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cheeseboi420 · 3 months ago

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Of A Feather - Chapter 1

Preview: And then the shoe drops; he says your name. Your full name. Not your fake name, that you use at work, and on envelopes, and in hypothetical coffee shops. Your real name.

It takes every bit of emotional regulation you can muster not to spiral into a full blown panic right then and there because good God, did He send a child to finish you off? The cruel irony is not lost on you. Come to think of it, this boy on your doorstep does bear an uncanny resemblance to-

“My name is Jason Todd,” the boy continues. “And uh… well, I might be your son?”

You expect this evening to play out like the one before it. And the one before that. And the one before that. Your routine hasn't changed in the last 13 years. Why should it? It serves you well enough, keeps you alive and… Well that's about all it does for you. Not that you're looking for more! For the most part you are… content, maybe isn't the correct word. Complacent fits a little better, but still isn't wholly accurate. You're content in the knowledge that your boy is safe and loved, somewhere far away from the trouble that chases you. You're complacent in your own quiet misery. The longing and loneliness had been a bitter pill to swallow those first few years of running, but after this long you've learned not to complain. God knows no one would listen if you did.

You've got a shitty frozen pizza in the oven, this will be your dinner, tomorrow's breakfast, and tomorrow's dinner. You won't particularly enjoy any of the meals, but they'll sustain you well enough. These days food brings you little if any joy. Meal times are a chore to slog through before the distraction that work brings or the sweet embrace of sleep. You look forward to, more than anything, going to bed. Not because you're tired (though there is a bone deep weariness that permeates- that no amount of rest could ever fix) but because bed means sleep, and sleep means dreams, and dreams mean a chance to hold your baby again.

You don't dream of Jason every night, but every morning you wake thinking of him. Is he still asleep right now? Having breakfast? Is he eating well? Is he happy? Is he happy? Is he happy?

By the time you push your way through breakfast most mornings the cacophony of thoughts revolving around your son quiets to a dull roar in the back of your mind. It's better that way, you think. If you thought about him as much as your mind seemed to want you to, you'd never get anything done.

Life carries on, you suppose. However dreary and dull that life may be.

At one time you'd found the whole thing very exciting- though not in a particularly enjoyable way. The adrenaline rush has worn off over the years, no longer do you feel as though death is nipping at your heels. The paranoia never fades though. Even if your doom does not cast a shadow over you, you're always looking over your shoulder, always ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

You keep a bag packed and ready in the closet by the front door for when you have to leave this place too. Though, you think it's buried under a winter jacket and your work uniform. You really ought to dig it out, keep it easily accessible. You should do that but… it's been a long day. You want to eat your shitty pizza, lay down on your futon, and let the sound of TV static fill your studio apartment, lulling you to sleep.

You're getting too comfortable here, you think. You've lived in Michigan for nearly a year now. It is simultaneously entirely too close to and entirely too far from Gotham. The apartment itself was a godsend after spending most of your time sleeping in cars, tents, whatever unfortunate business was willing to employ you, anywhere you could, really- sure it has bugs, and the windows don't close all the way, and you're fairly certain it'll only take one more bad winter storm for the place to come crumbling down, but rent is dirt cheap, and the slumlord you rent from didn't ask for any ID when you signed your ‘lease.’ You're fairly certain that thing's not legally binding anyways- it was written on a cocktail napkin for Christ's sake. That didn't stop you from using a fake name when signing it. You can never be too careful.

You haven't seen your landlord since you moved in anyways. You don't ask for maintenance when things break, you fix them yourself or just learn to live with them broken. You deliver your rent by slipping a cash stuffed envelope with your name (your fake name, the one you signed your lease with, the one you use at work, the one you'd use at coffee shops if you ever went to any) on it through the slot in the office door. You do your best to be invisible. You don't cause problems, and you don't go out of your way to fix them for others. You make no friends or enemies. You've left no impact on the many places you've been, the cities you've drifted through.

The only evidence you've gone anywhere at all in your life is a stack of postcards, held together with a worn rubber band, sitting at the bottom of your go-bag. The only evidence of a life lived before that is in a similarly bound stack of polaroids, held together with a too-small paperclip. Every now and then you'll buy a bottle of cheap wine to chug as you pour over the old photographs. Only when you leave for a new city do you touch the stack of unsent postcards.

You can't bear to look at the photos too often, a painful reminder of your own failings. A reminder of the stupid, reckless little girl you'd been, and the shell of a woman you'd become in the aftermath.

It's all your own fault, really.

At least that's what you keep telling yourself.

It's easier to swallow than the alternative: that you were a vulnerable and unloved thing, eating from any hand that would feed you, until the hand that feeds decides to beat.

This, you think, is why you shouldn't think too hard about the past. It doesn't do you any good to dwell on it.

You force yourself to focus on the present, on the here and now. The scratchy polyester blend of the futon cushions, the scent of cheap cheese melting in the oven, the distant sound of sirens and howling wind outside your apartment. There's no sense in thinking about Gotham now, not when you're so far from it.

You sit up on the futon, no longer content to lounge and let your mind wander. Instead you task yourself with flipping through channels on TV, seeking something mind numbing enough to distract you from your unusually strong urge to reminisce.

The Wonder Years? No, you don't want to watch anything about a family.

Alf? No, that puppet creeps you out.

Cops? Fuck that.

You're about to resign yourself to another night of murmuring the (mostly incorrect) answers to Jeopardy questions at your TV, when you're startled by a knock at your door.

A… knock… at your door.

No one ever knocks on your door. You don't get mail, you don't have friends, if your landlord wanted something, you're willing to bet the greasy bastard wouldn't be willing to haul himself all the way up to the fifth floor at nearly 10 PM.

Oh God… Did… Did he find you? Is this it? Are you going to die in the upper peninsula of Michigan, of all fucking places?!

No, no. You have to stay calm. This could be anything. It's just a knock at the door. It could be anyone!

Oh lord, it could be anyone.

You keep the TV on, hoping that the sound of Alex Trebek grilling folks on useless trivia will cover your footsteps as you creep towards your front door. You hold your breath as you press yourself against it, double checking that all three of your locks are secure before you risk a glance out the peephole.

When you look out into the hall you're surprised, and frankly a bit confused by the sight before you. Standing at your door is a boy, dark haired and bright eyed. He stands straight but not particularly tall- he can't be more than five feet, if that. He's glancing around the hall, rocking back and forth on his heels. He's wearing a red sweatshirt and jeans, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Despite his small stature he holds an air of determination that makes you think he must feel quite old for his age- you get that, you were the same way in your own youth. A chip too big for your shoulder.

You're so focused on studying him that it startles you when he leans forward to knock again. You jolt, accidentally kicking the door (with your bare feet too, damn does that hurt your poor toes) and responding to his knock-knock-knock with a solid knock of your own.

