birds in the wood

Chapter Six

Bruce wakes just before sunrise.

He lies in bed for a while. Fragmented dreams circle his mind. And one image that is not a dream: Talon, kneeling in front of him, shaking in terror.

Talon, kneeling in front of him, holding the knife—

Bruce takes a deep breath. He holds it. He imagines blue air filling his chest. It filters through bronchi, bronchioles, alveoli, and trickles into his bloodstream. His heart beats. The blue pulses through his arteries.

Bruce breathes out.

Talon. Kneeling. He didn’t have a knife. He was dressed in the soft clothes that Leslie gave him, and Bruce could swear he saw some feeling—some flicker of emotion on the boy’s face. He didn’t want to show it. He shivered and shook and clawed at his own legs to keep from showing it, but Bruce saw. He was scared.

And then he wasn’t.

Bruce doesn’t know what he did right.

Yellow light peeks between the curtains. Guilt stirs in Bruce’s chest, beating against his ribs. He sits up. Too late. Always too late. He turns sideways to put his feet on the floor, thinking of the prayer shawl packed away for special occasions, the tefillin he hasn’t worn in years. He closes his eyes. He covers them with his right hand.

When he speaks, his voice is clear and steady.

“Shema Yisrael. Adonai Eloheinu. Adonai e-chad.”

⁂

Bruce gets the call at 7:30 a.m.

He’s just stepped out of the shower, a towel around his waist, when he hears the phone ringing in the bedroom. He leaves the bathroom, checks that the bedroom door is closed, and picks up.

“Hello? This is Bruce Wayne.”

“Bruce. Good morning,” Jim Gordon says.

“Good morning,” Bruce says. He moves toward his dresser.

“Burnside Bridge is closed,” Gordon says. “I thought I should let you know. I know Barbara is expecting you later today.”

Bruce stops in the middle of the floor. He takes a deep breath. “Barbara is not expecting me,” he says. “I haven’t heard from her in a few weeks.” He pauses. “And no one is holding me at gunpoint. I’m fine.”

Jim breathes a long sigh into the phone. “Good,” he says. “I had to check.”

“I’m assuming Burnside Bridge is fine,” Bruce says. Jim laughs.

“Hell if I know. I’ve been at the station for…” Jim trails off. His voice comes back utterly morose. “Too long.”

Bruce glances at the clock. 7:32. A little over twenty-four hours since he left the Edwards house. He wonders how much of that time Jim has spent working.

“So you’re fine,” Jim says, a little lighter. “And the kids?”

“They’re…” Bruce pauses. He rests one hand on the dresser. “They’re fine.”

“Are they?”

Bruce thinks of Talon. Talon, choking on a piece of fruit, throwing it back up onto the floor. He thinks of Jason grabbing a butter knife from the table and holding it out to attack. He thinks of Talon. Kneeling on the floor. Shaking.

“They will be,” he says. A hope. A promise.

“What happened?” Jim says, clearly dreading the answer.

“Nothing—bad,” Bruce says. “Talon has—digestive problems I wasn’t aware of. Jason is scared, I think. They both are. But they’re settling in.”

A short pause. “Well, that’s good,” Jim says. He doesn’t sound entirely convinced. “And they haven’t given you any trouble?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have they threatened harm to you, or each other, or anyone else?”

Bruce thinks of Jason, holding the knife. “No.”

“Okay,” Jim says. He sighs again. “Okay. That’s good. I’ll be checking in every twenty-four hours—at least—keeping an eye on that.”

“Understood,” Bruce says. He takes a pair of underwear out of the dresser, remembering that he meant to dress himself, and that if he doesn’t make an appearance downstairs Alfred will come looking for him.

“I talked to Leslie,” Jim says. “Had to do everything but serve her a subpoena. But she said you made it there.”

“Yes,” Bruce says. Jim is feigning irritation. He knows Leslie’s opinion of the police, who so often pose a significant threat to the people she works with. Bruce may be willing to see Jim as an exception; Leslie is not. “Jason and Talon are… healthy. For the moment. Jason’s blood work should come back soon.”

“Just his?”

“Yes.” Bruce hesitates, weighing his earlier conversation with Leslie. He hasn’t spoken to her for twenty-four hours. He should follow up. “I’ll need proof of guardianship in order to access it.”

