Chapter One: Rule #1 – Don't Take Without Asking

It's been two years now that Jason's been living at Wayne Manor, but he still has a go-bag. Well, technically, he has two, but he's reasonably sure that only one is hidden well enough to have evaded notice. The other is left mostly-alone as a sort of compromise, a secession to Jason's clearly ingrained street-kid habits – an indulgence.

It's a durable backpack made of water-proof nylon – with a drab grey coloring that disguises how expensive the material is – stuffed with nonperishable food items, two weeks of clean clothes in thick, durable materials, 500 bucks in small-bills, and plastic bags – sanitary food storage on the streets is downright impossible, which makes a box of fresh, clean plastic bags worth a helluva lot more than anyone growing up with running water and antibacterial soap could possibly realize.

The first bag is tucked away behind a loose panel in the servants' hall behind the old, disused south pantry.

Jason knows it gets checked on by someone in the house – though everyone is capable of being so meticulous the act is hardly noticeable, so he's not sure who that someone is… Regardless of who's doing it, the bag gets rifled through once a week now – down from the once a day it used to be when he had five caches just like it littered across the Manor's hidey-holes – and checked to ensure that he's not still adding to the haul, or making any final-looking preparations to get the pack ready to set out with immediately.

He knows whoever's checking is trying to be as careful as humanly possible to put everything back exactly how they found it. But you don't survive the streets long without developing a sixth-sense level of observant intuition about someone touching your stuff.

So that bag is tended loosely. Adjusted every now and then to make it seem like it's still his primary go-bag, but not actually maintained with genuine street-wise attentiveness.

The other bag is some sort of duffle – like a really nice one, like mountaineering gear or some shit. It looks like a piece of shit, hashed together out of a tarp and some broken tent poles, but Jason ripped the labels off himself – and painstakingly scored out the embroidered logos with a razor – and he knows Cabela's is damn good shit. It's the most expensive thing he's ever seen that could pass for the kind of cobbled-together pack he'd need on the streets.

It's big too.

He can fit everything from the fake go-bag in it twice over.

Along with a roll of outdoor grade heavy duty trash bags, 100 yards of burlap-insulator garden-winterizing fabric, two gallon-sized unbreakable water bottles, and enough quasi-perishable food items in plastic containers to last over a month. The bento-box food storage assembly, a water-purifying kit, and a startlingly well-stocked first-aid kit were already included at the bottom of the backpack/duffle/tent-thing. Which is what made Jason think it's some sort of mountaineering starter set. There was a walking stick too – aluminum, light weight and very high quality jointed foot-stabilizer thingy – but it's bright paint job would've stuck out immediately. Way too much to hide it on the streets, and too much even to use it as a weapon with any efficacy – it was easy to block a blow you could see coming.

Jason had considered keeping it – selling it off as soon as he could to a pawn shop or recycler plant or something – but it was bulky and noticeable enough to make moving it a challenge and it wasn't worth the risk.

Speaking of risk: he's checked over every single millimeter of thread he's stashed in the duffle, as well as the duffle itself, for any kind of data-chip or tracking device. He's even used the scanners from his Robin gear (and borrowed one of Batman's to ensure that B didn't have any parental locks or shit on the Robin gear) to make sure there weren't any Bat-trackers.

The bag in the south pantry lights up like a Christmas tree under the scanners – and there are fucking parental locks on his Robin gear that block some of Batman's personal trackers, because more lights show up with B's scanner than with his – but the duffle is clean.

Jason keeps the duffle in the tiny room between the garage and the Manor's actual basement (not the Cave-level basement, but the real basement, with the pool and the mini-movie theater and the single-lane bowling alley he's fairly sure was put there on a dare and has never actually been used). It's in the server-room, inside the rubber- and lead-lined box that holds the Manor's second back-up emergency generator and the physically partitioned cloud-storage back-up for the Cave's archives.

Even with all of B's high-tech scanners and shit, the duffle is entirely invisible unless you physically go into the server-room, open the back-up storage containment unit, and bring your own flashlight. And even then, Jason's tucked the duffle away so carefully that it's tricky to spot even if you already know exactly where to look.

The first time Jason himself had gone back to check on it, he'd almost had a panic attack because he'd thought the Bat had found and removed it.

He hadn't, and all signs indicated that he still hadn't found it.

Which was good, because if the fucking Bat was that kind of psychic Jason needed to hightail it. Fast. Because he would not be able to survive that oppressive kind of constant, unavoidable supervision. He'd practically raised himself, after all, he didn't need a nanny-goat and god damn did he need room to breathe.

Especially on bad days.

On days when he screwed up and knew he was two-seconds away from being kicked out of the Manor if he messed up again before he managed to make things right … Especially on days – or nights, rather – when he screwed up as Robin.

