Duck in a bathtub

To do list: Learn how to fly

[4zahar]

Anyone else ever try to concentrate on one hyperfixation at a time, just for fandoms from the past to come back out of nowhere to haunt you?

My YouTube is flooded with UNDERTALE and Pinterest insists on showing me Tobirama fanarts

[4zahar]

02 | Let's Stay Home

←Previous. Masterlist. Next→

Word Count: +4k

A/N: English is not my first language. Please be patient with the grammar. I really tried to finish this chapter earlier. I had it written halfway but things happened and it arrived a week early! I think... my sense of time has left me and this ship.

His sister was weird.

Jason had no idea what, exactly, to pinpoint—other than her general demeanor made him reach the conclusion. It wasn’t just your eyes, which always seemed to search for a face on his head, or hair which looked like it had survived electrocution. Maybe it was your personality.

Whatever had been bothering him seemed to settle the longer he sat on the floor, however, processing his new situation.

He wasn't comfortable. He shifted onto the couch when (Name) returned with towels—actually clean ones. Jason placed a folded one on the cushions under him and sat down again, another draped over his shoulders to warm him up—you looked genuinely worried about him getting sick and needing a hospital visit neither of you could afford—the third was involuntarily forced over his head for good measure. He might as well cross "Halloween costume" off his to-do list. He'd be Casper the Friendly Ghost this year.

Although, he wiped the metallic taste of either blood or hunger with the back of his sleeve to speak again, a yawn won its way out. Swallowing saliva could only do so much for him the longer the night got.

"I have—" a voice called from the kitchen, about five feet from where he sat. "Pizza? There are some leftovers too, but I doubt you'll want that."

Jason's drifting attention focus for once and he perked up immediately.

"You have pizza?" he asked—not exactly excited.

Unlike most kids, Jason didn’t get excited at the mere thought of bread with things on top. Even if beloved for many the dish had long since lost its appeal to him. When had a large pizza not been cheaper than a bag of vegetables around here? Too much of anything was unhealthy—not that he really thought about that. He had eaten enough in a single week to make him want to avoid cheese altogether. Eating healthy was expensive. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out.

"What are the leftovers?" he asked, forcing a strained smile through gritted teeth.

"I'll heat it up for you. It's just rice, chicken, corn—basically a salad."

Jason quickly stood on shaky legs, his eyes never leaving the silhouette of you. Obviously there was lack of trust. Maybe—and just maybe—you reminded him too much of Catherine too.

Weirdly enough, the thought eased his sore chest. Something about seeing you, Jason didn’t want to think too hard about.

He missed his mom.

You looked like her.

Without another word from you, he trailed into the kitchen, dismissing the ache spreading everywhere.

"So... you came because of Mom? What happened?" You hesitated. "Did she and Dad got into another fight? Is that why he's arrested?"

A complicated look crossed his eyes just as he forced the noncommittal response.

"No, it wasn't like that. Willis went away for something else... Mom is—she's not taking it well and... needs you," he leaned against the counter, facing away but still watching you.

Ever since hearing you describe Catherine as unfit to be left alone—even if she not alone with Willis anymore but by herself—Jason’s worry skyrocketed. He kept telling himself she’d be fine without him for one night...

Now keeping his jaw clenched at the thought.

Willis could shove a rusty pipe up his ass.

As the stove flickered to life, heating up the so-called "salad", it was safe to say, a microwave-sized box was too big to hide and too heavy to run with, when you had none.

His sister glanced at him briefly then back to the stove—an action you repeated often. It was obvious you had questions enough for Jason to notice.

Even admitting it would be wishful thinking; to assume it was for his sake you were keeping all of them in.

His gaze flickered around the room to nothing in particular, as if wasn't even made aware of how restless his mind had become—grasping for anything to distract him.

Old bruises and burns on his skin layered with the fresh ones from getting mugged, started to ache. Random memories surfaced, each more unwelcome than the last. And then, the worst thought of all—what else was happening back home?

Dad was gone. But when he realized Jason had up and left, he would’ve been furious.

He’d probably have taken it out on Catherine.

Jason took a shaky breath, trying to suppress the anxiety clawing its way up his throat. He looked at the ceiling, at the stains there, forcing himself to focus. Trying to calm down.

Everything around him seemed to halt—until you placed a plate in front of him. Only then did Jason snap back to himself.

It took him a moment to pull out of his thoughts, and when he did, his eyes widened slightly. He stared down at the plate—rice, chicken, and whatever else you'd thrown in.

You didn’t have anything for yourself, but he caught you eyeing the pizza slices in the fridge.

“…Thanks,” he muttered before shoving a bite into his mouth. It wasn’t poisoned. And, surprisingly, it was good. Then again, maybe that was just the hunger talking.

It took him barely thirty seconds to finish half the plate. He wanted more—needed more—but forced himself to slow down. His body wouldn’t handle too much too soon.

You watched for a moment.

You handed him a glass of water.

Jason glanced at it, then back at you, silently studying your expression, trying to figure you out.

You were… kind. You’d taken him in, given him food—at the very least, you pitied him.

God knows why.

No.

Jason knew why. He knew exactly what he looked like. But he figured you had no business judging him, considering your own appearance.

Not that he was one to judge, either.

He reached out and gently grabbed the glass, taking a sip and letting the cool liquid soothe his dry throat. He would’ve thanked her, but he didn’t.

“What’s with the name on that mug?”

He asked, glancing beside her at a Christmas-themed cup with a name that definitely wasn’t yours.

"Ah. Dunno... I guess it’s the lady who’s supposed to be living here?"

"Someone lives with you?"

"If someone taller than you asks, then yes. Auntie—" She squinted, holding up the mug to read the name. "Gloria... Huh."

Yup. Definitely weird.

Jason knew it wasn’t true the second the name passed her lips because Catherine never mentioned a sister or an aunt. But Willis? That was a different story…

Jason blinked on edge again.

“Auntie Gloria?” he repeats, his eyebrows furrowed together as he tries to think of how to face a possible adult. The idea of an older relative living with you and him not noticing until now was confusing enough on its own, but the name was unfamiliar.

“Wait… she’s related to us?” Carefully adding himself to the mix, but for the sake of his mental health, he indulged for the first of many times to come in not asking about it again when you looked even slightly conflicted.

Ignorance was a blessing and you were underage, so it'll make sense you'll lie to adults about an imaginary aunt.

Jason couldn't risk slipping. You'd be everything he'd had to rely on when he manages to convince you to come with him back home to help with mom.

No doubt that he'll drag you home if he had to.

He had no choice.

He needed your help with Mom and he hated it. Hated how the air felt heavier the longer he stood there. Hated that his sister had chosen *this* place over home.

But mostly, he hated the gnawing fear in his chest—the one that had only grown stronger ever since he walked through that door.