Jim grunts. “Leslie has that,” he says. “I’ll send you a copy, too.”

Bruce shuffles into his underwear and crosses to his closet, carrying the phone with him. “Leslie and Jason know each other,” he says, picking through hangars in the dark. He knows the fabrics by touch. “There’s a good chance he’s originally from Park Row.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Jim says. “Are you in your office?”

Bruce blinks. “No,” he says.

“I’m sending a file,” Jim says. “We found him. Jason Peter Todd. Twelve years old. Born and raised in Gotham.”

Twelve years old. Bruce closes his eyes. Breathes in through his nose. Jason is twelve years old.

“His father is doing twenty to life for armed robbery,” Jim says. “His mother died of an overdose last February.”

Bruce breathes in again. He knew about Jason’s mother—Leslie said as much—but the fresh detail aches. “Baruch dayan ha’emet,” he whispers, barely voicing the words.

“No other family,” Jim goes on. “As far as I can tell, he never made it to foster care. He went missing just after his mother’s death. This is the first anyone’s heard of him since then.”

Bruce’s hand closes around a pair of slacks. “Are you going to question him?”

“At some point. If he can tell us what happened—at this point, he’s our only lead.”

“What about Talon?”

Jim doesn’t answer. Bruce takes the slacks, a soft cable-knit sweater, and paces back out of the closet to dress.

“That’s not his name,” Jim says.

“I know—”

“I ran it last night. Just to be sure. Checked every database we’ve got. Did you know there isn’t a single person in Gotham with the legal name ‘Talon’? Not for four hundred years.”

Bruce pulls the sweater over his head. “No. I didn’t know that,” he says. “But I knew it likely wasn’t his real name. It’s—” His mouth twists. “Jason said it was what they called him.” His abusers. His tormentors. His traffickers.

“Or,” Jim says, “it’s a title.”

A pause. Bruce frowns. “What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying.”

Another pause. Bruce stands in the middle of his bedroom, still, silent. He does know. He knew back at the Edwards house, twenty-four hours ago, the moment Jason gave up their names.

They watch you at your hearth… they watch you in your bed…

“The Court of Owls,” Bruce says slowly, “is a myth.”

“I thought so too,” Jim says, in a quiet, grim tone. “Before yesterday.”

“You’re—” Bruce paces across the room. Words build in his chest. Bitter anger, old and buried, but still alive. “You’re suggesting—what? That the Court does exist? That Gotham is really controlled by a cabal of wealthy elites? People who kidnap and torture children—do they drink blood too?”

“Bruce,” Jim says. Quiet, grim, and now apologetic.

“Maybe they use it in rituals,” Bruce says. “I’ve heard that.”

“I know you have.” Now Jim sounds pained. “That’s not what I meant.”

Bruce takes a breath. He knows. He knows what Jim means. He knows what Jim is trying to say. He knows what conclusions Jim has drawn from the sudden appearance of an unkillable assassin, wearing all black, wielding knives.

The fact is, if he didn’t know better, Bruce might think the same.

“The Court of Owls is not real.” Bruce takes another breath. “Believe me. I’ve—looked into it. If it was real, I would know.”

Jim coughs. Then he doesn't make any noise for a long time.

“He killed nineteen people.”

Bruce remembers the bodies. The long wet smear of blood across the wall. Severed limbs piled under a sheet.

“I know,” he says.

“He took ten bullets to the chest,” Jim says. “He cut his own throat open. And got up. And walked away.”

Bruce's brain throws up the image again: Talon, kneeling on the floor, black blood gushing from his neck. Staring until the life drained out of his eyes.

“I know.”

“He uses knives. He can’t die. He acts as judge, jury, executioner—what does that sound like to you?”

“It sounds,” Bruce says, “like someone is kidnapping children. Experimenting on them. Using them as soldiers. Someone with resources and protection. Someone who knows Gotham and has a flair for the dramatic.”

“Six of one, half dozen of the other,” Jim mutters.

“A person,” Bruce says. “Not a conspiracy. Not an—immortal enemy. A person using the legend for their own benefit.”

“Could be,” Jim says. “If we just knew…” He trails off. Then, “You hear anything from our mutual friend?”

“No,” Bruce says. He thinks of the giant map of Gotham hanging from the wall in his study. Clusters of pins and string. “Should I expect something?”