“Hello?” The boy calls. “Anybody home?”

“I don't have any money!” You call back, cursing yourself for the shake in your voice. You should not be this rattled by a random adolescent on your doorstep. “So, if you're selling popcorn, or cookies, or whatever, you should try next door.”

The boy rolls his eyes.

“I'm not a boy scout!” He says. “I'm looking for-”

And then the shoe drops; he says your name. Your full name. Not your fake name, that you use at work, and on envelopes, and in hypothetical coffee shops. Your real name.

“My name is Jason Todd,” the boy continues. “And uh… well, I might be your son?”

He could be lying, the logical part of your brain insists. This could be a ploy to get you to open the door, don't open the door! But your hands are moving on their own, shaky as they may be. The first lock twists unlocked with ease, the second takes a fair bit more of your fine motor function, and by the time your shaking hands reach up to unhook the chain on the door, you're struggling to see through unshed tears. You attempt once, twice, three fucking times to get your hands to cooperate and unlatch the damn chain.

Fuck it.

You open the door, yanking it inwards, towards yourself as hard as you can. It should probably unnerve you that the flimsy chain breaks at the first sign of real resistance, but that's not what's important right now.

What's important is the boy standing before you- your boy. Your Jason.

He looks as surprised as you feel, his eyes flitting between the broken chain, and you.

For a long moment the only thing you can do is look at him, reacquaint yourself with the sight of him. Of course, you know that he did not stay frozen in time, the way your memory of him did. It's been many years since you've held that babbling toddler. But knowing and seeing are two different things.

He's small for his age, is your first thought. Your own fault, you're certain. Between a premature delivery and your own malnourishment during both your pregnancy and his infancy, it's a miracle he'd survived in the first place. Small, but well fed. His cheeks are full and flushed, despite his size he seems healthy. Good. That means Will's been feeding him. Hopefully, it means they got the hell out of The Alley, into a nicer neighborhood.

His hair isn't as curly as you'd pictured it- too short in most places to hold a curl, save for his bangs, which seem to almost curl into the shape of a heart over his forehead.

“Jason?” You can barely manage to say his name through the lump in your throat. You find yourself suddenly struggling to focus your gaze on him, the haze of tears welling up in your eyes makes it difficult to see. You try to blink them away but instead they roll down your cheeks.

God, when's the last time you cried?

You reach out to him, cupping one of his cheeks in the palm of your shaking hand. He leans into the affectionate touch, and you're reminded of puppies, overeager and seeking love at every opportunity.

“Mom,” he says back to you, his tone just as reverent as your own. “Mom,” he says again, voice cracking. And then in unison, the both of you have pulled each other into a crushing hug. You can't tell if the sound you make is a sob or a laugh. You hold onto Jason like he'll vanish into the ether if you loosen your hold for even a second, one hand clutching at the back of his sweatshirt, the other at the back of his head, petting his hair as he buries his face in your neck.

Finally, at long last, your heart is home.

Tears roll freely down your cheeks and land in Jason's hair. You sniffle, extra hard to keep from getting snot on him too. It's one thing to cry on the poor boy, the last thing you want is to use him as a human tissue.

“My baby,” you sob, and your sons hold on you tightens. You think (hope, selfishly) that he has missed you as much as you've missed him.

He's crying too, you realize- not as hard as you are (which is a little embarrassing, get it together girl, you're the adult here) but with his face tucked into your neck you can feel every tear. When you begin to pull back he's quick to wipe the tears away, scrubbing at his flushed cheeks with the heel of his palm. You remove your hand from his hair to gently thumb away an errant tear, and he sniffles before giving you a wobbly smile.

“Hi,” you say softly, your hand lingering on his face. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi, mom.” He parrots, closed-lip smile melting into the sweetest toothy grin you've ever seen. You try to sear the image of him into your memory, imprint this moment into the front of your mind. You're half convinced you'll wake up any moment, TV still playing Jeopardy, pizza burning in the oven.

“How did you- I mean, what are… I just-” you cut yourself off with a breathless laugh. “I don't even know where to start. How… How did you find me?” Why did you come? Do you have any idea how much danger you've put yourself in just by being here?

Jason pulls back from you fully, stepping back out into the hallway. The feeling of loss is immediate and gut wrenching. He's only a foot away from you and already you feel like you're losing him all over again. You're tempted to just pull him back in, to refuse to let go. But you refrain.

Jason reaches into his pocket and pulls out a postcard.

Oh shit.

“I went back to our old neighborhood,” Jason starts, and your stomach sinks. You hope to God he means the neighborhood you left him in and not the one you'd lived in together. You loathe to imagine him running into- no, you refuse to even entertain the idea. Clearly he meant Willis’ neighborhood and not your own. You don't know that he'd be here at all if he'd found the folks you ran with all those years ago. The same people you've spent the last decade running from.

“I got a bunch of old stuff- Mrs. Walker saved it all, and I found, well I found a lot of stuff, but y'know the important stuff was all-”

“Jason, honey, breathe.” He’s talking a mile a minute, where your brain seems to have stalled completely, his is working overtime. He pauses and takes a deep, purposeful breath. It's dramatic, childish almost, how his whole body tenses on the inhale and releases on the exhale. Tentatively, you reach out to take his wrist.

“Why don't you come sit down and we can… we can talk about everything, okay?” You keep your voice soft and low, as if trying to coax a frightened animal. You're afraid he might bolt at the first hint of danger. You wouldn't blame him in the slightest if he did.

Jason doesn't run nor does he shy away from the hold you have on his wrist. He allows you to lead him inside, setting his backpack on the floor next to the door.

Before you close it, you glance around the hall. No one is out there, no one has bore witness to your little reunion. You're not sure what you'd do if anyone had. You shut the door, locking your remaining two locks. You're aware of the concept of ‘mom strength,’ that adrenaline spike that mothers get when their children are in danger, that allows them the ability to do insane shit like lift up whole cars. You don't think snapping the chain off a cheap door lock is quite comparable, but shit. If that's what you can do just seeing him alive and well, you can't help wondering what you'd be capable of if he were in danger.

You know. You know full well what you're capable of doing when you think it will keep him safe. You know. You know. You know.

Jason's presence in your apartment makes you suddenly very aware of how… lacking your home is. Traveling often meant taking no more than what you could carry on your back. All of the furniture in your apartment is second-hand. The TV had been left behind by the previous tenant (whom you're fairly certain is still being billed for the cable- God knows you haven't been the one paying it), the futon and recliner picked up off street corners, the single TV tray you use as a dinner table and matching pair of folding chairs had been an impulse purchase at a thrift store when you first started working again.

