Summary

Bruce makes a phone call. Jason meets an old friend.

Chapter Two

On the way to Leslie’s clinic, Bruce learns three things.

First: the Talon helps keep Jason calm.

They step out of the Edwards house, into cool night air and the stark lights of emergency vehicles. While Jim rounds up the remaining first responders and addresses them from the porch, Bruce leads the way to his car. The Talon follows at his shoulder, lithe and silent: a model bodyguard, except for the small child clinging to his arm.

Jason balks at the sight of the car. He doesn’t say anything, just stops walking. The Talon stops too. He draws Jason a little closer, wrapping one greyish arm around him.

“Where’re we going,” Jason says. His voice is flat, muffled by the Talon’s close hold. He must be exhausted.

“We’re going to see a doctor,” Bruce says. “I know her personally. I can vouch for her safety. She’ll make sure that you’re not hurt. You won’t have to pay her. Or me. It’s taken care of.”

He tries to cover everything that might scare the child, to frame the offer in clear, non-threatening terms. Even so, Jason ducks back behind the Talon. He doesn’t want to go.

The Talon glances at Bruce. His eyes glow in the dark. Bruce looks back, a placid expression fixed on his face. He took the Talon’s knives back in the house. He turned them over to Jim as protected evidence.

The Talon does not need knives to kill. Bruce is absolutely certain of this.

Whatever the boy is looking for in Bruce’s face, he must find it. He breaks eye contact and turns to brush a hand over Jason’s hair. He chirps.

Bruce blinks. He isn’t sure what he just heard—if he heard anything at all—and they’re still in the open, so he ushers the children forward. They follow him. Jason climbs into the backseat without argument. The Talon goes with him.

Second: Jason helps keep the Talon calm.

The car ride is quiet, marked by small noises as the Talon shifts around in the backseat. He tugs at the seat belt, pulling and releasing and pulling and releasing, whenever he thinks Bruce isn’t looking.

“It’s okay,” Jason murmurs. He, too, only moves when Bruce’s eyes are fixed on the road. Streetlights sweep past them. “It’s to keep you safe. He’s wearing one too, see?”

Bruce stays very still. A few seconds later he hears a soft huff of breath. When he looks back in the rear view mirror, he sees the two children curled around each other, Jason gripping Talon’s arm, Talon’s leg propped up to shield him from view. Jason is bundled in his blanket. The Talon still has a bit of black crust on his throat.

Third: Bruce has no idea what he’s doing.

He makes it as far as the clinic lobby, the two children trailing behind him, before he realizes. The receptionist behind the desk looks up at him, and Bruce suddenly has no idea what to say.

He’s never taken a child to the doctor before. He’s never acted in anything close to a parental capacity, to anyone. He’s never been on this side of Leslie’s work—accessing treatment instead of funding it.

“Good morning,” the receptionist says. Her sharp, skeptical look tells Bruce that she might have recognized him. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” Bruce says, hyper-aware of the children at his back. At least the lobby is otherwise empty. No one else is here to see the two children covered in blood. “Is Dr. Thompkins available? I need to speak with her.”

The receptionist raises her eyebrows. “Name?”

“Bruce Wayne.”

Her mouth twitches. “Right,” she says. “Go ahead and take a seat; Dr. Thompkins will be right with you.”

Bruce nods. He shepherds the kids over to the waiting room chairs.

It must be a slow night. The children are still silently negotiating the idea of sitting down when Leslie steps into the waiting area.

“Bruce—” She stops. She stares at the children. “Jason?”

“Hey, Doc,” Jason says. A tired smile crosses his face. He tugs his blanket tighter around his body.

“You know each other?” Bruce says.

“We do,” Leslie says. She keeps looking at Jason. “It’s good to see you again, Jason. I’m glad you’re here.” She glances at the Talon. “Who’s your friend?”

“Talon,” Jason says. “He doesn’t talk. Um, and I don’t think he signs either. He needs someone to go with him. For his checkup.”

“Alright,” Leslie says. “I’ll have you take a shower first, if that’s alright. Then we’ll see about checkups.”

Jason nods. He takes the Talon’s hand.

The Talon looks at Bruce.

“It’s okay,” Jason says. “Dr. Thompkins’s good. She won’t hurt you.” He pulls on the Talon’s arm.

The Talon looks at Bruce.

Bruce’s mouth goes dry.

“Talon,” he says. He tries to keep his voice even. The last time the Talon looked at him like that… “You can go with Leslie. You can… do what she says. You should do what she says.”

He looks Talon in the eyes.

“Do not hurt her.”

The Talon bows his head. Then, and only then, does he let Jason lead him down the hall.

Leslie follows them. She turns over her shoulder to give Bruce a look, eyes narrow, mouth pinched in a firm line.

I’ll deal with you later.

Of that, Bruce has no doubt.

He braces his elbows against his knees and breathes for a while, letting his nerves settle. The receptionist taps at her keyboard in a stochastic rhythm. The fluorescent lights hum.

When the hum gets too loud, creeping on the edge of his thoughts, Bruce stands up to pace. He takes out his mobile phone and sees on the screen a notification: 4 Missed Calls. All from the same number.

