#teen!reader

Okay

When you first step foot into the hotel

There’s a few jokes made

Because duh obviously there was

Because your a young vulnerable teen in hell— who happened to be a fawn/deer— and Alastor was also a deer!

Charlie made a well intentioned comment about you to getting along extra well and it made the both of you embarrassed

But fuck her she was right

I imagine that there are small communities of sinners that are all sorta the same type

Like bunny sinners staying around other bunnies yknow

But Alastor never really got into all that so he wasn’t around other deer like sinners at all before you

And now he’s got all these feelings and instincts

Gross.

Anyway onto the topic at hand

I feel like Alastor spent a really long time trying to overcome his instincts

Like stopping all the little sounds and junk

So it’s really funny to imagine you just making random deer sounds

Because you haven’t learned to control your instincts

And Alastor just sitting there like

Back ramrod straight, ears perked and staring directly at you as you move around

Fawns bleat when they want attention, are hungry, feel threatened or just to communicate with their parents— typically their mother but eh that doesn’t apply here

So I can imagine you randomly bleating because your hungry or bored and then Alastor just appears behind you like

“Hello, my dear, what a lovely day!” And then he just doesn’t leave until he knows what you meed/want

It’s a different story if your bleating because you feel scared or threatened

Then he’s much more

Manic? About it when he gets to you

Which is funny if you just stubbed your toe or tripped

And slightly horrifying if you’re actively being threatened or harmed

For whoever’s decided to mess with you, that is

Another scream for Alastor’s broadcast

It’s be pretty funny if you like

Didn’t realise that he’s not like that with everyone or something

Actually no it’s funnier if you know he’s not like this with everyone, but you just assume it’s because he wants to manipulate you or own your soul

When in reality he’s clawing at the walls of his enclosure, going batshit feral because now he has feelings and a fawn to look after and

Tonight was supposed to be different. Tonight, Jason had Webster cornered between a condemned apartment block and the crumbling back wall of a laundromat that had not been open since before Batman had adopted his third Robin. The alley was narrow, slick with rain, and lit by the weak electric buzz of a single flickering sign. Webster’s men were unconscious behind him. Webster himself was bleeding from the mouth and breathing hard, one hand clamped around a knife while the other pawed uselessly at the brick wall as if he could dig his way through it.

Jason raised one of his guns. “Drop it.”

Webster laughed, but there was panic caught beneath it. “You don’t shoot people anymore.”

“Who told you that?”

“The Bat.”

“Batman also says to pull my punches. Doesn’t mean I listen.”

Webster’s grip tightened on the knife.

Jason saw the shift in his shoulders a second before he lunged. He stepped sideways, caught Webster’s wrist and twisted, but the rain made everything slick. Webster slammed his forehead into Jason’s helmet. The impact rang through the reinforced casing, not enough to hurt but enough to break his grip. Webster came at him again, faster than Jason had expected, the knife scraping across the armour over his ribs.

Jason drove an elbow into his jaw. Webster stumbled, recovered, and reached inside his coat.

Jason moved for the gun at his thigh.

Then something bright red came flying out of the darkness and struck Webster squarely in the side of the head.

Webster froze. Jason froze.

The object bounced off the wall and landed in a puddle. It was a can of tomato soup.

“What the—”

“Hey, discount Dracula!”

The voice came from above them.

Jason looked up.

You were sitting on the fire escape three floors overhead, one leg hooked through the railing, your soaked hood pulled low over your face. You could not have been older than fifteen. Sixteen at a stretch. You had one hand wrapped around the rusted metal bars and the other digging around inside a plastic grocery bag.

Webster stared at you.

You pulled out a second tin. “I’m talking to you, Nosferatu.”

“Kid,” Jason said carefully, “now is a really bad time to—”

You threw the second can.

Webster ducked this one, but the distraction was enough. Jason crossed the distance between them, caught Webster by the collar and drove him into the wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. The gun inside Webster’s coat clattered onto the pavement. Jason kicked it away, swept Webster’s legs from under him, and pinned him face down in the rain.

It was over in less than five seconds.

Webster groaned. Jason zip-tied his wrists.

Above them, the fire escape creaked.

Jason looked up just in time to see you swing one leg over the railing.

“Don’t,” he said. You paused. “Seriously. Stay there.”

You looked down at him, then at the fire escape ladder hanging nearly twelve feet above the ground. “I got up here fine.”

“Congratulations. Stay there.”

Webster cursed beneath him. Jason tightened the zip tie until the man hissed, then opened a comm channel to report the location to Oracle. He did not mention you. Not yet. He had learned a long time ago that the moment he told the family there was an unsupervised civilian kid in the middle of an active crime scene, the comms would become unusable.

He waited until he heard distant sirens before hauling Webster toward the alley entrance. By the time he came back, you had ignored him completely and climbed down.

Of course you had.

You were standing beside the abandoned soup cans, inspecting one for damage as if you had not just interrupted an armed confrontation between a crime lord and Gotham’s most heavily armed vigilante.

Jason stopped in front of you.

Up close, you looked younger. Not in the face, exactly. There was a sharpness around your eyes that did not belong to someone your age, the wary calculation of a kid who had learned to read rooms before entering them. But your hoodie sleeves swallowed your hands, and one of your shoelaces had been replaced with a piece of yellow string. Rainwater ran from your hood onto your nose.

You put the dented can back into the bag.

Jason folded his arms.

“What,” he asked, “was that?”

You shrugged. “Soup.”

“I know it was soup.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

Jason stared at you through the white lenses of his helmet. You stared back.

Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wailed.

“You threw canned goods at an armed criminal.”

“You were losing.”

“I was not losing.”

“He had a knife.”

“I have guns.”

“You weren’t using them.”

“I was making a choice.”

“You were taking ages.”

Jason inhaled slowly. This, he thought, was probably how Bruce felt every time one of them had been a teenager. The realisation did not inspire sympathy. It mostly inspired the urge to go back in time and apologise to exactly no one.

“What’s your name?”

Your shoulders tightened.

There it was. Not fear, exactly. More like a door slamming shut.

Jason changed tactics. “Fine. Don’t tell me. How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Nineteen.”

“You are getting worse at this.”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Kid.”

You looked away.

The flickering laundromat sign painted one side of your face an unsteady blue. There was a bruise along your jaw, yellowing at the edges. Too old to have come from tonight. Jason’s attention dropped to the plastic bag. Four cans of soup, a packet of stale crackers, two cereal bars and a bruised apple.

No umbrella. No coat. No phone visible.

He looked at the time displayed inside his helmet. Two seventeen in the morning.

“Why are you out here?”

“Shopping.”

“At two in the morning.”

“The shop’s open twenty-four hours.”

“Where’s your adult?”

