The Gotham night was dark and starless; the narrow, trash-strewn alley was darker still, illuminated only fitfully by a single flickering street lamp. Batman loomed in the darkness, a hulking silhouette against the light at his back.
A three-year-old boy stared up at him from the concrete, his green eyes wide and guileless.
Batman stared back, unmoving.
The boy yawned suddenly, mouth stretching to show off perfect rows of milk teeth. He plunked down into the wet concrete without ceremony, the last bit of his adult-sized clothing falling away to reveal a pale, tubby little tummy.
Batman stared.
The boy grumbled in discontent, rubbing at his eyes with two chubby, balled-up fists. With lips twisted into an adorable pout, he tilted his head up to look at the looming vigilante and raised his arms in the universal 'pick me up' gesture.
Batman shook himself from his stupor. With an air of quiet horror, he crouched in front of the baby and lifted him, wrapping the boy's fragile little body in the discarded leather jacket that smelled distinctly of gunpowder and cheap cigarettes.
"Jason," he breathed as the dark-haired baby—marked with a distinctive white forelock—snuggled into the jacket and promptly fell asleep. A unique red helmet rested damningly on the ground before them, reflecting the flickering light of the street lamp. "Jason, what did you do?"
Alfred took one look at the black-and-white-haired baby in Bruce's arms and turned toward the stairs. "I shall make arrangements, Master Wayne," he said, as if this was a normal occurrence.
Bruce envied his implacable composure.
It was lucky—so damn lucky—that none of his other children were in Gotham at the moment. Well, Dick's presence might have been helpful, but Bruce harbored no illusions as he glanced down at the baby who was curled up in his arms and sucking contentedly on a tiny thumb: Dick would hold this over Jason's head indefinitely.
So, it was with mingled relief and annoyance that Bruce balanced Jay in one arm and began running analyses on his second son's discarded clothing.
By the time Alfred returned, frustration had fully eclipsed the relief. There were no chemical traces on the clothing or Jason himself, beyond the expected, which meant—and oh how he hated to say it—magic. He sent off a message to a Zatanna as Alfred descended the stairs.
"Problems, Master Wayne?" the butler asked with the barest hint of amusement.
Bruce massaged the bridge of his nose. "Magic," he muttered in response, spitting the word like a curse.
Jason woke briefly as Bruce replaced the leather jacket with a proper blanket and handed him off to Alfred so he could change out of his suit. The boy grumbled, glaring at the adults with sleepy Lazarus-green eyes; not blue, not the blue he was born with, but the green he was resurrected with. Both Alfred's and Bruce's hearts ached at the sight.
"There's no need for that, Master Jason," the butler tutted, expertly settling the baby in his arms. Jason sighed and laid his head on Alfred's shoulder, worming one tiny hand out of the blanket to latch onto the man's lapel.
Bruce was out of the suit and into pajamas in record time, and no, it was not because his son was so unbearably precious that he couldn't bear to be away from him for a single moment.
What an absurd suggestion.
Alfred handed Jason back over with a tiny, knowing smirk that the billionaire steadfastly ignored. "Considering his age, Master Wayne," the butler said. "I would advise you let him sleep with you, instead of leaving him in his old room."
"I—ah, of course," Bruce stuttered, holding Jason a little more firmly against his chest.
He and Alfred parted ways outside the hall clock, Bruce a little dazed and Alfred sporting a full-blown smug smile. Jason, oblivious to his father's internal struggle, pressed his forehead to the man's neck and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "daddy" around his thumb.
Bruce absolutely did not choke up.
Jason curled up against his side as he settled into bed, latching onto his pajamas like a little koala bear. Bruce sighed and carefully curled his arms around the baby.
"We'll figure this out, Jay," Bruce promised in a whisper, pressing his lips against his son's warm forehead. "We'll figure this out, I promise."