#platonic fluff

Jason leaned against the doorframe. “So the rumors are true.”

Bruce looked up, shoulders tensing. “Jason.”

“Relax, B,” He said, holding up his hands. “I didn't come here to fight.” He gave a low whistle, eyes flicking between the billionaire and the trembling bundle in his lap. “But I will say I'm surprised. Didn’t think you had it in you to make another one. What’s his story?”

Bruce exhaled, slow and heavy, the kind of sound that already carried too many sleepless nights behind it. His gaze fell to the little boy—who clung to him tighter as if he understood he was being talked about—and something in Bruce’s expression cracked.

“He was left here.”

Jason frowned. “Left. What do you mean, left?”

Bruce’s tone was low, steady, but there was a tremor beneath it: anger, regret, maybe both. “She showed up three nights ago. Came right to the gate.” He paused, eyes unfocused as if still seeing it. “She had him in her arms. No car seat. No bag. Just him. She said it was mine.”

Jason blinked. “And you just believed her?”

“She gave me the DNA test that confirms he's mine. After that, she handed me his birth certificate and..." He trailed off, eyes hardening. "Told me if I didn't want him, she'd 'let the system deal with it.' Her words, not mine.”

Jason looked at the kid properly then. And yeah, he could see it now. Underneath the cute cheeks and soft curls, the boy looked worn. There were faint bruises along his arms, the kind you got when you were grabbed too hard. His hair was uneven, like someone had cut it in a hurry. His eyes—those big, dark eyes—were dull in a way no toddler’s should be.

“Christ, B…” Jason muttered, disbelief flickering to disgust. “He looks like he’s been through hell.”

Bruce didn’t disagree. He adjusted his hold, careful not to jostle the child, who whimpered when the fabric shifted. “The doctor said he’s underweight. Mild dehydration. Nothing permanent, but—he doesn’t like noise, or touch. And he doesn’t speak. They think he might’ve stopped trying to because no one ever answered him.”

Jason’s chest tightened. “How old is he?”

“Two and a half,” Bruce murmured. “His name’s Y/N. I don’t know if she gave it to him or if it was something a nurse chose.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the faint ticking of the clock. Y/N peeked up from Bruce’s jacket, eyes darting warily toward Jason.

Seeing this, Jason crouched down, resting his arms on his knees. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, voice gentler than anyone in the room expected. “You gonna keep hidin’ in there forever, or you gonna say hi?”

Y/N blinked at him. His little chest rose and fell fast, uncertain, but when Jason gave a small, exaggerated wink, something flickered behind those tired eyes. A spark. Jason smiled faintly. “Yeah, that’s it. I see you.”

And then, out of nowhere, a tiny giggle.

Everyone froze.

Tim looked up from the corner of the couch. “Did he—?”

“Yes, Master Timothy,” Alfred said softly, wonder slipping through his composure. “He did.”

Y/N giggled again, like the sound surprised him, too. Then, to everyone’s shock, he reached out, small hands stretching toward Jason.

Jason blinked, then chuckled. “Well, can’t say no to that.” He moved closer, slow, like approaching a wild animal, and let the boy grab at his jacket sleeve. Y/N's fingers curled around the leather, knuckles still pale, but his breathing steadied. He tugged, weak but determined, until Jason was close enough to touch.

Damian scowled. “Clearly, he has no taste.”

Jason shot him a look. “Don’t be jealous, demon spawn.”

“Why would I be jealous of a—”

“Damian,” Bruce interrupted before the bickering could start, still watching the toddler with wide eyes. “He likes you.”

Jason glanced down at the kid still tugging curiously at his jacket zipper. “Yeah, I’m getting that impression.”

The little boy laughed again when Jason exaggeratedly tugged the zipper up and down, making a ‘vroooom’ sound. Soon, the boy was giggling so hard he had to hide his face in Jason’s chest. And just like that Jason was done for. From that day forward, the toddler followed him like a shadow.

If Jason sat on the couch, there he was, crawling up beside him.

If Jason tried to leave the room, tiny footsteps trailed behind.

