For foxotr.

Chapter One

The gloves had been a birthday present from his mother.

It was his thirteenth birthday. "You're not my little boy any more, Jackie!" she'd tell him, but if that was the case, he thought, why still call him Jackie? My name is Jack, only he felt as though he couldn't say that to her. He loved his mother dearly and Jack couldn't hurt her like that. He would imagine the light leaving her eyes as he spoke back to her, and the guilt flooded him.

His father, on the other hand, didn't remember it was Jack's birthday, and even if he did, Jack doubted he'd make a big thing out of it. Wasn't the Oedipus complex the son being jealous of the father, not the father being jealous of the son? Because that's what it seemed like to Jack. As a young child, he often wondered why his father didn't love him. What had he done that was so wrong, that had made his father hate him? As he grew older, he realised, it was the fact that he was even born. Jack supposed that his parents' time had been spent just the two of them for years, and then two became three, and suddenly it was crying babies and changing diapers, and lullabies and testing bath water with your elbow. Jack's mother spent a lot of time with him and that, he figured, was what had mad his father resent him. Jack longed for a father like what the other boys in school had, a father that would pick him up from school and take him to the park, or to some burger bar, or to the comic book store. But Jack walked himself home, his father would be watching TV, and his mother would greet him with a smile, "How has your day been, Jackie?", and then "Leave him, Lisa. Boy, get in your room and do your homework."

The gloves were leather, purple, Jack's favourite colour, and several sizes too big. He knew his mother had spent a lot of money on them. It might not have been a lot of money for the other kids in his school, who lived in the suburbs of Gotham, but for the Napiers, born and bred (for the most part) in The Narrows, they were worth a small fortune.

"I got them too big so you can wear them when you're grown up. A special 13th birthday present for my favourite boy," Lisa beamed at him. Jack's father scoffed, and she shot him a look.

Jack looked up at his mother, tendrils of her dark blonde curly hair, a feature he had inherited from her, falling out of her loose bun into her face. "Thanks, mom." He stood up, the blue paper his gloves had been wrapped in falling to the dirty carpet as his mother wrapped her arms around him in a hug.

"Hey birthday boy," his father called to him from the sofa, barely taking his eyes off the television screen. "Once you're done with my wife, you can put on your new gloves and take that paper out to the trash."

Lisa sighed as she let her son go. "You'd better do it, Jackie, you don't want him going off at you on your birthday," she whispered into his ear.

Jack balled up the blue paper, the tape sticking to the palms of his hands, and shoved it in the bag in the kitchen bin. He slid on his new gloves, several sizes too big, he noticed, but he didn't care, and stepped out the front door with the green plastic bag full of rubbish in his hand. His father was right to instruct him to wear his gloves; it was freezing on the balcony. He shut the apartment door behind him quickly, not wanting any cold air to enter the apartment and aggravate his father, and walked off towards the stairwell.

The elevator had been broken for months, maybe even years, it seemed. Jack couldn't fully remember. The stairwell was as equally cold as the balcony, and he made his way down them quickly. He stepped out onto the street, lifted the lid on the huge dumpster outside his building, and threw the bag in, letting the lid down before the stench of garbage reached his nostrils.

"Hey, Jack."

It was a small voice, a voice he'd know anywhere. The girl was blonde, with tight ringlets that fell to just under her shoulders, and bright blue eyes that always seemed to sparkle. She was wrapped in a raspberry coloured coat, a blue knitted scarf around her neck to protect from the biting November wind.

"Hi."

A blush spread across her cheeks, or it might've just been the cold. She tried to continue a conversation with him. "Um… I like your gloves, are they new?"

"Yeah," he said, looking down at them. "They were a birthday present."

Her mother rounded the corner then. A woman with dark hair, wearing a camel coloured wool coat addressed him warmly.

"I didn't know it was your birthday recently. When was it?"

"Today, Mrs. Thomas. I'm thirteen."

She smiled at him, a genuine one that reached her eyes. Jack liked Mrs. Thomas, she reminded him of his own mother.

"Well, many happy returns, Jack." Her daughter beamed at him. "We'd better be off, we need to make dinner, don't we?"

The blonde haired girl looked at her mother. "Yes. See you on Monday, Jack!"

"Yeah. Bye, Mrs. Thomas. Bye, Jeannie."

Jeannie looked back over her shoulder at him and smiled.

Jack stood there for a while, looking through the doorway through which they disappeared. He gave it a minute before starting back up the stairs. God knows why she's moved to this part of town, Jack thought to himself. A well put-together family with a rich background, he guessed, judging on their attire, living in The Narrows? But Jack wasn't one to judge, whatever his father did, he aimed to do the opposite, and Harry Napier always judged. Jeannie had joined his class a few months earlier, and she fit in alright, he supposed. After a bit of teasing from the other kids, she'd been adopted by a group of girls, and moved about in a pack with them. But Jack could see she wasn't 100% happy with her predicament, but it was better than being alone, he guessed. She was one of the only kids in his class, the only girl, to pay him any sort of attention or try to get to know him. She was a nice girl, Jack mused as he struggled for breath by the fifth flight of stairs, and a turn up for the books, her moving in to his apartment building. He would not have minded spending more time with her, as a friend, but that was something he couldn't count on, what with his father and his demanding Jack get straight on with his homework when he returned from school.

He reached his door and stopped, resting his arms against the railings and looking out to the Gotham city skyline, glittering with the lights of cars and buildings in the distance. Jack pondered the city. Why was it called Gotham? If it was a reflection on the weather in the city, it was a pretty accurate name: persistent rain and snow in the winter, with the odd scorching summer's day in August.

A creak behind him alerted that one of his parents had opened the door, before a gruff voice addressed him.

"You took your sweet time down there. What kept you?"

"I bumped into Mrs. Thomas and her daughter at the dumpster."

"Well, get in here. Your mom's doing your cake."

Jack followed him in to the apartment. The lights were out, the only source of light were the thirteen candles on his homemade birthday cake, iced in purple, with green numbers stating his age. His parents sang happy birthday, Lisa with great gusto and pride, Harry without much care, and as Jack blew out his candles he vowed to save a piece and give it to Jeannie.