one of the underrated lessons from lotr's Aragorn is to avoid responsibility for as long as humanly possible, possibly in the woods, possibly without showering, until the small folk need you or whatever
description: you and your attending butt heads—and it’s no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents. He pushes you further, critiques you sharper, expects more—and you’re done with it. Just as you’re about to go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days and finally put some distance between you and him, your patient—and his patient—tests positive for COVID-19. Suddenly, you’re both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.
wc: 4.2k
tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, slight power imbalance, quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension tension tension, both reader and abbot are in denial
series masterlist
A/N: guys I literally thought no one would rlly read this u guys MAKE ME CRY thank u for all the love <3
You let sleep be your drug of choice, the only thing capable of dulling the sharp edge of embarrassment still clinging to you.
Without the weight of the E.R. pulling you back, no alarms, no overhead pages, no need to be two Red Bulls deep just to function—you sank into it fully. The kind of sleep that came fast and heavy, dragging you under before your thoughts could catch up.
By the time Abbot returned from his run, the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
He shut the door behind him, the soft click echoing faintly through the space, his chest still rising steadily from exertion. For a moment, he just stood there, listening. No movement. No voice. No sign of you.
A thought flickered—brief, but immediate.
You left.
His jaw shifted slightly. He couldn’t blame you, not really. The situation was… less than ideal. Forced proximity, already strained dynamics, the kind of tension most people would rather avoid than sit in.
Still.
He exhaled through his nose, kicking off his shoes, moving further into the house.
As he passed the guest room, something stopped him.
Faint. Subtle.
White noise.
He paused, head tilting just slightly toward the door.
A beat—
Then, a quiet, almost involuntary chuckle slipped from him.
Of course you needed white noise.
His mind flicked, unprompted, to the chaos you were used to—Santos moving around at all hours, Whitaker doing God knows what in the kitchen at inconvenient times, the constant hum of shared space. Silence probably felt unnatural to you. Too still.
His gaze lingered on the closed door for a second longer than necessary.
Then something else settled in—quieter, less defined.
A small, unexpected pang.
He hadn’t thought about that.
When he bought the place, it hadn’t mattered. The rooms were close together, yes—but he lived alone. The proximity had never been something to consider. There had never been a reason to.
Until now.
He wouldn’t have described anything in the E.R. as close proximity. Not with you, not with anyone. The pace didn’t allow for it—everything was movement, urgency, bodies shifting in and out of space before anything could settle. Even during procedures, when elbows knocked and hands overlapped in tight quarters, it never lingered. It couldn’t.
Sure, there were moments—passing enough to register, gone just as quickly. The faint scent of whatever Shen had eaten on break, or the lavender lotion you used between patients, something clean and subtle that cut through antiseptic and latex.
But this—
This was different.
You were in his house.
Sleeping down the hall. Using his guest shower. Existing in a space that had, until now, been entirely his—quiet, controlled, predictable.
And in a few hours, you’d wake up. Walk into his kitchen. Probably reach for his coffee like you belonged there.
The thought should’ve unsettled him, but it didn’t.
That, more than anything, gave him pause.
He continued walking softly to his room, hand working his jaw as his gaze drifted toward the hallway again, like he could somehow see through the door.
It didn’t feel intrusive. It didn’t feel like a disruption. If anything, it felt… temporary. Contained. Like a situation with a clear end point.
Because that’s what this was.
You’d test negative. He’d test negative. Protocol would clear you both, and everything would return to normal—back to the E.R., back to the distance that came naturally there.
This wasn’t a routine. This wasn’t anything lasting.
It was the equivalent of letting a resident crash for the night after a brutal shift. A bed, a shower, a place to reset—then gone by morning.
No overlap. No adjustment. No change.
That’s all this was.
That’s all it could be.
Because you were his resident and he was your attending.
A dynamic built on structure—on curt nods across trauma bays, clipped questions over charting screens, the measured space he gave you to argue your way through a decision. It worked because it had boundaries. Clear ones. Necessary ones.
But this—
This didn’t have a protocol.
Abbot had no framework for it. No precedent to fall back on, no mental checklist to guide him through what came next when the walls of his responsibility thinned at the edges. When the noise of the E.R. fell away and left something quieter in its place.
Because outside of that world, stripped of scrubs and urgency and fluorescent lights—
You weren’t his resident. You were a girl in his house.
And he didn’t know what to do with that.
So instead, he did what he always did: he compartmentalized.
Tucked it away neatly, like everything else that didn’t have a place in the E.R.—the personal, the unnecessary, the things that complicated decision-making. He filed it under irrelevant, under temporary, under doesn’t matter.
Because that was easier.
Easier than acknowledging the way his heart rate had—very briefly—skipped when you stepped into the hallway.
Easier than replaying the image—his shirt hanging loose on your frame, the drawstring of his shorts pulled tight at your waist, like you were wearing them for a reason entirely different than circumstance.
It hadn’t been appropriate to notice.
But then again—what even was appropriate here?
What was the protocol for your resident being swallowed by your clothes in a way that blurred lines, that made it all look like something it wasn’t—something dangerously close to a different kind of dynamic altogether?
And he couldn’t even begin to think about the thoughts that ran through his brain when your clothes had spilled out your bag, revealing something that felt way too intimate for his knowledge.
So he didn’t.
Didn’t linger on it. Didn’t examine it. Didn’t question why it had caught him off guard in the first place.
Instead, he pushed off the counter, grabbing his water bottle, forcing his focus elsewhere—on routine, on movement, on anything that felt familiar.
You were his resident.
That was the line.
Everything else—
Temporary. Incidental. Forgettable.
It had to be.
You woke slowly, dragged to the surface by something unfamiliar—light.
Real light.
Soft, filtered through the window, spilling across the bed in a way you usually fought off with blackout curtains and sheer willpower. It felt wrong. Felt wrong that instead of collapsing into bed at this hour, you were only just now waking up.
You stretched, limbs heavy, joints cracking in protest as you sat up, blinking against it before reaching for your phone.
Notifications lit the screen.
Santos:
i grabbed the first things I saw
just giving you options!
okay, whitaker threw them in there. blame him not me
And above that—
Whitaker:
i did not put them in there. she explicitly chose that pair
You stared at the messages for a long second.
Of course she did.
A tired exhale slipped out of you as you let your head fall back slightly, closing your eyes for a brief moment. You must’ve been dead asleep when those came through—which was probably for the best. You weren’t exactly known for your patience when you were running on fumes, and the last fourty-eight hours had been…a lot.
You rubbed at your face before glancing down at yourself.
Right.
You hadn’t even changed. Too exhausted to dig through the duffel, too unwilling to look at the article of clothing that caused such a stir—you’d just collapsed as you were.
Still in his clothes.
The black t-shirt hung loose, soft against your skin in a way that almost felt unfair. You shifted slightly, fingers brushing the fabric absentmindedly.
God.
Abbot apparently shopped among clouds, because this might’ve been the softest shirt you’d ever worn. Not that there was much competition—your daily uniform consisted of stiff scrubs and whatever undershirt hadn’t been destroyed by hospital-grade detergent.
You exhaled, slower this time, letting yourself sit in the quiet for a moment longer.
Because now, you had to face him.
You took your time getting ready—not because you needed it, but because delaying felt easier than stepping out there and pretending everything was normal.
Santos had, surprisingly, packed you well. Basic toiletries, nothing fancy, but enough to make you feel human again. Whitaker had clearly been involved—half the items looked like they’d been grabbed in a blind panic from the depths of your shared, chaotic cabinet.
Still, it worked.
And the clothes—comfortable. Soft. Familiar. Sweat sets, tanks, things you usually lived in when you weren’t trapped in scrubs for twelve hours at a time.
You exhaled, tying your hair back loosely.
Rip the bandaid off.
Pun fully intended.
The hallway felt quieter in the morning. Lighter. Like the tension from last night had settled into something less sharp, but still very much there.
You followed the faint sound of typing.
Of course he was already awake.
You found him in the kitchen, seated at the counter, laptop open in front of him. He looked… exactly the same. Composed. Focused. Like nothing about the last day had shifted his world even slightly.
For a moment, you just stood there.
Then—
“Morning,” you said, voice careful, neutral.
He glanced up. Just briefly.
“Morning.”
And just like that, it began. Delicately dancing around the—
“So, pink, huh?” His voice continued, eyes still trained on whatever he was typing.
The color on your face seemed to physically brighten as if you could feel your cheeks beginning to heat. Your eyes widened slightly, and something in his low tone did something to your stomach you did not want to address in this moment.
“Pardon?” You coughed.
His eyes flitted up again, and now you got a good look at him through his reading glasses. “Your…preference of undergarment.”
Now, your brows shot up, shaking your head. “This isn’t real.”
“Only weird if you make it weird.”
“You’re making it weird right now by bringing it up.” You scoffed. “Pretty sure it’s an HR violation for you to even ask,”
“We are not at work,” He pointed, fingers still flying across the keyboard, like he couldn’t even be bothered to be fully apart of the conversation.
“Don’t remind me—“
“And, if memory serves, you’re not particularly shy about talking about such things at work.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“The time you and Ellis were yapping at central bay while someone was coding in Trauma Two?”
You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off. “We were not yapping—we were discussing—”
“You were laughing,” he cut in smoothly, finally pausing his typing just long enough to glance up at you. “About something that was very clearly not work-related.”
Your jaw dropped slightly. “Oh my God, you’re unbelievable.”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re insufferable,” you corrected, crossing your arms. “And for the record, we were talking about Ellis’s date, not—” you stopped yourself, narrowing your eyes. “Wait. Why do you even remember that?”
He didn’t answer immediately, gaze dropping back to the screen as if answering was optional.
“I remember a lot of things,” he said simply.
Something about that—casual, unbothered—made your stomach flip again in a way you absolutely refused to examine.
Especially since the conversation you and Ellis were having was mostly about which lingerie allowed for the easiest access.
You scoffed, shaking your head. “Right. Well, next time I’ll make sure my ‘undergarment choices’ are less memorable for you.”
That earned you the smallest huff of amusement—barely there, but you caught it.
“Not necessary,” he said.
Your eyes narrowed instantly. “Oh my God.”
“I didn’t say it was a problem.”
“That’s worse.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” you snapped, taking a step closer to the counter. “Because now you’re implying there’s something to have an opinion about.”
He finally looked up fully then, eyes meeting yours over the rim of his glasses.