“Maybe,” Jim says. “This could be his beat.” He sighs. “I just wish we knew the kid’s name.”

Bruce thinks of Talon, kneeling on the floor, shaking. “So do I.”

⁂

Bruce steps out of his bedroom, touches the mezuzah, and stops.

Bonk. Bonk.

He looks down the hall. On the other side of the staircase, by the spare bedrooms, a small figure sits huddled against the wall. Bruce hears a hollow thumping noise.

Bonk. Bonk. Jason knocks his head back against the wall. Then he sees Bruce watching him and stops.

They stare at each other for a moment. Jason sits outside a closed door—the guest bathroom—with his back to the wall and his knees pulled up to his chest. He wears a black Gotham Knights hoodie, so large on him that it completely covers his body. He’s pulled his legs and arms inside, so he looks most like a particularly angular bundle of black fleece. Only his head is visible. His hair is wet.

Bruce doesn’t know what to say. He said a lot of words to Jim, and now he only has a few left. Why are you hitting your head? Are you alright? There are better grounding techniques—but he doesn’t think any of them will have good results. Jason doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t have any reason to, and if Bruce wants to earn that trust, he needs to move carefully.

“Good morning,” he says.

Jason watches him. He doesn’t look scared. He doesn’t look confident, either. “G’morning,” he says.

“Did you sleep well?” Bruce says.

“Yeah,” Jason says. He looks over Bruce and then away again, quickly. “I mean, yes, sir.”

“Don’t—” Bruce stops. He takes a breath. “You don’t have to call me that. Just ‘Bruce’ is fine.”

Jason looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “Okay,” he says. Then, “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize either.”

Jason starts to say something, flinches, and lifts his shoulders. It all happens at once—a single motion. Bruce wonders if he was about to apologize again.

“Okay,” Jason says.

That could be the end of it. Bruce could keep walking and leave Jason to his own devices. That was the plan, but at the top of the stairs Bruce finds himself recalculating. He doesn’t want to scare Jason, but he doesn’t want to walk away either.

“Is Talon alright?” He needs to follow Jason’s lead. Jason is not scared—at least, he isn’t panicking—so Bruce will stay relaxed as well.

Jason frowns. Then he seems to understand. “Oh. Yeah. He’s—um, he’s in the bathroom.”

Bruce hums in acknowledgement. “Do you think he might be hungry? Alfred is making breakfast. He’d be happy to have you eat in the kitchen.”

This is a common tactic for negotiating with children: projecting their desire onto someone else to make it less threatening. Bruce has applied it in two directions—projecting Jason’s possible hunger onto Talon, and projecting his own request for them to eat breakfast onto Alfred. He watches Jason’s reaction.

Jason shifts a little. It’s hard to see his movements under the hoodie, which is probably the point. “Okay,” he says, after a moment’s thought. His face has not changed. “Sure.” He doesn’t move from the wall.

“Alright,” Bruce says. Calm. Stay calm. Don’t scare him. “We usually eat in the kitchen. You can come down whenever you’re ready.”

“Okay,” Jason says. He moves again. “Um, it might be a minute, ’cause Talon’s taking a while and I said I wouldn’t go in there with him—” He stops. He ducks his head down against his knees.

“Alright,” Bruce says. “That’s fine.”

Jason nods. He tucks his face into his hoodie. He stares at Bruce for a few seconds, and then he slowly lets his head drop back against the wall. Bonk.

Don’t do that. The command passes in and out of Bruce’s head. He doesn’t want to say it. Jason hasn’t done anything wrong—certainly nothing worth reprimanding him, scaring him—and Bruce knows better than most people how important it is to stay grounded in his environment. To push against a physical boundary and feel it push back. But the wall is hard. Jason is banging his head hard enough to make noise, and Bruce doesn’t want him to get hurt. He said he wouldn’t let either of them get hurt. He promised.

“Would you like a pillow?”

Jason blinks. He frowns. “What?”

“A pillow,” Bruce says. “For your head.” He gestures to the back of his own head.

“Oh.” Jason frees one hand from the hoodie to touch the back of his head absently. “Um. Sure.”

Bruce crosses the hall to grab a pillow from his study. He picks one of the stiff green throw pillows from an armchair and carries it back to where Jason sits against the wall, staring up at him with an indecipherable expression.

