I would listen if you taught me how to survive Gotham and how to be a proper Gothamite every Tuesday from 1pm to 2pm."
"It's going to take more than an hour to teach you, kid, hell, not even your lifetime would be enough." And fuck, she ain't giving him puppy eyes, but the look of pure want and eagerness is making him feel all soft. Fuck him. He's got a soft spot with kids and maybe the fact that she's asking him to teach her, to show her Gotham, how to be a true Gothamite. Maybe the fact that she helped reminded him about his little pockets of peace he once had. Maybe it's the fact that she wants to learn from him. She's already in this mess- once Tim makes up his mind, he rarely goes back, and with this one, he's damn positive she's here to stay. He might as well teach her how to properly survive Gotham, survive the world.
He's been getting a little tired of traveling, and Gotham is shitty, but it's familiar. And yet it changes, morphs, moves. Some old buildings have been torn down. Some new buildings have been built. Dick's memory has been getting better. Tim acquired a kid. Obviously shit's been going down in Gotham, and maybe he needs to stay to keep a finger on the pulse. He gives Jenna a look, observing the proper, polite, and peculiar child.
"I need to talk it out with Tim." It's all he says, but it's an admittance. And she knows it.
She gives him a grin, a vague mirror of Red Robin's sharp one, leaning over the counter to click her glass with his. "To the start of a new academic venture." He huffs at her words, rolling his eyes as he clicks his glass against hers again and taking a swallow. He watches as her grin gets wider, messier. Real.
"Can you teach me how to break into a bank vault?" He blinks, before grinning at her with the same sincerity.
"To new academic ventures" indeed. The Little Chickadee and him are going to have fun.