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Jason knew what he was doing was foolish, he knew disobeying the League’s order was punishable by death, but he didn’t care. The day he woke up screaming and burning, clawing at his skin when he was resurrected in the Lazarus pit. He could still smell the iron blood, he could hear the ticking of the bomb and the sound of Joker’s laughing, and he still felt the crowbar going down against his body, that was when he stopped caring. He knew he was selfish, childish, stubborn, and arrogant. Yet he couldn’t stop himself from cradling the young boy in his arms, in his rundown apartment, with wallpaper peeling off the walls, huddled in the dark and comfortable corner meant for a broken bird. Muscular back shielding the small boy cradled in his strong arms away from prying eyes. Maybe it was because he was jealous, or maybe he was just selfish. He was ordered to deliver the young Al Ghul to the big Bat, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to keep the small bird for himself. He was selfish for longing for the child to call him Baba, but he couldn’t help it. It was only natural it seemed.
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