"You need to come back," he said, voice tighter than he meant it to be. He’d practiced what he was going to say on the way here, but now it was all unraveling like the blocks he walked talking to himself under the rain meant nothing. "Mom’s sick, and I—I can’t do this alone, (Name)."

It was a rare admission for him.

You took a seat in front of him and his half eaten plate. Cross-legged under the table but changing your posture as if never truly settled. Probably why you didn’t look up right away. The dim light made your already hard to read face, harder than it was, casting sharp angles where softness used to be.

You exhaled through your nose. "Jason—"

"Please," he cut in, wanting to stand up, heart hammering against his ribs made his legs disobey. "I need you. She needs you."

Something flickered across your face then, quick and uncertain that made you chew on your bottom lip and your fingers tangle absentmindedly, and for a second—a brief, agonizing second—Jason thought you might refuse outright.

He readied himself and picked a counter argument of which he had a lot.

Instead, you sighed.

"Tomorrow," you said. "It’s dark. And it’s raining."

His breath caught. "So… you’ll come back?"

You hesitated. Just for a moment.

Then you nodded. "Tomorrow."

Relief crashed into him like a wave, but it didn’t settle right. There was something about the way you said it—vague, distant, reluctant.

Telling him what he wanted to hear. Just to soothe him.

Jason swallowed hard, pushing that thought down. Tomorrow. You said tomorrow. He'll only calm down once you are at home, but this was enough for now.

Even if something about the way you sat in that dit felt like you were slipping through his fingers.

══════════════ • ✧ • ══════════════

The rain hadn’t let up. If anything, it was getting worse—pounding against the windows, turning the city outside into a smear of dim streetlights and endless shadows.

Jason had refused the bed you so kindly offered him in favor of dozing off curled up awkwardly in the couch, exhaustion pulling him under despite the unease still crawling under his skin.

You sat by the window, knees drawn to your chest, eyes distant, not going to bed yourself because you'll feel guilty for sleeping comfortably while your baby brother struggled to sleep on the couch with a humid towel as a blanket.

And just maybe he thought you were weird for that.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until his voice—low from disuse but child-like pitched—broke through it.

"Is it bad to miss someone you can’t even remember?"

For a moment, you didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

Then, slowly, you turned your head.

The words settled deep into your bones, curling around old wounds, reopening stitches sewed with dental floss you have been holding shut with both hands around the stretch marks simulating fingers.

It was not the time for an analogy but your unaware grip tightened slightly against the fabric of your sleeves.

"I missed you," words pushed through softly.

The rain kept falling.

No memory could fill the gap—it had been too long ago, and he had been too young. All he could do was piece together imagined scenarios, trying to soothe himself, only to shudder at the thought of them.

Maybe wanting a real family had been too much to ask for.

A home without a deadbeat dad. A mother who wasn’t drowning in addiction. A sister who never would have left him—never would have left him like you did. And maybe even a family dog.

But that wasn’t the life he got.

And you? You failed.

A bad sister to Jason. A bad daughter to Catherine. You left them with your father, and that truth weighed on you like an unshakable burden. The one absolute you carried on your shoulders.

You felt cold as the monster of your own making clawed at your ribcage from the inside, desperate to break free.

But the real problem—the one you couldn’t afford to face—was how much you missed home.

You couldn't do that to yourself. You couldn't want what you ran from.

Because nothing was more dangerous than the illusion of a family that never really existed.

Jason paused at your words, glancing up.

Normally, your carefree nature would have prompted some teasing remark about staring. But now, the silence stretched between you, heavy and unbroken.

Something he had to say without letting himself stutter.

"You missed… me?"

Almost wanting to brush it off as an empty platitude, something said out of obligation. But deep down, in the twisting knot of his gut, Jason knew you meant every single word. The weight of it had been steeping in years of regret and unspoken sorrow.

And then there was the very idea of you missing him—which was both baffling and, to his surprise, oddly comforting.

"A little weird, out of the blue. I know," you admitted, backpedaling. "I just don’t get why you hardly remember me… I wasn’t gone that long."

Yet weird was putting it lightly.

Jason swallowed hard, his heart clenching painfully under the weight of emotions he couldn’t fully name.

He wanted to remember. God, he wanted to remember you—everything about you. Whatever moments you’d shared, whatever time you'd had together before it all went to hell. He reached for those memories, clawed for them, but nothing surfaced. Nothing real.

His breath wavered as he forced himself to stay steady.

"I… I wish I did. Dammit." His voice was quiet, edged with frustration.

"It 's okay. I'll remember. It’s not enough, but it’s what we get."

Jason nodded slightly, but something about that statement stuck with him.

He couldn’t remember you. And he probably never would.

Other people got their warm family moments, their second chances. But not them.

He took another shaky breath, fighting the lump in his throat, while you turned away, staring blankly out the window.

"It sucks," he murmured, avoiding your gaze. There were no portraits on the walls, just a scattering of trinkets everywhere.

"Like Dad used to say—‘Life’s a bitch, and then you die.’"

Jason scoffed. Of course that was something Dad would say.

"Don’t do that, though..."

He looked up, meeting your tired expression as you side-eyed him.

“Don’t die…?” he echoed, lacing his words with sarcasm. “Yeah, okay… I’ll get right on that.”

"Good boy." You offered a thumbs-up.

Jason snorted in disbelief, rolling his eyes as he crossed his arms.

Still… he appreciated it. Keeping himself alive had been hard, but something about the praise made his chest feel a little warmer. Not that he was about to acknowledge it.

"You talk like some old lady," he teased.

"You eat like a dog."

Jason gasped, feigning offense. "I do not eat like a dog," he argued, his voice dripping with exaggerated indignation. "I eat like a growing boy who’s going through puberty and also hadn’t eaten in days and was basically starving, thank you very much."

"What puberty could you possibly be going through? You're eight."

Jason huffed, rolling his eyes before responding, utterly insulted. "I’m turning eleven next month. Which means I’m almost twelve. And then thirteen."

He sounded genuinely offended.

"And I’ve already started growing," he added, even though it was painfully obvious he hadn’t—still a four-foot ball of snark.

"Oh? Growing roots or…?"

Jason groaned, pouting in annoyance. He clearly hated the teasing.

"I've grown, I’ll have you know," he insisted, trying his best to sound confident. "I can cook now and—and I found my way here alone, too."

"I can tell you did," you said, watching him carefully. "Can’t imagine what that must’ve been like."

It was subtle. A small probe, a quiet way of fishing for details.

Maybe Catherine had known you were here.

The smirk faltered—but Jason covered it with a scoff. Mouth opened to ask how you ended up here. But then he hesitated, remembering the promise you’d made him make earlier. He didn’t want to risk breaking it.

Still, it tugged at him.

He thought about asking anyway. But it could hurt.

