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Jason is…confused.
It had made sense. More or less.
Making the stupidest mistake of his life. Literally turning himself in to Gotham’s exorcist. The exorcist turning out to be apparently as vulnerable to the temptation of a young incubus as anyone else. Taking him home.
That… That much made sense. Not a nice kind of sense, but that is nothing new. Jason was…was ready.
After all, he isn’t stupid. This isn’t one of mama’s fairy tales. There’s not going to be a dramatic rescue, no clan arriving to wrap him into loving arms.
It was either this, or starve in the streets. He wasn’t sure which was better. Still isn’t sure.
But… The man had fed him. And not in the expected way, either. Just…gentle. Affection, protection, safety. Good memories. Warmth. The way mama used to feed him.
That, Jason could rationalize. The exorcist just wanted his new pet sated. Some liked them struggling, according to Willis, but some liked their pets nice and pliant.
Liked the pets pretending they wanted it. Maybe they even kidded themselves into believing it was wanted.
Okay, so Batman is one of those. Okay. He can deal with that. At least that must mean he won’t get hurt much, right?
But then he got him home and things stopped making sense. No binding. No branding.
Just invited inside. Not dragged through the Wards to lessen his power, lessen any risk of attack.
Just invited in, the powerful Wards parting before him.
Welcomed in and handed over to the domovoi of the Manor, who told Jason to call him Alfred, or Mr Pennyworth.
He expected the domovoi to put the first bindings on him, prepare him for his master, but Pennyworth simply set him down to eat with a cup of hot chocolate and fresh sandwiches, then showed him to ‘his’ room upstairs.
Of course, with a domovoi in charge, the room is already prepared and ready by the time Jason enters.
A room larger than his old home. An attached bathroom with shower, bathtub, hot water, towels and so many types of soaps and other cleaning stuff Jason didn’t even know the names of.
Second hand, but well-maintained clothes laid out on bed – none of the types of dressing he expected, just a regular boy’s wear.
“Some of Master Dick’s clothes” the domovoi clarified “They will be a little too big for you, but kindly make do with them for tonight. Tomorrow I will obtain the necessities for you.”
And now, it is almost dawn and Jason is just…sitting in the room. Waiting. And knowing that what he is waiting for is not going to happen tonight.
It’s almost morning. He had been expecting for Batman – Bruce Wayne, it is still difficult to connect the name of the human tabloid fodder with the dreaded Dark Knight – to come through the door any moment to claim his due.
But nothing. Not even footsteps coming to his door. Everything is silent.
If Batman is still in the Manor, he must be asleep too. Even the domovoi must have melted back into the walls for his rest.
And Jason is left here in peace, dressed in schoolboy clothes. Like he is just some human kid coming over for a sleepover.
The clothes… The clothes have been through the wash enough times that there is no scent on it.
Master Dick, the domovoi said. Bruce Wayne. Dick Grayson. Jason remembers the name connected to Brucie Wayne. Wayne’s adopted son. Richard Grayson. A bit older than Jason, but not by much. Fourteen? Fifteen?
Robin, he decides. The younger exorcist – no longer an apprentice, the Exorcist’s mark visible in bright blue under his eyes now – is as much a legend as Batman. The Bright Knight to his Master’s darkness.
He is dressed in Robin’s old clothes. And… Where is Robin? Dick Grayson?
……………………………….
He gets the answer next morning, when the domovoi comes to call him for breakfast. (No one came into his room at night. Even the domovoi stayed outside and called out, telling him he could come down when ready).
Okay. Okay. So Batman is the type to take it slow, take it gradual. Probably wants Jason to go to him. Okay. That’s okay. He can do this.
And today, he supposes, the Binding will be done. After all, it’s supposed to be more effective when done in daylight.
Jason wants to stay in the room, but… No point delaying the inevitable. He knows how binding is done. He has heard what it feels like. And it is only going to get worse if he makes the exorcist – or likely the domovoi – come up here to fetch him.
Breakfast is served at the kitchen table – which looks like it costs more than their old apartment did – and Batman is already there.
Jason can’t help but stop at the threshold. It is so utterly incongruous to see the dreaded Hunter seated at the head of the table with a newspaper in hand, beginning on toast and coffee. The domovoi brings in pancakes.