Bruce dials it. The phone rings five times before someone picks up with a click.

“Master Bruce?”

Bruce winces a little. Alfred only uses formal titles to make a point. This is not how Bruce wanted their conversation to start.

“Alfred,” he says. “Good morning.”

“I suppose it is,” Alfred says, “now that I can say for certain that you are, in fact, alive.”

Bruce sighs. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“I am being oblique,” Alfred says. “Perhaps passive-aggressive. I wish that you had left a note.”

“I didn’t think of it,” Bruce says. “I’m alright.”

“I’m glad.”

Alfred pauses. Bruce glances at the clock. It’s past six-fifteen. Alfred will probably start breakfast soon, if he hasn’t already.

“We’re going to have guests,” he says.

“Oh?”

“Two of them,” Bruce says. “Children. They’re…” He trails off, unsure how to explain the situation, how to talk his way through the minefield of an active criminal investigation. “They’ve been through something horrible. They’re… scared.”

“I see.” Alfred is silent for a moment. “Would this have anything to do with your excursion early this morning?”

“Yes,” Bruce says. He glances at the receptionist behind the desk. “I’ll explain more later. I just… wanted to warn you.”

“Hm.” Alfred pauses again. “Well, in that case, I will set the table for four. When can I expect you?”

“Within the hour, I think,” Bruce says.

“Very well. I will look for you then.”

They hang up at the same time.

After that, Bruce distracts himself with the bookshelf at the far end of the waiting room. Leslie keeps a free library and a free closet for everyone who visits the clinic; Bruce knows both by the donations he’s made to keep them stocked. He finds the library full of books, most of them lightly used, ranging from nonfiction to classics to children’s fiction. A basket of stuffed animals sits next to the shelf. Bruce wonders if Jason might want one.

They have nothing.

Somehow the thought catches him by surprise. They have nothing. As long as these children are in his care, they will be dependent on Bruce for everything. Food, water, clothing, shelter, medicine, comfort.

Everything.

He doesn’t know where to start. Food, he thinks, and with that the questions begin. What kind of nutrients do they need? What foods will they eat? Will they want to eat at all? At Jason’s age, Bruce refused more foods than he accepted. The grief and horror of his parents’ deaths made it even worse. What if Jason has that reaction? What if he won’t eat?

Just the thought is terrifying.

The door opens. Bruce, already standing, turns to face the children as they file in. Both of them are clean, dressed in soft, clean clothes. Jason wears pajama pants and a shirt with a faded Wonder Woman symbol. Talon wears black sweatpants, a little too big for him, and a shirt with a kitten on it.

Leslie walks in after them.

“I’m going to talk to Bruce now,” she says, addressing Jason. “Go ahead and pick out your book.”

“Can Talon get something?” Jason says. He has socks and shoes now, Bruce notices, red socks and black sneakers. Talon is still barefoot.

“Of course,” Leslie says.

Jason takes Talon’s hand and leads him over to the bookshelf. Once they’re safely at the other end of the room, Leslie turns on Bruce.

“Explain.”

Bruce takes a breath.

“They were found,” he starts, “in a house in Bristol, covered in blood, surrounded by corpses.”

“Who found them?” Leslie says. “You?”

“Jim Gordon,” Bruce says. Hesitates. “And his officers.”

Leslie narrows her eyes. Her arms are folded, her body angled away from him. She’s skeptical. Uncertain. “And how did you get ahold of them?”

“Jim called me in. They had nowhere else to go. They would have been separated—if anyone else took them, and they need to stay together. They wouldn’t be safe in the system.”

“A lot of kids aren’t,” Leslie says. “What makes them different?”

Bruce has no answer to that.

He knows that Gotham’s social services are overwhelmed at best and corrupt at worst. He knows that the foster care system is a revolving door of runaways and abuse cases. He knows that safe placements are few and far between. He never did anything about it before. Oh, he donated, advocated for expansion and reform, said all the right words and tried to follow them up with money, but he never even considered opening his own home. Bruce knows it. Leslie knows it.

What makes them different?

“They were there,” he says, at last. “I—” I watched a child kill himself I watched him bleed out I couldn’t just leave him. “I couldn’t just leave them.”

“Huh.” Leslie looks over at the two boys. They appear to be deep in whispered conversation next to the bookshelf. At least, Jason is whispering.

“You know Jason,” Bruce says. It’s another piece of evidence linking Jason to Park Row.

“I do,” Leslie says.

“Do you know where his parents are?”

Bruce doesn’t want to think about how Jason got to be in the Edwards house. His brain flinches from it, trying to avoid the reality of what happened. But he knows what happened, and he knows that Jason’s parents must either be complicit in his trafficking, or be gone. Bruce isn’t sure which is worse.

“His mother is dead,” Leslie says. “His father is out of the picture.” She taps her fingers against her arm. “He didn’t want to talk about what happened. I can’t blame him.”

“He talked to you?” Bruce says.

Leslie nods. She stands close enough for Bruce to see the lines around her eyes. The faint smell of rubbing alcohol follows her.