You laughed, and the sound was so humourless that Jason felt something cold settle behind his ribs. “My adult?”

“Parent. Guardian. Older sibling. Whoever’s meant to be making sure you’re not wandering around Crime Alley in the middle of the night, throwing groceries at gun smugglers.”

“No one asked you to make sure.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

You shifted the bag to your other hand. “Can I go?”

Jason looked at the bruise again. Then at the worn soles of your trainers. Then at the packet of crackers visible through the thin plastic.

“Where do you live?” Your face closed completely. “Yeah,” Jason murmured. “Thought so.”

“I have somewhere.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“You made it my business when you joined my fight.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You could’ve been shot.”

“But I wasn’t.”

“You could have been.”

“But I wasn’t.”

“That doesn’t make it smart.”

“It worked.”

Jason had to resist the sudden, powerful urge to pick you up by the back of your hoodie and carry you somewhere safe by force.

It was not an unfamiliar urge. He had grown up in Gotham. He knew how the city made children sharp at the edges. It taught them to steal before it taught them algebra, taught them which footsteps to run from and which shop owners would look the other way when they slipped a sandwich beneath an oversized coat. Gotham raised its children like weapons and then acted surprised when they came out dangerous.

Jason had been one of them.

Maybe that was why you irritated him so immediately. You stood like he used to stand, balanced on the balls of your feet, ready to bolt. You answered questions with questions and wore bravado like body armour. Even the soup had been stolen. He could see the security sticker half-peeled from the bottom of one can.

“Did you take those?”

Your grip tightened on the bag.

Jason sighed. “I’m not a cop.”

“You’re wearing a helmet and carrying guns.”

“Not traditionally part of the uniform.”

“You beat people up.”

“Cops don’t have exclusive rights to that.”

For the first time, your mouth twitched. It vanished quickly, but Jason saw it.

He reached slowly into one of the pouches at his belt.

You flinched.

It was small. Barely there. A quick movement of your shoulders and a single step backwards, but Jason felt it like a blow.

He stopped. Then he pulled out a wrapped protein bar and held it toward you.

You eyed it suspiciously. “What?”

“You look hungry.”

“I’m not.”

Your stomach growled loudly enough that even the rain could not cover it.

Jason looked pointedly at your abdomen. You glared at him.

“Traitor,” you muttered.

He almost laughed.

Almost.

“Take it.”

“I don’t need charity.”

“It’s not charity. It’s payment.”

“For what?”

“The soup.”

“You didn’t buy the soup.”

“Neither did you.”

You stared at each other.

Then you snatched the protein bar from his hand.

Jason decided not to comment on the speed with which you opened it.

He waited until you had taken three bites before speaking again. “Where you going?”

“Home.”

“And where’s that?”

“Around.”

“That’s not a place.”

“It is in Gotham.”

Unfortunately, you had him there.

Jason glanced toward the mouth of the alley. The sirens were louder now. Webster would be collected soon, along with the men Jason had left unconscious near the warehouse. He should leave before the police arrived. He also could not leave you here.

“You’re coming with me.”

You nearly choked. “No.”

“Wasn’t asking.”

“Pretty sure that’s kidnapping.”

“Pretty sure you’re a minor out after curfew with stolen food and a bruise on your face.”

“So?”

“So either I walk you home, or you come somewhere warm while we figure out who’s supposed to be looking after you.”

“No.”

“You already said that.”

“I meant it both times.”

Jason stepped forward. You stepped back.

He stopped again. There was something in your face now that had not been there before. Real fear. Quiet, controlled, but unmistakable. Your hand curled around the half-eaten protein bar until the wrapper crackled.

Jason knew that expression. He had seen it in mirrors.

He lowered his voice. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“That’s what people say.”

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “It is.”

Rain tapped steadily against the helmet.

Jason looked at the alley around them, at the black windows overhead and the overflowing rubbish bags piled near the kerb. There were a dozen ways to force the issue. He could call Batman. He could call social services anonymously. He could follow you without your knowledge, find out where you slept and investigate from there.

Every option felt like a trap closing around you. So Jason reached up and removed his helmet.

Cold rain struck his face immediately.

You stared. Most civilians knew Red Hood’s face was hidden for a reason. Even with the domino mask beneath the helmet, the gesture meant something. It was vulnerability, or as close as Jason Todd tended to get while standing in an alley at two in the morning.

“My name’s Jason,” he said.

Your eyes flicked over his face, pausing at the white streak in his hair and the scar cut through one eyebrow. “That your real name?”

“Yeah.”

“Why would you tell me?”

“Because I’m asking you to trust me for the next ten minutes.”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

“That makes two of us.”

“You’re a vigilante.”

“You threw soup at a gunman.”

“He looked annoying.”

“He was annoying.”

That almost-smile appeared again.

Jason held out the helmet.

You stared at it. “What?”

“Hold this.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s expensive.”

“That does not answer my question.”

“It’ll keep your hands busy while you decide whether you’re going to run.”

You hesitated, then took it.

The helmet looked too large in your arms.

Jason turned his back on you. It was a calculated risk. You could run. You could drop the helmet and vanish into the dark. You could hit him with it, though he doubted you would get much out of the attempt.

He took two steps toward the alley mouth.

Behind him, your shoes scraped against the pavement.

Not away.

Closer.

Jason did not let himself react.

“My bike’s around the corner,” he said. “I’ve got a place ten minutes from here. Food, heat, clean towels. You stay until the rain lets up. Then you can decide what happens next.”

“Just for the rain?”

“Just for the rain.”

“And you’re not calling anyone?”

“Not without telling you first.”

“That’s not the same as no.”

“No,” Jason agreed. “It isn’t.”

You were silent for several seconds.

Then you handed him the helmet. “Your head’s weirdly big.”

Jason put it back on. “Get on the bike.”

His safehouse was not designed for guests.

It was barely designed for him. There was one bedroom, a narrow bathroom, a kitchen with mismatched cupboards and a living room dominated by weapons cases disguised as cheap furniture. Books had colonised every available surface. A leather jacket hung over the back of the sofa. Three mugs sat beside the sink, though Jason lived alone and had no idea how all three had become dirty.

You stopped just inside the doorway.

Jason locked it behind you, then immediately stepped away so you would not feel blocked in.

“Bathroom’s there,” he said. “Towels under the sink. I’ll find you something dry.”

You stayed where you were. Water dripped from your clothes onto the floorboards.

Jason pulled off his helmet and set it on the kitchen counter. “You can keep your shoes on.”

“I wasn’t going to take them off.”

“Great. Saves us both time.”

He went into the bedroom and found an old T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring. They would drown you, but they were dry. When he came back, you had moved exactly three feet farther into the room.

You were looking at the books. “Those yours?”