You've passed through dozens of cities, only taking jobs that pay in cash. You'd never had a bank account, even before you started running. Too young and too female to open one on your own, and by the time you were old enough you couldn't get one anyway. Too traceable, too much risk attached to putting your name into the world like that. So you worked for cash, which meant your options were limited and often unpleasant. You've been a waitress, a hairdresser, a bartender (though you weren't exceptionally good at that- you learned the hard way that an aching heart and easy access to alcohol do not mix well), a housekeeper, and a- well, you won't list every occupation you've taken up. Some of them you'd really rather not recall.

The transient nature of your lifestyle makes it hard for you to see your living conditions for what they really are: fucking bad. You've got no decor, the whole apartment reeks of cigarettes and it's freezing cold to boot. You've got a space heater to remedy that last issue, but if you run it while the TV is on then you'll lose power in the whole unit and have to walk all five floors (your building has elevators, but they've been broken the entire time you've lived here. The slip on the doors that says ‘out of order - management’ is yellowed with age and tattered around the edges) just to get to the circuit breaker.

It's certainly not fit for hosting guests of any kind, let alone your long lost son.

“Sorry it's uh… like this,” you gesture broadly to the apartment. “I wasn't exactly expecting company.”

“‘S fine,” Jason says, leaning against your wall. You take care to study his expression as he looks around what you're sure must be the most depressing studio apartment this side of the Mississippi. To his credit (and your great relief) he genuinely doesn't seem perturbed by your place.

He's been with you in worse places, you think. Though you doubt he recalls even a moment of your time together. Less than two years you had him. Nowhere near enough time.

There's time now. He's here. He's here, he's here, he's here. The Greek chorus in your head continues to remind you. He's here, and he's real, and you still don't know what the hell he's here for. It can't be just for you, you'd left Willis with very strong instructions to not ever let Jason search for you. Though you suppose it probably would have helped drive home the message if you'd actually said it to him instead of leaving it in a letter, like a coward.

Coward is one of the words you associate most with yourself. Coward, idiot, whore, failed matriarch- that's what it'll say on your tombstone. You shake the thoughts from your head. Now is not the time to spiral into self loathing.

“Here, let's sit.” You guide him to your makeshift dinner table. At the time, you'd thought buying two folding chairs instead of one was a waste of money- who the hell were you expecting to have over? Now though, you're glad you did.

Jason's still got the postcard clutched in one hand. You can almost make out your own handwriting from this angle, but most of what you can see of it is just the scenic wintery landscape and the ‘Seasons Greetings From Michigan!’ printed in red cursive on the other side.

The postcards were, admittedly, an unwise decision. The one that Jason holds now was never supposed to reach him in the first place. It should be gathering dust in your bag with the rest of them. But you're as sentimental as you are stupid.

For the last 13 years, every city you've stopped in you've picked up a postcard. You've written the date and a note to Jason on it, filled out the addresses of Willis’ apartment, and (on the rare occasion when you've had a physical address of your own to write down) wherever it was that you were staying. Some part of you has to have anticipated this- that someday, somehow, one of these cards would find its way to its intended recipient. Maybe that's why you always wrote in the addresses, in spite of how completely and utterly stupid it was of you.

The both of you take your seats at the table.

“Can I…?” You point at the card in Jason's hand.

“Huh? Oh! Yeah, of course,” he hands the card to you. It's frayed in the corners, the edges of the cardstock now softer than the middle. Like he's been holding onto it constantly, like he's been running his fingers along the outline of it. Like he's been rereading it.

Dec. 25th, 1989

My sweet Jason,

I hope your having a good christmas. I hope you get a thousand presents and all the cookies you can eat (without getting sick!)

Im thinking of you, always.

I miss you more than words can say.

All of my love, all of the time

-Mom

Short and sweet, full of grammatical errors and hardly legible due to how absolutely shitfaced you were when writing it. You don't drink often, not anymore anyways. The first couple of years after you'd had to leave Jason were… tough, to say the least. You found yourself drawn to anything you could use to make yourself stop thinking about it, about him. These days you've learned how to just shut your brain off completely, how to operate on autopilot, how to not think about anything at all. You only drink on holidays now. And birthdays. Times when you can't help but think I should be with my baby. Thanksgiving, Christmas, your own birthday, mother's day, and especially Jason's birthday.

This was actually the second Michigan card you'd written him. The first one you'd written to him last May, when you first settled into the new state. That card is no doubt still buried in your bag with the others.

You had picked this card up on your way home from work, Christmas day. Why the pub you work in is open on Christmas is beyond you- the place had gotten maybe two patrons the entire day, and one of them was you. The bartender poured drinks for you your entire shift, topping you off every time your glass reached the halfway point. At the end of your shift he offered you a ride home, to which you declined. In retrospect you think he was coming onto you. Which would certainly explain why he's been so curt with you ever since. Oh well, it's no loss for you. In fact, maybe you ought to thank him.

Because if you had taken him up on his offer, you never would have stumbled home drunk, trudging your way through a foot of snow in your work uniform. You never would have stopped to rest at a closed news stand. Never would have picked up that stray postcard. Never would have taken the pen from your apron and scrawled out a quick message to your son, uninhibited and loving. Never would have drunkenly failed to slip it into your pocket as intended, instead letting it fall to the ground, where the next day some good Samaritan will slap a stamp on it and drop it in the post box. Never would have found yourself sitting across the table from your son.

You try to push down the lingering anxiety of it all, force yourself to feel hope. Maybe this can be good. Maybe no one will bother you two. Maybe you don't have to be afraid anymore. Maybe it's over.

“I'm sorry,” Jason is the one to break the silence. You set the card back down on the table.

“What for?” You've never done anything wrong, not once in your life, you think. What could you ever have to apologize for?

“I would have come sooner, but this went to our old place, and I don't live there anymore, so I didn't get it until a few days ago.” Jason gestures to the postcard. So they did make it out of the alley. Good. Your baby deserves to live someplace where people don't piss on your stoop every night and threaten you with violence every morning.

“Oh Jason,” you sigh. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I never expected you to come anyways.”

This is obviously not the correct thing to say, because he visibly deflates at your words. Your heart breaks a little bit- God, you're a terrible mother.

“Not that I'm not happy you're here now!” You correct yourself quickly. “I am happy, Jason. I'm so, so happy you're here.” You reach across the TV tray, palms up and open. Jason doesn't hesitate to place his hands in yours. They're calloused, which you didn't expect. It's not bothersome, you'd hold his hands even if they were too mangled to hold yours back. But it does make you wonder what he's done to make them like that. What kind of a life must he have led without you?

He smiles a little at that, soft and sweet and warmed by your affection. This is how he should always look, you think. Content and cared for.