Calm. Steady. Entirely too aware.
“You’re the one assigning meaning to it,” he said.
There it was again—that shift. The way he dismissed you without even blinking. Like you were the only one with thoughts, or fe—
Nope.
You shut down your brain before you could even finish the thought, especially when he was looking to you like he expected a response.
You held his gaze for a beat too long before breaking it, exhaling sharply. “You’re exhausting before coffee.”
“Coffee’s right there,” he nodded toward the machine. “Help yourself.”
You hesitated for half a second—then moved, grateful for something to do with your hands, your focus, anything other than the way that conversation had just… lingered.
You stared at the machine like it had a different language written on it.
Sleek. Complicated. Covered in buttons that all looked important enough to break it if you pressed the wrong one.
Your eyes scanned it slowly, trying to piece it together like it was some kind of puzzle—except instead of anatomy, where everything had a name and a function you could recite in your sleep, this felt… unnecessarily cryptic.
You knew the carotid artery like the back of your hand. You could run a code, assist in an intubation, make split-second decisions under pressure without blinking.
But this?
This was humbling.
Worse—
You could feel him watching.
Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would clock. But you knew. That same quiet, assessing attention he had in the E.R., like you were mid-procedure and he was waiting to see if you’d hesitate.
Your jaw tightened slightly.
“Question?” That fucking tone. The same one he used when he was waiting for you to ask for help.
“Nope,” You stubbornly responded, both hands holding the machine and peering around it, like its secrets were written on the back. “I’ll just…”
You reached forward, pressing a button with more confidence than you felt. The machine whirred to life—loud, mechanical, like it was laughing at you.
You paused.
“…Is it…supposed to sound like that?” you asked, trying for casual and missing it by a mile.
Behind you, you heard the faintest shift—him leaning back, maybe, or just acknowledging the moment.
“It’s making coffee,” he said evenly.
You glanced over your shoulder. “Helpful.”
A beat.
Then—
“Top left button is espresso,” he added, like he couldn’t quite help himself.
You looked back at the machine. Then at the button you’d just pressed.
Not the top left. Of course not.
A slow exhale left you as you pressed the correct one this time, muttering under your breath, “I can run a trauma but can’t operate a coffee maker. That’s reassuring.”
“Different skill set,” he replied.
“Careful,” you muttered, reaching for a mug on the shelf, “that almost sounded like encouragement.”
You rose onto your toes to grab it, stretching just slightly—just enough for the hem of the sweatshirt to lift, exposing the hem of your sweatpants and a faint strip of skin.
Brief.
Unintentional.
Abbot’s eyes flicked up from his laptop.
Just for a second.
Then right back down.
Like it never happened.
Like he hadn’t noticed at all.
“Doesn’t sound like me,” he said, tone even, fingers resuming their steady rhythm against the keyboard.
You huffed quietly, pulling the mug down and turning back to the counter. “Actually, ask anyone else and it would,” you muttered, more to yourself than him.
A pause.
Subtle—but there.
His typing slowed. Just slightly.
“And what,” he said after a moment, voice lower now, “is that supposed to mean?”
“Do you have the rapid test kits here, or does someone need to bring them?”
You shifted the conversation quickly, almost too quickly—cutting the tension before it had the chance to settle into something more dangerous. You weren’t about to sabotage your own chances with Robby by picking a fight with your attending in his own kitchen.
Strategic. You needed to be strategic.
“I have them here.”
“Great,” you said, forcing a small, tight smile as you slid your cup under the spout, pressing the correct button this time. “No time like the present.”
The machine hummed to life, espresso pouring in a steady stream as silence stretched between you—thick, charged, unspoken.
You glanced up.
He was already looking at you.
And just like that, it turned into something else entirely. A staring contest neither of you seemed willing to lose.
“Hope you have milk for this,” you said finally, breaking it first.
“I don’t drink espresso.”
Your eyes narrowed, flicking to the mug in his hand—black coffee, of course. “Then why the hell do you have this thing?”
“It was a gift from a patient,” he said with a small shrug. “Thought it looked cool.”
You blinked at him. “You use this insane machine to make black coffee?”
A beat.
“How’d you even know which button was for espresso?”
“I read the manual.”
Of course he did.
You stared at him for a long second, something between disbelief and exhaustion settling in your chest. It shouldn’t surprise you that he was just as smugly infuriating outside of the E.R. as he was inside it.
But somehow—
It did.
“Just get the tests,” you muttered, wrapping your hands around the cup. “So we can end this.”
This—whatever this was.
He didn’t argue.
Just pushed off the counter and disappeared down the hall, leaving you alone with the hum of the machine.
You glanced down at the straight shot of espresso in your mug—something you’d only ever resorted to mid-shift, when you needed a quick, desperate pick-me-up. When you made your own, you usually added whatever questionable non-dairy milk Whitaker had in the fridge…then denied touching it later.
He returned to the living room, heading toward the small side table with a few boxes of rapid test kits.
Abbot picked up a kit and held it out to you without even glancing up from his own.
You set the mug down, taking it in your hands like it contained your entire fate—which, honestly, it kind of did. This little box would decide whether you’d get to brush this off with a laugh…or spend the next two weeks teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown.
“Question?”
You blinked at him, incredulous. “Excuse me?”
“It’s pretty basic,” he said casually, flipping the instructions, “stick it up your nose, swab, put it in the solution, read results. Standard procedure.”
Your jaw dropped. “Are you asking me if I’m capable of swabbing my own nose?”
He finally glanced at you, one brow cocked, expression a mix of mild amusement and curiosity. “I just want to know if I should supervise or—”
“Oh no,” you cut him off, hands on your hips, glaring. “I am fully capable of handling my own nasal cavities, thank you very much. I’ve intubated crashing patients mid-respiratory failure, placed central lines under pressure while a room full of people waited on my call and run ACLS during codes that lasted longer than they should’ve—and now you’re questioning whether I can stick a tiny swab in my own nose?”
“I just watched you almost be taken down by an espresso machine.”
You scoffed. “What happened to ‘different skill set’?”
He didn’t budge. He just leaned there, calm, collected, unbothered by your tirade, and for some insane reason, that made the small act of swabbing your own nose feel ten times more intense than it had any right to be.
You pressed the swab in, muttering through gritted teeth, “I hope this thing hits my brain and takes me out.”
You placed the swab into the solution and stepped back, glaring at it like it owed you something. Abbot mirrored you, calm and collected, finishing his own test without a hint of emotion.
“Now we wait,” you muttered, pacing the living room.
“About fifteen minutes,” he said, still leaning, arms crossed. He didn’t look at you, but you could feel him there, like a silent weight in the room.
“I hate waiting,” you groaned after a moment of silence passed. “I hate these tests. I hate this entire situation.”
“It’s not ideal,” he said, still calm. “But quarantine rules aren’t up for debate.”
“I shouldn’t even be here,” you muttered. “Quarantining with my attending. In his house. This is insane.”
He glanced at you, brow slightly raised. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Am I? Or are you just being impossible?” you shot back, tugging at the hem of your sweatshirt.
He didn’t answer right away, just watched the test kits like they were the most fascinating thing in the world. Silence stretched, broken only by the ticking of the kitchen clock.
“Do you ever get nervous waiting for results?” you asked, voice quieter now, desperate to fill the silence as if it would calm your nerves.
“Not usually,” he admitted, glancing at you. “But… stakes feel higher today.”
Your stomach flipped at the tone in his voice, and you groaned, burying your face in your hands.
“My sleep schedule will be fucked if I go back tonight,” you said, still watching the test like it might change faster if you stared hard enough. “Maybe I start back tomorrow?”
“Is this you asking for time off?” His voice carried a note of disbelief, like he wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard you correctly.
You rolled your eyes. “I know, alert the media.”
“I’ve practically ordered you to take time off before,” he said, arms still crossed, “and you show up anyway.”
“This,” you gestured vaguely between the two of you, the house, the tests—everything, “has been a lot to process. Plus, I might need time to hide Santos’ body after I murder her in her sleep.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he replied dryly. “Can’t be an accomplice to what I can only assume would be one of the more gruesome murders in recent history.”
“Too late,” you shot back immediately. “They’ve already pulled the Ring footage of you and I coming here together.”
A beat.
“Looks bad for you, by the way,” you added, glancing at him. “Inviting your resident over. Isolating her. Then—boom. She’s being framed for murder.”
His brow lifted slightly. “You’re not doing a great job of making yourself sound like the victim.”
“I am the victim,” you argued. “Of circumstance. And of my roommate’s extremely targeted packing choices.”
That earned the faintest exhale through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite.
“Noted,” he said.
You glanced back at the tests.
Still waiting.
Of course.
“God, this is taking forever,” you muttered, shifting your weight again. “I’ve literally sat through shorter codes than this.”
“Patience,” he said.
You shot him a look. “I don’t have that.”
“I’ve noticed.”
And once again, that almost sounded like he didn’t mind.
“Earlier,” his voice broke the quiet again, “when you said if you asked anyone else—”
“I don’t want to get into it,” you tried, your words cautious, almost defensive.
“—What did you mean by that?”
You let out a slow sigh, feeling suddenly exposed. The look on his face wasn’t his usual sharp, analytical expression—it was softer, almost…genuinely curious. Like he actually wanted to understand. Maybe you could just tell him, ask him to switch shifts, and things could be easier. For both of you. Less tension. Less edge.
“I seem to get different treatment than the others,” you said carefully, picking your words. “And…moments before we got pulled into bay three, I was planning to talk to Robby about being put on the day shift.”
Something flickered in his eyes—brief, sharp, and unfamiliar. His calm composure wavered for just a second before tightening into something else. He almost looked…angry.
Your words barely leave your mouth before his expression darkens, jaw tightening. “You want to switch shifts…because I’m harder on you?” His voice is low, tight, but the edge in it makes your stomach twist.
“Well, yes!” you snap, throwing your hands up. “Isn’t that obvious? You question me more than anyone else! You—”
“Do you think I enjoy it?” His hands flex at his sides, frustration spilling through his normally controlled posture. “Do you think I take pleasure in pointing out every little thing you do differently than I would?”
“Of course not!” You grit out, cheeks burning. “But it’s exhausting! Every shift I feel like I’m under a microscope with you! You—”
“Then why is that the reason you’re running to Robby?” he interrupts, stepping closer. “You want a day shift just to avoid me? That’s not growth, that’s avoidance. That’s cowardice disguised as self-preservation.”