“See if that helps,” he says. Jason takes the pillow and tucks it behind his head and—after another long look at Bruce—knocks his head back with sudden energy. It doesn’t make any noise.

Jason’s brow furrows. He looks up at Bruce, with a tightness in his face that makes Bruce think he’s scared. Bruce steps back.

“You’re not,” Jason says, and then he stops. He draws his arms inside the hoodie again. It looks like he wraps them around his knees.

“I’m not…?” Bruce says.

“Nevermind,” Jason says. “S—sorry.” His shoulders tense. He looks up again. That’s when Bruce understands: Jason is testing him. Pushing back ever so slightly and watching to see what happens.

He tries to smile—not a bright press-ready grin or a wry grimace, but a real smile. It feels brittle on his face.

Jason squints at him and tilts his head a little to the side. Then he thumps it back against the pillow again. “Thank you,” he says. “It feels good.”

“Good,” Bruce says. That is, after all, what he wanted. He takes another step towards the stairs. “Breakfast is in the kitchen.”

“Okay,” Jason says. He thumps his head again. Bruce leaves him to it, satisfied that Jason is safe for now. He walks down the stairs.

Alfred is awake. Bruce hears him moving around the kitchen. He crosses through the living area on light feet, moving near-silently out of habit. He looks up at the chandelier as he passes.

Nothing there. Bruce remembers a pair of glowing eyes, watching him from behind the metalwork, and for a second the late-night memory overlays reality. He twitches with sudden fear that something, a predator, is stalking him.

But the chandelier is empty. Bruce lets himself shudder once and moves on.

He finds his mug on a side table, still full of peppermint tea. He left it—last night. When Talon started to shake. He wanted to have his hands free. Then there was the afghan, and Bruce’s poor attempts at comfort, and then—the Talon’s voice. He spoke. Just one word, but he spoke. He answered Bruce. And he wasn’t scared.

Bruce wishes he knew the boy’s name.

He picks up the cold mug of tea and carries it with him into the kitchen. There he finds Alfred. Their eyes meet. Bruce looks away. Alfred nods to him, but says nothing, as he often does. Bruce goes to the breakfast bar and leans against it. He doesn’t want to sit down yet. Alfred hovers by the stove. Butter sizzles in a pan.

Bruce stood here last night. He stood here and waited for the water to boil. It feels faraway now. Another dream slipping through the cracks in his mind. He couldn’t sleep. He often can’t. Walking down to the kitchen and brewing tea in the dark has become a soothing ritual.

Glowing eyes. Watching.

Bruce wonders how long the Talon was watching.

“They’re coming down for breakfast,” he says. “The children.”

Alfred raises his eyebrows. “You spoke to them?”

“Yes. To Jason. He was in the hall—outside the bathroom. Guarding the door, I think.”

Alfred nods once. “When I checked on them,” he says, “the door to their room was locked.”

The door wasn’t locked last night, when Bruce walked Talon back to their room. Talon must have locked it behind him. Or maybe Jason did, as soon as he woke up. Maybe he thought that someone came in during the night. Maybe—

Bruce takes a deep breath. Calm. Stay calm. Jason was calm, in the hallway. Bruce will follow his lead.

“I thought they might prefer to take their meals in private,” Alfred says.

Yesterday—after the disaster that was breakfast—the children ate in their room. They stayed in their room for the rest of the day. They did not leave except to use the bathroom. If they choose to do that again—Bruce can’t stop them. He knows Alfred will accommodate them. But he doesn’t like the idea.

“We do need to know how much they’re eating,” he says.

“There are ways to determine that without causing undue stress.”

Bruce hums. “How much did they eat yesterday?”

“Two servings of broccoli,” Alfred says. “All the fruit that I gave them, about four cups. Two slices of toast, and a small amount of cheese.”

“That’s not enough for both of them,” Bruce says. “That’s hardly enough for one.”

“I thought there might be extenuating factors,” Alfred says.

“Such as?”

Alfred gives him a distinctly unimpressed look. “Such as the rapid change in circumstances and acute levels of stress they have been through—in the last forty-eight hours alone, to say nothing of before. Such conditions are hardly conducive to a good appetite, as you yourself may remember.”

Bruce knows. Of course he does. After his parents—he barely ate anything for six months. He scared Alfred half to death. He knows that.

“I don’t want them to be scared,” he says.

Alfred turns back to the stove. “That may not be something you can control.”