“No, I broke into someone else’s apartment to use their shower.”

“You’re sarcastic.”

“So are you.”

“I’m charming.”

“You threw soup at a man.”

“That was charming.”

Jason handed you the clothes. You took them carefully.

His eyes caught on the bruise along your jaw again. “What happened there?”

You touched it automatically, then dropped your hand. “Fell.”

“Into a fist?”

“Into a door.”

“Someone open it into you?”

Your expression sharpened. “Bathroom, you said?”

Jason’s jaw tightened, but he pointed down the hall.

You disappeared inside and locked the door. He heard the lock click twice.

Jason stood in the middle of the living room for a long moment.

Then he pulled out his phone.

He did not call Bruce. That would turn one frightened kid into a family emergency. Dick would start making gentle eyes. Tim would quietly run a background check on every missing teenager in Gotham. Damian would pretend not to care while preparing a list of suitable weapons for self-defence. Bruce would arrive in the Batmobile and somehow make everything ten times more intimidating simply by standing there.

Instead, Jason texted Oracle.

Need a discreet search. No alerts.

Her reply came almost immediately.

Age? Name?

Teen. No name yet. Found near Park Row. Bruise. Hungry. Says they have somewhere to live.

Three dots appeared.

Then:

That sentence has never once ended well.

No kidding.

Get me something to work with.

Jason looked toward the bathroom.

The shower had not started.

He crossed the living room and stopped outside the door. “You okay?”

Silence.

“Kid?”

“I’m changing.”

“The shower works.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

Jason leaned against the wall, careful not to touch the door. “You don’t have to use it.”

“I know.”

“You can just change and come out.”

“I know.”

He recognised the brittle edge in your voice. Too many choices could be their own kind of threat when you were used to having none.

“I’m making food,” he said. “Any allergies?”

“No.”

“Anything you hate?”

“No.”

“That’s statistically unlikely.”

“I don’t care.”

Jason pushed away from the wall. “Grilled cheese it is.”

“You said food.”

“Keep talking and I’ll burn yours.”

He heard something suspiciously like a laugh from behind the door. It was small, muffled quickly, but it loosened something in his chest.

By the time you came out, the sandwiches were done and a pan of soup was warming on the stove. Tomato, because Jason enjoyed irony and because it was the only kind he had in the cupboard.

You had rolled the sweatpants four times at the waist. The T-shirt reached halfway down your thighs. Your wet clothes were clutched against your chest.

Jason pointed toward a chair near the radiator. “Put those there.”

You did, but only after checking the pockets. Then you sat at the table and stared at the plate he placed in front of you.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Then eat.”

You picked up half the sandwich.

Jason turned away under the pretence of checking the soup. In the reflection of the microwave door, he watched you take one cautious bite, then another, then eat the entire half in less than a minute.

He poured the soup into two bowls.

“You live alone?” you asked.

“Mostly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means people ignore my boundaries.”

“Family?”

Jason set a bowl in front of you. “Unfortunately.”

You looked around the apartment again. “They know you do this?”

“They also do this.”

“You’re all vigilantes?”

“Some of us have hobbies.”

“Like what?”

“Being annoying. Emotional repression. Acrobatics.”

You dipped the sandwich into the soup.

Jason waited until you had eaten enough that your shoulders had begun to lower. “What’s your name?”

You kept your eyes on the bowl. He did not push.

After nearly a minute, you told him.

Your voice was quiet, as if the name itself was something precious you were not used to handing over.

Jason repeated it once.

You looked up sharply. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You said it weird.”

“I said it normally.”

“You said it like you were going to remember.”

Jason leaned back in his chair. “Usually how names work.”

Your gaze dropped again.

Jason texted Oracle beneath the table. He gave her your first name, approximate age and location. It was not much. Gotham had thousands of teenagers, and too many of them were unaccounted for.

Still, Oracle was Oracle. The reply came twelve minutes later, while you were scraping the last of the soup from the bowl.

Possible match. Fifteen. School absence issues. Lives with maternal aunt. Mother deceased. Father not listed. Welfare reports made twice, closed after home visits.

Jason read the message twice.

Any details?

Aunt has prior charges for possession and assault. Current address is six blocks from where you found them.

His stomach turned cold.

You noticed. “What?”

Jason placed his phone face-down. “Your aunt know you’re out?”

The spoon stopped halfway to your mouth.

There it was.

Confirmation.

You set it down carefully. “You said you weren’t calling anyone.”

“I didn’t.”

“How do you know about my aunt?”

“I have a friend who’s good with computers.”

“You looked me up.”

“I needed to know if someone was searching for you.”

“No one’s searching for me.”

The words came out too quickly.

Jason felt anger flare behind his ribs, sudden and familiar. Not at you. Never at you. At the aunt who had not noticed you were gone. At the social workers who had visited and found whatever performance your guardian offered convincing enough to close the file. At Gotham, which had been swallowing children for longer than either of you had been alive.

He kept his voice steady. “How long have you been out tonight?”

You stood.

The chair legs scraped harshly against the floor.

“I’m leaving.”

“Your clothes are soaked.”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s still raining.”

“I said I’m leaving.”

Jason rose, but kept the table between you. “I’m not stopping you.”

You froze.

He hated the surprise on your face.

Jason nodded toward the radiator. “Take your clothes. Keep mine if you want. There’s more food in the cupboard.”

You did not move.

“But,” he continued, “I need you to answer one question first.”

“No.”

“You can lie if you want.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“Is your aunt the person who gave you that bruise?”

The apartment became very quiet.

Outside, tyres hissed over wet pavement.

You looked toward the door.

Jason knew the answer before you spoke.

“She didn’t mean to.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides. He forced them open.

“What happened?”

“She was drunk.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know.”

“Has it happened before?”

You crossed your arms tightly.

Jason softened his voice. “You can lie.”

Your mouth trembled. You looked furious about it.

“She gets mad,” you said. “Sometimes.”

“How often is sometimes?”

“She’s not always bad.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“She took me in.”

“That doesn’t mean she gets to hurt you.”

“You don’t know her.”

“No,” Jason said. “I know you’re fifteen, you’re out at two in the morning buying food you can’t afford, and you flinched when I reached for my belt. I know there are bruises on your face and nobody has called to ask where you are.”

You swallowed hard. “She’ll be better tomorrow.”

Jason had said things like that once.

Not those exact words. But close enough.

His father would be calmer tomorrow. His mother would wake up tomorrow. The electricity would come back tomorrow. Someone would notice tomorrow. Batman would save the city tomorrow. Tomorrow was a dangerous promise. It kept kids alive, sometimes. It also kept them in places that were killing them.

Jason moved around the table slowly and sat on the edge of the sofa, lowering himself until he was no longer towering over you.