If Jason disappeared for more than a minute, there’d be little sniffles echoing through the hall until he came back.

Jason swore he wasn’t good with kids. He wasn’t soft, not like Dick or Alfred. But every time the little guy hid behind his jacket when strangers came around, or reached up for him to carry him instead of Bruce. Jason couldn’t say no. Everyone noticed this, but that didn't mean they approved.

“Jason,” Dick said one morning, watching as the boy waddled across the living room straight to Jason’s lap, ignoring everyone else. “You’re good with him, but maybe don’t encourage too much attachment.”

Jason’s smile dropped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He needs stability,” Tim added carefully. “And you—”

“Are what? The screw-up? The ‘bad influence’?” Jason’s tone sharpened. “Y/N's not scared of me. He’s scared of everything else. That kid flinches when someone raises their voice or moves too fast. You think me hanging out with him’s the problem?”

Damian, ever blunt, muttered, “He shouldn’t get used to people who might leave.”

Jason turned, jaw tight. “I ain’t leaving."

Dick’s expression softened, but his voice stayed careful, the kind that made Jason want to throw something at him. “We’re not saying you’d do it on purpose, Jay. But you know how it goes. You’ve got your own life, and Bruce—”

“—can barely keep up with one kid, much less five,” Jason snapped. “Yeah, I know. Believe me, I remember.”

Tim flinched. Damian frowned, about to say something sharp, but one small sound cut through the tension like a knife: a quiet whimper.

The boy had pressed his face into Jason’s shirt, tiny fingers fisting the fabric. Jason’s anger melted instantly. He shifted the kid higher into his arms, murmuring, “Hey, hey. It’s okay, little man. I’m not mad.”

“Jay…” Dick sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’re just worried about him.”

“Then be worried about the right things,” Jason said, voice low now. “He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t laugh unless I’m around. You don’t see the way he shuts down when people get too close. He needs someone who won’t scare him off just by existing.”

Done with this conversation, Jason stood up with Y/N in his arms and began to walk in the direction of the kitchen. He didn’t need to look back to know the others were staring: Tim with that furrowed brow like he wanted to apologize but didn’t know how, Dick chewing on guilt, Damian pretending not to care but clearly affected.

In the kitchen, the air was quieter. Alfred glanced up from the stove, calm as ever. “Argument, Master Jason?”

Jason huffed a humorless laugh, settling the kid on his hip as he opened the fridge one handed. “You could say that.”

“Ah.” Alfred didn’t press. He rarely needed to. “Would the young master care for some warm milk?”

Jason looked down at the boy, who was still half hiding in his jacket. “You want that, kiddo?” The toddler peeked up, gave the smallest nod, and whispered yes. Something in Jason’s chest went soft and tight all at once. “You got it, champ.”

Alfred’s eyes warmed, though he kept his expression composed as he poured milk into a small cup. “He’s quite attached to you.”

Jason leaned back against the counter, bouncing the kid gently in his arms. “Yeah, I noticed. Guess I don’t exactly mind.”

“Nor should you,” Alfred said, handing over the cup. “Children often know far better than adults whom they can trust.”

Jason gave a small, crooked smile. “You saying I’m trustworthy, Alfred?”

“I’m saying,” Alfred replied, with that dry fondness only he could manage, “that perhaps Master Bruce isn’t the only one capable of fatherly instincts.”

Jason nearly choked on a laugh. “Fatherly? Me?”

Hey everyone! Sorry for being so radio silent! Started a new part time job and been just trying to actually take time for myself this summer XD but thought it was about time for another lil Other Brother au comic!

now while crewel may be a notoriously strict teacher when it comes to how he treats his ‘pups’, he is also far from heartless and does always do what he can to make sure all of his students are set up for success. both in his class and, begrudgingly to an extent, in all of their others. tough love, with a lot of lectures on proper lab safety and plenty of detentions sprinkled in because why in the sevens’ names did you think it was a good idea to throw your potion at your seat mate, trappola?