Like last night, when he'd jumped down from a roof – despite Batman's direct order to stay put – to comfort a victim who'd stumbled out of the warehouse they were casing… But the 'victim' had turned out to be a junkie, wired-up sky-high on a sample of a new drug hitting Gotham's streets because he was part of the deal going down inside… Jason had thought the man looked half-dead and in need of saving, but apparently he was just in the throes of an ecstasy Jason didn't recognize – and forget half-dead, the random junkie had been amped up enough to throw Jason through the warehouse wall.

Both sides of the drug deal had scattered – taking all trace of the drug with them – while Jason got the snot beat out of him by a balding, middle-aged dock-worker who only weighed a buck fifty soaking wet. It was a shamefully one-sided fight.

Batman had needed to step in, and even though he'd abandoned his own post as soon as the scuffle started, his aid hadn't quite managed to prevent Jason from being knocked out and tossed into the North Point curve of Gotham Harbor.

In full Robin gear and completely unconscious, Jason would've drowned had Batman not jumped into the icy water after him – though doing so meant that the junkie who'd pummeled Jason had managed to get away. They'd left the warehouse with absolutely nothing to show for their efforts – with zero progress in the investigation already going on two months.

Three more people had died of overdose from the new drug in the four hours they'd been back at the Manor since the stakeout debacle.

That raised the total casualty count in the last month alone to 29.

With the first definitively confirmed case of overdose from this new substance being almost four months ago, there were already over a hundred deaths attributed to it. And that was just the confirmed deaths – and those were only counting the overdoses, the direct-by-drug deaths. It completely ignored the tangentially related deaths – murders by gun or knife that happened over the drug but committed by villains against victims where neither party was actually high on the drug.

Jason's estimate was around the 500 mark for casualties.

And they'd had almost zero leads. The drug metabolized quickly, and so completely that it was almost untraceable. It was such a strange substance that GCPD hadn't realized it was a drug for six weeks – they'd thought it was a strange new disease. But it didn't spread like a sickness, and it didn't kill like a sickness.

It didn't kill like anything Jason had seen before – and to judge by the Bat's frustration and constipated scowl when he'd first gone over the GCPD's case details, Bruce hadn't seen anything like it before either.

The warehouse last night was the first truly tangible lead anyone had on the case – a rumor on a deal between the local smugglers and Gotham's low-level runners. It wasn't a high-profile deal of any sort. The smugglers had gotten a case of the product as a bonus on top of their standard payment and they were just trading it to other gutter scum. But it was still a lead.

And Jason had blown it.

The three deaths from the night are on his head.

All the deaths that soon would occur before the Bat could find a new lead are also Jason's fault. The Bat blames him for it, Jason's certain. He's been curt and brooding since they'd gotten back – B's only direct comment to him since he'd fished Jason out of the harbor had been that Robin needed to spend extra time training for situational awareness, and that Jason needed to learn how to follow orders.

That had stung.

But Jason deserved it.

He's a distraction at best, a liability at worst.

And people are still dying.

Jason can't do anything about it except make things worse, so he knows it's only a matter of time – days most likely, weeks if he manages to stay out of the way for a while – but he's probably on his way out of the Manor.

So, here he is, at 7am on Saturday morning pilfering Alfred's perfectly stocked pantry like a common burglar.

It's embarrassing, shameful, but Jason can deal with that – grit his teeth and carry on with doing what's necessary to survive. He's fine.

Or… he's fine until a quiet sigh behind him alerts him to the fact that Alfred's caught him literally climbing on the pantry shelves to reach a jar of that high-calorie, high-protein chia mix that could keep him going for a month or more.

Jason freezes in place – hand still short of the jar by a good six inches.

He's mortified, utterly ashamed.

Stealing from Bruce is one thing. But stealing from Alfred… that's low.

Jason knows it and he hates himself for what he's doing – but he can't stop himself from lunging for the chia jar as Alfred says, "The Manor's stores are at your disposal, Master Jason, all you have to do is ask."

There aren't any obvious tells, but Jason knows how to read people – even people as impossibly stoic as the old butler – and he can hear that Alfred sounds the certain kind of tired that says he's disappointed. Unsurprised, but saddened nonetheless.

Self-loathing swirls in Jason's gut.

"Didn't wanna wake you," he mumbles. A lie – and a terrible one at that.

But Alfred doesn't bat an eye.

"It's no trouble," he says brightly, "In fact, I'm feeling a bit peckish myself. How about I whip us up some breakfast?"

Jason nods dumbly.

He's still clutching the chia jar as Alfred rolls up his sleeves and moves towards the sink with the easy, natural grace that permeates his being – that keeps the stuffy stiffness implied by his British-ness and butler-y-ness at bay.

The water is still running as Jason edges out of the pantry.

"Would waffles suit the young sir's taste this morning?"

Jason nods dumbly again – realizes belatedly that Alfred can't see it. He wonders how he knew Jason had come close enough to hear the question, but he answers verbally – or tries to.