“Hello, Jason”
No Power put into the words. No binding about to begin. Is he… Is he going to be allowed to eat, before…
The smell rising from the breakfast table is tantalizing, but he knows better than to succumb.
Binding hurts. And he tends to throw up when hurt, a habit Willis Todd hated only slightly less than Jason himself did.
If there is anything in his stomach when the Binding is done, he is going to make a mess. He probably is, even with supper long since digested, but at least this way there will be less of a mess to clean up?
His job is to be enticing and tempting, after all. not freaking gross.
“Pancakes? Toast? Cereal?” Batman indicates each option casually.
He keeps his movements slow, as if telegraphing each move before he makes it. Jason knows he’s trying to put him at his ease.
But why? He’s already here. The Manors wards will stop him from running. Hell, with their size difference the exorcist needs no magic to stop him from running.
“Or do you need to Feed again?”
Jason thinks this is it, this time the feeding is not going to be gentle, not going to be affection-warmth-protection, and opens his mouth to say something, anything.
Before he can, he hears the crackle of a portal opening. In the Hall, by the sound of it. Batman must have seen him flinching, because he smiles reassuringly.
“That’s just Dick. He was away on a, uh, sleepover last night.” He pauses “Dick is-“
“I know” Jason almost hits himself for interrupting.
But Batman doesn’t seem to mind. Likely distracted by his subordinate’s arrival.
Maybe that’s why they delayed the Binding? Maybe going to be part of Robin’s training?
Jason really hopes that’s not going to be it. Binding is bad enough in itself. A potentially botched Binding by an inexperienced Exorcist that will just need to be redone again… But Robin is hardly inexperienced…
“Hi, Alfie, Hi, Bruce!” Robin moves with the same fluid grace he does in battle. “Sorry ‘bout not calling to check in, my phone got eaten-“
He stops mid-step, catching sight of Jason.
“What.”
Batman smiles, looking a little…sheepish? “I did text you.”
“My phone was in a Rakhsasa’s stomach! Why is a baby incubus here?!? He’s barely even old enough to be out of the nest!”
“There was no nest. That’s the problem.”
Jason can hear the words, but the exchange is completely washing over him. His eyes are fixed on Dick Grayson.
Robin.
He… He must have a glamour on, every time he goes out. Goes to school, or wherever.
Golden brown skin, silky shoulder length hair, bright blue eyes, all those of the human Dick Grayson. But the eyes are a little too blue. Little too bright, literally glowing. Pointed ears.
More than that, the aura.
It is unmistakable.
A pity, since Jason would have given pretty much anything to be mistaken this time.
Because, if he is not mistaken, he is standing about two feet away from a freaking harab demon.
The Death Herald is not fully grown, not yet, but he’s no impling like Jason either, yet to grow into his powers. Robin.
Dick Grayson. Robin is a demon.
Batman is powerful enough to have bound and kept hold of a harab demon for years. Strong enough a hold that the harab became his apprentice, his partner in battle.
What… What kind of a Binding can even hold a harab that long? What will it do the victim’s mind? Is that the same thing he is going to do to Jason?
They are still talking, maybe talking about Jason, maybe talking to Jason, and he should pay attention, he should answer if questioned, no angering them, god, no angering them… But he can’t.
Both the harab and the exorcist have shielded their minds too well for him to get even a trace of what they are feeling.
A harab. He has a Death Herald bound.
Bound demons… He knows the stories. You… You bind one of the really powerful demons, you can’t just depend on the binding.
You need to keep them pleased. You need to bring them offerings. Gifts.
Harabs…harabs can feed on other demons’ life forces. Can devour their life, their powers.
All the things that hadn’t made sense yet… They are now making sense. A horrible amount of sense.
Of course the exorcist didn’t touch him. You don’t taint an offering.
Of course the domovoi dressed him in the cast-off clothing of the harab. You have to properly prepare the tribute.
The other two – the domovoi too, he has materialized, of course he has – are looking at Jason.
He can’t…everything is too much of a mess, his own emotions screaming in his head, he can’t even interpret what emotions their faces hold, forget their auras.
The harab takes a step forward, reaching out.
Then Jason does the second stupidest thing he has done in the past twenty four hours.
He runs.
He knows it is useless. He knows. The Wards, he felt them yesterday, when they parted before him. He felt their power. He will not make it out of the Manor. He will not manage to escape.
