#pt 3

He started bringing food. Not just any food, but a rotating selection of what passed for the "least terrible" options in Gotham: a surprisingly decent chicken noodle soup from a deli in the Bowery, a container of congee from Chinatown that was easy on the stomach, and a truly staggering number of high-calorie protein bars and shakes.

Danny, for his part, accepted it all with a quiet gratitude. He didn’t ask Jason why he was still here. He didn’t ask about the armor, the guns, or the city he clearly ruled a piece of. He just… accepted him. It was a disarming feeling, being so fully accepted without having to justify his own violent existence. Even Dick eyes would occasionally linger whenever he had his guns on him, or would stay back if Jason showed the most minimal amount of irritability. This kid was refreshing in a way he didn't know needed.

His healing was nothing short of a spectacle. On the second day, while Danny was asleep, Leslie changed the bandages with Jason watching. The gruesome, jagged tear had sealed over, replaced by thick, pink, ropey scar tissue that looked months old, not days.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Leslie murmured, her voice a mix of awe and clinical concern. She showed Jason the latest bloodwork on a tablet. “His white cell count is still abnormally aggressive. It’s as if his body isn’t just healing; it’s actively hunting down any potential imperfection, any stray pathogen, with a terrifying efficiency. It’s magnificent and… deeply alarming.”

“Alarming how?” Jason asked, his eyes still fixed on the map of scars now etched across Danny’s torso.

Leslie lowered her voice, steering Jason a few steps away from where Danny was zoning out while he drank another juicebox. “This level of metabolic activity leaves a paper trail, Jason. The amount of specialized nutrients, the bizarre biomarkers in his bloodwork… I’ve scrubbed it from my official systems, but if the wrong people at a place like LexCorp or a black-ops wing of S.T.A.R. Labs catch a whiff of this… he wouldn’t be a patient to them. He’d be a specimen.”

Normally, Jason would have snarled, would have immediately started planning a preemptive, violent strike against these hypothetical threats. The anger was there, a hot ember in his gut, ready to flare. But as he felt the familiar heat rise, he glanced over at Danny. The kid was awake now, idly trying to bend the straw from his juice box into a little excuse of a heart shape. The mundane, admittedly endearing, peaceful act was a bucket of cold water on that rage, and the ember fizzled out with a quiet hiss.

This wasn't a problem that could be solved with a bullet. He intellectually knew that. It required something far more nuanced from him. And for once, he could acknowledge this before trying to go headfirst into using bullets either way.

So, when Leslie left a short while later, Jason simply pulled the chair up to the bedside and sat there. Danny looked at him, his blue eyes clear and alert, though the shadows under them remained.

“We can’t stay here,” Jason said, his voice low and even. No sugar-coating. He found that he respected the kid too much for that, and also knew that after the kid literally brushed out being gutted, he really didn't need others treating him like a baby.

Danny just nodded, as if he’d been expecting this. “Okay.”

“Leslie’s worried you’re going to attract the wrong kind of attention,” Jason explained, his voice low. “Not the kind that kicks down doors. The kind that sends lawyers and lab coats.”

“Worse,” Danny agreed, and a slight, genuine shudder went through him. He looked down at his hands, his voice dropping to a confiding, almost childlike murmur. "I don't like lab coats."

It was the simplicity of it. The quiet dread in his voice was more convincing than any frantic plea, but it was the unmistakably young, almost small way he said it that solidified Jason's resolve.

“I’ve got a place,” Jason said, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. This wasn't an extraction. It wasn't about dragging an informant to a safehouse or a witness into protection.  This was different. This was… sanctuary. A concept so soft it should have repelled him, but he couldn’t bring himself to not help the kid at this point. “It’s off the grid. Quiet.” He grasped for something practical to ground the offer, his voice regaining its usual rough edge. “And I can get you more of those disgusting shakes you seem to love.”

A small, genuine smile touched Danny’s lips. It was the first one that truly reached his eyes, banishing the weariness for a precious second. “You had me at ‘quiet’.” He looked down at the bent straw heart in his hands, a simple, fragile thing in his palm. "Most people... wouldn't have stuck around this long," he said, his voice softer now, all traces of joking gone. He didn't look up, focusing on the straw. "Thanks for not... you know. Leaving me to deal with it alone."

The gratitude was quiet, undramatic, but it hit Jason with a force he hadn't expected. It wasn't the weight of the thanks itself, but the sheer, uncomplicated sincerity behind it. In a world where he dealt in fear, threats, and transactional loyalties, this was alien. He lived knowing, deep in his bones, that he was not a man who deserved thanks, especially not for something that felt like the barest minimum of human decency. Yet the kid gave it anyway, genuine and unearned, and Jason didn't know what to do with that.

He'd told himself he was doing this because the kid was an intriguing variable, a biological puzzle. But in that moment, his curiosity shattered. He wasn't looking at an anomaly anymore. He was looking at a teenager who was scared and hurt, clinging to a bent straw heart and thanking him for the simple act of not leaving. The realization settled in his chest, like a heavy weight that he wasn't sure if it was suffocating or comforting.