Bruce’s teeth clench. He knows. He doesn’t need to hear it again. He needs answers—strategy. Some way to prove himself to the children so newly in his care.

“Bruce Thomas Wayne,” Alfred says, without looking at him, “stop grinding your teeth.”

Jason chooses that moment to appear in the kitchen doorway.

He lingers there for a moment, watching, and then he crosses to sit at the island. Talon trails behind him, holding his hand. He has the sunglasses back on his face, and another oversized hoodie that Bruce suspects came from his own cast-offs. Talon’s is dark blue, with Hudson University’s light blue V across the chest. His hair is wet.

Jason sits at the corner of the island. Talon settles in to stand behind him; Jason tugs on his hand.

“You gotta sit down too,” he says. “Remember?”

He pulls Talon around to the next seat. Then Talon seems to understand. He climbs up and perches there, next to Jason. With the sunglasses, Bruce can’t tell what he’s looking at.

“Thank you for joining us,” Alfred says. He turns away from the stove to set out two plates. Jason’s has a full breakfast: scrambled eggs, buttered toast, turkey bacon, and a serving of fruit. Talon’s is more spare: a single slice of plain toast and a small bowl of applesauce.

“Start with this,” Alfred says. He raps his knuckles against the counter next to the plate. “If you can keep it down, we’ll see about a second helping. Do you understand?”

Talon tilts his head to the side. Then he tucks his elbows into his sides and looks down.

“It’s okay,” Jason says. He glances up at Bruce and then away, very quickly. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t wanna.”

Alfred frowns.

Jason glances at Bruce again. “Does he have to?”

Bruce stays very still. Appeal to authority, he thinks. Jason thinks Bruce can overrule Alfred. He might be disappointed in that regard, but he’s bold enough to ask. That seems like a good sign.

“He does need to eat,” Bruce says. “If… he can’t keep it down, then he can stop. You shouldn’t hurt yourselves. But not eating will hurt you, too.”

Talon lifts his head. Bruce can just see his eyes glowing behind the sunglasses. He stares at Bruce for a long time.

“Is…” Jason says. He hesitates. “Is it a rule?”

“A rule?” Bruce says.

“Yeah,” Jason says. He twists his hands in the overlong sleeves of his hoodie.

“You do need to eat,” Bruce says again. He doesn’t know what else to say. Something is happening here—something in Jason’s face, the sudden tension in his body—but Bruce doesn’t know what it is. “We won’t force you, but I think Alfred will keep trying until he finds something you want to eat.”

“Okay,” Jason says. He glances at Alfred, refilling the coffeemaker with water. “Is that a rule?”

It’s the way he says it—a rule. Like it has a definition that Bruce doesn’t know. “What do you mean?”

“A… a rule,” Jason says. His eyes dart away again. To the stove, this time. “Like. A rule—for—for living here.”

Bruce frowns. That makes more sense, but he still feels like he’s missing something. “You could say that,” he says. “Like I said, we won’t force you, but it is important that you eat.”

Jason’s face scrunches up in a frown. It’s the most expressive Bruce has seen him, ever, and it makes his chest feel suddenly light.

“Were there rules for the places you lived before?” Alfred says.

“Yeah,” Jason says. “You ever live somewhere there wasn’t rules?”

“I admit, I have not,” Alfred says, with a slight smile. He isn’t watching the boys, looking instead at the bacon cooking in a pan. That might be a better strategy, Bruce thinks, too late.

“You can,” Jason says, and hesitates again. “You can just tell us. So we don’t mess up. So we—if we’re gonna be here—” He stops. He presses his lips together. He isn’t frowning anymore, but he doesn’t look happy.

Talon smooths a hand over Jason’s hair. He makes a soft chirping noise. Again, Bruce thinks, disappointed. He hoped, after last night—but he knows better. Recovery is rarely linear. He has no idea how long the boy has been forbidden to speak.

“Alright,” he says. Jason is right. There are rules here, just as there would be anywhere else. If laying them out in the open helps Jason feel more comfortable, Bruce will do that. “You are not allowed to hurt each other, or yourselves, or us. That is the most important rule, and it applies to everyone. No one here is allowed to hurt anyone else.”

Jason nods. “Okay.”

“That goes for threats of violence as well,” Alfred says. “We do not—”

“Threaten each other with bodily harm,” Jason finishes. “I know.”