“You can stay here tonight.”

Your chin lifted. “You said until the rain stopped.”

“I lied.”

“You’re bad at trust.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because if I told you I wanted you to stay before, you would’ve run.”

You glanced toward the door again.

Jason followed your gaze. “You can still go.”

“Why would you let me?”

“Because trapping you won’t make you feel safe.”

Something in your expression cracked. It was not dramatic. You did not collapse or start sobbing. You simply looked suddenly, terribly tired.

“I don’t have anywhere else,” you whispered.

Jason’s anger went quiet.

Not gone. Never gone. But sharpened into something useful.

“You do tonight.”

You slept on the sofa. Jason did not sleep at all.

He gave you the bedroom first. You refused. He offered to take the sofa. You refused that too, glaring at him as if the suggestion itself was suspicious. Eventually, he found a spare blanket in the cupboard and left it folded beside you.

You waited until he had gone into the bedroom before pulling it over yourself.

Jason left the door open.

He sat on the edge of the mattress with both guns disassembled across his knees, cleaning each piece with methodical care while listening to the apartment settle. Pipes knocked in the walls. The refrigerator hummed. Rain tapped against the window.

At three forty-two, he heard your breathing finally deepen.

At four fifteen, you startled awake.

Jason was in the living room before you could get your feet beneath you.

You were sitting upright, one hand clamped over your mouth, eyes wide and unfocused.

He stopped several feet away. “Nightmare?”

You stared at him. “Where am I?”

“My place.”

Your breathing came too fast.

“Jason,” he said. “My name’s Jason. We met in the alley. You insulted my head.”

Recognition returned slowly.

You lowered your hand. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Waking you.”

“I was awake.”

“That’s worse.”

“Probably.”

You looked toward the window. “Is it morning?”

“Not yet.”

You drew your knees beneath the blanket.

Jason sat on the floor with his back against the opposite wall.

“Do you always do that?” you asked.

“Do what?”

“Wake up when someone else does.”

Jason considered lying. “Mostly.”

“Why?”

“Same reason you do.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then you looked away.

Neither of you said anything else.

By sunrise, you were asleep again.

Jason made pancakes.

He had no idea why. He usually drank coffee and called it breakfast, occasionally adding toast when Alfred’s voice in the back of his mind became particularly judgmental. But pancakes felt like the sort of thing an adult was supposed to make for a kid who had woken from a nightmare in a strange apartment.

The first batch burned. The second looked diseased.

The third was acceptable if viewed from a distance.

You shuffled into the kitchen wearing his shirt and rubbing one eye. “What happened?”

“Breakfast.”

“Did it fight back?”

“Sit down.”

You sat.

Jason placed a plate in front of you.

You poked one pancake with a fork. “It moved.”

“It did not.”

“I saw it.”

“Eat your haunted pancake.”

You took a bite. Your face did something complicated.

“That bad?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m trying to be polite.”

“You threw soup at a criminal yesterday.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Jason poured you a glass of orange juice.

You watched him over the rim. “What happens now?”

There it was. The question he had been avoiding since four in the morning.

Jason leaned against the counter. “Now, you tell me what you want.”

“What I want?”

“Yeah.”

“Adults don’t usually ask that.”

“Most adults are idiots.”

You looked down at the pancakes. “I can’t go back.”

Relief and fury moved through him in equal measure. “Okay.”

Your head lifted. “Okay?”

“Okay. You don’t go back.”

“What about my stuff?”

“I’ll get it.”

“She’ll be there.”

“That sounds like her problem.”

“You can’t just break into her flat.”

“I don’t break into places.”

“You’re a vigilante.”

“I enter creatively.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth.

Then it disappeared.

“Where am I supposed to go?”

Jason had options. 

Not good ones. He could contact child services and hope the third report succeeded where the first two had failed. He could call Bruce and let Wayne money carve a clean, legal path through Gotham’s bureaucracy. He could ask Dick, who had somehow become the family expert in frightened teenagers despite still behaving like one whenever cereal was involved. He could reach out to Leslie Thompkins, who would understand immediately and ask fewer intrusive questions than anyone else.

All of those options involved handing you over. Jason found that he did not want to.

The realisation arrived whole and inconvenient.

He had known you for less than twelve hours. You had insulted him repeatedly, stolen soup and bled rainwater over his floor. You were wary, stubborn and reckless enough to involve yourself in a gunfight because a stranger in a red helmet looked like he might need help.

Jason understood you. That was the problem.

He knew what happened to kids like you when adults passed them from hand to hand, each promising safety and none willing to stay when safety became difficult. He knew the careful silence of unfamiliar homes. He knew what it felt like to keep your shoes beside the bed in case you needed to run.

“You can stay here,” he said.

You went still.

“For now,” Jason added quickly. “Until we sort something permanent.”

“You don’t know me.”

“You saved my life.”

“You said you weren’t losing.”

“I was being dramatic.”

“You had guns.”

“He had an ugly coat. Could’ve gone either way.”

You studied his face as if searching for the trick.

Jason let you.

“What do you get?” you asked.

“Headaches, probably.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“People don’t just let someone stay.”

“Someone did for me.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

You glanced around the apartment again, at the books and the second-hand furniture and the helmet resting on the counter.

“Batman?”

Jason grimaced. “Unfortunately.”

Your eyes widened. “You’re one of his?”

“Don’t phrase it like that.”

“You’re Robin.”

“I was Robin.”

“No way.”

“Lower your voice.”

“You’re one of the Robins.”

“I’m reconsidering the offer.”

“Which one?”

“The best-looking one.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down.”

Jason stared.

You smiled properly for the first time.

It transformed your face. The bruise was still there. So were the shadows beneath your eyes. But for one brief second, you looked your age.

Jason felt something in his chest give way.

“Finish breakfast,” he muttered.

“You’re bad at pancakes.”

“You can go back to your aunt.”

The smile vanished.

Jason’s stomach dropped.

“Hey,” he said immediately. “No. That was a joke. A bad one.”

You pushed the plate away.

Jason crossed the kitchen and crouched beside the chair. “I’m sorry.”

Your jaw tightened.

“I’m not sending you back.”

“You don’t have to keep saying it.”

“I think I do.”

You looked at him then.

Jason held your gaze.

“I’m not sending you back,” he repeated. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not when you get annoying, which I’m guessing will be frequently. Not when this gets complicated.”

“You don’t know how complicated.”

“Kid, my family tree looks like a conspiracy board.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.

Jason rested his forearms on his knees.

“I’m not promising it’ll be easy,” he said. “There’ll be social workers. Paperwork. Questions. We’ll need help from people I trust. You might hate some of it.”

“I already hate most things.”

“Great. You’ll fit in.”