“…Why here, anyway?” His voice held a tinge of curiosity. “Do you really live here alone?”

"You met the neighbor," you replied, lips curling into a squinting little smile.

Glasses. That had to be it. You probably needed glasses—that’s why your eyes looked so weird.

Focusing on that theory was a hundred times better than thinking about the kind of people who might live here. The kind that had you so scared before.

Because he’d already decided—he was going to believe you weren’t scary.

His gaze flickered around the abandoned building again. Yeah… still not convinced.

It was subtle, but Jason had a habit of checking his surroundings. Always. And you noticed.

“How bad is your vision?” he asked bluntly.

"My vision?" You raised an eyebrow. "I can see you just fine."

Jason rolled his eyes, smirking. "I’m not saying you’re completely blind. I’m asking if you need glasses."

He didn’t add that the squinting seemed suspicious. Instead, he flashed you an innocent smile before adding,

“You look like an owl when you do that, you know that, right?”

"Do what?"

You tilted your head slightly, just like a bird—clearly on purpose, just to mess with him.

Jason couldn't help the small smile tugging at his lips.

"That." He motioned toward your head. "Stop that."

He wasn’t really annoyed, though. He was amused.

Something about the way you focused on him, how you responded to everything he said, how you kept looking at him—not just hearing him but listening…

It made his chest feel warm.

Jason shifted, reluctant to leave the warmth of the couch. Exhaustion clung to him, but something about the quiet moment pulled him up.

With a sluggish motion, he pushed himself upright, the towels draped over his shoulders slipping slightly. Instinctively he grabbed onto them, pulling as they were his armor against the lingering cold. The one on his head slid forward though, nearly covering his eyes, and he huffed. There had to be a reason why he tugged it back into place before letting out a quiet sigh when he could have just thrown them around.

Bare feet padding softly against the floor, made his way to your side. Towels rustling with every step. The warmth they held was fading, but he kept them wrapped around him anyway.

By the window, he didn’t say anything at first—just gave a little jump to sit on the counter with you, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, staring out at whatever had your attention.

Jason reached out, one hand wrapping around your arm while the other cupped your cheek, gently but firmly keeping your head still.

His eyes narrowed studying you—staring at you—his expression unreadable.

“Do you need glasses or something?” he asked bluntly.

"What?"

"You keep closing one eye like that. You look like an owl." He repeated.

"An owl? Like... hoot hoot?"

Jason scoffed at your lame attempt at an owl impression.

“Owls don’t even make that sound,” he shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm—but the amused smirk tugging at his lips betrayed any real annoyance.

"I tried," you defended with a small shrug. "I’ve never seen an owl in my life."

"Me neither. But I know they don't sound like that,"

With a sigh, Jason finally let go of your face and arm, but not before tapping the top of your head in some vague, brotherly gesture.

“Now answer me. Glasses—yes or no?”

"Probably?" You popped the *p* before hesitating, still smiling but uncertain.

"I can see…" Your eyes narrowed, focusing like it required actual effort. Finally, with newfound, almost forced optimism, you pointed.

"The couch," you declared with newfound optimism from somewhere.

Jason didn’t even bother holding back his expression—half unimpressed, half entertained.

You just couldn’t help it. Something about him was so amusing. If not a little annoying.

“You’re nearly blind, then,” Jason said, his eyes widening like he had just stumbled upon a groundbreaking discovery. Somehow, despite being as blunt as ever, he didn’t sound mean—just genuinely baffled.

“So, the door? You can barely see that behind me? And—and when you stared at me outside, it was because you couldn’t see me?"

“Yeaaaah, sure,” you drawled, dragging out the word. “That’s why I stared at you for so long…”

Jason didn’t catch the sarcasm. If anything, the idea only made him more fascinated, his eyes practically glowing with curiosity.

He turned his head away, trying (and failing) to hide the red creeping up his face behind a cough.

“Wait, wait, wait—you mean to tell me that you were just standing there, squinting at me like that because you couldn’t even tell it was me at the door?”

You didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth, not when he looked at you like that—like a kid uncovering some great mystery.

The truth was, you hadn’t recognized him at first. And then, when you did, you had hesitated for too many seconds, unwilling to acknowledge it.

So instead, you just stained your smile onto your face, squinted at him again, and shrugged.

“A bit.”

You’d rather let him think you were blind than admit to the real reason. And, to be fair, it wasn’t entirely a lie—your vision did blur every so often.

Jason let out a short laugh at your answer, shaking his head.

“A bit, you say? You straight up stared at me, and I thought you were just crazy or something.” He laughed again, but after a second, his expression shifted. His gaze flickered over the way your eyes kept narrowing and refocusing, and a small frown tugged at his lips.

“…You can’t see anything far away at all, can you?”

"Hey!”

Jason raised a brow, crossing his arms as he held up two fingers right in front of your face.

“You can see what… how many fingers am I holding up, then?”

Deciding to humor him, you rolled your eyes before deliberately answering wrong.

“Four.”

“Ha! Nope, wrong.” Jason waved the two fingers closer to your face, smirking as if he’d just won a game. “You really got that wrong? C’mon, try again.”

His grin was practically gleeful as he held up the same two fingers, waiting expectantly.

You squinted dramatically, leaning in like a grandma reading the fine print on a receipt.

“Oh! …Two!”

Jason narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Is that an actual answer or a guess, you blind bat?”

Before you could answer, he held up four fingers this time, wiggling them teasingly.

“How about this number?”

“Okay, okay, enough eye testing for tonight,” you dismissed, waving a hand.

Jason snickered, finally lowering his hand, but the playful spark in his eyes remained.

“But I was just getting to the fun part.”

Then, as his laughter faded, he leaned in slightly. His smirk stayed, but his expression turned more serious.

“Seriously, though. You’re basically blind,” he said, shaking his head. “You gotta get glasses.”

You shrugged, giving a half-smile. “Maybe one day.”

And why wouldn't he catch the way your voice dipped slightly? Or how your fingers twitched against the counter? Obviously something about the way you said it—too casual.

Jason was young, not stupid.

Of course you didn’t have glasses. Of course, you couldn't just get them. Just like how dinner was either pizza or leftovers. Just like how there was no microwave.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably.

“…You can’t get them, can you?” he asked, quieter this time.

You blinked at him, “I could if I wanted to.”

Jason stared.

You sighed, finally breaking on that front.

“No, I can’t.”

Surprising even if it shouldn't have been. And for some reason, it made his chest feel tight. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much—just one more thing neither of you could have. Jason nudged you lightly with his elbow, like he wasn’t about to say what he was about to say.

“…Guess I’ll just have to be your seeing-eye dog or something,” he muttered.

You snorted. “Oh, so now you admit you eat like a dog?”

He groaned, rolling his eyes. “Okay, no! That’s not what I meant.”