You blink at him, stunned, before fire coils in your chest. “Cowardice?!” you bark. “I’m not avoiding you, Abbot! I’m trying to survive! You make me feel like I have to push myself every second I’m on shift, like if I slow down for one second I’ll fail completely!”
He exhales sharply, hands clenching at his sides. “And switching shifts is the solution? Avoiding the pressure? That’s not how you learn!”
“Maybe I wouldn’t need to avoid anything if you weren’t always—” You bite your tongue, but the words still slip. “—so damn impossible to please! Every procedure, every patient, every single thing—it’s like you’re daring me to mess up!”
His eyes narrow, and for a moment he just stares at you, incredulous. “You think I make you push yourself to make your life miserable?”
“Well, congratulations!” you snap, voice rising. “It works!”
Silence drops between you, thick and suffocating. Then the soft beep of the timer you set on your phone cuts through, like a spotlight on every word neither of you wants to admit.
You both hurriedly glanced down at the test strips, hearts pounding, minds frozen, and everything around you seemed to fade.
Positive. Both of you.
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summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.
wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)
tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you don’t have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and You’re Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes reader’s family :)
a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger i’m sorry i’ve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If you’d like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]
NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either. Screaming in my inbox (not about wanting more, general screaming) is totally fine though!
ao3
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۫ ꣑ৎ
You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.
Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”
Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.
Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.
Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.
You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.
But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.
The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.
And yet, here you are.
Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.
For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.
And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.
Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.
It was a test. Not your first.
And you ripped the fucking purse strings.
Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”
And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.
So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.
You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)
You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.
But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.
You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.
But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.
You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.
You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.
Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.
You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.
Of-fucking-course.
You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.
“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“
He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.
“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”
Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.
“…Those are three by threes.”
Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.
“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”
You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.
“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”
“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”
His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)
You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.
“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”
You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.
The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.
Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.
“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”
A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“
Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.
Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?
“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”
He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.
Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”
“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”
“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”
“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”
He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”
“…No?”
He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”
You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”
Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”
—
Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.
He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.
Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.
He started to get restless again.
He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.
And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.
And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.
That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.
Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.
Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.
Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.
Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.
He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’
And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’
Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.
He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.
The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.
When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.
“That one yours, then?”
Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”
Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”
“She’s Robby’s intern.”
“Mhm.”
“She’s way too young.”
Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”
“She is.”
The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”
“Maybe.”
Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”
“She’s not my intern.”
Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.
“It’s an HR nightmare.”
Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”
He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”
“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”
“Parker.”
“Jack.”
He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”
Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”
To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.
You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.
Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.
Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.
“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”
Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.
“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“
“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”
Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”
Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”
Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.
When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
“Dr. Abbot!”
Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.
He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.
“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.
You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.
“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”
“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”
You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”
Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.
But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.
Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.
His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.
But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.
“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”
“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”
Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”
Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.
No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.
What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.
He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.
He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.
“Tilt your head up.”
He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.
He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.
Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.
He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.
“Did you walk to work today?”
You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”
He blinks.
“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”
You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.
“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”
There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.
“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”
“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”
Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.
God.
“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”
He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.
Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.
“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”
Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.
“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“
“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”
The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.
“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”
Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.
He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”
Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”
Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.
So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.
“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”
He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”
You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”
He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”
“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”
“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”
“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”
Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.
He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.
“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”
You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”
You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”
He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.
“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”
And with that, he’s out the door.
It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.
You’re not exactly rushing out the door.
You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?
The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.
“Still raining out there?”
“Yep. Looks worse now.”
“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”
“Mhm.”
“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”
“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”
Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.
“Come on, kid.”
The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.
He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.
You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.
“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“
“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“
By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.
On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.
Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.
“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”
That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?
Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
Ah. Right. The Incident.
“I told you I’m—“
“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”
Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?
He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”
“Have you been hit by a patient before?”
He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”
“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”
“Oh yeah?”
You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”
“What, did she slap you too?”
“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”
“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”
You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”
Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”
“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”
The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.
Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.
Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.
Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.
“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”
Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.
Oh right, your apartment.
“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.
Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.
You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”
“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”
Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.
“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”
He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”
Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.
“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”
“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”
Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.
Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.
It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.
“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”
“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“
“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”
He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”
Your mouth goes dry.
“I was planning on looking online—“
Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”
Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?
“Dr. Abbot, I—“
“Jack.”
His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.
“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”
“Kid—“
The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.
“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”
Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.
He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.
“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”
Jack holds up a second finger.
“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”
Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.
Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”
“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”
He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”
Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.
“You worry about me?”
Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.
“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”
Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.
You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.
“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”
“No problem, kid.”
And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.
—
From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.
Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.
You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.
Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.
Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.
Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.
But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.
You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.
Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.
“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”
If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.
“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”
In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.
“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.
You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.
So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.
What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.
The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.
She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.
“Bad shift?”
“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”
Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”
“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”
“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”
She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”
You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.
Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.
Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.
“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”
She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”
“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”
Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“
“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”
The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.
“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”
You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”
“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”
Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.
“Have you… acted on it?”
“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”
She leans in. “But…?”
“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”
Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”
“Right. Yeah.”
She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”
Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.
“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.
“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”
You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”
She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”
Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”
“You’re the best. I love you.”
The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.
—
Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”
Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.
After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.
“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.
“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”
“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”
Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”
There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.
“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”
You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”
She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”
“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”
She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”
“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”
“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“
“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”
Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”
“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”
She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”
Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”
Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”
She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”
“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”
Mohan actually looks taken back.
“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”
“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”
She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”
“Yes please.”
Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.
She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.
You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.
Maybe everything will be okay.
—
Everything is not okay.
You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.
Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.
You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”
“I try.”
You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.
It doesn’t help much.
There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.
Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.
The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.
You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.
A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.
You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.
Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.
“You’re flagging.”
Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”
He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”
“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”
Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”
“Yes sir.”
He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”
Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.
Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.
Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.
Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.
“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.
Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.
And that’s just the last straw, really.
You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.
The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.
“Hello?”
It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.
You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”
“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”
“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”
“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”
Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.
“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”
“Do you have a place to stay?”
Always a man of action, Jack is.
You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”
“I have a guest bedroom.”
The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.
“Jack?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your address?”
The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.
You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.
It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.
The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.
Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.
If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.
His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.
He makes a low noise in his throat.
“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”
Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".
Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.
Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.
“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”
You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.
“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.
“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”
At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.
“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”
“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”
He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.
It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.
Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.
There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.
But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.
Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.
“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”
“That explains a lot of things.”
His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.
“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”
Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”
“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”
Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”
That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.
“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”
Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.
“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”
Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.
Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.
Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.
You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.
They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.
Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.
(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)
The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.
Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.
He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.
“Feeling better after your shower?”
You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.
“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”
He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”
He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”
“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”
“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”
You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.
You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”
“Do you want to leave?”
You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.
You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.
“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”
Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”
“Do you?”
You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.
Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.
“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”
“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”
“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”
You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”
“Are they?”
“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“
You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.
I want you to like me.
Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.
It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.
(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)
He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.
It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.
Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.
It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.
And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.
He doesn’t. He starts talking.
“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”
Your breath hitches in your chest.
“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”
He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”
Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.
Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.
“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”
There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?
Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.
Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.
That would be something, wouldn’t it.
You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.
Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.
There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.
You start crying again, in earnest.
“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”
You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.
Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.
“I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”
He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.
“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
—
You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.
You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.
Holy shit. What the fuck.
Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.
In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.
Kid-
I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.
Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.
The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.
On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.
Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.
Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.
You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.
“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”
Mel is the first to speak.
“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”
Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.
You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”
Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”
Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.
Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”
Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”
Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.
"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."
Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.
–
At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.
It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:
Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.
Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.
–
When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.
He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.
And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.
You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.
"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'
You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."
You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."
Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.
Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.
Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.
The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.
Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.
"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"
He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.
"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."
He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.
"Why did you put it on?"
You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.
"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."
The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.
"How come?"
"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."
You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."
"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."
You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."
Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.
"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."
Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.
He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.
He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.
"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.
"Hmm?"
"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"
"I want to kiss you."
Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.
He continues when you don't speak.
"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."
"Oh."
"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."
You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.
"I thought I was just reading into things!"
"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"
Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.
"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"
He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.
"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"
For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.
"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."
𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: jason forgets about plans you made and you stumble across a secret
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: jason todd x f!reader
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+. smut. situationship w jason. angst. mentions of violence. flurries of reassurance n praise. lots of talking. blowjob. fingering. p in v. unprotected sex. light choking.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 6k+
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: so this is technically in-universe for this fic, serving as a prequel, but can absolutely be read as a standalone!
Jason had endured a long, long week.
Antagonizing Dick was one of his favorite pastimes those days and he seized every moment he could do just that. The claim that Jason was the most hotheaded of the bunch was laughable at best when it took such little effort to get under Dick's skin, every button to push a glaring, blinking red.
He'd put up a hell of a fight earlier in the evening and Jason could feel his adrenaline draining, only giving Dick more windows to land hits on him and subsequently pissing him the fuck off, so he bailed after tossing a grenade at him–not that Dick was privy to it just being smoke ("Go long, Wonder Boy!").
Typically he kept only the essentials at his apartment, the majority of his arsenal in his safehouse, but the apartment was closer and he couldn't conceive going out of his way that night, which left him going straight home. He didn't bother turning on any lights, kicking off his boots before muscle memory guided him to the couch. He took of his jacket, carefully laying it on the coffee table and setting his helmet on top before plopping onto the couch. Just five minutes, he gifted himself as he sunk further into the couch, laying his head back and letting his eyes flutter. Five minutes, then I'll shower and go to bed.
The next thing he knew, he was waking up to the sound of soft knocking on his door. He debated ignoring it, figuring it was likely just his neighbor telling him to be on the lookout for her tuxedo cat with the pink floral collar because it got out again (something that happened constantly) but he decided against it. He needed to get up anyway and he felt guilty ignoring her–Agnes was sweet, sometimes leaving leftovers or baked goods inside a woven basket in front of his door, and he had an inkling that the older woman didn't get much company besides her three cats.
Opening the door, it hit him as soon as he saw you standing on the other side. He had completely forgotten about the plans that he insisted on a couple of days ago. Only less than three weeks had passed since he last saw you–in his defense, it was a late visit and, despite being able to keep you awake long enough to coax a couple orgasms out of you, spent the majority of his time there with you both fast asleep because you kicked him out not long after waking up–but he wanted to see you.
Initially, you were against it because you were leaving for a trip the next ay and you couldn't trust Jason to not impede on your slumber. But when he suggested you coming over to his after work, pointing out that his apartment was closer to your job than yours and promising to not only (mostly) behave but also make sure you were home in time, you found yourself caving.