You looked down at your hands. “Can I keep the shirt?”

Jason glanced at the faded university logo across your chest. “It’s my favourite.”

“You have six others.”

“How do you know?”

“I looked in the wardrobe.”

“You went through my stuff?”

“I was checking for hidden cameras.”

Jason closed his eyes. “You’re going to be a nightmare.”

“You said I could stay.”

“Yeah,” he said.

The word came out softer than he intended. You heard it anyway.

The legal process took months.

Bruce tried to make it take weeks.

Jason nearly shot him when he suggested moving you to the manor “temporarily,” not because the manor was unsafe but because you had chosen Jason’s cramped safehouse. You had begun leaving your shoes beside the door instead of beside the sofa. Your toothbrush sat in a chipped mug in the bathroom. Your schoolbooks spread across the kitchen table every evening, pushing Jason’s weapons-cleaning supplies onto the counter.

Moving you again, even somewhere larger and grander, would have felt like proving every fear you carried correct.

So Bruce funded a lawyer. Barbara untangled old reports. Leslie documented the bruises, the malnutrition and the history you revealed in careful pieces. Dick brought groceries without making a big deal of it. Tim set up a laptop for school and pretended not to notice when you slept with it under the bed for the first week. Damian informed you that throwing soup was an inefficient combat technique, then spent an entire afternoon teaching you how to use a weighted training baton.

Jason established rules. You hated all of them.

No patrols. No leaving after ten without telling him. No stealing unless survival depended on it, and even then, call him first. School attendance was non-negotiable. No weapons in bed.

The last rule was added after he discovered a kitchen knife beneath your pillow.

You shouted. He shouted louder.

You told him he was not your father.

The words landed between you like broken glass.

Jason went silent.

So did you.

Your anger collapsed immediately, leaving terror behind.

You looked toward the door.

Jason saw it. The expectation. The certainty that you had finally pushed too far, that he would decide you were not worth the trouble and send you away.

He sat down at the kitchen table.

“No,” he said. You remained standing. “I’m not your father.”

Your face crumpled.

Jason continued before you could speak. “But I am the guy who checks whether you ate lunch. I’m the guy who picks you up from school when you get suspended for punching some little punk who deserved it but still shouldn’t have been punched on school property.”

“He made fun of your helmet.”

“I know. His criticism lacked nuance.”

A wet laugh escaped you.

Jason’s throat tightened. “I’m the guy who leaves the hall light on because you hate waking up in the dark,” he said. “I’m the guy who knows you pretend not to like the marshmallows in hot chocolate and steal them out of my mug when you think I’m not looking. I’m the guy who’s going to keep showing up.”

You wiped your face with the sleeve of your hoodie.

Jason pointed toward the chair opposite him.

After a moment, you sat.

“The knife makes you feel safe,” he said. You nodded. “Okay. We’ll find something else.”

“You said no weapons.”

“I said no weapons in bed. We can put a lock on your door. Alarm on the window. Panic button beside the mattress.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You won’t take the knife?”

“I’m taking the knife.” Your shoulders tensed. “And replacing it with something less likely to stab you when you roll over.”

You glared at him through tears.

Jason held out his hand.

It took almost a full minute before you placed the knife in his palm.

He closed his fingers around the handle.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he said.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“I know.”

That night, Jason installed three locks, a window sensor and an emergency button connected directly to his phone.

You slept through until morning.

The adoption papers arrived on a Thursday.

Jason pretended it was not adoption at first.

“Permanent guardianship,” he corrected whenever Dick used the word.

Dick smiled in a way Jason found deeply irritating. “You’re adopting them.”

“It says guardianship.”

“You’re buying them school uniforms.”

“They need clothes.”

“You went to a parent-teacher conference.”

“Their maths teacher has it out for them.”

“They set fire to a worksheet.”

“It was algebra. I understood the impulse.”

“You packed them lunch in a little box.”

“It was the only clean container.”

“It had a note inside.”

Jason threatened to throw Dick off the roof.

The hearing was small. Bruce attended in an expensive suit that made the courthouse staff nervous. Leslie sat beside him. Barbara watched remotely because an emergency at the clock tower kept her away, though she sent seventeen messages before noon. Tim brought coffee. Damian brought a knife as a gift and seemed genuinely offended when the security guard confiscated it.

You sat beside Jason in clothes Alfred had helped choose, your knee bouncing beneath the table.

Jason placed one hand over it.

You went still.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“What if they say no?”

“They won’t.”

“What if they do?”

“Then we appeal.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“We appeal again.”

“And if—”

“Kid.”

You looked at him.

Jason leaned closer. “You’re coming home with me today.”

The word home caught in the air.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The judge asked questions.

Jason answered most of them badly. Yes, he had stable employment, though explaining the source of Red Hood’s income required creative phrasing and significant intervention from Bruce’s lawyer. Yes, the apartment met safety requirements, now that the weapons had been moved into locked storage. Yes, he understood the responsibilities involved in caring for a teenager.

That question almost made him laugh. He had been caring for you for months. He knew which cereal you liked and which nightmares left you unable to speak. He knew you studied better with music playing, that you hated socks with seams, that you became quiet before you became angry and angry before you became afraid. He knew the exact sound your key made in the lock and how long to wait before checking on you after a bad day.

He knew you.

You knew him too. You knew his nightmares made him pace. You knew he forgot to eat when cases became difficult. You knew the scars along his shoulders ached before storms and that he secretly liked the ridiculous patterned socks Alfred bought him every Christmas. You knew when to talk and when to sit nearby without saying anything.

The judge looked between you.

Then she signed the papers.

Outside the courthouse, you stood on the steps clutching the folder against your chest. The city moved around you. Cars passed. People hurried along the pavement. Somewhere nearby, a street vendor shouted about hot dogs.

Jason shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

“So,” he said.

“So.”

“You’re stuck with me.”

You nodded. “Tragic.”

“Devastating.”

“You want lunch?”

“Can we get soup?”

Jason looked at you. Your expression was perfectly innocent.

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s sentimental.”

“It was a weapon.”

“It was our first bonding activity.”

“You assaulted a man with tinned tomatoes.”

“I saved your life.”

“You distracted him.”

“Heroically.”

Jason started down the steps. You followed.

At the bottom, you caught the sleeve of his jacket.

He stopped.

You did not look at him. “Can I call you something?”

His heart stumbled.

Jason kept his voice light. “Depends. If it’s Old Man, I’m leaving you here.”

“Not that.”

You tightened your grip on his sleeve.

Jason waited.

The city seemed to quiet around you, though he knew it had not. Gotham was never quiet. It breathed in sirens and shouted conversations, in footsteps against cracked pavement and the distant rumble of trains beneath the streets.

You looked up.

“Dad?”