But when your expression had softened—not in pity, but in something almost grateful, so did he.

And Jason decided right then that until you could afford glasses, he’d just have to be your extra pair of eyes.

[4zahar]

I've been thinking maybe turning the last chapter into a series of it's own. Same timeline but just years after Jason's death and with the reader having no idea Jason is alive because plot... Idk, why not?

[4zahar]

WIP? | Rocket Science

Synopsis— It's been almost 5 years, give or take a few days, since Jason's death. You could proudly say that there was no light at the end of the tunnel just because Gotham lived in constant darkness. After moving away from your family for your own good, it would be crazy to think that your brother was alive all this time and not only did no one deign to tell you, but the sweet innocent boy you raised decided to fill a bag with human heads and become a Crime Lord, right? Because that just happens in movies.

Word count: 1.7k

A/N: English is not my first language. Shorter chapter because it was a last minute thing. I thought it'll be more interesting showing how things will be going in the future(present)—since the serie is basically Jason and reader's past. I'll be back sooner this time, I promise♡

Few times has Tim Drake felt like he was being played with like when it came down to family.

Actually, scratch that.

More people he cared to count had tried playing him for a fool and failed as to say this is the worse he's felt. This time around was different just to emphasize the absurdity his life was sliding into.

Yes, he was benched until recovering.

No, he couldn't refuse it.

No, he wasn't sulking.

"So bed rest for how long now? Alfred 's gonna breath over your shoulder for a while. Believe me. Been there, done that." Dick Grayson has been here, allegedly, trying to cheer him up. But personally, the acrobat should reconsider his chances as a cheerleader if he thought Tim could laugh off a concussion, bruises all over and his tingling ribs.

"You've been beaten by a 6 ft something dude on bright yellow leggins?" It was only half sardonic. His brother's had an extravagant life.

"The answer will surprise you."

Dick's presence wasn't very comforting under the particular self deprecating light of asking himself 'who he was really here for?'. However, the man actually managed to pull at the corners of his brother's lips to get a scoff. It was better than nothing.

"Well..." Tim said, leaning further back into tiny wall of pillows with a smirk, "We could always just call (Name) and have her deal with The Red Hood," His voice carried a teasing edge with a grin that lingered for a second longer, hanging in the air like a fading echo.

Dick didn’t laugh. Tim hadn't expected him to. But not even a chuckle or eye-roll at the idea of this rather skinny, 5 ft something woman going up to a Crime Lord to whoop his ass?

No sarcastic comeback, no snort of agreement, just that small, almost imperceptible shift: the stiffening of his jaw, the subtle crease between his brows, and the way he suddenly became very interested in side eyeing the floor.

Nothing to match the usual rhythm of their banter.

Something wasn't right already and Tim couldn't catch a break from one drama to the other.

Fuck the weighted, hollow kind of silence that didn’t fit but always followed him.

He could have brushed it off really, chalking it up to stress or whatever. That just wasn't like him though.

Replaying his own words in his head could only do so much, and the kick of the joke got stuck on the tip of his tongue, but was like stone in water regardless.

Eyes drifted to Dick’s hunched shoulders, noticing how his movements were precise but mechanical, like he was trying too hard to stay focused. It wasn’t just annoyance. It wasn’t about the mess. It wasn't about his strained relationship with you—where chats were exchanged probably once every few months.

"Did (Name) block you again or why are you sulking?"

"I'm not sulking." The grin Tim shot back was more habit than genuine amusement, his brain already shifting gears beneath the surface.

Dick’s response was quick, too quick, the kind that snaps out like muscle memory instead of actual thought. His voice had that tight edge to it, the kind that tries to masquerade as casual but doesn’t quite land right.

Okay, Tim thought, narrowing his eyes slightly. Not just weird. This is “something’s definitely up” weird.

"I should be the only one sulking,"

"Who are you? Bruce?"

Dick wasn’t looking at him. Still staring at the floor like it held all the answers to the universe. His fingers drummed absently against his knee, a restless little rhythm that had no business being there if everything was fine.

Tim let the silence stretch, just a little, leaning into it like he was daring Dick to fill it. But when nothing came, he cocked his head.

"Wait," Tim said slowly, voice softer now, like he was testing the shape of the thought forming in real-time. "This isn’t about her blocking you—"

"I wasn't blocked."

"—This is… something else."

Dick shifted then, barely noticeable if Tim hadn’t been watching like a hawk. A quick inhale through the nose, shoulders straightening.

"Don’t overthink it, Tim."

Wrong move. Dick should've known better. Telling Tim not to overthink was like telling water not to be wet.

Fair enough, everyone surrounding him was an overthinker, but that was more his environment's fault than his own. Then, the nagging feeling of a wider picture he was not privy to, creeped in. It was on. There was nothing better to do.

Tim sat up straighter, the teasing grin completely gone now. His mind raced, connecting dots that hadn’t even looked like dots before.

"It’s not about me. It’s about her." His eyes narrowed. "What aren’t you telling me?"

Dick’s jaw clenched. Not enough to be obvious, but enough for Tim to catch it. His gaze flicked to the window, like the skyline outside was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

And that’s when it hit Tim.

It wasn’t the joke itself—it was who he’d joked about. The Red Hood. Jason.

Tim’s breath hitched slightly. Like acknowledging a fact that had always been then, yet pushed aside, the realization creeped in like cold fingers wrapping around his ribs.

"She doesn’t know, does she?" Tim whispered, not a question, more like a statement dragged out of him.

No answer.

Tim’s chest tightened, equal parts disbelief and frustration rising like a tide. "She doesn’t know Jason Da Vinci is alive."

Dick finally looked at him then, and not-quite-guilt-but-almost etched into the lines around his eyes, buried in the tense set of his mouth.

"It’s complicated, Tim."

"Complicated?" Tim’s voice cracked, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Dick. This changed everything."

"I know that!" Dick snapped but not really. Just raised his voice louder than intended, his own frustration bleeding through now. He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Of course I know. But it’s not that simple. It's the whole problem, in fact. Jason… he’s not the same. And I didn’t—" He stopped himself, words hitting a wall.

Tim stared at him, heart pounding.

"Yeah," he muttered bitterly. "That much s'obvious." The youngest focused alone on the last word.

Tim let out a slow breath, trying to push past the initial frustration, but it was like trying to wade through knee-deep mud. He couldn't wrap his head around it.

Had he known this a while back he probably wouldn't be struggling right now.

Maybe.

"How—" He stopped, rethinking his words. "How does that even happen, Dick? And, what about Bruce? Shouldn't he have been the one to tell her?"

Dick's lips pressed into a thin line and he shook his head. Something closer to exhaustion, was probably gnawing at him and probably had been long before Tim stumbled into it.