Soon after he remembered what he forgot, he realized that if you were off then it had to be after three am, which meant the last bus of the night had been long gone. "How'd you get here?"
"I walked–because my ride forgot all about me," you accused, narrowing your eyes at him.
Frowning, he opened the door further. "You could've called. It's not safe walking around this late at night."
Rolling your eyes at his ever-present worst-case-scenario thinking, you slipped passed him. "One, I did call you, you didn't answer; two, your place is literally closer than mine; which leads me to three, it's also in a much safer neighborhood than mine is," you listed off. "So one might say this was the safer choice."
He had no clue where his phone was but it usually stayed on vibrate, so it wasn't shocking that it hadn't woken him. Closing the door, he flicked a switch that replaced the dark space with a soft glow. "Sorry, I didn't mean to not show," he apologized, running his fingers through his hair and grimacing when he remembered that he still needed a shower. "It's been a long couple of days, guess I passed out."
The red glint bouncing off the wall caught your eye, distracting you. The source of it was a helmet sitting on the coffee table; the same red helmet that had been plastered all over the news lately. The first thing that worried you was the idea of him being on of those people who were overly obsessed with collecting paraphernalia; what if he was into it in a concerning way? The majority of the time he came to you, but in the times you'd been there, you never noticed anything off. Was he just that good at hiding it?
When you turned to ask him about it, pointing at it, you noticed his appearance. Strapped around each thigh was a (fake?) gun in its holster and both his shirt and pants looked like he'd been rolling in dirt and–was that dried blood? You were floored, trying to figure out how to ask your questions without sounding overly judgmental. If it was only cosplay, that was one thing, but a deep-seated obsession with the Red Hood? That was something else entirely.
He could tell something was off by your lack of response and he followed where your thumb pointed–still mid-air–and directed at his helmet. Looking down at himself, he noticed the armed holsters still around his thighs. Well, shit. "So you're, um, like really into this stuff, aren't you?" you broke the silence after a few beats.
"What?"
Dropping your bag onto the couch, you leaned over to pick up the helmet. "I mean, it's really good quality." His eyes widened at the way you handled the bomb in your hands carelessly, testing the weight. "Do you go to conventions and stuff?"
"Do I go to–I'm just gonna, yeah–take this from you." He stepped forward hurriedly, grabbing the helmet from you and placing it on the counter behind him. "What are you talking about? What does this have to do with conventions?"
"Cosplay? That's what this is, right?"
He couldn't help the bark of laughter that escaped him, your hopeful tone lost on his ears and leaving you thoroughly confused. If that was his response to his first assumption, you doubted the validity of your second one. "Jason, do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?" you asked.
"Tell me what you think is going on, sweetheart." The second he realized what you'd seen, it never occurred to him that you wouldn't instantly understand and now that he had zero idea what you were thinking, he didn't want to be the one to say it. There was no way for him to gauge how the next few minutes would play out. Would it scare you, finding out what he's capable of? Would he scare you? He liked you; liked hanging out with you. Things were so easy with you, everything else shielded by a veil of simplicity.
He didn't want to lose that.
"I don't..." you trailed, the gears turning in your head coming to a grinding halt. Red Hood? Jason: Red Hood? If you were being honest, the thought of him being involved with something shady had crossed your mind before. He never talked about what he did for a living, despite being able to afford an apartment in a decent complex. He would reach out at the most random hours and disappear for days; he was able to be awake all hours of the night without any fear of consequences in the morning. It made sense he didn't have a white collar job. but a crime lord, though? "Are you serious? You're him."
Your last question triggered his defense, assuming it meant that you couldn't bring yourself to say the words. "Red Hood," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh."
It was silent, nothing but Agnes' too-loud TV muffled through their shared wall. "I... don't know what to say."
Jason? He always seemed so soft with you, an endearing contrast to his otherwise intimidating demeanor. He'd learned how you liked your coffee to perfection after you suffered the worst hangover of your life and couldn't peel yourself out of bed (he pretended like it was an excruciating chore, grumbling that he'll just get it for you after endless complaining about wanting it but being too close to death's door to move, but you didn't miss the smug little grin on his face when you nearly moaned at the taste). If he woke up before you, your head on his chest or legs intertwined, he put off disturbing you for as long as possible (if he didn't fall back asleep, you'd often wake up–unbeknownst to him–to his featherlight touch, fingers drawing mindless shapes into whatever exposed skin he could reach).
That's who's capable of taking out Gotham's worst as if it were an elementary school fight? "I wouldn't have expected it, so I don't really..."
He nodded, teeth clamping his bottom lip. "Okay, well, uh–" He caught sight of his jacket–still packed with firearms and blades–and grabbed it, mindful to not impose on your space. "How about you think about that, and I'm going to just–take a shower, give you some space. If you... don't want to stay, that's fine too, obviously," he rambled more than anything, internally wincing at the last part. He didn't wait for your response, disappearing down the hall to the bathroom.
Part of you felt like he wanted you to leave, but what good would that do? He was clearly uncomfortable but you still couldn't figure out how you felt about it. The thought of leaving left your mind just as quickly as it entered it, deciding that if he didn't want you here, he could tell you that.
Settling into the couch, you got comfortable and pulled out your phone, typing in your search. Articles and articles filled the results, story after story reporting Red Hood's lethality since his emergence. You waited for the fear as you read, but it never came. Everything you found reported the death of somebody objectively bad; people that prayed on innocent people, on children. And you knew him. There may be plenty you didn't know about him but there was no denying what you'd seen with your own eyes time and time again. Jason had a good heart underneath the fortress he built to protect it.
Twenty minutes later, Jason walked out with wet hair, flushed cheeks, and dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt. "I didn't know if you'd still be here," he said quietly, crossing his arms with his hip against the counter.
Putting your phone down, you turned your head to look at him. "Early morning, remember? It'd take too long for me to get home." It was supposed to be lighthearted but he only shrugged. He was nervous and if it hadn't been written all over his face, it'd be obvious by the distance he maintained. "You're making this weirder than it needs to be."
"I just don't want to make you uncomfortable."
You scoffed. "You think you make me more uncomfortable than you did an hour ago?" He rolled his eyes but the tension in his shoulders ease a bit. "I'm not sure you could scare me. I've seen how babbly you get after you cum; you're harmless."
His cheeks flushed more at your words but they helped, sitting on the other end of the couch. Still a few feet away. "Shut the fuck up." He grinned as he said it. "I'm just saying. I don't want you walking on eggshells or... being afraid of being a smartass with me. I don't want to go to touch you and you flinch because you're scared of what I might do."
"Why would I be scared of what you might do?"
"You understand this, right? What I do? What I've already done?" He found himself almost annoyed by your nonchalance. Blood. Gallons and gallons of blood on his hands. Blood that he enjoyed drawing; blood that he prided himself in collecting. And you're just... fine with that? "I couldn't even tell you how many people have died because of me. How many people will die because of me."
Your eyes narrowed when you realized what he was doing. "If you want to end this, then tell me right now and I'll leave. But you don't get to push that decision onto me."
He rubbed his forehead, exhaling through his nose. "I didn't say that–"
"You're seriously getting mad at me for not being scared of you?"
"I'm getting mad because you're not taking this seriously," he snapped unintentionally, effectively silencing you. The sinking feeling that filled your chest wasn't fear; it was the fact that he'd never spoken to you like that before. So sharply. "Yeah," he chuckled dryly, affirming his own suspicions by your reaction. "Yeah. Exactly."
"If you're just going to be an asshole, then I will leave," you shot at him. "The only thing I'm 'not taking seriously' is your woe-is-me attitude. You can be a dick about it all you want but I'm not scared of you because we're friends. You being Red Hood doesn't change that just like nothing else has. I trust you just as much as I always have. Just because you kill bad people, it doesn't change that."
He finally looked at you. "You realize how crazy of a statement that is for you to have to make, right?"
"Not nearly as crazy as finding out that you're Red Hood."
He chuckled, fingers running through his hair. "Like I said, I just... I don't want it to change things. I like the way they are," he reiterated, almost shyly.
Tired of running in circles with your words, you decided to try a different approach. Closing the gap between you, you lifted your leg over his, his hands subconsciously falling to your thighs as you settled on his lap. Both of your hands found his cheeks and tilted his head, pressing your lips to his in a slow, deliberate kiss. He exhaled through his nose as he followed your pace, hands gliding to your waist to let his thumb rub circles on the fabric of your shirt.
It was over too soon for his liking, chest rising and falling heavily as one of your hands moved from his cheek to right below his jaw, leaving enough space for you to brush your nose along his cheekbone. "Did they deserve it?" Your voice sent shivers down his spin, low with your breath fanning against his ear. He could practically feel your lips on his skin and it fogged his brain, his hands accidentally tightening at your sides. The hand left on his cheek wandered to his hair, nails gently scraping along his scalp. "I need you to answer me, please?"
"What was the question?"
"Did they deserve to die?"
He swallowed audibly, jaw clenching while he leaned into the feeling of your hand. More of your weight pressed against him, not much but enough to leave him lost in the friction, lost in the sound of your voice and the feel of your hands. Lost in you. "Yeah," he answered quietly, the pressure of his response heavy. "Every last fuckin' one."
"That's good enough for me." You moved to press your lips against his once, slow, before pulling away to rest your forehead against his, waiting for him to make the next move.
He did almost instantly, crashing his lips against yours purposefully while his hand slid to the junction where your neck met your skull, assisting the hand on your waist in pulling you closer. His teeth dug into your bottom lip before his tongue licked his way into your mouth, reveling in the noise coming from the back of your throat.
Your hips moved on their own accord, grinding and searching and already growing desperate. You wanted more and Jason's body was begging for the same thing but he was still hesitant, unsure. Any other day, you would've been on your back by now, Jason pressing you further and further into the cushions. He was second-guessing himself and it was frustrating.
"Stop that," you instructed against his lips, the two words getting lost in his mouth as you slipped a hand beneath the waist band of his sweatpants. Both hands stilled, fingers immediately losing its grip in your hair. Moving your lips along his haw and down his neck, letting your teeth graze against the sensitive spot below his ear. "I didn't mean stop touching me, Jay." Warm fingers wrapped around his cock, moving so, so slowly. "I meant stop self-imploding."