Jason forgot how to speak.

Your face changed immediately. “You don’t have to—”

“Yeah,” he said, too quickly.

You blinked.

Jason cleared his throat. “Yeah. You can.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Neither of you moved.

Then you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

Jason stood rigid for half a second.

After that, he folded himself around you. One hand cradled the back of your head. The other pressed between your shoulder blades. You buried your face against his jacket, and Jason held on with a carefulness that hurt.

He had been many things in his life.

A street kid. A thief. A Robin. A corpse. A weapon. A warning. A son who did not know how to forgive his father.

He had never expected to become someone’s safe place. But here you were, holding him as if he was.

Jason closed his eyes.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured.

You clung tighter. “I know.”

That night, he left the hall light on.

Not because you needed it anymore. Because somewhere along the way, it had become a promise.

“Good,” Natasha says, watching as you work the punching bag. “Move with your whole body though, not just your arm. You’ll get a harder hit that way. That’s it, even better.”

You light up at Natasha’s praise even though you’re exhausted; sweat pouring down your back, your face, pretty much everywhere. Natasha’s your preferred person to train with even though she pushes you the hardest – maybe that’s why she’s your favourite. At fourteen years old a lot of the Avengers treat you like you’re made of glass, but not Natasha. It wasn’t how she’d learnt as a teenager, so it wasn’t how she was going to train you. Natasha was strict but when she finally praised you, it was worth it. You’re completely motivated as you continue working the punching bag, throwing hard punches again and again and again, Natasha watching with her approving gaze.

By the time she lets you finish the exhaustion is deep in your bones but in a good way. Natasha squeezes your shoulder, “You should be proud of yourself. I can see how hard you’ve been working on your form and you’ve improved so much in such a short space of time.”

Natasha had no problem complaining about new recruits who didn’t put in the work outside of the one-to-one training. She’d met adults who never improved because they didn’t have the drive and refused to put in the work. You weren’t like them. Natasha had caught you in the gym, putting in hours in the evening and weekends, taking on board every piece of feedback you’d been given by her and the other Avengers. You were improving quickly and Natasha genuinely was proud.

“Do you wanna get dinner with me?” Natasha asks.

You nod eagerly, following after her. Even outside of the training room, Natasha is your favourite person to hang around with. Some of the others don’t really know how to engage with a teenager, looking at you awkwardly, their conversations stilted. Vision was the worst for it and had gotten into the habit of just avoiding you altogether. Natasha was different though – she was the person you came to if you had a problem, who looked out for you without being overbearing, and who you could have a proper laugh with outside of the other Young Avengers.

Natasha makes dinner for the two of you, letting you help her with chopping and preparing. Sam raises his eye-brows and grins as he watches the two of you, “We have caterers in the week. You know that, right?”

“Me and Y/N want the good stuff,” Natasha replies without hesitation. “A proper home-cooked meal.”

“You can have some if you want, Sam,” You offer with a smile.

“No, he can’t,” Natasha says, sticking her tongue out childishly. “This is for us.”

Natasha had never really known a proper home-cooked meal. She didn’t know much about your background or your family, but she loved mothering you anyway. You don’t seem to mind too much either and you happily follow after Natasha, the two of you eating in the living room while watching another episode of ‘The Pitt’, something you’d had to beg Natasha to watch but she was now just as invested in as you. Natasha had never been much of a cook, but she’d learnt some basic recipes, good enough to impress you.

Natasha had never tried to impress anyone before but you were different. It had never been Natasha’s favourite task to have to train new recruits but you were a breath of fresh air from the beginning. If you messed up a move you didn’t beat yourself up, just smiled and kept trying until you got it. No matter how hard Natasha pushed you, no matter how much you might ache or sweat by the end of a session, you always beam with pride when she tells you you’ve done a good job. No jokes about how Natasha is a sadist, like some recruits she could name. You’re always positive – always have something good to say, no matter how exhausted you are.

Everyone else likes it too, the way you always find a way to make lemonade out of lemons. How you always have a bright smile on your face, something kind to say, a way to twist the worst things into positives. You’re already close to the other Young Avengers, all of them wanting to hang around with you. Whenever you walk into a room you light it up just by being there. There isn’t a single Avenger who’s immune to your charm.

Once Natasha’s done eating, she tucks her legs up on the couch to settle in for a long evening in front of the TV with you. Tony always moans that you both 'hog the living room', but she doesn’t care. Sometimes the others float in and join them but the best nights are when it’s just you and her, binge-watching a series that you both enjoy.

“Romanoff.”

Natasha looks up at the sound of Fury’s voice, irritation immediately coursing through her veins when she sees the look on his face. It can only mean one thing. Natasha is needed – somewhere in the world, for God knows what. You pause the TV, looking over worriedly at Natasha who just gives you a small smile. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Another mission?” You ask quietly. “You didn’t get back that long ago.”

“Welcome to being an Avenger, kid. That’ll be you soon, getting sent to some random corner of the planet to deal with whatever crap they throw at you.”

“Can I come with you?”

“No,” Natasha says. “Not yet anyway. Keep working on your form and it won’t take long though.”

You feel a pang in your chest as you watch Natasha get up and follow after Fury. It’s how you always feel when Natasha has to leave for a mission. As you watch her retreating figure, you wish she’d stopped to give you a hug before she went. No matter how close you and Natasha have gotten, she still hasn’t hugged you yet and you’re too shy to initiate it. You turn your gaze back to the paused TV and sigh – no more ‘The Pitt’ until Natasha gets back.

Natasha is gone for three weeks and you’re ecstatic when she gets back. It’s been the longest three weeks of your life. Some of the other Avengers had joined Natasha for her mission so you’d been left with Clint in training. He was good with weaponry, you were enjoying getting to grips with a bow and arrow, but he wasn’t so great with encouraging your hand-to-hand combat. Still, you’d followed Natasha’s instructions and had carried on with your solo training, so you couldn’t wait to hear what she’d think.

“Hey!” You say, following her through to the compound towards the kitchen the second she steps off the Quinjet. “How did it go? Where did you end up going?”

Natasha rubs a hand over her forehead, a little irritated at having been dragged into conversation with you. She’d only come into the kitchen to refill her water bottle and then she was going to head to bed, where she intended to stay for the rest of the weekend. Stark wouldn’t expect her back in training just yet, so she was going to catch up on sleep and just enjoy being alone again. Having to share a tent with Thor had nearly killed her.

“Norway,” Natasha eventually mumbles as she holds her bottle under the faucet. “Long flight home. I’m gonna-”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Norway! Whereabouts? Did you get chance to do any sight-seeing? You can go whale watching in Norway. Did you see the northern lights? Nat-”

“For fucks sake, shut up!”