To run is to only prolong the inevitable end. To run is to only make them angrier, make them more likely to draw it out.
The exorcists can drag him back to the room with a word. The domovoi can materialize in front of him, melting out of a wall to grab hold.
The harab need not even be close to reach out and grasp his life force, drag it out of him bit by bit.
He can’t escape. He knows that. He still runs.
……………………….
This is childish. Childish. Childish. Stupid.
He is hiding in a cupboard. A cupboard in one of the unused West Wing guest rooms. He has likely left more than enough traces of his panicked flight on the way.
Besides, he can practically feel the terror radiating off him, his heart racing in his chest fast enough and loud enough to be a drum beat, a homing signal.
And there is no hiding, anyway, not in a house which boasts of a domovoi.
But he still stays there. Stays curled up. He is waiting, of course. Waiting for the inevitable tug, the tug that will in a moment deepen into clawing, on his life.
Or just waiting for the cupboard door to open, for a hand to reach in and yank him out…
Nothing happens. No one comes. The door stays closed. For how long, Jason isn’t sure.
It seems like hours passed before there is a knock. Not on the cupboard’s door, but on the door of the room – the door he left open in his flight.
“Hello?” the voice is gentle. Young. Not Batman’s voice. “Kiddo? Are you… How’re you doing in there?”
Robin’s voice. The tone Robin no doubt uses to calm the victims at a crime scene. The tone the Death Herald uses to lure his victims, apparently.
“Jason? Jay? Can you hear me?”
He doesn’t reply. Can’t, even if he wanted to.
“Kiddo, please say something. Otherwise I’ll have to open the door and check, okay?”
It must be a threat, but it doesn’t sound like one. Doesn’t sound angry.
The harab’s mind is still shielded, but traces of emotions are allowed to leak through – concern, worry, protectiveness (or is it possessiveness, those two can get mixed up too easily…).
“Jason? Please?”
He needs to answer. No point just…waiting. “I’m okay”
A sigh from the other side of the door, and a rush of relief that can’t be missed.
“Okay. Good. That’s fine. We didn’t mean to scare you, kiddo. I’m sorry.”
Apologizing? Why… Or apologizing for what he is about to do? Do harabs need the lives to feed on like incubi need emotions? Does Robin not really want to…want whatever is going to happen now?
“You don’t have to come out till you’re ready”
Ready for what?
“I’ve got breakfast for you here, though- Uh, I mean, breakfast as in food. Pancakes. Alfie’s pancakes are to die for, you know. I say cereal is better for breakfast to piss him off, but there’s absolutely no competition.”
Jason can smell the pancakes through the minute cracks in the closet door. Which means the harab must be able to smell him as well. Smell his fear.
“Do you wanna come out and eat? Shall I leave the pancakes here and go? Or do you want me to stay?”
Jason… Jason just breaks.
He’s done. He can’t take this anymore, can’t take the games, can’t take the delay. He needs this over with, one way or the other.
Whatever it feels like when the harab takes him, it can’t be worse than this waiting. Can’t be worse than just hiding in here waiting for the inevitable claws in his soul.
He opens the door.
No one pounces. A plate heaped with hot pancakes soaked in maple syrup and blueberries is placed on the floor, along with a glass of orange juice.
The harab is seated cross-legged on the floor, in the doorway. As far away from Jason as he can get while still keeping him in sight.
The harab smiles at him – it’s a warm smile, a friendly smile.
He looks like the sweet, bright Robin the girls gush over.
Nothing like the Death Heralds are supposed to look like. But then again, Jason has to admit he himself is hardly the picture of the alluring incubus.
“I won’t hurt you” the harab promises, his mental shields lowering. Lowering enough that Jason can tell there is no lie here. “No one here will hurt you. I don’t know whether Bruce managed to get over his emotional constipation and actually use words, but he didn’t bring you here for…whatever it is that you’re imagining. He just… He just got a huge soft spot for lonely implings, ‘kay?”
What.
“He’s an exorcist” Jason blinks.
The harab shrugs “So am I. The Order isn’t exactly an army or anything, you know. There’s no definite shared ideology or sets of rules or anything. Not all of us are just gonna go all Van Helsing on every demon we find. Definitely not on implings.”
The words are genuine. Jason can feel it. But… An exorcist like Robin…they can shield well, right?