"I'm trying," he breathed out, both hands raising to run his fingers through his hair. "I just–fuck, that feels good–I'm trying. You make it impossible to think."
"Maybe that's the point."
"Wait-" He panicked when you got off of him, the words getting lost in his throat as you sink to knees in front of him, slowly.
"Do you want me to stop?"
He'd have to be a fucking idiot to say yes. You were kneeling between his legs, tugging on his sweatpants and staring at his cock like it was a fucking prize to win. There was no amount of power in the world that could pry an objection from his lips to that question–not from you. Not then, not ever. "No, I just–fuck–" He lifted his hips, helping you pull off his sweatpants before reaching his arms to grip the couch behind him as he stared down at you with lidded eyes. Watching as you wrapped delicate fingers around his length.
He was so warm in your hand, throbbing in your grasp with every twist of your wrist. Your eyes flickered between watching your hand and finding Jason, chest heaving and eyes zeroed in on the same sight, mesmerized. When your thumb brushed over the tip, he let out a shaky breath, twitching in your hand. Before he could process that your hand had vacated, you leaned down to lick the underside of his shaft. His hips bucked in response, fingers moving to tangle in your hair carefully–not pushing or pulling.
When you looked up at him, his usually bright teal eyes were darkened and lustblown, already staring at you. Taking advantage of it, you held his haze as your lips part, easing him in slowly. Your name fell from his lips, head lulling back and eyes closing. Moving up and down, your hand pumping what your mouth couldn't fit. "Yeah, baby–just like that," he breathed out encouragingly. "Your mouth feels so fucking good."
His praises exhilarated you. Letting your teeth graze him just barely, you pulled back to suck the tip between your lips while your tongue massaged the sensitive skin. So methodical, so, so good, his entire body buzzing. He'd take being inside of you any day but he fit in your mouth just as perfectly, wrapped around him like a ribbon encasing the perfect present.
That's what he was preoccupied with when you took him in as far as you could, the head bumping against the back of your throat. He groaned your name sharply, fingers instinctively increasing their pressure, hips bucking simultaneously. "Jesus fucking Christ, you can't just do that without–" You repeated your previous actions, words forgotten at the resistance of your throat again.
The hand that wasn't aiding your mouth in taking him was anchored on his thigh, fingernails leaving crescent moon shapes into his skin and he didn't know if they'd drawn blood or not. He didn't care. It shifted something in him, the hand in your hair keeping you in place and unable to move on its own. His hips started thrusting in and out of your mouth and he swore to god he tried to keep it shallow but every now and then he nudged the back of your throat accidentally, eliciting a gag in response. So warm, so soft, so perfect, the vibrations from your own moans pushing him closer and closer.
But he didn't want to cum–not like that.
Allowing himself one final thrust–accidentally hitting the back of your throat one last time–he pulled your mouth off, the popping noise it caused made more deliciously obscene by the drool that dripped down your chin. "Stand up," he murmured, first leaning forward to crash his lips against yours messily. You obliged as soon as he let go of your hair, his fingers working to unbutton your jeans before you fully stood. "Take your shirt off."
Within seconds, you're completely bare and he's gently tugging you forward by the back of your knees. He pulled you onto his lap but didn't let you fully sit, one arm curling around your waist to pull you closer, licking, sucking, gently biting your nipple the second his mouth came into contact. Arching into him, your fingers threaded through his mess of loose waves, still damp. His other hand traveled from your thigh to your ass, groping and massaging the plush skin.
Your breathing hitched when his fingers ghosted along the sensitive skin on the back of your thigh, inching closer and closer to where you needed him while he moved to your other breast to give it the same attention. He groaned when he felt how wet you were, dripping down your thighs before he could even reach the source. "Goddamn, baby," he rasped, tilting his head back to look at you. "You're fucking dripping. This all from sucking my cock? Letting me fuck that pretty little mouth of yours?"
"Yes. Yes," you chanted, shameless as his middle finger finally brushed along your entrance. He pushed one finger inside, slowly. The relief it brought was brief but so, so welcoming. You searched for his mouth, closing the gap like an oxygen mask on a crashing plane. Your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers digging into his scalp carelessly. He groaned deep in his throat, unintentionally thrusting his finger all the way inside of you. You gasped, trying to move your hips but Jason's grip only tightened. Whining, you broke away from his mouth. "Not this again. I'm not scared-"
"Don't be like that," he scolded, removing his finger completely. It hadn't been anywhere near enough to satisfy the craving but you missed the feeling as soon as it was gone. "Not doing anything but touching you. Don't be greedy, you'll get your way," he promised, lips finding yours again. "Always fuckin' do."
At that, he pushed inside of you again with two fingers, your pussy convulsing around him. Your lips fell from his in a gasp and he used the opportunity to slip his tongue inside to find yours. He didn't ease into a steady pace that time; no, that time he had a purpose. "Your mouth felt amazing, by the way," he mumbled. Rambled. "Always take my cock so well, baby. Your mouth, this pussy. Like they were fucking made for me." He thrusted his fingers in deeply, curling forward and spotting your vision with clouds of white. "That's what you want, right? My cock?" You were close and he could tell as easily as he could the back of his hand. "You're so needy. So fucking needy."
"Please, please," you recited, unsure of what you were asking for but knowing you needed something.
To your dismay, his fingers slipped out completely. "M'not gonna stop, you know," he drawled lowly, removing his arm from your waist to brush away the hair that stuck to your forehead. "You knowing doesn't–ah–" You had capitalized on your freedom, not wanting to sink onto him without his go-ahead, so you settled for grinding against him slowly, carefully moving along his length without letting him slip inside. "You knowing doesn't change that."
If you were in a different state of mind, you would've recognized the challenge in his words and you probably would've quipped back, irritated by the show of power. Lucky for him, you were barely listening. "Uh-huh," you responded hazily, forehead knocking against his as the coil in your stomach grew tighter as your clit dragged up and down his length.
He chuckled breathlessly, the primal need to give you what you wanted taking over because of how cockdrunk you looked. How much you wanted it; how much you needed him. "Alright, sweetheart," he whispered, nodding as his hands gripped your ass to stop your movements. So fucking wet, dripping all over him. You made a noise of protest that he promptly ignored, moving on hand to guide himself to your entrance. He didn't give any warning, bottoming out inside of you in one swift movement. You let out a loud moan, leaning back at the sensation of feeling so full–so good. You weren't aware that you were about to fall back but Jason was, hands tightening to hold you steady. "Careful there," he advised through breathless laughter.
You thanked a higher power that Jason let you control the pace, rocking your hips against him. You'd been so close to the edge from his fingers when it was ripped away from you, bringing you back to it so quickly. "So–so big," you whimpered, thoughtlessly pressing sloppy kisses all over the side of his neck. "So good, Jay. Please. Please please please."
"Go ahead, baby," he cooed, having to actively remind himself to not get lost in the feeling of your lips. "S'all yours, whenever you're ready." His hands only supported your rhythm, all your doing until they grew uneven and he took over, mimicking your earlier pace with ease. "That's it, sweetheart. That's it." His words snapped a thread and lightning struck your body, shockwaves spreading throughout your entire body.
He worked you through your orgasm, milking it for everything it's worth until he flipped the two of you and nestled himself between your thighs, spread wide open for him. Using his arm by your head to support his weight, he left just enough space for him to grab his cock. Rubbing the tip along your clit and nudging at the entrance, your breathing stuttered while your hips involuntarily tried to avoid it. He breathed out your name. "C'mon, baby," he pressed on, punctuating it with a slow, sweet kiss. "I know you've got another one in you. Just one more, please?"
"Such nice words from such a big, scary guy."
He responded by bottoming out yet again, his free hand covering one of your breasts as you arched into him, a loud moan tumbling from your lips. "What was that?" he cooed in your ear, tauntingly. "Didn't quite catch that."
Jason felt so good filling you up, made you feel so full. You met his thrusts as well as you could, overwhelming heat filling your stomach. "More," you asked, declared, begged. Harder. Faster. You were frustratingly close and yet, for some reason, there was something stopping you. It was suffocating.
Suffocating. One of your hands moved from his back to his wrist, guiding it away from your chest and letting it rest on your neck. He swallowed, his pace faltering and thumb ghosting along your jaw, leaving goosebumps in its wake, while his eyes searched over your face. He leaned down, using a light grip to hold you in place as he captured your lips in a slow, open-mouthed kiss. A whimper left you when his tongue swept into your mouth, tilting his head to gain better access. "You'll tell me if I do something you don't like, right?" You shivered at his touch, nodding wordlessly. "I need words."
Swallowing, you found yourself nodding again, an action he mirrored with a dark, growing grin on his lips. "I'll tell you, yes," you swore.
He hummed, slowly grinding into you. "And if you can't tell me, you'll tap three times, okay? Anywhere."
You knew it was his own self-doubt talking, convincing him that he needed to maintain constant self-control, because it had never been as issue before. No matter what, he always stayed very attuned to you to some degree. Even when his entire being became swallowed by you, his brain omitting everything except for you, you, you, he always remained cognizant enough to hear you. If you told him to stop, he stopped. If an "I can't" sounded even remotely genuine, he checked in. "Okay," you confirmed, breathing unevenly.
His lips messily collided with yours, the tiniest added pressure of his thumb forcing the kiss to break as you silently moaned at the sensation. He pulled back, the head of his cock barely inside of you, then snapped his hips forward, wasting no time falling into a steady pace of deeper, harder, faster. You were so wet around him, so warm and slick and hugging his cock like it was the first time. Like your pussy was sculpted just for him to fit inside.
He could've watched you like that for hours, bleary eyes growing heavier every time he added more pressure to the side of your throat. He stopped mulling over every single move he made; no, now he welcomed them. He reveled in you being underneath him, completely at his mercy. You knew what he was capable of–knew that he had not just the ability to crush your windpipe if he wanted to but the capability to–and you still begged for his hand around your neck.
The thought alone gave him whiplash. "You're so pretty like this, baby," he whispered against your ear, his grip weakening but not moving, using it to guide your head to give him space to trace your jaw with his tongue. "So sweet, so gone because of my cock. You're so fucking close, baby, I can feel it. You wanted this, remember? Begged me for it. Let go for me."
He relished in how deeply your fingernails dug into the skin of his back as you listened so fucking obediently, falling apart around him. He was busy taking a mental inventory of every gun he owned, using it stave off how close he was, while he rode out your high with you. He pulled out when he felt your fingers shaking against his back, hand angling your face to his. He kissed you mind-numbingly, deep and slow and with such fire. It filled your stomach with butterflies, your chest with cement as your heartbeat slowly stopped pounding in your ears.
