𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐀; p jackson x d grayson ¹

𝚅𝙸𝙸𝙸.

"Riptide!"

As soon as one excited voice announces his presence, similar exclaims echo through the warehouse. He can barely finish closing the large double doors before a dozen kids of all ages circle around him. He hands the supplies he brought — a couple more air mattresses and bags of long shelf life foods — to the two older teens that came to greet him. Herding the younger kids, who try to climb his tall frame like a jungle gym, further into their makeshift home, he scans the area. Street kids ranging from the ages six to sixteen mill about the formerly abandoned warehouse. Some are cuddled up under fluffy blankets while others are huddled around workbooks and flashlights where the older kids teach the younger ones. The fifteen-year-old that he gave the food to is stacking them along the shelves and into the new mini fridges Riptide bought days prior. Next to him, another kid stirs a pot of soup on the portable gas stove. Two tweens tackle each other on the training mats on the far side, stopping for a moment to give him playful grins, then go back at it again. 

This is Riptide's latest project. The Haven. A refuge for the street kids of Gotham. A little pocket of solace and a chance at life for the children running from broken homes and the broken system. It's where he teaches these kids how to protect themselves and others — how to not just survive, but thrive in their world. Over a dozen children now live in the warehouse, whereas some of them, usually the older ones, come and go whenever they need. The numbers would only start growing once Riptide gains the trust of more kids around Gotham. 

"Riptide, Riptide!" Two tiny twins, Lara and Lucy, tug his hands. The seven-year-olds attempt to drag him away with their own strength, only succeeding when he follows along willingly. "We're starting a braid train, you have to join!"

Two boys and a girl wait for them in the reading nook. The reading nook is a corner lined with boxes of books and colourful cushions, all scraped together from various garage sales. Dim fairy lights hang on the walls and pages of crayon art and half-finished colouring-in sheets are plastered underneath them. The youngest boy, Hudson, sits at the front of the train with his shaggy blond locks, followed by Lara, Lucy, and lastly Riptide. The other two stand on either side of him and start braiding the longer strands of his silver hair. He focuses on gently untangling Lucy's mousy brown hair from her tight ponytail, when the creak of the doors rings from the front of the warehouse. 

The teenager that peeks through the entrance doesn't garner as much attention as Riptide had (he had become some sort of mini celebrity to The Haven), but a couple kids bounce up to him. He embraces them all briefly when Riptide beckons him over. 

Henry Lagrange reminds him a lot of Timothy. As he comes closer, he can see the red rims and lack of sleep in his eyes under his stringy dark brown fringe. The clothes on his gangly frame bunch up together at some areas, so he keeps fiddling with his waistband or his cuffs. The white of his dress shirt would blend in with his pale neck, if not for the brick red scuff marks over the lapels. 

"Henry!" exclaims the boy braiding Riptide's hair.

"Hey Benji." The boy in question scrunches his face into a bright grin as Henry ruffles his black hair. "'Sup Riptide."

"'Sup Henry." They greet each other with a fist bump. "How was the interview?"

It went well, if the beam on his face is any indication. The interview was for a vocational woodwork apprenticeship, and everyone at The Haven knew he'd ace it. Henry is their resident engineer of sorts, always inventing something or the other. His current project is a mini hydropower plant to help run The Haven's electricity. While he rambles about the interview and how "his acceptance isn't set in stone, but he's allowed to be hopeful" — Riptide's focus zeroes in on the tremble in the teen's hands. He waits until the sixteen-year-old pauses to take a breath.