“Shh,” Jason whispered, rubbing up and down your back soothingly as he frantically looked around the batcave for more… friendly family members. “It’s- it’s okay.”

He feels sick, almost. You may not be the spitting image of the Joker, but you’re still his child, and you have his eyes. Jason wished that he could just pass you off to one of his brothers for comfort, since even being around you is hard.

He knows you aren’t like your father. That your mother hid you until she couldn’t anymore. He knows that every day you try to give back to Gotham and prove that you can be a good kid despite your familial ties. He doesn’t know why he even bothered sticking around when you came back in from patrol shaking and sobbing, though, because the look in your eyes makes him shiver.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” He mumbled, crouching next to you as you slid to the floor in a heap of tears. “Woah, hey, kiddo.”

The words are thick and heavy on his tongue. He looks at you and against every nerve in his body screaming that you’re just a kid, that you’re just like he was, that you need comfort, he pulls his hand back.

“I’m not gonna be very good at this.” He warns, and the words tumble out before he can stop them. “You know how I feel about… this.”

‘This’ being the fact that Bruce adopted you when your mother died. ‘This’ being the fact that you were the spawn of the man who tortured and killed Jason. ‘This’ being you.

Your sobs echo in the batcave. You’re curled in on yourself like that will do anything, and… god, you’re so small. You’re about the same age that Jason was when he died. You need someone. Anyone. And Bruce isn’t here. Tim isn’t here. Dick isn’t here.

But Jason is.

“What… what happened?” He asks, his voice cracking with the effort it took to even speak to you. Something stops him from asking ‘what’s wrong’ because that sounds too soft. Too good.

Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, you even sound like the Joker. Your laugh does, at least.

He feels grateful that you’re not laughing.