“I'm a little concerned that you came all the way from Gotham by yourself though…” You say, squeezing his hands. You may have gotten up to some pretty crazy things at his age, but even you didn't start traveling cross country until you were nearly 22. At 15 your son shouldn't even be driving yet, let alone journeying from New Jersey to Michigan on his own.

“Aw, don't worry about that, ma!” Jason grins, looking awfully proud of himself. There's another expression you'd like to see on him more. And that word- ‘ma,’ he calls you. A much more casual title than you would have given yourself. Not that you’d expect him to call you ‘mother,’ or God forbid ‘ma’am’ like your mother had insisted you’d called her. No, you were prepared for ‘mom’, or maybe even just your name. You wouldn’t have been particularly pleased to have your only child call you by name, but you’d have understood if he felt more comfortable calling you that. There’s a certain familiarity in ‘ma,’ though. A kind of casual affection that you think would have taken years to develop, that in spite of your absence in his life, Jason gives freely.

“I'm your mother, it's my job to worry about you.” You say softly, and Jason's proud smile melts into something a little softer and more pensive.

“Going from Gotham to here was nothin'!” He insists. “I went to Lebanon first- here, hold on a sec.” He rises from his seat, pulling his hands from yours. Though you desperately want to keep your hold on him and shout ‘Lebanon?! By yourself?! You went to fucking Lebanon?!’ You refrain from that as well. He dashes to where he’s left his backpack at the door, picking it up and rushing back to his seat. He throws himself into the folding chair with such force that it rocks to the side, nearly tipping over with him in it. Without thinking you stick your leg out under the table, catching his chair and slamming your knee against the TV tray simultaneously.

“Sorry,” Jason says sheepishly.

“Don't worry about it birdie.”

The nickname makes Jason freeze in place, eyes wide and body tense.

“Birdie?” He asks.

“Sorry, it's- old habits die hard, y'know? That's what I called you when you were a baby.”

Jason's wide eyes relax a little, but his posture is still rigid.

“Why?”

“There was… you had this mobile, with doves on it. Until you were about a year old it was the only thing that would get you to sleep.” That and the sound of you singing, more often than not it had to be both. You force away the memory of that mobile, tangled and broken, lying in your bed many years ago. You force away the memory of how it was broken in the first place. It's not a night you'd like to recall.

This answer seems to placate Jason, but only momentarily.

“Wait, a year old? I thought… I mean, I figured you gave me up right away.”

And oh, oh, if that doesn’t break your heart, what will? It's by design that he doesn't know much about you- an intentional but unfortunate side effect of your leaving. It's safer for him this way. Or at least it was safer for him… or maybe it was never safe at all, considering he's found his way to you regardless of your attempts to shield him from the horrors you carry.

“You were about a year and nine months when I had to,” you pause to take a shuddering breath, lump in your throat threatening to choke the words right out of you. “When I had to leave you with Will.”

Neither of you says anything for a torturously long moment. You scrape at your cuticles, and Jason plays with a loose string on his sweatshirt. Jason looks like he wants to say something, his brow furrowed in concentration or perhaps concern- you struggle to read people sometimes. In the silence you recall an overlooked detail from earlier in the conversation.

“I'm sorry, just- just to circle back real quick, you went to Lebanon?”

“Oh, right!” The sullen expression leaves Jason's face, replaced instead by boyish pride. He reaches into his bag and digs around, procuring a few sheets of paper of varying sizes. The first one he presents to you is his birth certificate.

Your eyes follow the familiar text, the ink long dried though you could almost swear you've still got smudges of it on the side of your hand. It feels so terribly long ago and so recent at the same time.

Your eyes follow his name, written in sloppy print, Jason Peter Todd.

Along the line for the father’s name is your handwriting, spelling out in all lowercase letters ‘willis todd.’ You had been a little delirious still when they’d asked you to sign the certificate- frankly it’s a miracle you managed to even spell the names right- Jason’s, Willis’, and your own. The box for the mother's name however is almost entirely whited out, save for a single letter. That was not your doing.

“I went back to the old place,” Jason says, picking up his story from where he'd left off in the hall. “Mrs. Walker, I dunno if you knew her,” (you didn't) “but she was our neighbor. She saved a bunch of our old stuff for me after I left, including this.” He taps on the certificate.

“Which is how I found out that mom- my… my other mom wasn't my real mom.”

The thought of Jason calling another woman mom makes you sick to your stomach. But you suppose you forfeited the right to be his only mother when you left. That must be why he’d defaulted to ‘ma’ after your initial embrace- to distinguish you from the mother who raised him. The mother whom you are certainly not jealous of, no, not one bit. A blatant lie, you must admit to yourself. You are terribly jealous of the woman who got to watch your son grow up. You’re sure she’s lovely, and you’re infinitely grateful to her for watching over your boy, for loving him as if he were her own child, but you kind of hate her.

“So I looked in dads address book to try and match up the names in there to the letter on my birth certificate!” He presents you with the other two slips of paper, no doubt torn straight from Will's address book. Sharmin Rosen and Sandra Woosan. You don't recognize either name, but that doesn't surprise you. For all his faults, you've always known Willis to be popular, and awfully charming when he wants to be.

You examine both slips of paper, not sure what you hope to achieve by reading the names and addresses of these unfamiliar women.

“I didn't find the postcard until I was on the plane back to Gotham. Kinda jumped the gun on that one.” He says, a little sheepishly.

“You went all the way to Lebanon just to look for me…” You whisper, reverently. God, what an incredible kid. He's brilliant. You never would have thought to match the names in Will's address book to the singular uncovered letter on his birth certificate, had you been in his place. He's a clever kid- he gets it from you, you’re certain. And boy oh boy, isn’t that quite the thought? In your youth you had an ego the size of Texas, though a series of failures and hardships had tamed it somewhat, it appears as though some of that confidence remained, lying dormant, waiting to be impressed upon your greatest creation to date.

“And, Will was just fine with this?” You ask, suddenly realizing what Jason's solo presence means. “He just let you go to fucking Lebanon by yourself?”

Jason's proud expression fades fast and your stomach sinks.

“Dad's not…” he clenches and unclenches his fist, the loose thread he'd been twirling between his fingers snaps. “Dad is dead.”

“Oh,” is all you can think to say. Because really, what else is there to be said? You were never in love with Willis Todd- you liked him plenty, thought he was funny, and charming, and handsome in his own way. But you were not in love with him, and your mourning of him extends only so far as to mourn the loss of something that means a great deal to someone you love.

Despite a lack of love for Will, you do hold a deep affection for the man. After all, he gave you a son and a handful of very memorable evenings. When your eyes begin to water, you think you’re sad more for Jason than for yourself. To lose a lover is one thing, to lose a father is another beast entirely.