"Bruce has regrets, but he had already made up his mind by the time I heard about it. And Jason was already supposedly death, again. What was I supposed to tell her?" Dick’s gaze was heavy now, meeting Tim’s.

“Clearly he's alive.”

“Yeah, but what were the chances?” Another deep breath to calm down. "Listen. B only saw so little of how it impacted (Name) back then," Dick muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face. "And yet he still thought—hell, I agreed—it is for the best not to call across the world if we were just where we started but worse." His voice trailed off, but Tim didn’t need him to finish the sentence.

Tim had only seen glimpses of it, filtered through the distance between them when he took on the mantle of Robin, but even that had been enough. The grief had hollowed you out, twisted something inside your in a way that felt eerily familiar. You lost an anchor in a world that already demanded too much from them.

"We don't want her to spiral. To relapse and cut everyone off again."

"‘Cause that worked so well so far. And mind you, she never cut me off."

And it wasn't completely true. At the time he had had to adapt fast into being Gotham's newest Robin and didn't notice the months in which he heard nothing from you when communication was already low.

"It would break (Name)," Dick admitted, quieter now, like saying it out loud made it harder to carry. "Looking at you and knowing."

There was a sour taste at the back of Tim's throat. "So the plan is just… never telling her while Jason is out there playing vigilante roulette with Gotham’s criminals?"

"She trusted you because you weren’t us. You weren’t tangled in that mess. Not like me. Not like Bruce." He let out a hollow laugh, devoid of any real humor.

Tim saw that statement for what it was. His brother could be very persuasive with undertones alone when he wanted to push.

Jason wasn’t ready.

You weren't ready.

If you hadn't met already, then the only one who search hadn't gone looking for his family ties.

There was more—the truth under all the excuses Tim hadn't asked for. It surprised him if anything how much of a word vomit had a simple joke divulged into.

Just his luck.

Just his family.

Chest tight, fingers twitching at his sides. He wanted to rest, for once, sleep it off. But instead, he exhaled sharply, leaning back against the pillows, feeling even more drained. Feeling less like the original problem mattered anymore.

"I’m not going to tell her," Tim said quietly, and Dick’s head snapped up, relief flashing in his eyes before Tim added, "But we're so dead if she ever finds out."

Dick swallowed hard, nodding slowly like his neck was made of rusted hinges.

Minutes passed in strained silence before Dick finally pulled out his phone, staring at the screen like it was a live grenade. His thumb hovered over the contact name for far too long before he muttered, "You rest, I'll go for something to eat."

Tim didn’t argue. He knew Dick needed an excuse to leave. He was probably gonna call her and this was the best he came up with.

One could only wonder how long has Dick been holding everything related to you to himself.

As Dick exited the room, Tim had already pulled out his own phone, fingers moving almost without thought. He hits sand before second-guessing it.

You may be strained from the family, but not Tim.

Somewhere across the world, a phone buzzed to life in the middle of a starred night.

A message, a call and fifteen after, a flight was booked.

[4zahar]

01 | A stranger is stargazing

←Prologue. Masterlist. Next→

Word count: 3.1k

A/N: English is not my first language. This was going to be way longer but then I saw the word count and chopped it off. I have zero imagination. Used chatgpt to translate some Spanish phrases because in English they use similar terms but different meanings. Also, my birthday falls is coming up so it's gonna be a funny last week of vacations.

The knock on the door pulled you from your daze, snapping your attention away from the stains on the ceiling.

Outside the only window in the apartment, barred as all must be, the sky hung a deep, polluted red, with clouds stretching far into the distance. Blue-ish if you squint your eyes. You, as one far too used to the sights, needed not to look at no clock's way to know this to be an unholy hour to bother someone. The thing was broken anyway and the lack of light filtering through was telltale enough.

It was clear, however, that someone disagreed with the concept of appropriate visiting hours. Despite your irritation, you silently hoped it wasn’t who you thought of first knocking at the door—because reliving another nightmare firsthand was the last thing you could handle after an already exhausting day. The familiar fear of being alone at night when an unexpected knock shattered the silence wasn’t something you’d grown up with instinctively, as others might. No, this was a fear learned the hard way, carved into you by mistakes you committed.

Alarm bells rang deafening while you stare frozen. You found it almost cruel when everything stayed as still as you at the faintest reminder of the last time you heard knocking. Like a punishment to yourself the shelves and mess had been kept neat, framing a stop in time on your doorstep. Back then, one of the other residents had barged in, leaving you shaken—hunted by the tickling feeling of his breath on your neck when you hadn’t turned around soon enough.

You forced yourself to push the thought away, though it lingered. A ghostly feeling clung to you, far longer than you were willing to admit to yourself, when another knock shattered your fragile composure. The sound was louder this time, sharper, snapping you back into the present. Startled, you leapt to your feet, knocking over the ashtray on the armrest with your rushed and unsteady movements. An horribly loud clatter echoed against the walls for seconds too long after falling to the floor, scattering ash and ceramic across the oppressive silence. The noise startled a hiss out of you, as though the sudden disruption physically hurt.

Out of the corner of your eye, an aluminum baseball bat tucked neatly among the umbrellas by the door. It waited in its place—only silent and steady reassurance for your burning hands.

Had the thought not been so disturbingly visceral, you would have entertained the idea of describing what you felt as a hand twisting your guts as you marched toward the door. But the imagery was too grotesque to entertain, so you buried it and kept moving.

Two locks clicked open unnaturally loud. The third lock, a flimsy chain, dangled just in front of your forehead. Not much of a safeguard, but it gave you the illusion of control even knowing the thin wood wouldn’t hold if it came to a struggle.

But what you braced for never came.

On the other side of the door, the menacing face you dreaded wasn’t there. No menacing glare from fish-like, ogling eyes.

Instead, a boy. Smaller than you.

Even more fragile-looking.

It was almost embarrassing how much taller you had expected the visitor to be. Instead, you found yourself slowly—almost comically—looking down at a face twisted in a grimace, like the boy had just sucked on a lemon.

If there was anything that could have thrown you off more in this moment, you couldn’t think of it. Then came like being hit by a train the realization of your own disheveled appearance: some pale, sickly, and worn thin girl. For looking less like a witch had others been burned. Still, you forced a smile—awkward and out of place in your face. Apparently, not beating those imaginary witch-allegations in your head, smiling wasn’t the right move in a dimly lit hallway in the dead of night.

Wonder why the boy’s expression shifted almost instantly from startled surprise to wide-eyed panic as your gazes met. Both pairs of blue eyes locked onto each other, mirrors to one another.

He was drenched, water dripping from a hoodie too big for him, which clung awkwardly to his small frame. The soaked fabric looked heavy for his noddle arms. A busted lip stood out starkly for being the kind of injury that screamed ‘street-kid’ in this side of the country. Easy—normal, even—to assume a fight was the cause. Maybe at home. Maybe over food with other kids.