Alfred gives him a startled look, and then a smile. Jason looks back at Bruce. “What else?”

“You are required to eat, drink water, and sleep,” Bruce says. “We will not force you to do these things, but… we have a responsibility to keep you safe. Taking care of your needs is part of that.”

“Okay,” Jason says. “How much do we have to eat?”

“We’ll have to talk to Leslie—Dr. Thompkins about that. She’ll have a better idea of what your body needs.”

“For now,” Alfred says, “a good rule of thumb would be to eat until you feel full.”

“Okay,” Jason says. He takes a deep breath. “Okay.” He picks up his fork and starts eating his scrambled eggs. “What else?”

“Assume any room with a locked door is off-limits,” Bruce says. “Aside from that, you may go wherever you would like inside the apartment. You… should probably stay inside for the time being, but if there is somewhere else you would like to go, tell me or Alfred and we’ll see if it can be arranged.”

“You are not allowed on the balcony without supervision,” Alfred says.

Bruce nods. “If you would like to use the balcony, let us know. If you need anything else, or want something, tell us. We want to help you.” He pauses, running back what he’s said, trying to find any gaps. There are endless loopholes. If Jason or Talon wanted to cause trouble, they easily could, but Bruce doesn’t think they want that. Jason, at least, seems anxious to know their boundaries. Talon… he isn’t sure about Talon yet.

“What else?” Jason says, through a mouthful of toast. Talon stares at his plate.

“Please refrain from cursing,” Alfred says. “You do not need to use expletives to express yourself.”

Jason rolls his eyes.

“Listen to Alfred,” Bruce says. He thinks suddenly of Talon watching him from the chandelier. “And stay on the ground. The floor. Do not climb on the furniture.”

Jason frowns. He glances sideways at Talon. “Okay,” he says, slower. “What else?”

“If you are hurt, in any way,” Alfred says, “please tell us so we can help you. We will not be angry. We want you to be safe and healthy.”

“Okay,” Jason says. He says it the same way every time. Bruce wonders if he really understands. If he believes their promises of safety. He knows—he knows where Jason came from. What happened to him. He and Alfred won’t be the first adults to claim they only want to help.

At least he’s eating.

Jason looks between Bruce and Alfred. “Is that it?”

A pause. “For now,” Bruce says. “Yes.”

Jason scrunches his face up again. “For real?”

“Should there be something else?” Bruce says. Alfred sets a plate down in front of him: eggs, bacon, toast, fruit.

“Well,” Jason says, and then he falters. “What about, you know… no screaming… no yelling… no crying…”

A tremor passes through Bruce. He grips his fork. After what has happened to you, he thinks, any amount of screaming and crying would be acceptable.

“I mean, not that we would,” Jason says quickly. He’s staring at Bruce now. “I just mean. Like. Can—can you tell us that stuff too, just, so it’s on the record, y’know? So—so Talon knows.”

“Those are not rules here,” Bruce says. “You may make as much noise as you want.”

Jason frowns. “What about making messes,” he says, “or breaking stuff—if it’s an accident, not on purpose obviously.”

“You may be asked to help clean up any messes you make,” Alfred says. “If you break something, you may have to help replace it. But you will not be punished.”

Jason stops chewing. He goes completely still. He stares, first at Alfred, then at Bruce.

Something is wrong. Bruce feels the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders, and he, too, goes still. Something is wrong. Jason is scared.

“Okay,” Jason says. His voice shakes. “Okay. That makes sense.”

“What makes sense,” Bruce says—too fast, too loud, because Jason flinches and his fork slips out of his hand and clatters against his plate. Talon leans over to put his forehead against Jason’s shoulder. Jason grabs onto him.

“Paying you back,” Jason says. “I get it. It’s—it’s—” His voice breaks. He stares at Bruce, but his face is blank. This is wrong. Something is wrong.

“No,” Bruce says, and then, when Jason flinches again, “it’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you—”

“Just let someone else,” Jason says in a high voice. He’s not breathing properly. He’s panicking. Then Bruce hears the words and a cold shudder seizes him.

“No!”

Jason flinches back. Talon catches him and bundles him into his arms, resting his head on top of Jason’s. Jason lets him. Jason presses his face into Talon’s chest. He grips Talon’s sweatshirt with white knuckles. Bruce sees him shaking.