Everything was fading around you, dethroned by Jason and Jason alone–until you felt him start to slowly slip inside of you. A distraction. "Wait, wait, I don't know if I can–if I can-" Your own sharp inhale cut you off, the stretch of him being halfway inside already paralyzing you.
"I think you can," he countered in a whisper. "Can tell you can."
"So arrogant," you breathed out accusingly. "Because you'd know better than I would."
He laughed, nipping at your collarbone. "You feel that?" he asked, slowly pressing further into you. "You feel how your pussy's practically sucking my cock inside? That's how I know you can keep going, because your body's fucking begging me for it." He kept the same dragging pace, in and out. "Just one more, baby. I know you can. We're friends, remember?" he echoed your earlier sentiment, teeth and tongue moving along your neck aimlessly. "I know you, too. And I know you can give me one more."
You wanted nothing more than to just give in–to will your body to let go and give him exactly what he wanted, what you needed–but he was just so fucking smug. "Guess I never realized you were such a good friend," you commented, signing when his teeth sunk into the skin of your neck with subtle force. "Are you this nice to all your friends?"
He laughed into your neck, pushing himself up to meet your eyes. "Only you, sweetheart," he proclaimed, a boyish grin on his lips. "Aren't you getting tired of talking yet? I can see it in your eyes–be so much easier if you'd just stop fighting it."
It was a dirty trick, he admitted, but he was getting dangerously close. He willed himself into oblivion to keep from cumming when you came around him the first two times–willed himself the second you dropped to your knees in front of him–but he was only human, after all, and being inside of you was the closest to heaven he'd ever been. But he wanted one more–one more–before he succumbed to himself.
So he stooped a level, his thumb reaching down to rest on your clit. He watched in real time as your resolve dissipated, reacting quickly to the circles he drew, perfectly timed with his thrusts. "That's it, baby," he whispered when he felt you begin to pulse around him, feeling the curl of your toes at the sides of his thighs. "That's it, baby, cum for me. Need to feel you around me–yeah, just like that."
It built and built until waves crashed against you and you couldn't tell if your vision went black or if you eyes had closed–you didn't care. You couldn't, as your orgasm took over every inch of your body, your mind, your soul, amplified by his little praises of you're so pretty and so fucking good and the sound of your name under his breath. He didn't relent until you were whining, trying to retreat from the friction. With one more kiss, he set up, relieving you from the pressure on your clit but he didn't stop fucking you as his hands moved to your hips to hold them tightly in place.
In the afterglow, you were left in a daze, lulled by the after-effects of your third orgasm he was still drawing out. All your thoughts were filled with Jason and you couldn't help but stare at him through heavy eyes. He was so beautiful. Every ripple and crease and scar and muscle was carved meticulously, thoughtfully, handled with precision and care. The veins of his arms were prominent as he held your hips and weren't even sure if he realized that every now and then his thumbs would drift back and forth over your lower stomach. He watched where you bodies met intensely, eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched tightly.
"Jason–" His name tumbled from your lips without any direction or thought.
He glanced up at you, looking back down for only a second before his eyes snapped back to yours. He faltered briefly, laughing tightly as he leaned back down, crushing his lips to yours in a bruising kiss. You acted immediately, fingers slipping into his hair and tugging. "You can't just-" Your tongue slipped into his mouth, craving him closer and closer and it made it difficult for him to even think, let alone speak. His pace was getting sloppier, he could tell, and he couldn't quite get back on track. "Can't just–look at me like that while I'm inside of you."
"I don't know what you're talking about," you protested.
"Looking at me like you want me to devour you," he murmured. Like, in that moment, he was your entire world. Your thoughts, your actions; his and his alone. "Shit, I'm close. Where-"
"Inside me," you whispered against his lips, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth and attempting to move your hips to meet his.
Well, fuck. It wasn't something you did often–you were on birth control but you tried not relying on just that too much–but it certainly wouldn't have been the first time. He wanted to double check–he did–but the whimper of a plea coming from you rewired his brain. His cock twitched inside of you, thrusting only a few more times before his lips stuttered inside of you. His moans and whines (that he would never admit to but always did) were lost in your mouth.
When he was spent, he exhaled shakily, pressing lazy kisses to your lips and along your jaw before he shifted slightly, nuzzling his nose into your neck. You rolled your eyes but moved your arms to allow your fingers to trail along his upper back. “You’re sweaty and gross,” you complained, defying your actions.
“So are you.”
“And you’re still inside of me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t you dare fall asleep like this, you’re heavy.”
His lips pulled into a smirk and you felt it on your skin, along with his hand moving to skim his fingers across your ribs. “Or else what?”
Your hand quickly covered his, trying to pry away his stone-like grip. “I will push you so hard off of this couch–“
“Ha! I’d love to see you try.”
You huffed and he laughed, finally moving his hand. He lazy slides his fingers along the curve of your breast innocently–despite the way you felt him twitch inside of you when he accidentally brushed his palm against your nipple, already hard from the air and his touch. “You owe me a Plan B.”
He chuckled. “It was your idea, if I recall correctly,” he pointed out.
“But you still did it.”
Grinning, he pressed his lips against your damp skin once, twice, three times before pushing his nose further into your neck. “First thing in the morning,” he promised.
“Five minutes here, and then you let me shower–by myself–so we can get some sleep and I don’t have to fight with you in the morning,” you compromised, Jason’s breathing already evening out.
“Yeah, baby,” he responded, voice thick with sleep. “Five minutes.”
It wasn’t only five minutes and you let him doze off for as long as you could before the discomfort prevailed. He also ignored your request to shower alone, shushing your protests (“You said yourself I’m sweaty and gross,” he’d said) and pulling you into the water with him. He behaved for the most part–barring the one time his hands strayed from your waist while he was pressing his lips along your shoulder, but he didn’t try again after you swatted him away.
The following morning, it took a lot less effort to wake him up than you expected. You were back at your apartment with a half hour to spare after making the quick detour to the pharmacy. “I can come in for a little bit, help you pack,” Jason offered, standing behind you as you unlocked the door to your apartment.
The lock finally released, allowing you to open the door and slip away from him just as his fingers grazed your waist. “I don’t think so,” you told him. “You’re a distraction and my ride will be here soon. I need to make sure I’ve got everything.”
Before you finished talking, his fingers were always looping around your wrist to tug you back to him. “What could possibly be distracting about me?” he pondered, his other hand holding your jaw to press his lips to yours.
You entertained it for a moment, more self-indulgent than anything else–before pulling away. “How annoying you are, for one.”
“When will you be back?” he asked, ignoring your snipe.
“Twelve days,” you answered, moving out of reach when he tried leaning forward again.
His hand slipped behind your head, giving you no space to run away when he found your lips, tongue slipping in to brush against yours. He pulled away when you sighed heavily into his mouth, leaning into the kiss. “Okay, maybe I’ll see you then,” he bid. “Don’t forget to lock the door behind me.”
Rest in peace, Jane. Thank you for inspiring me (and so many other people) through my youth & adulthood to admire and respect animals, and to continue searching for knowledge that will allow us to coexist together in a kinder future. You and your work will be remembered.
𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: five years after ending something that hovered between more than friends and less than lovers with jason todd, he finds out that he has a daughter
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: jason todd x f!reader
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+, smut. drinking. semi-public. thigh grinding. p in v. cunnilingus, unprotected sex. uses of "baby" and "sweetheart".
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 13k
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: thank you for sticking with me through this, hope you enjoy <3
"How's it going in there?" Your voice rings down the hallway, peeking your head out of the bedroom as you finish pulling on your cardigan. The faint sound of Josie and Jason simultaneously acknowledging you satisfies you, heading back into your bedroom.
The night before had been rough, with Josie having nightmares within hours of falling asleep and disrupting any chance of a peaceful slumber. She didn't get them often but when she did, it was hard to get her back to sleep. Jason had helped you clean up and get things ready for today and wound up sleeping over, an occurrence that's become more frequent.
The plan was, as usual, for him to sleep on the couch. But even after Josie had crawled into bed with you, she still tossed around. After a handful of failed attempts, the solution was found in all three of you shoved into your bed. Josie fell asleep positioned between you and Jason, back pressed against him for comfort but arm wound around yours.
You're not sure if he intended on falling asleep in your bed, but he had, and between him and the five year old girl who sprawls out like an absolute maniac when she sleeps, you didn't sleep that well. Jason's a far heavier sleeper, never stirring whenever her assaults were directed at him.
With one final look in the mirror, you decide you aren't going to look any less tired and you make your way to Josie's room. You find her sitting on her knees, intently focused on the Rubik's cube in her hand as she cluelessly twists. Jason's behind her, legs spread on either side and with a look that mirrors Josie's own focused one while he gently pulls her hair into a little bun, almost a replica of the one on the opposite side of her head.
"I think we got it," Jason declares, leaning over to reach the hand mirror he set aside. She turns around while he holds it up for her to see, inspecting his work. "Definitely getting better at this, right?" It's then he notices you, his mouth going dry as his eyes trail over you. The plain white dress hugs the top half of your body with a string neatly tied in the center neckline while flowing at your waist and ending a few inches above your knee. The chunky black cardigan you're wearing is falling down one arm, exposing the thin strap of the dress. Don't get him wrong, Jason has always found you insanely attractive regardless of what you're wearing, but it's been a very long time since he's seen you dress up to this degree, and he forgets every single word he's ever learned.
"Mommy, look!" Josie, his savior. Her voice gifts him a distraction, watching as she excitedly stands to spin in a circle. "They're almost as good as yours."
"They are!" you confirm, smiling at her excitement. "It's took me forever to get them right and she can always feel when they're crooked. You should catch up in a few years, maybe." It's a playful comment but when Jason looks at you, he doesn't say anything. "What?" you ask, self-consciously pulling your cardigan back to your shoulder.
He raises his eyebrows, shaking his head. "Nothing," he insists.
Before you have a chance to pry, a knock at the door interrupts you. Josie looks between the two of you with wide eyes. "They're here," she states, almost secretively.
"Alright, we ready?" Jason asks, clapping his hands before pushing himself to his feet.
"Are you ready?" you redirect.