Wait. It was raining outside?

“I... I’m your brother,” he stammered, words tumbling out in a rush. His face crumpled almost immediately, tears welling up as if he wanted to cry. You guessed from cringing so hard.

His words, anxious and unsteady, made it hard to process what he’d said, let alone empathize. This you blinked dumb-ly. Once. Twice. Then squinted, trying to focus your tired eyes on him. Because it couldn’t be.

Your brother was hardly a toddler.

It hadn’t been that long... just a couple of years. Maybe.

It wasn’t immediate—far from the clarity you might have preferred—but recognition did dawned the longer you looked. His mop of wet messy curls struggled under its own weight, stubbornly sticking out in awkward directions, much like yours often did after a shower. And those eyes.

Willis had definitely had a thing or two for coloured eyes in a woman.

This time the realization felt like a sharper pain; a slap. Older now—maybe nine or ten—your brother was standing in front of you, the spitting image of his father like you were of your mother. That thought anchored you, rooted you in place as the silence grew, filled only by static.

With it, the questions began to tumble through your mind like dominoes:

How the hell did he get here?

Obviously, he walked, right? But in the rain?

All the way here from Crime Alley, in the dark?

You stared at him for far too long. So much you could've started to feel uncomfortable too. It was socially inappropriate even. But so it was disturbing people at this hour, so you bet you kept staring. Thoughts clashed and raced, refusing to settle.

“Yeah, kid, I don’t know about that—” The words came out hesitant, weak. Perhaps speaking them might dissolve the truth in front of you. But the longer you denied it, the clearer it became.

Of course, this was your brother.

It just had to be, because why the hell not?

Your baby brother.

He had to be about ten now. You hoped he was still nine, but his birthday had long passed if you had it right.

How in the hell did he find me?

Is his lip okay? Clearly not—but how had it gotten busted?

Did he get into a fight?

Where are mom and dad?

The thought of him walking alone out there, so small and vulnerable, chilled you to the bone. The idea of walking the streets alone terrified you being his senior. Out there, death would almost feel merciful compared to what could happen.

At least the monster living down the hall was a known evil. The streets, though? They hid horrors far worse.

People often said you could sense being watched, when they weren’t alone in a

room and danger loomed nearby. Whatever that underdeveloped sixth sense was, it stirred in you, pulling your gaze away from Maybe-Jason—who, judging by his oblivious expression, has proudly evolved past any shred of survival instinct—and toward the hallway.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

The very last, or first, of the apartment doors down the hall stood slightly ajar, its shadowed outline warped in the dim, flickering light. Large portions of the space cloaked in suffocating darkness by burned-out bulbs, but even through the haze of your blurry vision and growing dread, you could see him.

There he was. Standing just within the frame of the door, his silhouette barely illuminated. He didn’t need much light to convey what he was—a predator, coiled and waiting. The sight almost froze you in place with chills one after the other. It was like watching carnage step into the light dressed in colours to deceive.

You yanked on the door handle without thought, The lock chain vibrating sharply. The frame rattled under your grip as your restless hands itched to do something—anything. Every instinct screamed at you to grab Jason, drag him inside, and slam the door. Brother or not, scammer or not, it didn’t matter. All you wanted was to get him out of sight. Out of that sight.

From the neighbors.

From the world.

From the danger now standing on your threshold.

Of course, although you had never meant to shut the door in his face, it wasn’t hard to see why Jason probably thought you were doing just that. Looking up from frantically searching his pockets for whatever reason, only to look up and see you disappear behind the chipped wood and flaking varnish must've been disheartening. Desperation etched on his young face perfectly mirrored the ache pounding in your chest—a feeling only a boy his age could wear so openly, and one only you could understand. You knew what could happen to him, to both of you, and the weight of that knowledge crushed you. His desperation laid elsewhere, as he was yet to become aware of the danger. But the feeling was mutual. Fear smells salty.

His small fist struck the door again and again. He called for nobody, babbling something about proving his claim instead. Maybe he’d forgotten your name in the haze of his nerves, or time had scrambled the syllables and their order.

It has been a while.

His pounding made you flinch, and in your fumbling to undo the chain, your ragged nails scraped against the surface. The accidental movement sent a sharp pain stabbing under your nails, but no time for whatever that was. Not as the metallic screech of rusted hinges sliced through the air.

The sound sent your heart into overdrive.

Before let-this-be-Jason could strike the door again you grabbed his arm and yanked him inside, shoving him behind you. Behind safety. That's where your brother belonged.

Then, before your dizzy, unfocused self could register how close it had been, you slammed the door shut.

══════════════ • ✧ • ══════════════

Even before stepping out of the house, Jason knew to be digging himself into a hole. He accepted the fact for what it was; his desperation guiding him down a path of poor decisions. He just hadn’t realized a shovel was in his hands until the hole’s depth exceeded his height.

Grabbed, tossed, pulled. Weren't the walls of his vertical tomb collapsing in slow, suffocating ruin, lovely? Beautiful, even.

He would have liked to think the inside of what he hoped was his sister’s apartment might be better than the place he’d come from.

It wasn’t.

It smelled of cigarette smoke, and shadows pooled in every corner. The darkness clinging to the space, thick and uninviting, might have made Jason feel at home—dragged around and overwhelmed—if the situation hadn’t spiraled out of his control so quickly.

Sure, they were family, and blood was supposed to be thicker than water, but none of that mattered if she didn’t even know he was her brother. The memories he’d clung to, distant and blurry, painted his sister as gentle and caring.

You? didn’t match that picture.

In retrospect, he realized you weren't much taller than him, and so thin he couldn’t understand why he felt so threatened. If you did try something, he figured, he could probably win in a fight—especially if the bat he somehow now held in his hands came into play.

He couldn’t remember grabbing it. Or when it had reached his hands.

It was on the floor and he had tripped with it.

You had your back to him now, tense and uncertain, seeming just as out of it as he was. For all his distrust, Jason couldn’t tell who, between the two of them, was more afraid of what might happen next.

You were frantic, scrambling to lock all four bolts, including the padlock. Each metallic click seemed to drive Jason’s heart deeper into the pit of his stomach, where it churned in acid. But he was too far gone—trapped in fight-or-flight mode—to cry about it.

Your hand hovered near the floor, near the umbrellas scattered there. Groping blindly for a handle, probably searching for the bat’s. Or maybe, fingers crossed, an umbrella to pity him.

Call it hopeful thinking.

Jason heard you curse under your breath, blaming yourself for throwing “it” too hard behind you. Still, you didn’t dare take your eyes off the door, as if you believed your unrelenting stare could alone hold it in place, as if sheer willpower wasn't already the only thing keeping that piece of wood standing. From this side, the door looked even shoddier, barely more than splintered wood and peeling paint. Jason stared at it, and you, his mind buzzing. For a fleeting second, he thought he could probably bring it down if he wanted to, so clearly the adrenaline was getting to his head.