“No, Jason, that’s—I would never. I will never let anyone hurt you. Never, for any reason. You could destroy anything in this apartment—anything I own. I will never, never use that to hurt you.”

No answer. Jason presses into Talon’s chest, shaking, shaking, shaking.

Bruce thinks of the first night. The house. The hallway. Talon, standing in a doorway, with Jason hiding behind him. Jason, wrapped in a blanket, staring through him. And last night—Talon, with a blanket over his shoulders, shaking.

He said this to Talon, too.

“Jason,” Bruce says. “You do not owe me anything.”

No answer. Bruce does not expect one. All he wants is for them to hear him.

“I do not want anything from you,” he says. “Except for you to be safe. That is my job—to keep you safe. No one here will hurt you. No one—no one will exploit you for sex. Or anything else. Never. Under any circumstances. It will not happen.”

Jason takes a deep, gasping breath. Then another. Then another. He pulls away from Talon—and Talon lets him, but they keep touching each other. Talon runs his hand through Jason’s hair. Jason clings to Talon’s sweatshirt.

“Okay,” Jason says. He glances at Bruce, at Alfred, and then down at his plate. “I’m okay now. Sorry.”

“Do you understand,” Bruce says, because he has to know. He has to be sure.

“Yeah,” Jason says quickly. “Yeah, I get it. Sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t think you would. I mean, not really.”

“Clearly you did,” Bruce says. Jason blinks at him.

“You’re not allowed to hit me,” he says. Then he flinches, tucking himself closer to Talon. But he keeps staring at Bruce.

“...Yes,” Bruce says, after far too long. “That is correct. I am not allowed to hit you.” No one is. No one should be. Tell me who hurt you and I’ll make sure it never happens again. “Nor do I want to.”

Jason nods. He relaxes a little; he lowers his shoulders.

After that there is nothing more to say.

Jason picks up his fork again. He keeps eating. Alfred sits down with his own plate and also begins eating in resolute silence. Even Talon starts to nibble at his toast. Bruce eats, because everyone else is, but he doesn’t enjoy it. Every bite churns in his stomach.

Jason keeps looking at him. He stares, until he sees Bruce looking back at him; then he turns to Talon, or Alfred, or his own plate, but he keeps coming back to Bruce.

Jason has a very expressive face.

Bruce didn’t notice before. He sees it now. He sees Jason turn one corner of his mouth to frown; he sees that frown break into a bright smile when Talon coos and ruffles Jason’s hair. He sees Jason wrinkle his nose when he bites into his bacon. He sees Jason look at him with wide eyes, a little more open each time.

Trusting.

Memories overlap the kitchen, the living area, night and day. Talon perched on the chandelier. Talon kneeling on the floor. Talon staring at him with round golden eyes in utter shock that Bruce wouldn’t hurt him.

No one should look at him like that. Let alone a child. Let alone—Bruce’s knuckles whiten around his fork.

He was grateful. When he looked at Bruce—he held his posture relaxed and open. His eyes tracked the movement of the smile on Bruce’s face. He saw that smile, and something in him shifted—and Bruce didn’t identify it then, didn’t think to, but he knows now. He sees it again, on Jason’s face, when Talon picks his bowl up to tip the applesauce into his mouth and Jason glances sideways at Bruce and smiles. That openness, that lack of fear—they’re grateful.

No one should look at him like that.

⁂

A sheaf of paper sits on the fax machine in the study. Bruce rifles through it: vaccination records, medical history, school records, and then at the bottom of the stack a police file. Next to the name, Jason Peter Todd, the same photo from the school file: Jason, wearing a red sweater and grinning at the camera. He has a gap in his teeth. Two little curls hang over his forehead, escaping from gelled-down hair.

Bruce looks at the photo until he can’t anymore.

He dials from the phone on his desk, the rotary that belonged to his father. It rings once. Twice.

Click. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Bruce worries the papers in his hands. The things he could do with these records, with this amount of information—

“Did you get the files?” Jim says. “The fax looked like it went through—”

“Yes. They’re here.” He lays the pile on his desk, on top of all the other papers. Letters, reports, grant proposals. The work that Bruce should be doing. The work he hasn’t been able to think about for twenty-four hours.

“Bruce,” Jim says. His voice is rough. “Why did you call?”