He has to clear his throat before he can squeak out, "Waffles sound great."

Alfred nods. Shuts the water off. Opens the fridge.

He pulls out eggs and milk and a few different sugared berry purees – and yoghurt.

Sets the berries and the yoghurt on the island, takes the eggs and milk to the counter where he's somehow already produced a mixing bowl and flour and the other dry ingredients.

"Feel free to start on the chia parfaits," Alfred says casually as Jason stares at the stuff on the dark marble of the island – bright and glittering like bizarre jewels or hyperreal movie props.

Jason blinks, attempts to focus.

Alfred is still speaking.

"As I recall, you did mention young Mister Drake has a particular affinity for them," the butler mentioned, "So am I to suppose your chia designs mean you are indeed planning to visit him this morning?"

"That's the plan," Jason replies. Another lie – still absolutely terrible.

He's still holding tightly to the chia like letting go of it might make the jar explode.

"Mister Drake's parents are out of town again, so I had hoped you might plan to visit the dear child," Alfred is saying as Jason somehow manages to pry his fingers off the chia jar. He sets it on the island and moves to wash his hands as Alfred adds, "Besides, it will do you good to get out of the house during daylight hours. School is one thing, but the forging of friendships is quite another – and just as necessary."

The rest of the hour is quiet.

Only the sounds of cooking – and a few distractedly hummed bars of God Save the Queen – break the soft hush. The food itself is consumed in silence, but it's not oppressive – it's warm and comfortable and understanding.

It makes Jason's throat tighten as he helps Alfred clean up – two travel-jars of fruit and yoghurt and chia set aside on the island, already packed neatly in a cushioned lunch bag.

Eventually, Alfred helps Jason into a thick coat – warm, high-quality, perfect for the late March weather, but way too nice to go with him back on the streets.

"Would you like a lift, or would you prefer to feel the sunshine on your face?"

"I'll walk, Alf," Jason replies. "It's fine."

Alfred's lips are pressed together – not quite thinned with obvious displeasure, but definitely suppressing a sigh – but he curves them into a smile as he presents Jason with the lunch bag and its weighty treats. "As you wish."

Alfred walks Jason to the Manor door, fussing over the lay of his thick scarf – warm, hand-knit soft wool, burgundy and grey, and subtle enough to take with him when he leaves.

"Do try to get back before dark," Alfred says as Jason steps across the threshold. "You may be barred from participating in your usual nightly activities this evening, but Master Bruce still worries for your wellbeing, day to day. As do I."

"Sure thing, Alf," Jason replies blithely.

"Is there anything specific you'd like me to prepare for dinner?"

Jason shakes his head. "Nah, I'm good, Alf. Don't worry about it. I won't need anything."

"I'm not asking what you need, Master Jason," Alfred chastises – his tone light, but firm and very clearly admonishing. "I'm asking what you want."

Jason doesn't answer.

He looks at his sneakers – lightweight tennis shoes already ratty with constant use, too thin to be warm enough, but flexible and quiet and familiar in a way the dress shoes and nice boots B's bought him just aren't – and waits.

He's not sure what he's waiting for. A sigh. Disappointment. Something.

Nothing comes.

He looks up, cautious – searching.

Alfred's face is serene, as always.

"The Wayne Family's resources belong to you just as surely as they belong to me, or to Master Bruce," the butler says – and Jason's relieved in how he manages not to flinch. "If you want anything, anything at all, please ask for it."

"Sure thing, Alf," Jason says, kicking around to make his way down the front steps – literally running away from the conversation and the strange feeling it breeds in his gut.

"Enjoy your visit, Master Jason," Alfred says to his back before he closes the door softly.

Jason presses on down the driveway, pretending not to have heard.

He's still on his way out of the Manor – that much Jason knows – but maybe he doesn't have to leave today. Maybe he could wait 'till tomorrow. Or Monday, using school to get a six-hour head start on disappearing. Yeah. Monday would work best.

Settled with that much, Jason watches his feet kick though the wet gravel of the Wayne's auxiliary driveway. He doesn't know where he wants to go exactly – he has cash for the bus in his pocket, enough to get him to Coventry, at least, with enough left over to spend a few hours in an arcade or somewhere else with heat and food and distractions.

Jason doesn't realize he's turned away from the main road until he's standing at Drake's door, leaning on the bell – barely realizes even that much until the door is opened.

The baby seal is suddenly right there, looking up at him with these bewildered goddamn bambi eyes – Timothy Jackson Drake, in the pasty-ass flesh, looking every inch a cave-dweller.

Jason proffers the lunch bag.

"I brought food."

Tim blinks.

Jason nudges him gently out of the way with the bag and steps inside the Drake foyer.

Tim closes the door. Locks it. Edges around into Jason's eyeline. Waits.

"You got any video games?"

A nod.

Jason cracks a smile.

"Lead the way, baby bird."