“I'm sorry, ma,” Jason says, and this time he's the one reaching across the tray to hold your hands, to comfort you.

“I told you earlier, you have nothing to apologize for, baby.” You say. With his hands in yours you can't wipe away your tears. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Jason sniffles and shrugs, trying very hard to seem unaffected.

“It was a while ago,” he tells you.

“How long ago is ‘a while ago?’” You ask. You wonder who has taken care of him in Willis’ absence. Though you have no doubt your boy could hold his own, you certainly hope he hasn’t had to. You hope he’s always had a warm bed to crawl into at the end of the day. A hot meal waiting for him, prepared by loving hands.

“Dunno when exactly but, I only found out he was dead a couple years ago.” Jason answers. “I thought he was just in jail but…” His face hardens, turns serious in a way that makes him look much older and (though it shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does) quite a bit like his father.

“Two-Face killed him.” Jason says, his hands tightening around yours.

Christ almighty, what is wrong with you two?! Poor Jason, never stood a chance, both his parents victims of Gotham’s famed rogues. You force those thoughts out of your head, push them deep, deep, deep down. You’ll have to tell him eventually, you owe him the full truth of his childhood. But for the moment, you don’t think he needs honesty, he needs empathy.

“Oh, birdie, I’m so sorry.” You squeeze his hands, which are still holding yours perhaps a little too tightly for comfort. You make no mention of your discomfort to Jason though- if he needs to have a vice grip on your hands to feel better then you’ll let him crush every bone in them. Not that you think he would- he’s a good kid, you’re certain of it.

“Can I ask…” you start and then hesitate, thinking for a moment that maybe it’s a little callous to interrogate him on the matter only moments after he revealed to you that his father had died. You soldier on anyway. “Who’s been taking care of you, honey?”

Finally Jason’s grip on your hands loosens, until he’s pulling his hands away entirely to return to playing with the loose thread on his sleeve.

“It was just me and mom- my… my stepmom,” he hesitates on the word, as if he’s not sure he said it right. Really, he’s just unused to referring to her as such. It makes sense of course, that he’d assumed the woman who raised him to be his true mother- no one had ever suggested anything to the contrary. “For a while there. But she got sick and…” He sniffles hard- he does that when he’s trying not to cry, you note. “She’s gone too.”

You presume by ‘gone’ he means deceased as well, not well, performing the same disappearing act you had.

“And now…? Oh, God, have you been all on your own?” It makes you absolutely nauseated to think of him alone, frightened and cold in the cruel streets of Gotham. If that were the case you’d never forgive yourself for abandoning him. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? An abandonment. You can dress it up however you like, insist to yourself that he was better off far, far away from you but… In comes the nagging thought that you fucked up. You made the wrong choice and your son has suffered for it. The only person on this earth that you care about has suffered for the choices you made.

“Not anymore!” Jason exclaims, some of his enthusiasm returning to him. You’re grateful for it, and you think he is too- relieved to find a small reprieve from the heavy conversation. Though you note that ‘not anymore’ is technically an answer in the affirmative. He had at some point or another, for a duration of time he didn’t seem too keen on sharing, been left entirely to his own devices. Your stomach turns.

“Bet you’ll never guess who adopted me,” he says, regaining some of the youthful energy that he’d displayed upon first arrival.

“I bet I won’t,” you confirm. “I’m no good at guessing games.”

He leans forward over the makeshift table, head swiveling as if checking to ensure that no one else is in your apartment. It’s supposed to be a playful motion, a commitment to the bit that normally you would find quite endearing, but you’re paranoid. His joking reminds you that there are in fact, people or a singular person, commanding those beneath him who would like to see you dead, or worse. You’re so distracted by the sudden onset of anxiety that you almost miss when Jason tells you who his mysterious benefactor is.

“Bruce Wayne,” Jason whispers conspiratorially, as if it were some grand secret.

“Bruce Wayne?!” Jason was correct, you would not have guessed that. “No shit?”

“No shit,” he confirms, satisfied by your surprise.

“That’s gotta be one Hell of a story,” you are honestly a little thrown by the revelation. You kept up as well as you could with the goings on of Gotham, though admittedly you paid much less attention to the kinds of gossip columns that Bruce Wayne was a frequent feature in. Your focus was much more… villainous, in nature. Waiting and watching and hoping and praying for when He gets put away for good. Not just stuffed into Arkham for a brief stay before the inevitable breakouts that plague the storied institution, but well and truly gone. Then and only then would it have been safe to return to your hometown, and to the baby you’d left behind in it. Not that he’s much of a baby anymore.

“It’s kind of a long one,” Jason warns.

“I’ve got time,” you reply.

“Actually, could I ask you some stuff first?” It’s a blatant redirect, but you won’t press him. Not yet anyway, you’ll get that particular story out of him sooner or later. But you’ve never had the heart to deny him anything, and as you thought earlier, he deserves honesty.

“I’m an open book, hon,” you tell him, though it comes out sounding unconfident. You hope he doesn’t pick up on it, but if he’s half as perceptive as he is clever, you’re certain he does. Regardless, he doesn’t call you on your bluff, opting instead to begin asking his own questions.

“Why Michigan?” It surprises you that that’s the first question he asks, and not ‘why did you abandon me?’ God knows that’s what you would have asked, and in much less kind words.

“Why not?” Is your answer. “I’ve actually only been here for, hm, I think it’ll be a year next month. I ah, I’ve traveled a lot since…” You trail off and let him assume the rest.

“Where else?”

“Oh, lots of places- I never stay anywhere for very long. I’ve been all over the place.Chicago for a few weeks, Austin for a month or two, a very poorly timed trip to Metropolis kind of turned me off to big cities for a while. Until now I never stayed anywhere for more than a couple months.”

You can practically see the gears turning in his head as he begins to piece together an idea of the life you’ve led in his absence.

“Why stop here?” He asks.

“I guess I just… got tired of running.” You answer honestly. You’re not as young as you used to be, and living by your charms is less and less viable every day.

“What are you running from, ma?” To his credit, he seems to have put together the pieces quite quickly. Rapidly coming to the understanding that you aren’t traveling just for the fun of it, but that you are traveling to escape. He’s a smart kid, brilliant even. You couldn’t be prouder.

Unfortunately, his cleverness is to your detriment. You’d hoped not to reveal this aspect of your history (your shared history) for a little while longer- long enough to establish a rapport with him. Long enough that he won’t immediately turn his nose up at you in disgust when he sees your true nature.

“I've done a lot of stuff I regret, Jason.” You say softly, instead of offering a real explanation. Just a moment longer, you think. Please let me keep this from him, let him continue to love me for just one more moment. You see the unasked question written all over his face.

‘Am I something you regret?’