Bruce opens his mouth. There are too many questions he could ask in the sudden silence, and he can’t sort out their priority in his mind.

“Bruce.”

“Is this legal?”

Silence. Jim breathes in, and out.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s not ideal, but it’s allowed.”

“By who?” Bruce says. “You?”

“Well, yes.”

“I don’t work for you,” Bruce says.

“No,” Jim says. “It’s…” He sighs again. “Technically, they’re in my custody. Emergency protective custody, if parents can’t be located and there’s no time to get a court order—I can take them, so according to the paperwork, I did. You’re a… proxy. Next-of-kin. You’re standing in for me, because your home is safer than mine.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure—”

“You know someone broke into the house last night.”

Bruce looks up. Out the window, at the grey-and-black city outside. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah,” Jim says. “No one was home. They broke a window, trashed a couple of rooms, and left. Didn’t take anything.”

Bruce stares through the window, unseeing. If someone had been home… “Have you told Barbara?”

“Yep,” Jim says. “Called the contractor. Filed a report. Same as always. You think I want those kids getting mixed up in this shit? They’re better off with you.”

Bruce thinks of the security on the penthouse, the layers of surveillance at every level of Wayne Tower. He’s been threatened before. Of course he has. He’s rich; he’s famous; he’s Jewish. Plenty of people want him dead. But Bruce has the money and resources to protect himself, to insulate himself from the world, if he wanted to. Jim Gordon has a three-bedroom house on the south side of Gotham and a bulletproof vest that he wears for days at a time.

“Is there anywhere else they can go?”

A pause. When Jim answers, Bruce can hear him frowning. “I thought you said they were settling in alright.”

“They are,” Bruce says. He thinks of Jason, clinging to Talon, shaking with fear. “I’m asking if there is anywhere else they can go that will keep them together. You’ve had time to look into it.”

“No,” Jim says. “That hasn’t changed. One of them is a suspect. The other is a victim. There is no facility that will take both of them together.” He pauses. “There aren’t many facilities that will take the older one, period. He’s… he’s a danger to himself and others. I can get him a bed at Arkham; I might be able to get him a bed at Van Derm, but he’ll probably end up in solitary.” He pauses. “Do you need to move them?”

“No,” Bruce says. “I don’t need to move them. I need to know if this is really the best place for them to be.”

“It is,” Jim says.

A long, heavy silence. Bruce doesn’t believe that. He doesn’t know where else in Gotham would be better.

“It is,” Jim says. “I’ve seen the penthouse. They are as safe there as they’re going to get. And you’re still alive, so clearly they don’t see you as a threat either.”

That’s what scares him. Bruce asked to take these children, with no jurisdiction, no authority, no qualifications, and Jim said yes. The police commissioner handed these children over to him without asking a single question, and the children themselves, seemingly, have no problem with that.

“If that kid didn’t want to be there,” Jim says, and Bruce doesn’t have to ask which kid he means, “he wouldn’t be there. You saw what he did. He trusts you, at least for now, and he’s voluntarily staying put. That’s good enough for me.”

“I am not qualified for this,” Bruce says. He said he would keep them safe. He meant it. But he’s just one man.

“No,” Jim says. “But you’re the best option we have.” Bruce hears a muffled voice in the background. “I have to go. Look, don’t push them, but if the kids say anything about that party—how they got there, or anything that happened before—call me.”

“Of course,” Bruce says. He thinks of Jason, again—Jason, wrapped in a blanket, hiding.

“It looks pretty open-and-shut,” Jim says. “But I don’t know.”

“It’s not the Court of Owls.”

“Right.”

“The Court of Owls is not real.”

“I know,” Jim says. “I know.” Then, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” And he hangs up.

Bruce takes a deep breath.

He sets the receiver down. He turns away from the desk, toward the window, where Gotham’s skyline stretches out to the blue-grey line of the harbor.

The Court of Owls is not real. Of that, Bruce is certain. The legend of the Court, on the other hand, is very real. Mothers whisper it to their children, half in lullaby, half in warning. Children pass it back and forth between ghost stories and dares. Adults remember it, laugh, and look over their shoulders. The legend inspires fear. It inspires apathy. And now, apparently, it has inspired a copycat.

Bruce turns away from the window. He needs to find out who Talon is. Where he came from. What happened to him. For that, Bruce will have to open a case he thought he closed a long time ago.

⁂