You jump as Natasha’s irritated voice echoes through the kitchen and then pause, your heart thudding in your chest. Natasha has never snapped at you before.

“Would you just stop?” Natasha continues, glaring at you, her voice icy and sharp. “You’re so annoying! Not everyone wants you to be so cheerful, it’s too much. I just got back from a difficult mission, of course I didn’t have time for sight-seeing. God, it’s moments like this that remind you’re still only fourteen. A long way off from ever being a real Avenger.”

Natasha had told you once you were quickly becoming more qualified than some of the active Avengers in the field. She knew you’d been waiting for your moment to be picked as one of the Young Avengers to join the others for a real mission. You’d watched Peter go, then Kate, then America, leaving only you and Cassie as the ones who hadn’t been chosen yet. Not wanting to be the last one to get chosen had helped motivate you to work harder and harder every day but Natasha’s words give you pause for thought. Is that why you haven’t been chosen yet? Because the other Avengers find you annoying?

“I… I’m sorry,” You say in a tiny, quiet voice.

“Give me five minutes to recover, Y/N. Jesus Christ.”

Before you can respond Natasha disappears from the kitchen. You deflate immediately, your excitement at Natasha having returned home vanishing. You’d already got ‘The Pitt’ loaded up in the living room, still right where you’d left it when she’d had to leave all those weeks ago. Steve puts a comforting hand on your shoulder, his voice soft, “She’s just tired Y/N. We all are. She didn’t mean it.”

You nod silently, your eyes already filled with tears. One look at Steve confirms that the whole team took a beating while they were away, the dark circles under his eyes evidence of how exhausted they all are. He gives your shoulder a squeeze, “Seriously, don’t worry about it, it’s not on you to predict what mood we’re in, okay? You’re just a kid.”

An annoying kid. A kid who was never going to get her opportunity to join the Avengers in a real mission because even though you were turning into a good fighter, you were still just immature in their eyes. You watch as the other Avengers grab themselves food to eat in their rooms, disappearing to rest for a few days and you sigh, heading back to the living room to close your episode on the TV. It wasn’t like you and Natasha were going to be watching it anytime soon.

By the time Natasha is in bed she’s starting to feel a little bad about snapping at you, and by morning it’s replaced by full-blown guilt. Natasha’s used to guilt. It was a feeling they tried their best to stamp out of her in the Red Room but it never truly went, no matter how much she tried to squash it down herself. That’s what stops her from climbing out of bed to come and find you – irritatingly, she feels worse after a full night’s sleep so she spends the morning feeling sorry for herself then texts Yelena, begging her to bring some food to her room.

Even though Natasha was separated from Yelena for years, she still knows her sister well enough to know that she’s in a mood about something. Yelena hands Natasha a bowl of pasta then sits at the end of her bed. “Let’s hear it,” Natasha says.

“Y/N’s been acting weird all morning and I think it’s because you snapped at her.”

Trust Yelena to get straight to the point. Natasha takes a bite of her food, “Weird how?”

“Really quiet and beating herself up over stupid mistakes. She was just excited to see you, why did you have to lose your patience like that?”

“I didn’t lose it on purpose,” Natasha says in the calmest voice she can manage. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

“Talk to her now,” Yelena says forcefully. “Sam’s trained with her this morning and she won’t even respond to his attempts to cheer her up. It’s not her fault you were in a bad mood.”

Natasha groans, putting down the pasta bowl and rising to her feet. Despite feeling like crap, she knows Yelena’s right. Leaving you to feel bad about being happy she was back would only make her feel worse. Yelena watches her with a stern expression and Natasha has to resist the urge to smile, remembering all the conversations she’d had to have when Yelena had first moved into the compound. A lot of people had taken issue with Yelena’s blunt assessments of them, and Natasha had done a lot of damage control at first. Now it was Yelena’s turn to do damage control, probably something she was secretly enjoying behind her scowling.

Natasha finds you in the living room, keeping your downcast gaze on the book open in your lap. “Hey,” She says quietly, sitting next to you. “I heard you were upset about how I spoke to you yesterday.”

“It’s fine,” You say.

Natasha can tell immediately what Yelena was talking about. Your voice is dull and lifeless, and you don’t even look up at her. “Look, kid, I didn’t mean to snap,” Natasha says quietly. “I was really tired and… It’s no excuse, I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Honestly.”

“No, it’s not. I heard you’ve been moping around all morning, beating yourself up for little errors and I don’t want you to do that. I love your positivity, you know I do. I love that I can give you criticism and you use it to improve rather than just assuming you’re not good enough. Because you’re more than good enough.”

“You said I was annoying.”

Natasha shifts closer to you on the couch, pulling the book out of your hands and then wrapping an arm around your shoulders. It makes you cave instantly, leaning your head on her shoulder as you cuddle into her side, finally getting that hug from Natasha you’d been craving. Natasha runs a hand over your head, “I didn’t mean it. You’re not annoying, I was just… I was just really tired. And I’m a grump. Honestly, I wish I was more positive like you. Too many bad things happened to me I guess.”

You hesitate before telling her quietly, “It wasn’t easy for me either. My Mom died when I was little. She was always so positive, even when she was sick. Even when she was in so much pain, she’d still smile for me, even when she eventually couldn’t talk… When she died, I watched my Dad turn in on himself. He just couldn’t cope with it. Couldn’t cope with me either so he got a new girlfriend and then pushed me out, said I reminded him too much of Mom. I didn’t want to be like him… I still don’t. That’s why I try so hard to focus on the positive, to try and be cheerful no matter the situation. It’s also why I wanted to be a Young Avenger. She’d want me to help people.”

Natasha listens at you talk, her hand still stroking over your head. She swallows the lump in her throat, “Your Dad was a dumb idiot. How could anyone turn their back on someone as amazing as you?”

“Because I’m annoying-”

“You’re not,” Natasha says fiercely. “You’re not annoying. I was just grumpy, lost my temper and said dumb stuff I didn’t mean. It’s actually… It’s really nice that you were excited I was home. I’ve never had anyone so happy to see me before; it threw me off-guard. I was looking forward to seeing you too.” You look sceptical and Natasha smiles, reaching into her pocket and placing something in your hand, “I kept thinking about you while I was away. I got you this from Norway.”

You look down, finding a small wooden carved reindeer in your hand. “You got this for me?”

“Yeah, I saw a whole herd of reindeer when I was sneaking around one night. It was like pitch black and I was worried I’d startle them, alert everyone to my position but they just stared at me, calm as anything.” Natasha smiles, “And I did see the northern lights.”

Your eyes light up, “Were they cool?”

“The coolest thing ever.”

You nod and mumble, “I knew they’d be cool.”