“But please, please know that I wanted you. From the second I knew you existed I wanted nothing more than to be your mom, okay?”

“Why'd you leave?” Jason finally asks, his voice just above a whisper, and your heart seizes in your chest. He sounds so sad. You're a monster, a terrible mother, and a despicable human being.

“Oh, Jason…” That lump in your throat hasn't gotten any smaller. Your eyes sting with unshed tears. You want to hold him, but honestly you don't think you have the right.

“I didn't- I was just trying to- fuck, I'm sorry.” You sniffle, struggling to find the words.

For a second Jason looks like he's going to say something, and your stomach twists in knots as you try to predict what exactly is going to come out of his mouth. I hate you? You're a terrible mom? I wish I'd stayed in Gotham? All strong contenders, all things you wouldn't blame him in the slightest for feeling.

Instead, he pauses, face twisting up in confusion before he sniffs the air.

“Is something burning?”

It's only after he mentions it that you too begin to smell the smoke.

“Son of a bitch, my pizza!” You scramble from your seat, releasing Jason's hands to go open the oven. Jason follows you up, hovering only two steps behind you the whole time.

As soon as you open the oven a cloud of thick black smoke wafts into your face, making you cough.

“Shit, shit, shit, motherfucker!” You curse. And of course, to make an already wretched situation worse, your fire alarm begins to blare. Almost instantaneously one of your neighbors begins to pound on the wall, calling out a muffled ‘shut the fuck up!’

“Open the window for me, please!” You call to Jason as you rush to drag a folding chair up to the wall so you can reach the fire alarm. Jason does as he's told, quickly unlatching and opening the kitchen window, cool spring air rushing in. He even goes the extra mile and grabs the cardboard pizza box off the counter to fan the smoke outside. For some reason that makes your heart ache.

He's a good kid, you think. In spite of everything, he's a good kid.

You clamber up onto the chair and shut off the alarm, quickly hopping down to grab your singular oven mitt and precariously pull your burnt pizza from the oven. You plop it right down on the counter, uncaring of any mess or burns on the vinyl that you might be leaving. You slam the oven door shut, and finally the billowing smoke seems to dissipate. Jason's fanning slows to a stop and you reach around him to close the window.

What should have been your dinner is now a pitch black disk of inedible garbage.

For a minute you just stand there, with your hands clutching the window sill, adrenaline still flowing through you. You're shaking again- or maybe you never stopped. You try to steady your breathing, repeating to yourself over and over again don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

Beside you, Jason gingerly sets the cardboard box back on the counter.

“You okay, ma?” He asks softly, and the dam bursts.

You let out a sob, pitching forward against the counter before sliding down to your knees, collapsing to the floor. Jason follows you down, kneeling next to you.

“It's okay! It's just a pizza! We can- I could get you another one!” He attempts to soothe you, but you can hear a nervous edge to his voice. You'd be nervous too if your mom started wailing over burnt pepperonis. But it's not about the food, not really.

“I'm sorry!” You sob, burying your face in your hands. It's humiliating enough for him to hear you cry, you don’t want him to see it too.

“It's fine, really mom, I wasn't even hungry, I ate on the way here,” Jason insists, and his hands find your wrists to gently pry them away from your face. You don't want him to see you like this, but you don't have the heart to deny him anything.

“I don't mean about the pizza, Jason!” You cry. “I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I left, I never wanted to leave you birdie, please believe me!” It takes all of your strength to lift your head and meet his gaze. “I'm sorry for everything. I'm so, so sorry. I'm an awful mother, please forgive-” you're cut off by Jason pulling you into another crushing hug.

This isn't fair, you think. He shouldn't be the one comforting you. But you just can't seem to push him away, instead clinging to him with renewed vigor and sobbing apologies into his shoulder.

You’re pathetic, weeping like a child, in front of your actual child. Have some dignity, woman. Your internal dialogue has taken a particularly cruel tone. Your mind does this sometimes- turns on you in the worst way. It didn’t used to do that. Once upon a time you’d been so certain of yourself, so confident in every action you took that even your enemies struggled to doubt you. But now, after many years of continued misery, spurned by His interference in your life and your mind, you’re reduced to a sniveling self conscious mess of a woman with nothing to her name.

After a long moment you manage to sort of collect yourself, at least enough to stop blubbering and making a fool of yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat for at least the tenth time. “I shouldn’t have- I’m just- I’m sorry, Jason.”

You pull away from him and he lets you, releasing you from his grasp. But his hands hover next to your arms, as if he’s waiting to catch you again.

“It’s okay, ma.” He says, though you know he doesn’t understand what you’re apologizing for, not really.

“It’s not,” you tell him. “But thank you. I’m… I’m sorry you had to see me like that. It’s just been…”

“A long day?” Jason finishes for you, and you can’t help the manic little laugh that bubbles out of you.

“Try a long life.” You say, and though your smile is rueful and bitter, all that seems to matter to Jason is that he’s gotten you smiling again. Which in turn makes him smile too, and really that’s the perfect balm to all your aching wounds. You’d do anything to keep that smile on his face, anything at all. “But yes, a long day too. What time is it?”

Jason pulls up his sleeve to check his watch- it’s a nice one, one of the fancy digital ones. A gift from Bruce Wayne, if you had to guess. That still perplexes you a little bit, but you’re in no state to be asking anything more of Jason, certainly not the emotional labor required to continue that particular conversation.

“Half past midnight,” Jason answers.

“Shit, it’s past my bedtime,” you mumble, realizing suddenly how utterly exhausted you are. You worked a double today, that alone is enough to tire you out. Combined with the whirlwind of emotions that the last hour has brought you, you’re absolutely drained. Slowly, you rise once more, joints cracking as you do. Damn, getting old sucks. Jason springs to his feet in less than half the time it took for you to stand up.

“What do you say we put a pin in this and continue in the morning, yeah?” You ask, though it’s really more of a plea than a suggestion. “I think this will be a much more productive conversation when we’ve had a full eight hours.”

Jason nods, though you can see it on his face that he’s disappointed.

You’ll tell him everything tomorrow, you swear you will. You owe him that much.

You shuffle your way back into the living room (which is also your bedroom, because you live in the world's grimiest studio apartment), and get to work fully laying the futon down. Rarely do you ever bother to do so for yourself, but you’re not about to make a growing boy scrunch up on a couch to sleep. Jason may be small for his age but he’s not that small, it would still be an awfully cramped place for him to sleep.

You’ve only got the one blanket, currently thrown over the back of your ratty old recliner, a ‘gift’ from the previous tenant. You unfold it and lay it down on the futon. You have no pillow for him, but you think he’ll manage. Just for good measure, you turn the TV off and turn your space heater on, aiming it at the futon.

