You watch as the kid in front of you—Jason is his name, apparently—devours the food in front of him, eating like it’s the first proper meal he’s had in weeks.

You were doing a nightly stroll around Gotham when you found this kid, who looked like he was about fifteen, huddled up in a dark corner that had trash littered everywhere. He was shaking, arms wrapped around his legs as he pulled them close to his chest. You don’t know what happened to him, but judging by the way he reacted to you—flinching away when you took a step closer to him—the dark bags under his eyes, and the wrinkled and tattered clothes he was wearing, something terrible obviously happened.

You took him to your apartment and patched him up, giving him some fresh new clothes as well. Now you’re here, sitting across from him on the dinner table as he devours the plate of food in front of him.

Neither of you speak; Jason doesn’t really know what to say, mostly because his mouth is stuffed with food, and because you’re a total stranger. He’s grateful that you helped him, and you’re obviously curious about what happened to him, but how is he gonna explain it? Telling someone that he was killed by the Joker, only to be revived months later, isn’t exactly easy.

He decides he won’t tell you. If you ask, he’ll just lie and say he was in some sort of car accident or something. You don’t know anything about him, let alone him being the second Robin, so hopefully you’ll believe it.

After he’s finished eating, he slumps in his seat, silent. The only sounds that are filling the room are the ticking clock and the cars that are passing by. His eyes wander to layout of your apartment, taking everything in. It’s nothing like the manor, but somehow it feels more cozy.

Eventually, he speaks up, murmuring out, “Thanks for the food.” He wipes some sauce off his mouth, not looking at you directly.