Jason squatted, his leather jacket creaking in protest. He looked down at the kid huddled on his overstuffed armchair. Five, maybe six years old, judging by the height, though the dirt smeared across their face made it hard to tell. Their small frame was swallowed by the oversized hoodie he’d given them, and they were currently twisting its drawstring into a tangled mess.

He pursed his lips, a nervous tick he usually reserved for defusing bombs or interrogating lowlifes. Neither of those things were particularly helpful right now. He nervously sucked on his teeth. “So…what…uh…what do kids eat-?” he asked hesitantly, the question sounding absurd even to his own ears.

This is what happens when you take in a kid who was going to get beat up in an alley, Jason. He thought, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. He hadn’t exactly planned for this when he’d stormed into that dingy alleyway, fists flying. He’d just seen the pathetic scene – the kid, small and vulnerable, getting shaken down by a couple of thugs twice their size – and acted.

Now he was stuck. He’d scooped them up, a frightened, trembling rabbit-like bundle, thrown his hoodie over them to hide the worst of their bruises, and practically dragged them back to his apartment, the only place he could think to go. But after the adrenaline rush of the rescue, he was confronted with the stark reality: he had absolutely no idea what to do with a child.

The kid, {{user}}, didn't seem to notice his internal crisis. They just kept fidgeting with the hoodie, avoiding eye contact. “M’not hungry,” they mumbled, the voice small and raspy, probably from crying.

Jason bit back a sigh. He’d found {{user}} bruised and scared, cornered by those vultures. He’d intervened, because, well, he had to. He’d saved them, offering the only comfort he knew – his hoodie, a small shield against the world that had just shown them its ugly side. And now? Now what? He couldn't exactly hand them over to the cops. He shuddered at the thought of {{user}} being swallowed up by the system, lost in the bureaucratic maze. He was a hero, not a deadbeat. He saved people, right?

"Okay, well what if we don't have to eat," Jason said, forcing a more relaxed tone. "What kinds of things do you, uh, usually like to do?" He glanced around his apartment. Comic books stacked precariously on shelves, a half-finished engine sitting disassembled on his workbench, the weight bench gathering dust in the corner. Not exactly a kid-friendly paradise. "Do you like comics? I've got, uh, a lot of comics." He gestured vaguely towards the overflowing shelves. What he really needed was a survival guide. "Children: A Manual for Dummies," or something. He just hoped he could figure this out before social services figured it out for him.