“Do you need to borrow pajamas, or did you bring your own?” You ask, turning back to Jason who has been quietly observing as you prepare his bed.

“I can sleep in this!” He says. That simply won’t do- you know from experience that sleeping in jeans is uncomfortable. You put your hands on your hips, doing your best to appear stern but not angry- motherly instead of… whatever it is that you really are.

“That’s not what I asked. Do you need pajamas, or did you bring your own?” You repeat, and bite back a laugh when Jason huffs indignantly. It’s cute that he thinks he can get away with avoiding your doting! You’ve missed out on so much, now that he’s here you are going to mother the crap out of this kid.

“Ma, it’s fine, really, don’t worry about it.”

“Y’know, I hate to pull this card, but I didn’t spend nineteen hours giving birth to you just to be told not to worry about you.” You say. “Now, I’m gonna ask one more time, do you need pajamas, or did you bring your own?”

“I didn’t bring any,” Jason replies, crossing his arms across his chest. Though his brow furrows like he’s annoyed, you can see how he’s fighting against a smile. You suspect that secretly, he’s going to enjoy being loved as much as you are going to enjoy loving him.

“Thank you,” you say, turning to go dig through your closet and your sparse collection of clothing. You don’t have much to wear, even less that will fit him, but eventually you settle on a pair of well worn sweatpants and your only surviving possession from before Jason’s birth: a ratty old GSU t-shirt. You fold them, stack them one on top of the other, and hand them off to Jason. “Bathroom’s right there. Did you bring a toothbrush, or do you-”

“Ma, please,” Jason cuts you off, putting on a show of being much more exasperated than he really is.

“Okay, okay, I’m done, I swear. Go get dressed.” You ruffle his hair as he passes by you, mussing up the loose curls.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, you’re digging through your purse for a cigarette. A bad habit, you know, but one that you’ve never quite been able to kick. You open up the living room window, grabbing your lighter from where you keep it on the kitchen counter. You do your best to smoke fast, you want to finish it before Jason returns. You’re a bad enough influence on him already without the added issue of secondhand smoke. Unfortunately for you, Jason is quick and you’ve only smoked half your cig by the time he’s exiting the bathroom, holding the hem of your t-shirt, examining the faded lettering.

“You went to GSU?” He asks, not looking up. You take a final quick drag, before stubbing the cigarette out on the window sill. You’re definitely not getting your meager security deposit back.

“Mhm,” you hum, exhaling through your nose. The smoke burns your nasal cavity, stinging even as you inhale fresh air.

“What did you study?”

“I majored in mechanical engineering and minored in biochemical engineering. Never finished my degree though,” you shut the window. Your college days aren’t something you think of often anymore. God, you’d had so much potential. You still had that potential, even after getting pregnant and dropping out. Even as a struggling single mother you know you’d been brilliant. It’s what you did with that brilliance that really fucked you over.

“Why not?”

“I got pregnant,” that’s the simple answer. Though, now that you’ve said it, it sort of sounds like you’re blaming him for your own failure to thrive. You’re quick to amend your statement. “I don’t like to half-ass things, especially not important things. I wanted to be able to focus on you.”

“You wanted to whole-ass it,” Jason nods sagely. You snort.

“Yes, exactly. I wanted to whole-ass motherhood.” You chuckle and look out the window at the quiet street below. “I did a pretty piss poor job though. Put my whole ass into it and still couldn’t see it through.” A street light flickers down below. You can see Jason’s reflection in the glass, the details of him warped and blurred by your view of the road down below- not willing to turn around and face him directly. You don’t want to subject him to your shame, your regret. He will see it eventually, most likely sooner rather than later. You steel yourself, school your expression, and turn.

“Time for bed now.” You say, and cross the room to put the recliner in position for you to sleep in. You’ll have no pillow or blanket, and the heater will be hitting Jason more than you, but it’s fine, you’ll manage, you’ve slept in much worse conditions. With the sleeping arrangements all settled, you turn back to Jason.

“All yours hon,” you nod in the direction of your rickety futon. Jason nods and rubs his eyes. Poor thing, he must be exhausted too. You can only imagine the kind of whirlwind day (week, month, year, life) he’s had. As he slips into bed you’re tempted to tuck him in, kiss his forehead, hell, you’d read him a story or sing him to sleep if he wanted you to. But no, you push this motherly instinct deep down inside of yourself. Jason’s 15, you doubt he wants to be treated like a child. But still, as you watch him relax, settling into your bed, your home, your life, you can’t help but to-

“I love you,” it comes out in a harsh whisper, your voice threatening to break. Your eyes are suddenly misty with tears that you swear weren’t there a second ago. You sniffle hard and blink them back. Despite visibly fighting sleep just moments before, now Jason is looking up at you with wide eyes.

“You don’t have to say it back,” you tell him. “I just needed to say it.”

You can’t bear to face him for his reply (or lack thereof) so you turn away from him to shut off the lamp, bathing you both in darkness.

“I’m gonna-” you pause to clear your throat of any lingering emotion. “I’m gonna go brush my teeth. Goodnight, birdie.”

And just before the bathroom door shuts behind you, you think you hear, “goodnight, ma.”

The second you feel the latch click, you’re turning the tap on to full blast.You sink down to the floor, bury your face in your hands, and do your very best to cry quietly. Hopefully the running water will muffle the sounds of your sobbing. The last thing you want is for Jason to hear you having a meltdown again. Once was one time too many.

Tomorrow you will do better. Tomorrow you and Jason will sit down and have a real conversation. Tomorrow you will tell him the truth.

AN: well howdy strangers!! it took me entirely too long to finish chapter one, and even longer to actually post it on Tumblr proper. For those of y'all who have been tagged this is just chapter one again but posted directly to Tumblr instead of being linked to ao3! Chapter two hopefully won't take as long but don't hold your breath lol. I plan on posting a preview of it in the next week or two! Anyways, thanks so much for reading! Taglist:@leirobles @qardasngan @amphiroxx

#of a feather #jaybin #jason todd #jason todd x reader #Jason Todd & reader #batfam #batmom

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cheeseboi420 · 9 months ago

Text

Of A Feather - Chapter One Preview

A/N: hi everybody!!! I am super duper stoked to present u all with the first 2k words of Of A Feather, aka the "what if Jason's bio mom didnt SUCK" fic. Im hoping to have the full chapter ready for publishing in the next week or two! Big thanks to everyone who's talked to me abt this fic so far, and an ESPECIALLY big thanks to @jayladfanpage for basically being my jaybin encyclopedia while i work my way through this fic!!! This warning will be more applicable in future chapters but it should be noted that this fic is NOT canon compliant and does significantly change/recontextualize a couple things about Jason's background, but you the audience get to find out about all that in real time alongside Jason lmao!! Anyways, without further adieu, please enjoy this preview ❤️

You expect this evening to play out like the one before it. And the one before that. And the one before that. Your routine hasn't changed in the last 13 years. Why should it? It serves you well enough, keeps you alive and… Well, that's about all it does for you. Not that you're looking for more! For the most part, you are… content, maybe isn't the correct word. Complacent fits a little better, but still isn't wholly accurate. You're content in the knowledge that your boy is safe and loved, somewhere far away from the trouble that chases you. You're complacent in your own quiet misery. The longing and loneliness had been a bitter pill to swallow those first few years of running, but after this long you've learned not to complain. God knows no one would listen if you did.