No, not really. He likes the little bubble he's been living in with you and Josie. He can't help but catastrophize. What if Dick says something stupid? What if Jason does? What if the world implodes in an instant because he thought he could have his cake and eat it too? But instead of voicing those concerns, he nods, as if they aren't written all over his face. "Yeah, of course," he says, looking at Josie and gesturing toward the door. "After you, my lady."
She giggles, bowing dramatically before walking off. Your arm blocks the doorway when Jason steps forward, stopping him in his tracks. "Everything's going to be fine," you assure him, lowering your voice so Josie doesn't hear. "If you change your mind at any point, I can come up with some excuse, but I think we'll be just fine."
"Okay, but that just means if this goes bad I get a free 'I told you so'." You roll your eyes, dropping your arm to let him pass. He grins, lifting his hand to your waist underneath your cardigan and squeezing gently. It isn't a necessary movement, he can admit that, but the close proximity and smelling your perfume–something warm and sweet and familiar–confuses his brain for a split second before he drops his hand. "I appreciate that."
You follow him down the stairs, stopping at the banister and watching as Jason opens the door, Josie partially shielded by his legs. The door opens to reveal grinning man on the other side, all shiny black hair and white teeth and sparkling blue eyes. "Just letting you know we're here," he greets, hand in the air in a wave. "I have a ramp in the car, so I'm gonna get that so Barbara can come in." He leans forward, hand clamping on Jason's shoulder. "Excited for this, Jaybird."
Once he retreats down the steps, you reach over to push Jason's shoulder. "You could've told me my stairs would be a problem," you scold quietly.
He rolls his eyes, chuckling. "And what would you have done?" he counters. "Built a ramp? It's fine, they got it."
He isn't wrong but you don't voice that, trying to mentally ensure the majority of your house is accessible. You're content when you're done, after Dick and Barbara are both inside. "You must be Josie," Dick guesses, crouching down to Josie, who's still guarded by Jason's leg. "I've heard a lot about you."
You can tell she's apprehensive–his stature doesn't quite meet Jason's but he still towers over her–but she responds after a few seconds. "So you're my dad's brother?"
You're not sure how his face hasn't ripped beneath the stretch of his ever-growing smile but it never falters, especially when he stands to throw an arm over Jason's shoulder, using his free hand to pat the younger man's chest for added effect. "I'm his older brother, to be specific."
"Did you play games together?"
"We still play games together." He sends a wink Jason's way before getting pushed away. He finally looks at you, extending his hand. "I'm Dick." You shake his hand, introducing yourself. "He does not talk about you enough."
"Dick," Jason warns, warily eyeing him.
"And I am his lovely fiancé, Barbara," she interjects with expert timing. You walk over to shake her hand as well, Josie's hand slipping into yours soon after. "Your house is gorgeous."
Five hours later, the five of you are at the table, a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos long forgotten as Josie sleeps soundly curled up in your lap. Things had gone really well, just as you predicted. Dick and Barbara made it impossible to feel uncomfortable, asking questions and sharing stories between casual conversation (Jason begrudgingly sat through most of their younger Jason stories, a faint blush dusting his cheeks more often than he'd admit).
They got along with Josie just as well, her rock collection getting the praise and impressed reactions she was looking for within the first hour. When Josie asked to play a board game, her and Dick scrambled upstairs to pick the most suitable options. They'd ordered pizza and cinnamon rolls–Josie's favorite–for dinner. After Dick and Jason got sidetracked from the game by debating over something petty, Josie had crawled into your lap, insisting that she wasn't tired but only cold and wanted to find warmth underneath your cardigan. But she was out within seconds, drooling on your chest.
It's getting late, the game unfinished and mostly full glasses of wine still sitting on the table–you hadn't meant to be the only one to have two glasses, especially when everybody else barely touched their first, but it helped ease the bit of nerves you couldn't completely shake. "I'm gonna get her to bed," you announce quietly, adjusting Josie in your arms to stand with her.
Dick notices Jason watching you out of the corner of his eye, aimlessly folding the corner of a paper towel and looking away once your hold on Josie is steady. "We should probably head out, too," he says.
"It was great meeting both of you," you tell them, smiling as you look between them. "I had a lot of fun, Josie did too."
"Pleasure's all ours," Barbara muses.
"Let me know if you need anything," Jason offers as you walk by, nodding to him before bidding goodbyes and heading upstairs.
Nothing is said until the stairs fall silent. "You really have something here, you know?" Dick breaks the silence, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "They're great. Josie looks just like you."
Jason smiles, a low hum of pride brimming in his chest. "Yeah, I know."
Barbara leans forward, hand resting on Jason's forearm. "Thank you for this," she says sincerely. "I know this couldn't have been easy for you, but I'm really glad you let us meet them. You seem happy."
Jason moves his arm from her touch, rubbing the back of his neck almost bashfully. "I am. She's a phenomenal mom and Josie's... amazing."
Dick had noticed the way Jason looked at you. He noticed the way that he tried to never stray too far, the way his thumb reached out without a second thought to wipe the pizza sauce from your chin. He noticed the adoration in his eyes when he looks at you–a different type of adoration than the one reserved for Josie–and he wonders if Jason's even aware of it. Dick didn't know Jason could look at relaxed, so content, until tonight. And he doesn't know much about the nature of your relationship pre-Josie–all Jason's given him is that you weren't dating–but the current nature of your relationship seems glaringly obvious.
"I don't... want to bring up a sore subject, but when Bruce found out we were coming here, he seemed, I don't know–disappointed?" Dick speaks carefully. "I'm not trying to push anything, but I do think he wants to meet her. Meet them both."
"I don't really care," Jason admits and it's the truth. He has no desire to reconcile with Bruce. He hasn't spoken to him since that day in the cave but Bruce hasn't reached out either–so he means it when he says he doesn't care. Not if Bruce doesn't.
Dick holds his hands up in surrender, standing to his feet. "I know, I know, just wanted to put it out there," he says, grabbing Barbara's coat and helping her put it on.
Barbara outstretches his arms and Jason stands, reaching over to hug her. "Love you, kid," she says, patting his back before he pulls away.
Dick opens his arms for a hug, which Jason promptly ignores before walking to the door, the two of them in tow. He opens the door, Barbara going first and Dick lingering. "I'm serious, Jason," he asserts, his steady tone different than what it's been most of the night. "Not that you're looking for it but... I'm proud of you. Josie looks at you like you hung the moon and stairs and..." Jason holds his breath when he says your name next. "You should see the way she looks at you." When Jason doesn't respond, unsure of what to say, Dick holds out his hand. To his surprise, Jason grasps it. "Talk to you later," he says it like a promise before following Barbara and getting the ramp in the car.
Jason shuts the door, rubbing his eyes and exhaling deeply before walking into the kitchen, moving quietly as he cleans up the table. He doesn't say anything when he notices out of the corner of his eye you walk into the kitchen, leaning against the frame of the doorway. By the time he piles the plates in his hands to bring to the sink, he finally glances at you. "I can feel you staring at me, you know. You're not nearly as subtle as you think."
"Maybe I wasn't trying to be, Jaybird." You ignore the pointed look he sends your way, grabbing the wine glasses and setting them by the sink. "Let me clean up."
"I can do it," he insists, grabbing the sponge and throwing a wash cloth over his shoulder. "I'll just get the dishes and then head to the couch. I told Josie I'd stay the night, make breakfast in the morning since she's leaving tomorrow." You roll your eyes as he turns on the water, grabbing the wash cloth from his shoulder and hopping onto an empty spot on the counter, waiting for clean dishes to dry. "You don't have to help," he murmurs with a raised brow, handing you a clean plate but not immediately letting go.
Yanking gently, it slips from his hand. "I know," you respond. "So. I like them."
"They're definitely something."
"Stop it."
"Is this where you say 'I told you so'?"
"I won't do that, but I would like to point out that I could. Because I was right. Again." He laughs quietly, a comfortable silence blanketing the room. He makes no remark about your lingering glances as the cycle repeats and the two glasses of wine leaves you caring a little less about allowing them. His hair's grown a bit more, a bit messier, pieces now tickling his ears and brushing along the skin of his neck. His bright white streak is currently a faded lilac, the temporary hair dye Josie insisted on to match her own temporary color. He carries this... vibrancy with him that you'd never seen on him before, different from the person that had walked into your lives–lightyears from the Jason you once knew. "You're doing great, you know," you can't help but comment as he finishes the last dish.
He smiles, the faintest blush on his cheeks as he turns off the water and dries his hands. "Dirty dishes are no match for me," he deflects, leaning his hip against the counter and crossing his arms. You wonder if he meant to be so close, your bare knee brushing against the denim of his jeans.
Your foot knocks against his leg softly. "I'm serious," you assert, maintaining a volume low enough to not disrupt your sleeping child. "You were so worried letting them in but there was never any reason to be. Seeing the two of you together, it's so... natural. Effortless."
He chews his lip nervously. "You, uh, you expected otherwise?" he asks. Not that he'd blame you, of course–who would blindly trust him with their child?–but it wouldn't make the confirmation sting any less.
"I didn't, but you did."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he argues, lying through his teeth.
"Oh, King Self-Sabotage?" you challenge. "Do you remember what you told me when I got pregnant?"
He visibly cringes. He remembers every word. "Which part?"
"'I don't want to condemn any child with my blood'." He rolls his eyes at your exaggeratedly low voice, quoting him. "I know what you think and you're wrong. You can think every nasty thought about yourself, that you're... you're some poison to those around you or whatever. But there's no way you can think those things are true when you look at Josie. There's no way you can't recognize the good that you put out, that comes from you."
He doesn't mean to move any closer–honest to god, he has no clue when the distance evaporated–but he's entranced by your words, clinging onto them like religious scripture. You're right; whenever he's spending time with Josie, the thoughts that usually plague him are vacant. There's no need to try and be the best version of himself around her; it just happens.
Josie's become his lifeline for endless situations, her well-being at the forefront of his mind at all times, but it's especially true when it comes to you. She's what keeps him anchored when old habits threaten to resurface at the most inappropriate times–as if there is an appropriate time to make a move on you, the person he's co-parenting his daughter with. Nothing is more important to him than his relationship, and that includes risking it all with you.
He isn't perfect, though, and his self-control withers away around you, so when your fingers brush against his cheek, so gentle and hesitant and testing, he gives in, leaning into your touch. He exhales through his nose, deeply and with closed eyes, before reopening them. Twelve inches, at best, separate yours and Jason's lips. Pretty, lidded eyes stare back at him, swirling with something that screams danger. "Tell me something. Anything."
