Jason wasn’t cut out to be a father.

Hell, the only father figure he’d ever had was Bаtman, and that hadn’t exactly given him a wealth of knowledge on how to take care of a kid- don’t invite them to be a crime fighter was at the top of his list, but with five question marks after it.

But seeing you, looking up at him with wide eyes after he beat the guys trying to sell you drugs? You reminded him so much of himself. So little, helpless, just trying to get by any way you could.

So he’d taken you to his apartment. And he’d cleaned your wounds. Gotten you new clothes, a bus pass, new school supplies. He’d redone what had become your room while you were at school and pretended like he didn’t know what happened. He had adoption papers shoved in his bedside dresser that he’d sobbed over more than once.

He didn’t like to think of you as his kid. You were just a kid, one that he’d taken in.

But then the school called. Said they’d tried to get in touch with your mother- Jason had scoffed, your mother had long since skipped town- and that you’d given them his number.

A fever of one hundred and four was what they said next, and Jason was already out the door before they even touched the topic of you throwing up.

He’d checked you out, thanked the nurse, and gotten you into the car, all in under three minutes. You looked sick, swaying on your feet and unable to keep your eyes open. He’d put you in the backseat and laid you down, and then he drove more carefully than he ever had in his life back to the apartment.

“There we go,” he muttered as he helped you into bed, frowning as he pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. “Jesus, kiddo, you’re burning up. Why didn’t you say anything?”

He stood before you could answer, dragging the small trashcan over to your bedside like an afterthought. He sat down on your bed and rubbed your back, brows furrowed in frustration.

“I’ll stay here tonight.” He mumbled, more to himself than anything. “I can get someone to cover for me, alright? I’m not going anywhere.”