You've got a shitty box pizza in the oven. This will be your dinner, tomorrow's breakfast, and tomorrow's dinner. You won't particularly enjoy any of the meals, but they'll sustain you well enough. These days, food brings you little, if any joy. Meal times are a chore to slog through before the distraction that work brings or the sweet embrace of sleep. You look forward to, more than anything, going to bed. Not because you're tired (though there is a bone deep weariness that permeates- that no amount of rest could ever fix) but because bed means sleep, and sleep means dreams, and dreams mean a chance to hold your baby again.

You don't dream of Jason every night, but every morning, you wake thinking of him. Is he still asleep right now? Having breakfast? Is he eating well? Is he happy? Is he happy? Is he happy?

Life carries on, you suppose. However dreary and dull that life may be.

You keep a bag packed and ready in the closet by the front door for when you have to leave this place, too. Though, you think it's buried under a winter jacket and your spare blankets. You really ought to dig it out, keep it easily accessible. You should do that but… it's been a long day. You want to eat your shitty pizza, lay down on your futon, and let the sound of tv static fill your studio apartment, lulling you to sleep.

The only evidence you've gone anywhere at all in your life is a stack of postcards, held together with a worn rubber band, sitting at the bottom of your go-bag. The only evidence of a life lived before that is in a similarly bound stack of polaroids, held together with a too-small paperclip. Every now and then, you'll buy a bottle of cheap wine to chug as you pour over the old photographs. Only when you leave for a new city do you dare to touch the stack of unsent postcards.

You can't bear to look at the photos too often, a painful reminder of your own failings. A reminder of the stupid, reckless little girl you'd been and the shell of a woman you'd become in the aftermath.

It's all your own fault, really.

At least that's what you keep telling yourself.

It's easier to swallow than the alternative: that you were a vulnerable and unloved thing, eating from any hand that would feed you, until the hand that feeds decides to beat.

This, you think, is why you shouldn't think too hard about the past. It doesn't do you any good to dwell on it.

You force yourself to focus on the present, on the here and now. The scratchy polyester blend of the futon cushions, the scent of cheap cheese melting in the oven, the distant sound of sirens, and howling wind outside your apartment. There's no sense in thinking about Gotham now, not when you're so far from it.

The Wonder Years? No, you don't want to watch anything about a family.

Alf? No, that puppet creeps you out.

Cops? Fuck that.

You're about to resign yourself to another night of murmuring the (mostly incorrect) answers to Jeopardy questions at your tv, when you're startled by a knock at your door.

A… knock… at your door.

Oh God… Did… Did he find you? Is this it? Are you going to die in the upper peninsula of Michigan, of all places?!

No, no. You have to stay calm. This could be anything. It's just a knock at the door. It could be anyone!

Oh lord, it could be anyone.

You keep the tv on, hoping that the sound of Alex Trebek grilling folks on useless trivia will cover your footsteps as you creep towards your front door. You hold your breath as you press yourself against it, double checking that all three of your locks are secure before you risk a glance out the peephole.

When you look out into the hall you're surprised, and frankly a bit confused by the sight before you. Standing at your door is a boy, dark haired and bright eyed. He stands straight but not particularly tall- he can't be more than five feet. He's glancing around the hall, rocking back and forth on his heels. He's wearing a red sweatshirt and jeans, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Despite his small stature he holds an air of determination that makes you think he must feel quite old for his age- you get that, you were the same way in your own youth. A chip too big for your shoulder.

“Hello?” The boy calls. “Anybody home?”

The boy rolls his eyes.

“I'm not a boy scout!” He says. “I'm looking for-”

And then the shoe drops; he says your name. Your full name. Not your fake name, that you use at work, and on envelopes, and in hypothetical coffee shops. Your real name.

“My name is Jason Todd,” the boy continues. “And uh… well, I might be your son?”

He could be lying, the logical part of your brain insists. This could be a ploy to get you to open the door, don't open the door! But your hands are moving on their own, shakey as they may be. The first lock twists unlocked with ease, the second takes a fair bit more of your fine motor function, and by the time your shaking hands reach up to unhook the chain on the door, you're struggling to see through unshed tears. You attempt once, twice, three fucking times to get your hands to cooperate and unlatch the damn chain.

Fuck it.

What's important is the boy standing before you- your boy. Your Jason.

He looks as surprised as you feel, his eyes flitting between the broken chain, and you.

For a long moment the only thing you can do is look at him, reacquaint yourself with the sight of him. Of course, you know that he did not stay frozen in time, the way your memory of him is. It's been many years since you've held that babbling toddler. But knowing and seeing are two different things.

He's small for his age, is your first thought. Your own fault, you're certain. Between a premature delivery and your own malnourishment during that first trimester, it's a miracle he'd survived in the first place. Small, but well fed. His cheeks are full and flushed. Despite his size, he seems healthy. Good. That means Will's been feeding him. Hopefully, it means they got the hell out of The Alley, into a nicer neighborhood.

His hair isn't as curly as you'd pictured it- too short in most places to hold a curl, save for his bangs, which seem to almost form the shape of a heart over his forehead.

God, when's the last time you cried?

“Mom,” he says back to you, his tone just as reverent as your own. “Mom,” he says again, voice crackling. And then, in unison, the both of you have pulled each other into a crushing hug. You can't tell if the sound you make is a sob or a laugh. You hold onto Jason like he'll vanish into the ether if you loosen your hold for even a second, one hand clutching at the back of his sweatshirt, the other at the back of his head, petting his hair as he buries his face in your neck.

Finally, at long last, your heart is home.

SO. What do we think folks. Are you hooked? I hope youre hooked. Please be hooked. I wanna talk to people about this fic so damn bad. Please send anons or dms or literally anything. When the chapter is complete I'll be putting it up here as well as on my ao3, which I'll link to! Thanks so much for reading and i hope yall are enjoying yourselves so far! Send me an anon or a dm if you'd like to be included on the taglist for this series!

TAGLIST: @leirobles

#jaybin #jason todd #batman #jason todd x reader #robin!jason #can this be tagged as batmom???#im tagging it as batmom #batmom #of a feather

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