and your particular case — being dragged in from an entirely different world, being forced to rely on crowley for survival and a way home which you both know he’s trying to get out of helping you with, being entirely devoid of magic in a magic-centred school and society at large, and having absolutely zero knowledge basis for everything you’re being forced to learn at night raven college — when combined with your endless enthusiasm to learn about your new home is one that softens his heart the most, even if he doesn’t exactly show it in how he treats you in class. he’s always had a thing for the helpless ones, and the ones who fight against all the odds to succeed, but he also refuses to show any unearned favouritism so good luck catching onto his soft spot if the only time you see him is during class hours

but that’s not to say that his favouritism towards you doesn’t ever impact how he treats you. because, in fact, it really, really does and you don’t even need to look all that far to see that

because it shows in the way he frames your ‘punishments’ compared to your friends and classmates even if you’re all in trouble for the exact same incident — assigning you simple tasks that allow you to better memorise the names and appearances and scents of the various ingredients utelised in alchemy in a safe environment, while your friends get assigned cleanup duty after his most messy class on record. not to say that painstakingly gathering plant matter or reorganising his surprisingly sizeable walk-in ingredients cupboard is easy, per se, as you’re still gonna come out of it with an awful crick in your neck and some lingering pain in your joints, but it’s still worlds better than the other option

it shows in how much kinder his written feedback is phrased whenever you get handed back an essay or exam or homework assignment for his class — his words less sharp, his spelling corrections softened with an unspoken understanding of how foreign these concepts and terms all are for you, his critique given with some praise sprinkled in when he can tell you’ve clearly understood the subject at hand but can’t quite figure out how to describe it on paper, and so on. he doesn’t grade you any kinder than your classmates, as that would be terribly unfair of him and he wants to treat all of his pups equally, but there is a clear air of leniency in how he writes and corrects you, even in the fact that he offers more written feedback on your work than most of your fellow students (because, after all, he wants to make sure you fully understand the grade you received and he wants to cover his bases to try and bridge the gap between your experience back home and here as much as he can… and this was his best solution)

it shows in how much more patient he is with you when you’re struggling with the very basics of his subject — offering his corrections patiently, warmly encouraging your enthusiasm for alchemy (and being internally very proud and very smug that it’s his subject that caught the interdimensional traveler’s eye over trien’s, even if he won’t say as much to you due to the sheer unprofessionalism of it), and offering additional lessons for you to attend just to make sure you’re able to fully grasp what you’re doing. leniency provided that no other student could dream of, if only because he knows you would have had no way of learning all of this before ending up in his class (you didn’t even know about the great seven at the start of the school year, for their sake!)

it shows in how he goes out of his way to provide you with what you need to get by, all while disguising it with either sharp critique or blatant dismissal. e.g. throwing new clothes at you with a comment about how you need to better represent your institution, directing you towards the textbooks you need and pretending it’s just homework (despite him never assigning it to the other students), making sure you always have enough food on your plate under the guise of making sure his students don’t collapse mid-lab because that could be very dangerous, and so on

and it shows in how much attention he gives to you after and between lessons. small conversations where he encourages you to be honest no matter what, where he makes sure to check in on how you’re doing mentally and physically and makes mental notes of how he and the other staff members can better help you. and that’s not even to mention the very long one-to-one he has with you right before and immediately after any school breaks as he wants to ensure you have everything you need to tide you over until everyone comes back

all signs of affection and favouritism that come across as borderline paternal sometimes in ways that, frankly, crewel had never even imagined himself being, that you don’t really need to look all that hard to see. and that some of your close friends may even pick up on if they bother to look beyond the surface of your interactions with him

Leon inhales sharply at the myriad of wires and tubes on you, he knows your okay it’s just that it looks really…serious. But nonetheless he’s gotta pull it together, he’s the dad, and that means putting on a brave face even when he’s scared. It’s easy to let go of the heavy breath stirring in his chest when his frantic gaze softens and lands your chubby swollen cheeks and dopey smile.

“Hey sweetheart,” he chuckles, shrugging off his coat before settling down on the chair closest to your bedside.

He feels a little anxious being so close to the machinery, which again, makes things look so much worse, but chooses to focus on your cottony gaze instead.

