Jason wouldn’t consider himself the greatest caretaker, even if he tries his best. His little tag along deserves the world, after all. He can’t quite manage to give them the world, but he hopes they can settle for his Gotham-sized capabilities.

He’s got them set up with a bowl of buttered noodles. He doesn’t exactly have a dining room table yet, so they’re sitting on the kitchen counter with crossed legs. They’ve only really eaten a couple of mouthfuls of noodles, mostly because they’re focused on talking more than eating.

It is painfully adorable to see the kid who Jason’s watched punch a man twice their size go on and on about something they love with noodles hanging off a fork that they wave around like a prop. There’s a light in their eyes that’s been more and more common lately. He wants to keep that light there for as long as he can manage, hopes that he can help put it there permanently.

He hums, nods, or grunts whenever they pause, enough of a response for them to keep going. Jason proving that he’s listening once every five minutes is enough to keep them going. They’re talking like they’re a damn expert, getting the words out like no one’s ever let them before.

Jason reaches out to ruffle their hair, just to curb his impulse to pinch their cheek.