“I think… I think it’s safe,” you muttered. Your voice shook, but the words didn’t sound like they were meant to reassure anyone but you.

Your trembling hands dropped to your sides, and you stepped away from the door.

“Safe?” Jason barked, his voice sharp, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

That’s when he learned the first thing about his so-called sister. Other than the assumptions he’d already built in his head, you were jumpy. You flinched, almost as if you hadn’t expected him to speak or still be there. To what he had to ask; Where else would he go?

His hands tightened around the bat, frustration bubbling in his chest.

Right. He had a weapon. Maybe that explained your jumpiness when facing him.

“Wow.” Your hands shot up in surrender, in a reflexive, almost lazy gesture of defeat. You didn't want to appear threatening, but your wide eyes just ticked Jason off. “So that’s where the bat went.”

“Why did you drag me in like that?” Jason barely hides the accusation. An unspoken ‘Why can’t you be normal?’ wail hung in his mind. He decided against saying it outright—better to avoid sounding desperate or offended, even if both ships had sailed.

“Because the Boogeyman was about to get you? Obviously?” you shot back, your tone spoke to a child far younger than him. Your grimace wasn’t for him though.

“What?” Confused.

“What?” You mimicked. Jason felt whatever hope he had for your help steadily slipping away.

“What— are you doing?!”

“How about you put the bat down, buddy—back with the umbrellas? I’m not going to attack you,” Jason cut you off, his frustration boiling over. “You pushed me into your apartment! If anything, you’re kidnapping me—”

“There was a man outside!” you cut him off yourself with a sharp exclamation and throwing your hands in the air, sounding genuinely offended at being called out. Good. Jason couldn't be the only one losing it here. “And stop shouting,” you hissed, lowering your voice but glaring at him. “Other people live here.”

Jason glanced around. “This place is disgusting.” Home wasn't better, but he was pissed.

“Thanks,” There was a sharp edge, more venom in your tone than you’d intended. It startled Jason enough to make him take a step back.

Seeing your little brother back away from you should've tug on your heartstrings. It did. Almost tearing them off at the memory of a toddler gleefully making a mess of his food, yet looking so utterly blameless.

You couldn't be angry at Jason—if this was truly Jason. You had to remember who you were getting angry at and would/could cry.

Still, you should’ve been ashamed of the mess. You looked like you knew you should.

The apartment was tiny, cramped, and barely livable. The peeling wallpaper was stained yellow. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, a leaning tower of neglect, and discarded takeout containers dotted the counters like forgotten relics. The lone couch sagged under its own weight, covered in a mismatched patchwork of old blankets, and the floor—God, the floor...

Jason, once a master of breaking down your stubborn resolve with those big, pleading eyes, probably for the best, didn't seem to remember his power over you even having already made you back down. You sighed and leaned against the door. Slowly, you slid down until you hit the floor. The movement felt pitiful, like a defeated video game boss collapsing after the final blow. Only there was no triumphant music playing in the background and it looked sadder.

You stared at the floor, head tilted slightly forward, shoulders slumped. “It’s been a while,” you muttered, your voice strained, “since I talked to actual people, okay? Sorry for… the mess. I guess.”

And Jason reluctantly lowered his guard.

The bat still clenched tightly in his hands, eventually lowered, no longer pointing at you. Even so, he kept it close as he sat down on the floor, mirroring your posture.

“S’okay,” he mumbled.

“You look battered,” you said before a ten year old could take pity on you.

“You look high.”

To what his sister gasped, hand flying to your chest in mock offense. “I don’t—do I?—” And stopped abruptly. A pause, a sigh, and then you scratched the back of your neck, avoiding his gaze. “Okay, fair enough. ‘m not like that, but they cut the water off Monday morning so...”

“...It’s wednesday,” Jason saw you wince.

“What are you doing here anyway? How did you find me? Or even get here in the first place?”

“I walked…” Jason admitted, trailing off. He’d wanted the silence to stretch a little longer, but…

“(Name)?”

“Hey,” you cut in, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Glad to know you remember my name.”

“I came because of mom… Was there really someone in the hallway?”

“Yeah... Some creep. I'm 80% sure he’s a pimp too.”

“A pin? What's that?”

“What's what?” Suddenly remembering the limits and implications of talking to a ten year old. Even if the streets were more home than Catherine and Willis, Jason was still a child. You too, but you have literally lived in the streets for some time.

Wonderful times.

“Doesn’t matter. Just be more careful, Jason.”

He hesitated, the weight of his next words sinking his shoulders. “Mom 's bad.”

Your face fell. “You shouldn’t have left her alone with Dad if she was already—”

“Willis is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Jail.”

“…Huh.” You slumped back against the door, your hand rubbing at your temple. “Well… you shouldn’t go back out at this hour,” you muttered, your tone softening. “Especially not in the rain.” You pushed yourself to your feet with a groan. “I’ll grab you a towel… Food?”

His stomach grumbled, betraying him entirely.

“Yeah. Food too then.”

[4zahar]

00 | The Star Child

Masterlist. Next→

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: English is not my first language. Happy New Year! 🎊

—Ad astra per aspera—

Gotham's streets hadn't been designed to withstand rainfall over 30 milliliters per hour. A fact highlighted when some areas became prone to flooding due to the poorly thought out infrastructure of the sewer system. Built far too intricate and unnecessarily so, without consideration for situations such as heavy storms and raining season. The kind of problem Politicians would forever liked to preach about solving despite not a single soul believing half the funds for said project wouldn't be later on pocketed. Not a single uncorrupted branch was left on Politic matters.

Unfortunately and adding to the pile of reasons for a solitary boy to be wondering the streets drenched from head to toe at the whim of the storm—Clothes clinged uncomfortably to his skin; said kid was seemingly trying to shield a backpack with his body.

Car horns blaring in the distance in the alleys, speeding over the runoff from the storm pooling along the curbs. Streams formed, raising past ankles as the lone boy sprinted across the street, splashing in the filth to round the wrong corner. By the time he stepped in The Narrows his already worn off shoes became muddy puddles.

There was the chilling wind biting at his bones too. No matter how much he pulled at the hoodie, clearly a size too big, it did little socked and stained to provide any warmth.

A dog barking behind a fence became the only sound Jason could hear above his own teeth chattering.

He became the man of the house at a far too young age, the same day his father got arrested. Jason Todd’s survival on the streets of the country's most dangerous city hinged on a self-sufficiency no child should possess. Devastating was the burden thrusted upon him, forcing him to scavenge for food, scrape together money—stealing if necessary—and keep a eye on his mother.