“Mmh what?” you ask, blinking at him and the PA with a toothy grin, “whose this…old guy.”

Leon narrows his eyes playfully when you break out into a fit of giggles, then gently restrains your hand that reaches a wire that looks pretty important.

“Who’s that old guy??” The physician assistant asks in a humorous tone, “That’s Mr. Kennedy.”

“Is he gonna take me to my dad?” You ask, hands patting mindlessly against your stomach as if you were looking for something, like your wallet.

The physician assistant shakes her head fondly, “He sure is, aren’t you?”

“If it’s the last thing I do,” he affirms, grabbing your hand that reaches again (for his face this time), before placing a gentle kiss on the back of it, “you know since I’m apparently so old, it might actually be.”

You turn your head to him, nuzzling into the hand that now gently caresses the damp wisps of hair away from your face, “Don’t worry Mr. Ken, my dads also old he has like…some white hairs on his beard and head, kinda like you—you kinda look like him…Mr. Kandy.”

“I am your dad, you malt ball,” he chuckles softly, pinching your swollen cheek.

“I’m gonna give you two some space, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call for me or our team of nurses,” the PA reassured.

Leon nodded, taking note of where the button was before the PA closed the door.

“The IV is making my hand cold…feels like it’s gonna freeze off.” You whimpered, wriggling your fingers to bring some warmth to them to no avail.

Leon’s heart ached, he felt so helpless right now, but all he could do was take your hand in his and massage it, hoping his body heat would transfer over.

“Mr Menkendy,” you spoke again, and Leon huffed, preparing himself for what was to tumble out of your mouth next.

“Yeah honey?”

“Don’t tell my dad, but you know one time before he left for work—he has this really important government job that I’m not supposed to talk about—he said dont open the package in his room, but I opened it and I found a cool gun inside and I practiced shooting it in the range in our backyard. But don’t tell him I said that, don’t tell him…”

Leon sputters, about to go into lecture mode but he’s reminded that you’re kind of half out of your mind right now there’s literally no hope in even trying so he painfully nods along, “Okay—honey, I-I won’t...I guess.”

“And…and you know when I was in kindergarten, he packed me carrots for snack time and when I looked at the…the carrots—” you gulped, smacking your lips, “I’m thirsty.”

“Here,” Leon shifted, quickly reaching to grab a water bottle on the other side of your bed. He sat propped up on the sliver of open space beside you on your bed and held the bottle up to your lips, “Drink—slow slow, don’t wanna choke.”

You took in a dramatically deep breath after finishing up your list sip, launching right back into your story, “the carrots made me cry cause it reminded me of my dad—no I’m done, I’m not thirsty anymore—the carrots reminded me of my dad cause he loves them. I hate carrots and I cried cause of that too, but you know, mostly cause I…I missed my dad. He’s always…away.”

Leon didn’t know what to say with the lump forming in his throat and all…he felt his eyes spring with tears.

“I uh…I thought you liked carrots,” he murmured, squeezing your hand in his.

“I fucking hate them Mr. Kandenny,” your giggles were short lived as they made way for a yawn.

Despite his conflicting sadness, he suppressed a laugh bubbling up at the creative variations of his last name.

A soft knock sounded through the door, “Brought some warm blankets,” A voice chimed in.

Leon blinked his tears away when he saw the nurse, “Thank you.”

His restless hands moved the blankets higher up, tucked them under your chin like he used to when you were small enough to randomly complain about your booster car seat at night and sleep with your night light on.

Your eyes started to droop and your gaze started to drift again, so he wrapped his arms around you as best he could before pressing a kiss to your warm forehead.

“Goodnight, malt ball,” He whispered.

“Night…dad, pack me some…malt balls for lunch. sleep well…goodnight,” you rambled softly, eyes already closed.

“I will,” he pressed another kiss to the crown of your head, contemplating where he can get his hands on some malt ball chocolates for when you wake up tomorrow.

a/n: the carrots thing was a true story, but I missed my mom loll. anyways this was a little sadder than the request but idk, been going through a lot of medical bs lately so this was a nice comfort for me and hopefully for anyone else going through something similar :p