“What do you know about the other one?” she says. “Talon?”

“Not—much,” Bruce says. “Very little. He was at the house… he’s a metahuman. He has a healing factor. It’s strong.” How strong, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t know how to say he slit his throat in front of me and got up again and I think he did it because he thought I wanted him to.

“That’s all?”

“Yes,” Bruce says. “Is something wrong?”

It feels like the wrong question—what isn’t wrong—but Leslie turns to him with a grim expression.

“Talon,” she says. Bruce’s spine prickles. “He’s… Bruce, he shouldn’t be alive.”

“What?”

He didn’t think Talon was injured. Even if he was—even if he was bleeding out—he slit his own throat he bled out he stood up and walked away. He can’t be injured. It’s impossible. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he doesn’t have a heartbeat. Not one that I could find. His body temperature is sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit. He doesn’t breathe unless I ask him to. And his blood….” Leslie gives Bruce a grim look. “I have never seen vitals like his. Never. If I saw them on a chart, I would assume I was dealing with a corpse.”

She darts a quick glance at the children; then back at Bruce. She waits for him to say something.

Bruce doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know the answer to any of Leslie’s questions, or even to his own. All he knows is that these children are his responsibility for the foreseeable future, and he has to protect them.

“I don’t know,” he says, “what they did. But they did something. They hurt him. Very badly.”

“I can see that,” Leslie says. She looks at the children again. “They’ve both been through severe trauma. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. There would be plenty of complications even if they were perfectly healthy, which they aren’t. Jason…” She hesitates. “Jason is malnourished. His blood work will come back in a few days; show me proof of guardianship, and I’ll forward those results to you. We can set up a treatment plan when we know more about what we’re dealing with. Talon…” She shakes her head. “His vitals are so far off of any baseline that I can’t do much with them, but he seems like he’s functioning alright. You’ll let me know if that changes.”

Bruce nods. At the moment, his only real plans involve bringing the children home, feeding them, and getting them to sleep. He hopes nothing else changes.

“I want to see them both again in two weeks,” Leslie says. “Until then… just be gentle. Feed them, water them, let them sleep. Don’t rush into anything.”

Bruce snorts. “Besides caring for two children on a whim, you mean.”

Leslie gives him an unimpressed look. “Bruce Wayne,” she says. “You’ve never done anything on a whim in your life. They needed help. You helped them.”

Jason approaches from the other side of the waiting room. He has a thick paperback in one hand and a stuffed elephant in the other. Talon follows right behind him.

“We got our stuff,” he says, looking between Bruce and Leslie.

“Good,” Leslie says. “Do you have any more questions for me before you go?”

“No.” Jason hunches up his shoulders. “Thanks, though.”

“You’re welcome,” Leslie says. “Thank you for helping your friend.”

“Yeah. No problem.” Jason looks at Bruce. “Can we go?”

“Yes,” Bruce says. “Of course.”

“You can schedule your next appointment with Sarah,” Leslie says. “I’ll look for you. Goodbye, Jason, Talon.”

“Bye.”

Bruce makes a note to call the clinic later. He wants to get the children home before one of them collapses from exhaustion. He leads them out into the parking lot.

The sky is grey. The sun is an orange smear on the horizon. It will be day soon.

They get back into the car without incident. Bruce pulls out onto Gotham’s narrow streets. Sallow light reaches between the buildings, illuminating little stretches of pavement. The city is awake.

It occurs to Bruce that he should tell the children where they’re going.

“We’re going to my home,” he says. “I live in Old Gotham. My adoptive father will be there.”

“Is he a creep?”

Bruce looks up in the mirror, startled. Jason glares back at him, arms folded. He might be more intimidating, Bruce thinks, if he wasn’t curled up almost in the Talon’s lap.

“No,” Bruce says. “No, he—he won’t hurt you. No one will hurt you, or—touch you in any way you don’t want. You’re safe now.”

Jason rolls his eyes.

“Sure,” he says. “Whatever.” He hunches his shoulders up and nestles closer into the Talon’s hold.

The Talon looks at Bruce with bright eyes. He doesn’t look hostile or apprehensive; his posture is almost trusting, even as he shields Jason with his body. When Bruce glances back, he sees the Talon close his eyes against the morning light and lay his head down on top of Jason’s.

He slit his throat he offered me the knife and when I wouldn’t take it he slit his own throat—

Bruce wonders what the Talon would do if Jason got scared. If he screamed for help. If he accused Bruce—or, God forbid, Alfred—of hurting him.

He wonders what the Talon would do if Jason got hurt.

He looks down at his own hands, holding the steering wheel, and he wonders what the Talon saw to make him hold out that knife.

Who are you?

In the backseat of the car, in the grey light of morning, the Talon doesn’t look like he could kill nineteen people. He looks like a sickly teenager curled up with his little brother. Bruce wonders if that’s what he was before—before whatever happened to make him silent and staring and medically dead. He might have started out as a metahuman. Bruce is willing to bet he didn’t start out as someone who would slit his own throat for a stranger.

And who did this to you?

⁂