He had learned through pain how things worked. Everything always getting worse over and over before ever showing signs of getting better—if they ever did. Lessons taught by the streets. Yet for all his toughness and bravado, the idea of losing his mother devastated him enough to seek help from anyone, anywhere. He'll do anything.

His mother, Catherine Todd, had never been so shameless before. Never like this, in her infinite wisdom, had she locked Jason out of the house with a storm in toe. Perhaps in her altered perception of reality, she did her son a favor. However, most children were far from far from stupid. The closest they'll have would be naivety, which her son wasn't. Jason wasn't blind and deaf like many seemed to view him as. What those days and afternoons locked out really were for Jason were failures for not having been able to stop them. Stop her.

The cure for her mother's illness was the same substance slowly but surely killing her, apparently, and according to the drug dealer that'll come to their home. As if Jason were stupid. As if he didn't know drugs were no magical spell and about his mother's addiction.

Overwhelmed, his resolve faltered. Losing on a betting game with all odds against him, Jason saw no choice but to force himself to go out under the lash of a storm in search of a new player.

Someone who had no name or face that he could remember, but whose existence was suspended in a forgotten photo half-embraced by fire; His sister.

Willis had not liked to talk about his oldest child, so you must've been a force to be reckoned with.

═════════════ • ✧ • ══════════════

One of the last threads of hope he had had, summarized in this ominous building. After this, Jason will ran out of ideas. For a while he has been standing in front of the door of an apartment in one of the many complexes nearby. After hitting one too many dead ends, Jason knew better than to let himself be haunted with What ifs.

Armed with an old picture of you, the sister he never had, in which he was an infant in your arms and your smile had missing baby teeth. Now he was ten and had to squint to find any resemblance to his old baby-self. You could've changed so much all could be for nothing if you had done as much as dyed your hair.

Just the walk from Crime Alley had costed him his backpack. Far more he should've allowed himself to for this to be worth nothing, so there better be a fairy behind this door. At the very least a decent human being.

He wasn't backing down. Jason just needed a moment, okay?

Lots of thoughts and thugs had been faced tonight—the longest walk his short legs had ever made in his short life was enough for him to get mugged by a group of drug addicts.

Facing disappointment, his great fear of being left alone, tightened his chest far more than the kick to the ribs he got a couple blocks ago. (Him being a child meant his backpack had proudly carried four pieces of gum, a pair of socks and an used toothbrush which hadn't been good enough for a bunch of crazy. God forbid a boy had his own problems.) However, he was lucky they didn't kidnap him or worse. Even if only because of knowing nothing would be gained from it after seeing the inside of his backpack.

You could be anywhere if not here, really. Even dead in a ditch. Children didn't get very far alone. They were all attracted by dim light of deception in a deep dark ocean and devoured by an anglefish or other predator lurking by.

After a deep sigh, his lungs filled with false courage and the pollution gothamies were so familiar with. Although His hand froze halfway to knocking on the door, three times did the sound echoed down the hall and Jason's arm flashed hidden behind himself just as fast.

An eerie silence settled back in before Jason tried again. Three knocks, louder this time, were intended. Jason got to one before the dull thud of something falling to the ground was heard from inside. The response had almost been immediate, followed by footsteps. Jason barely had time to take a step back before the door creaked open as far as the chain on the bolt allowed.

A somewhat gloomy looking girl peeked out. She seemed to have just woken up in any case, with her short hair a mess of spiky locks pointed in all directions. Adding to the frame of her face were blue drooping eyes lingered above Jason's head for a second too long as if she expected someone taller.

Great offense was taken at that by the way. He had gone through a lot, walked way too much, not for this—and you—to call him out like that. You weren't even that much taller than him. You weren't even standing straight hiding most of yourself behind the door. Then her eyes descended to meet him, and Jason's mind went blank.

He couldn't fully see her face. Didn't need to see to know this was you his sister. The picture he had of you felt heavy on his pocket as you looked just like your mother. His mother.

The lump in his throat made itself all the more present when he tried to speak, so he waited for a greeting of your own instead. Anything to not be the one who had to speak first would have been a good start in Jason's books.

The silence stretched despite the two. His tongue felt like it had been tied up, stammered the first thing that came to mind when nothing came of you.

“I am your brother,” he blurted out, with anxious energy so clumsy he instantly regretted it.

Taglist(?): @classicsimpforaaronwarner

[4zahar]

We Do What We Can

Jason Todd had a sister once.

Synopsis; Jason needed help taking care of Catherine. So with nothing but an old photo and desperation, he went on his way to find a estranged sister he’d only heard whispers about, because he feared losing his mother more than he did the dark.

Warnings — reader, child abuse, neglect, parentification, obsession, major character death(eventually), dark themes, unhealthy/toxic relationships, dysfunctional family

A/N: —English is not my first language. Tags and warnings will be added as the story goes on.— I just figured out Tumblr (almost) Here I'll be updating this late Christmas gift. Hugs and kisses and a happy new year.

00 | The Star Child

0 1 l A stranger is stargazing

02 | Let's Stay Home

[carnicer01]

Licking each other's wounds

[4zahar]

LEPIDOPTERIST

Entomologist (branch of zoology) who specializes in the study of moths and butterflies. The word lepidopterist comes from ancient Greek, where lepidos means scale and pteron means wing.

A/N—Let's not pretend I know what I'm doing. English is not my first language—

In a dimly lit room, overflown with dancing shadows, the familiar smell of old wood and dust surrounded the sight that for years to come would be engraved with fire on one's mind.

There, meticulously pinned against a soft, dark background, were framed on the wall the largest butterfly wings anyone could ever dream of ever seeing. As long and wide as a person would be tall, even after being torn off the intricate patterns and vibrant colors seemed to pulse an ethereal glow. Fine details such as delicate veins, shiny scales and subtle color gradients dancing between camouflaged yellows and greens were highlighted.

The tremor which ran through the ever growing-weaker body of staring eyes was nauseating. Each rib seemed to mock such dispossession, and a voice broken into muffled sobs. For these were not simply a pair of some insect's appendages stripped from any creature. What was once a part of one was now a dead trophy, motionless and grotesquely perfect.

How could anyone reduce something so alive and so sacred to this violation of all that's holy?

This was not admiration.

It was nothing but an insultingly brutal display of power by those who claimed to love her. The vivid portrait of the perfect family feet's away seemed as horrified as one felt, yet assuming it as a sign of any guilt would be foolish. They could be shocked to be found out. They could know but chose to ignore the abyss of emotions threatening to take consciousness away. Leaning before the frame as one's body was barely supporting the visceral reaction this evoked.

It had been so long since the last time someone claimed to understand. Them who avoided eye contact no longer knew of humanity and not because of the brutal act but because those who claimed to love her would see beauty where there was only mutilation.

Writing prompt:

@luludeluluramblings