"I'm not going anywhere until you're back on your feet." 

Danny finally looked up, and the relief in his eyes was answer enough.

__________________________________________

The move was a carefully orchestrated operation, conducted entirely under Jason's own banner. The Batmobile was out of the question; this was his operation, and he wouldn't—couldn—risk alerting the rest of the family. Using his bike was too exposed for a patient in Danny's condition.

Instead, he called in a favor. A nondescript, panel van with reinforced suspension and engine modifications worthy of a getaway driver pulled up to the clinic's discreet loading entrance. It was owned by a mechanic who asked no questions and was paid in untraceable crypto.

The transfer was tense. Jason, out of his armor but no less intimidating in a heavy jacket and helmet, supported a hoodied and hunched Danny, moving him from the clinic's warmth into the van's sterile cargo hold, which he'd hastily outfitted with a mattress and blankets. Every shadow felt like a potential witness, every distant siren a threat. His senses were on high alert, not for the usual gang war or rogue attack, but for the subtle, chilling threat of a corporate tail or a curious, passing vigilante.

His safehouse wasn't much to look at—a sparse, clean apartment in a building whose ownership was buried under a dozen shell corporations—but it was secure, warm, and, most importantly, dark. The blinds were permanently drawn. When the van's doors finally shut behind them in the building's private garage, Jason allowed himself a fraction of a breath to relax. They'd made it. For now.

Getting Danny up to the apartment was a slow, shuffling process. The kid leaned heavily on him, his breath hitching with every other step. By the time Jason got the door open and guided him to the couch, both of them were breathing heavily for different reasons.

"Home sweet... safehouse," Jason grunted, flicking on a single lamp that cast a soft, warm glow.

He finally took off his helmet, placing it on the kitchen counter with a solid thunk. He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, then turned to find Danny watching him. The kid's eyes were wide, but not with fear. It was more like... assessment. Taking in the face of the man who'd dragged him out of a dumpster alley.

Jason, suddenly feeling exposed in just his body armor and domino mask, gestured vaguely around the sparse apartment. "Right. Ground rules. Kitchen's there. Don't touch my coffee setup. Bathroom's there. Don't expect mint on the pillows. You can have the bedroom once you can walk to it without face-planting."

Danny just gave a weak, but genuine, thumbs-up from the couch.

"And try not to bleed on the couch. It's new."

"Sir, yes, sir," Danny mumbled, his eyes already drifting closed.

Jason moved to the kitchen to get the kid a glass of water, the domestic normality of the action feeling surreal. It was only as he was coming back that the realization hit him, so stupidly obvious he almost laughed. He'd carried this kid, had him bled on him, brought him into his own safehouse... and he had no idea what to call him.

Jason handed him the water over, and he took it with a quiet "thanks." There was a beat of awkward silence.

"So," Jason began, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. "I feel like I should probably know your name. You know, for the lease agreement."

Danny blinked slowly, processing. A faint, tired smirk appeared. "You're only asking now?"

Jason had the decency to look slightly abashed. "In my defense, you've been a little busy trying to not be a corpse. And 'kid' was working just fine."

"Fair enough," Danny conceded, taking a slow sip of water. He let the silence stretch for a moment, a glint of mischief in his tired eyes. "It's Danny."

Jason nodded. "Jason."

"I think I prefer the 'edgy one'," Danny said, a real smile finally breaking through.

"Brat." Jason pushed off the doorframe with an effortless smile, the strange formality of the moment passing. The tension eased. He had a name for the kid now. Danny. It made the whole situation feel less like harboring a variable and more like... well, harboring a person.

"Get some sleep, Danny," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "Try not to redecorate your insides while you're at it."

"Can't make any promises," Danny sighed, already sinking back into the cushions, the glass of water held loosely on his chest.

Jason watched him for a moment longer before turning away. The safehouse was no longer just a bolt-hole. It was occupied. And for the first time, that didn't feel like a violation. It just felt... different.

__________________________________________

And like that, a new, even stranger routine began.

Jason, the Red Hood, Gotham’s violent specter, found himself playing nurse, chef, and guardian to a fifteen-year-old runaway from another world. His safehouse, once a sterile waypoint between missions, now held the distinct, mundane clutter of convalescence: a pile of empty protein shake bottles by the sink, a blanket perpetually draped over the couch, and the faint, sugary smell of toaster pastries.

He learned the intricacies of this new charge. That Danny liked his pop-tarts frozen solid, claiming the "structural integrity was superior." That he possessed an encyclopedic, and unexpectedly passionate, knowledge of early internet memes. And that, if given the slightest chance, he would happily dissect the philosophical implications of Star Trek’s Prime Directive for an hour, his hands sketching shapes in the air as he lay propped up on the couch.

