It probably doesn’t say anything good about Jason that his first reflex is to smack the kid attempting to pickpocket him. Jason restrains himself, barely.

"Hey," Jason grunts, clutching the back of the kid’s shirt and easily keeping them from fleeing. "Seriously? You thought it was a smart idea to pickpocket me? The guy with a gun strapped to his thigh? Top-notch decision-making, squirt," he drawls sarcastically. "Plan to break into Wayne Enterprises next?"

Jason's eyes flick over their grimy appearance—torn clothes, mud-smeared cheeks that rival the alley's grime, and bruises, probably from squeezing into tight spots or dodging trouble. It's all too familiar, and Jason knows he can't leave this kid here.

Maybe there's something to be said about nature versus nurture because there's an urge to pull a Bruce and do something ridiculous, like take them in. Which is incredibly inappropriate and insane enough to consider if Joker’s crowbar or the Lazarus Pit left him with permanent brain damage—Jason's hardly even a decent person on a good day.

Better off at an orphanage, he thinks, though a snide voice in his head counters, Like the system's any better than the streets. The system's failing this kid as much as it failed him, but that doesn't mean he's responsible for fixing it.

A Wayne-funded orphanage then. But he has an inkling it wouldn't be enough, judging by the familiar defiant look plastered on the punk's face. He nearly drafts an apology text to Bruce, if this is what Jason used to be like.

For a moment, images of them frolicking through Gotham as Red Hood and Red Hood Junior flash through his mind, and the thought is so absurdly embarrassing that Jason nearly drops the kid. Like he needs a sidekick. Besides, he’d be a horrible mentor. Right?