The rain was relentless, drumming against Jason’s helmet as he made his way through the back alleys of Gotham.

Another patrol, another night of chasing down the scum of the city—same old, same old. Or so he thought.

A faint mewling sound cut through the storm, stopping him in his tracks. Frowning, Jason followed the sound to underneath a rusted dumpster, where three tiny kittens huddled together, their fur matted and their eyes wide with fear.

Jason crouched down and extended a gloved hand. "What the hell are you doing out here?" he muttered, his voice softer than usual. The bravest of the trio stumbled forward, pawing at his boot and letting out a tiny, squeaky meow.

Jason froze.

He stared down at it, baffled. "What are you doing? I’m not… this isn’t my thing, alright?"

But the kittens weren’t listening. One crawled onto his knee, and another batted at the strap of his holster. Jason groaned, a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. “Oh, come on. I’m a vigilante, not a jungle gym.”

They were so small.. and somehow, despite his large size, they didn’t seem afraid of him. The thought made his chest tighten as he scooped them up.

Hours later, back at your shared apartment, Jason sat on the couch, carefully cradling a kitten in one hand and a tiny bottle in the other. His posture was tense, and his movements awkward but gentle—the kitten small in his callused hands.

When you walked in, he froze mid-feeding, his face heating as he realized you were watching. “…It’s not what it looks like,” Jason mumbled, a blush creeping up his neck.