"It's not just a non-interference rule, it's a statement on the nature of growth," Danny explained one afternoon, his voice gaining strength but still layered with fatigue. "You can't force a civilization to be better. They have to stumble and learn and sometimes… really mess it up for themselves. Otherwise, the progress is hollow. It's not really theirs."

Jason, who was cleaning a disassembled pistol at the table, found himself listening, his hands stilling. He grunted. "Sounds naive. Some messes are too big to clean up alone."

"Maybe," Danny conceded, not arguing, just considering. "But the point is, they have to be the ones to ask for the mop. You can't just barge in because you think their floor is dirty. It's about respect."

Respect. The word echoed in the quiet room. It was a far cry from Jason's usual methodology of busting down doors first and asking questions never. He looked at the kid, who was now idly tracing the starfields on a throw pillow, and found he didn't have a counter-argument. Just a quiet, unsettling sense that the kid, who looked like he should be worrying about algebra tests, had a clearer, more fundamental understanding of how societies—and the people in them—were supposed to treat each other than he ever had, about understanding a fundamental truth Jason had always been too angry to see.

It was in these moments, between the debates on galactic law and the quiet rituals of changing bandages, that Jason felt the old, angry script of his life being quietly rewritten. The silence of the safehouse was no longer just the absence of sound; it was a space to breathe, to think, to simply be without the constant, screaming need to do violence.

He was learning, and he wasn't even sure what the lesson was, only that the teacher wore threadbare socks and had a seemingly endless supply of terrible puns.

__________________________________________

The first test came a few days in. Jason was watching the news on mute, scrolling through police bands on his laptop, when a familiar, grating laugh filled the room. A news clip, a year old, showing the GCPD transporting the Joker to Arkham. The sight of that face, the sound of that laugh, was a key turning in the lock of a deep, dark box inside him.

The rage erupted, hot and immediate. His vision tinged green. He slammed his fist on the table, the wood splintering under his armored gauntlet. He was on his feet in an instant, his mind a storm of static and blood.

He's still alive. He's still laughing. After everything. After me.

The thought was a poison-tipped dagger twisting in the old, festering wound of his own death. It wasn't just the Joker's face that fueled the green haze, but the unyielding, sanctimonious shadow of Batman behind it. Bruce's code, Bruce's choice, was the reason that laugh could still echo through Gotham, through his safehouse. The sheer, maddening injustice of it all threatened to swallow him whole. To drive him insane to—

“Hey, Jason?”

The voice was quiet, from the couch. Danny was sitting up, wrapped in a blanket, watching him. There was no fear in his gaze. Only a calm, steady attention.

Jason’s breath was coming in harsh pants, the green haze a film over his vision. Every muscle was coiled, ready to shatter something, anything.

Danny didn’t flinch from the fury pouring off him. He didn’t tell him to calm down. He just tilted his head, his brow furrowed in a look of simple, mundane curiosity.

“What’s the most calorie-dense food you can think of that isn’t a protein shake?” he asked, his voice still raspy but clear. “I’m dreaming about real food.”

The question was so absurd, so utterly disconnected from the metaphysical fury consuming Jason, that it created a perfect, jarring dissonance in his mind. The red-hot thread of his rage, pulled taut by thoughts of a father's failure and a clown's immortality, suddenly went slack. The green tinge receded from his vision, leaving behind the sight of a tired boy in a safehouse, asking about junk food.

He stood there, armored and panting, staring blankly.

“Uh…” Jason blinked, his mind scrambling to switch gears, the philosophical condemnation of Batman's morality forcefully overwritten by the need to answer a stupid question about snacks. “Peanut butter. Straight from the jar.”

Danny’s nose scrunched up. “Boring. Think bigger. Like… a deep-fried stick of butter wrapped in bacon.”

A disbelieving laugh, rough and startled, punched its way out of Jason’s chest. The tension shattered. The moment passed. The urge to go break something at the Manor was gone, replaced by the pressing, ridiculous need to find out if you could actually deep-fry butter.

He didn’t suit up. He didn’t go to pick a fight with a Bat. He sat back down, the splintered table forgotten, and spent the next twenty minutes in a heated, utterly surreal debate about the culinary merits of various heart-attack-inducing foods.

And later, as he changed the bandages again, he saw the scars had faded further, now silvery and smooth, nothing to do with the gruesome open wound from days ago. It was no longer a sight that filled him with the dread of watching a kid die in front of him, now it just showed that said kid survived long enough for it to scar. 

Now. as he looked at his own reflection in the dark screen of the television, at the faint white line across his throat from a knife fight, at the web of scars on his body that were a roadmap of his rage. For the first time, he didn't just see the evidence of pain. He saw the evidence of his own survival. Of healing. And he understood, with a clarity that left him humbled, that the kid on the couch had just performed a different kind of surgery on him, one no doctor ever could.

It was a slow, quiet process. But for the first time since he’d crawled out of his own grave, Jason Todd felt like he was finally learning how to breathe.

__________________________________________