Shield well enough to disguise what they’re actually feeling… But why should he do it now? Harabs are predators, but they aren’t naturally sadistic.
And Robin…everyone says Robin is kind, even the minor demons say Robin is kind…
“Kiddo?”
Jason is trembling. He can’t stop it. He knows he should. Never show weakness before a predator. That’s a simple rule. A common rule. Even nestlings know it. And he is breaking it now.
“You’re safe here” Robin promises. “I didn’t get all the details from Bruce, not yet, but I already got all that’s needed, ‘kay? You are safe here. As long as you need. I promise.”
Robin doesn’t look much like a predator now. Doesn’t look dangerous. He’s just seated there, holding himself relaxed, still. But he wouldn’t need to move if he wanted to get Jason…
The harab looks at him like he knows what he is thinking. (Can he? Harabs can’t exactly read minds, but exorcists have mind magic…)
“…you don’t believe a word I am saying. Do you?”
He wants to. He so so badly wants to. Because if he can believe the harab – believe Robin – if he can believe him, this is like one of mama’s fairy tales.
The kindly clan coming by just in time to take in the brave little impling. But Jason wasn’t brave. He wasn’t…he didn’t hold out, didn’t refuse to break…
And he knows Willis’ bedtime tales are closer to reality than mama’s.
The harab looks at him. Takes a deep breath as if preparing himself. Then…drops all shields around his mind.
Jason almost flinches back at the sudden unexpected lack of resistance, lack of defence.
You don’t drop Shields. Not around an incubus. Never around an incubus.
Jason is young, yes, but even he can hurt, if he really tries to. Harab or not, he can reach out and twist the emotions that are so readily pouring out of the exorcist before him. He can leave him on the floor screaming and clawing at his own eyes.
And…he can feel the earnest love-protective-clan-warmth-worry from the harab.
“You… You unshielded. You never drop shields.”
Robin shrugs. “We’re within a dozen Wards. No one can attack me through all these. And the only ones inside are Bruce, Alfred and you. Not a risk.”
What. Did Robin just say an incubus right next to him is not a risk? Jason is not sure whether to be more insulted or baffled. How has this guy survived being an exorcist this long?
The harab chuckles, and Jason realises with horror that he must have caught the tail of that last thought. That’s the problem with reaching out for unshielded emotions.
Unless you know well – really really well – how to do it, you end up sending out a bit of your own emotions as well, making it a two way street, so to speak.
“Believe me, Bruce asks me that often enough. What can I say, I was born lucky”
The laughter in the voice is easy, unforced. The emotions just there for Jason to take.
“C’mon, the pancakes are getting cold, and the orange juice is getting warm.”
Jason reaches out for the plate, carefully.
The harab doesn’t move from where he is seated, doesn’t reach out with his power. Though, even if he did, right now, unshielded as he is, Jason will be able to stop him.
What the hell is he thinking of, making himself vulnerable like that in a room with a strange impling he’s just met?
“You’re an impling, and you’re scared” Robin shrugs, catching that thought as well. “You’re scared of me. We thought it was Bruce who scared you, so we figured it’d be better if I came up to find you alone.”
I don’t want you to be scared of me, the emotions swirling around him practically pleads. I don’t want an impling to be scared of me.
“Would it be easier if I left? Do you want me to leave?”
Jason hesitates, the glass of orange juice almost to his lips (it doesn’t smell drugged or poisoned, but there are poisons with no indications…) “…no.”
The harab beams, his eyes and smile gleaming brighter
. Jason reaches out, tasting the emotions, testing them. No lust. No Hunger. The emotions sing out clan-home-protect-comfort- little brother.
“Little brother?”
Another bright smile. “Always wanted a little brother.”
Jason blinks. Could it be that he is a gift for the harab, only not in the way he thought he was? Could he really get that lucky?
The Death Herald – the aura is still there, the aura that can’t be mistaken, the one that sends out a million warning signals through his brain – just looks at him as if that is a perfectly normal thing for a harab exorcist to tell an incubus who has just been brought into his home grounds.
Earnestness colours his emotions as bright a blue as his eyes. Jason takes a bite out of the pancakes, watching. He also takes a sip out of the unguarded emotions flowing around him.
Maybe, just maybe, mama’s bedtime tales could also come true.