“I didn’t know that…” Natasha says quietly. “About your Mom, I mean. Or your Dad. I don’t know much about the afterlife but I do know that your Mom would be so proud of the person you’re becoming. Just like I am.”

“I’m worried I won’t get my first Avengers mission,” You admit. “Like I’m putting in the work but it’s not going to pay off because…” You let your voice trail off.

“I’ll tell you a secret then,” Natasha says. “I already put you forward. You’re next up when they think we have a mission appropriate for a Young Avenger.”

A smile spreads across your face, “Really? I’m going to have my first mission?”

Natasha nods, “I don’t know when but it’ll probably be soon, there’s always some bullshit going on. And I just know you’re going to ace it.” Natasha hesitates before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, “I don’t want you to be afraid of me or think that I don’t like you. I love your company. And I love your energy. And most of all, I love you. Don’t ever dim your light for anyone, okay?”

“Are you still tired?” You ask her. “Do you… Do you wanna carry on watching our episode of ‘The Pitt’?”

Truthfully, Natasha is still tired. Somehow, she’s more tired than she was last night. She’d love nothing more than to crawl back into bed, but she can see that this is a peace offering, a sign that you’re recovering from her snap, that you forgive her. Natasha isn’t going to throw that away so she smiles and nods, “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

Lewis had stopped years ago.

Growing up, you had never thought of him as a seven-time World Champion.

He was just Dad.

The man who braided your hair terribly before school.

The one who burned pancakes every Sunday but insisted they "had character."

The one who sat on the garage floor building Lego cars with you while engineers waited to discuss race strategy.

When reporters asked how he balanced fatherhood with Formula One, he always laughed.

"I don't."

"What do you mean?"

"If she needs me, racing can wait."

Your rookie season was brutal.

Every spin became proof you didn't belong.

Every mistake was magnified.

Every good result was dismissed as luck.

Commentators questioned your strength.

Former drivers questioned your talent.

Fans questioned your very right to be there.

You learned to smile through interviews and cry in hotel bathrooms.

One evening after another disappointing race, Lewis found you sitting outside the Mercedes motorhome.

Your phone screen was glowing with thousands of hateful comments.

Without saying a word, he sat beside you.

Eventually you whispered,

"Did it ever stop hurting?"

He looked ahead.

"No."

"So how did you keep going?"

He turned toward you.

"Because if I quit, they win."

There was something you never knew.

Not until much later.

When Lewis found out he was going to become a father, he was terrified.

He was still trying to establish himself.

His career demanded everything.

Sleep.

Time.

Privacy.

People around him quietly suggested that maybe someone else could raise the baby.

Maybe adoption would give her a better life.

For one awful night, he almost believed them.

The paperwork sat on the table in front of him.

Unsigned.

Waiting.

Then the hospital called.

The nurse placed a tiny newborn into his arms.

You were impossibly small.

Your fingers wrapped around his thumb without effort.

He stared at you for what felt like forever.

The room disappeared.

The noise disappeared.

The fear disappeared.

There was only one certainty left.

He looked down and whispered,

"I've got you."

The adoption papers never left the hospital.

Months later, after winning a Grand Prix, Lewis carried you onto the podium.

The photographers loved the image.

A world champion holding a baby wearing oversized ear defenders.

No one knew that after the cameras stopped flashing, he kissed your forehead and quietly promised,

"I'll never let you think you're facing the world alone."

Eighteen years later, you stood in the exact place he once had.

Only now you wore silver.

The Mercedes star rested proudly across your chest.

Lewis, now driving in Ferrari red, watched from the neighboring garage.

No one expected you to win.

Especially not after qualifying fourth.

But strategy worked perfectly.

The pit crew executed flawlessly.

You defended against drivers with years more experience and somehow held on.

The checkered flag waved.

Your engineer's voice cracked over the radio.

"Y/N... you've just won your first Formula One Grand Prix."

You couldn't answer.

You were crying too hard.

When you climbed from the car, the first person waiting behind the barriers wasn't a team principal.

It wasn't a journalist.

It wasn't even a Mercedes mechanic.

It was your father.

He hugged you so tightly that your helmet nearly slipped off.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Neither of you had to.

Then came the media pen.

Microphones crowded your face.

Cameras pointed from every angle.

One reporter smiled.

"Who would you like to dedicate this victory to?"

You didn't hesitate.

"My dad."

Lewis lowered his head.

The corners of his eyes were already wet.

Another reporter chimed in.

"And your driver number. Twenty-two isn't exactly common. Is there a story behind it?"

You laughed softly.

"There is."

Everyone leaned closer.

"When I was choosing my number, I kept thinking about Dad's forty-four."

"So I picked half of it."

The reporter frowned.

"Why half?"

You looked directly toward Lewis.

Your voice never wavered.

"Because my dad will always be twice the person I am."

For several seconds, nobody said anything.

The media pen, usually full of shouting questions and flashing lights, fell completely silent.

Lewis covered his mouth with his hand.

He wasn't trying to stop himself from crying anymore.

The tears came anyway.

Minutes later, as the podium ceremony began, the giant screen above the circuit flickered to life.

An old photograph appeared.

A young Lewis Hamilton stood on the top step of a podium, proudly holding a baby wrapped in hearing protection far too large for her tiny head.

The date read:

2008.

Then the image dissolved.

In its place appeared a live shot.

You.

Standing on the highest step.

Winner's trophy held above your head.

The date beneath it read:

2026.

The grandstands erupted.

Some fans applauded.

Others openly wiped away tears.

The commentators struggled to finish sentences.

Lewis simply stared.

Not at the trophy.

Not at the fireworks.

Not at the cameras.

Only at you.

That evening, long after the celebrations had ended and the paddock had emptied, father and daughter sat alone on the pit wall.

The circuit lights reflected against the asphalt.

Your trophy rested between you.

Lewis finally broke the silence.

"You know..."

"When you were born, I was terrified."

You turned to him.

"I thought I wasn't enough."

He smiled faintly.

"And today you stood in front of the whole world and told them I'd always be twice the person you are."

He shook his head.

"I don't believe that."

You frowned.

"I do."

"No."

He reached over and gently tapped the number stitched onto your race suit.

"Twenty-two isn't half of forty-four."

"It isn't?"

"No."

He looked out across the empty circuit.

"It's proof that one Hamilton became two."

You blinked, trying not to cry.

"And I couldn't be prouder of the second one."

You rested your head on his shoulder, just like you had as a child.

Neither of you noticed the lone photographer in the distance.

He quietly captured the moment before walking away.

The next morning, every newspaper in the world printed the image.

No podium.

No trophy.

No champagne.

Just a father and his daughter sitting side by side under the lights, sharing a silence that said everything words never could.

The caption beneath the photograph was only four words long.

The Hamilton Legacy Continues.

End.