"Why?"
"Distracts me from things I shouldn't be thinking."
"Some sharks have to keep swimming or they'll die."
"Everybody knows that." He raises the hand that isn't grounding him to the counter, his fingers resting on yours and halting the movement of your thumb caressing his cheek. "Give me a better one."
"Did you know that sharks are older than trees? Both of which are older than the North Star."
He sucks in through his teeth, nodding slowly. "That is a good one. I did not know that."
"What are you thinking about?" Your hand escapes his to trace the curve of his jaw. He doesn't respond immediately, swallowing thickly as your fingertips graze along his throat.
"Can't be that much of a mystery."
Most of the effects of the wine are long gone but you use it as a crutch and let it fuel your boldness anyway, fingers curling around the fabric at his waist and urging him closer. He doesn't object, letting you pull him between your parted thighs but keeping enough distance, outstretched arms gripping the counter on either side of you. "Why do you have to distract yourself? What if I'm okay with it?"
The smell of wine on your breath keeps him sane; keeps his hands firmly planted where they should be instead of venturing elsewhere. "That's not a good idea, sweetheart." The term of endearment is a slip of the tongue and he knows how counterproductive it is but he's doing his fucking best, okay? "You've been drinking."
"Two glasses of wine, hours ago." Maybe you have a point but your eyes are still glossy and he noticed the effects of the alcohol seeping through after the first one–indicating a lack of tolerance–and he can't take the chance, especially on something so delicate. So fragile. "I know what I want. You don't want to kiss me?"
It's a diabolical question, paired with those eyes and the ghost of a pout on your lips. He wants to and you can tell. You can tell in the way he looks at you, the restraint in his eyes fighting tooth-and-nail to win. The way he closes them and rests his forehead against yours with soft, uneven breaths fanning across your lips. "I can't." The conviction fills your veins with ice. Embarrassment washes over you and a switch flips, triggering flight.
He can feel you move away before he opens his eyes. By the time he does, you've already pulled back as far as you can. He watches you as he steps back, allowing you to stand on your feet. He says your name softly and when you ignore it, his fingers wrap around your wrist. "You can't be mad at me for this," he all but pleads. He drops your hand at the slightest pull, watching you retreat from him. Tugging on the sleeves of your cardigan, avoiding eye contact, crossing your arms.
"I'm not, it's just late. I'm tired." Liar. "See you in the morning." The thought of it makes you anxious.
"Six years." The words tumble from his mouth, desperate for you to hear them before you walk away. Before you walk away thinking there's a single universe where turning you down isn't among one of the hardest things he's ever had to do. "I spent... almost six years waking up every single day, not knowing Josie was out there doing the same thing. I can't get any of that time back but I'm not going to do anything that can jeopardize my relationship with her."
"Okay. I get it."
You don't, in fact, get it and he can tell that you're hardly listening to him, too enveloped by the need to get far away from this situation, far away from him. It doesn't keep him from trying to make you get it. "See, I don't think you're bein-"
"Can I just go to bed? Please?" you interrupt, tired eyes looking at him. He shuts up, biting his tongue as he nods. "Goodnight."
♡ ♡ ♡ ♡
You stay in bed as long as possible. Quiet, still, even as you listen to Josie wake up soon followed by her waking Jason up and then their chattering voices. How are you supposed to face him? As soon as you woke up, once the alcohol had fully dissipated and the feeling of rejection didn't feel quite as raw, it left you with nothing but mortification.
Jason was right, of course. Even if it wasn't a lot, you had been drinking, and a step toward any kind of relationship change involved more than just you and him now. Two friends casually seeing each other with no real commitments, sex was simple. But as two people regularly seeing each other because of a child you brought into the world together? Whether it's just sex or a hand at more, it's a decision that has to factor in Josie.
You know that, but your head had been in the clouds yesterday. Seeing Jason so easily fall into the role of a father–of domesticity–and the serenity it brought him has been a constant distraction. Meeting Dick and Barbara was more than just that; it was Jason taking a step forward, toying with the idea of an unknown trust.
It was a lapse of judgment, you thoughtlessly throwing yourself at Jason, and it horrifies you that he had to be the one to put a stop to it. The weight of the guilt immobilizes you.
Eventually, Josie bounds into your room, grinning brightly when she sees you already awake. "Mommy!" she exclaims, jumping into the bed.
"Good morning, sunshine. What are you up to?" you ask, sitting up and curiously eyeing the strawberry-printed apron covering her pajamas.
Her eyes light up. "We made pancakes!" she answers. "They're done, it's why I came up here to wake you up."
The smell of coffee entices you more than the pancakes do. "Can't wait to see what my gourmet chefs cooked up."
You let yourself be dragged down the stairs by her, excitedly guiding you to a seat at the kitchen table. Jason's setting the plate of pancakes on the table, a grey t-shirt and blue plaid pajamas pants with an apron matching Josie's–your apron, to be precise–folded and tied around his waist. He reaches over to the counter, grabbing a coffee cup and placing it in front of you. "Morning, how're you feeling?" he asks, taking a seat beside Josie to cut her pancakes up.
"I feel fine," you reply, taking a sip of the coffee. You're surprised by how good it tastes–how it's almost identical to the way you'd make your own–as your eyes linger on Jason questioningly, too focused on his task to notice. Did he remember something so minuscule from that long ago? Or had he just been paying attention to such small details?
Not much is said between the two of you, Josie dominating the conversation reliably. By the time the late breakfast is finished, Jason's guiding Josie into the bath to get ready for the birthday part and get her overnight bag together. You sit there, drinking your coffee and listening to the faint noises of laughter and splashing coming from the bathroom.
It's almost peaceful. Almost. It reminds you how stupid you feel. Things are good the way they are; everybody's happy with it, especially Josie. You never should have put Jason in such an uncomfortable position to begin with.
Before you know it, Josie's hurrying into the kitchen. "I'm ready, mommy!" she says, holding her hands out to showcase her striped sweater and jeans outfit. "I also have Ralph, Izzy's present, and daddy has my backpack–" Her thumb points behind her, where Jason stands dutifully with her bag slung over his shoulder and her jacket on his arm.
"Okay, baby, let me just go change real quick and then we'll head over there," you tell her, getting up to put the mug in the sink. "Thank you for the coffee."
Jason nods, smiling at you as he hangs Josie's things on the back of the chair. "Alright, I'm off. You, pretty lady–" He leans down, scooping her up with both of his arms and pressing kisses all over her face until she's giggling uncontrollably. "Have fun, alright? I love you."
"I love you too, daddy," she responds before he sets her down on her feet.
"You working tonight?" he asks you, casually.
"Regretting it, but yes."
Nodding, he bids one more goodbye before leaving, the sound of his motorcycle roaring to life soon after.
♡ ♡ ♡ ♡
Work had been long. It had been one of those nights you spent running nonstop from one end of the bar to the other, people shouting for you left and right. Once closing time comes, you're plowing through end-of-shift tasks, eager to get home and crawl into bed. You'd planned on taking a nap before work but you got caught up at the party, getting tangled up in conversation. It was nice–and luckily you'd dragged yourself into the shower before going to sleep last night–but the solitude and quietness of your empty house had been beckoning you all day.
As soon as you step out of the door, you spot him and for the briefest moment, you're thrown back in time. Jason leaning against a lamppost, looming in his leather jacket and dark pants. He straightens when he sees you, his demeanor softening. "Want some company?" he offers.
No, not really, but you don't say that. "I'm not getting on your bike," you oppose.
He grins wryly. "Perfect, because I didn't bring it," he replies. "Gotta get my steps in." Rolling your eyes, you begin walking down the sidewalk and it only takes a few strides for his long legs to catch up, slowing his pace to match yours. It's peaceful, walking in silence with each other–until he ruins it. "So, we gonna talk about it?"
You stop in your tracks, looking at him pointedly when he realizes and looks back at you. "No, I'd really rather not," you accentuate slowly. Momentarily, selfishly, you miss the version of him that wouldn't have confronted something like this so head on.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, nodding in the direction of your house. "C'mon," he urges, failing to fend off the amused look. You comply, hugging your jacket closer to your body and staring at the sidewalk in front of you with each step. "Josie called me before she went to bed earlier, told me how things were going and asked if I'd be there when she got home." Josie had called you first, asking the same question. You'd sent her to check in with Jason. "I told her I'd let her know in the morning. Wanted to talk to you first, see what you were comfortable with."
It makes you feel terrible. Tiny differences are highlighted–like how aware he is of the space between you, leaving enough to eliminate the risk of brushing against you; his fidgeting hands hidden by his pockets; how any other day he would've responded to Josie's question with an easy yes–and you're consumed by them, tides of emotions that center you with the blame. Yet again, you're the one creating a rift. "I'm... I am so sorry, Jason," you apologize, quiet but clear as you stand in place. He follows suit, letting you speak. "Last night–I never should've-" You're frustrated by your inability to string a single cohesive sentence together, fingernails biting the skin of your arm through the thin jacket. "It was stupid and I shouldn't have done that, or been so... short with you afterward. I just felt so–so dumb and I was confused and tired and I–I'm just sorry."
"There's nothing to be sorry about," he ensures with a steady voice. Soothing, almost. "There was a lot going on. I knew you wouldn't have done something like that if you were thinking clearly. We can just blame it on the alcohol, right?"
Your cheeks burn at his words and you cover your face with both hands, memories flashing through your mind like a slideshow. "Can we just pretend it never happened?"
He laughs, gently prying your hands from your face. "At least you've got the excuse of it," he offers as an olive branch. "I was the one being all dumbass."
The wine's ultimate crime was convincing you that Jason wanted you to be that close to him, to touch him. It put rose-colored glasses on a truth that likely boiled down to basic human need. Jason's potential sexual endeavors outside of you never concerned you and it was rarely something spoken about–likewise with yours–but it's likely that becoming a full-time father has gotten in the way of that, a higher power than his brain taking the lead. And it's not like sexual tension has ever needed to be force between you.
"You're really good at letting a girl down gently, by the way," you comment, aware of his fingers still looped around your wrist. "So nice about it. A real natural."
"You think so? Felt like it was kicking my ass, honestly," he responds, chuckling. He finds solace in the small laughter that escapes your lips, easing some of the tension in your shoulders. He shouldn't ask it–he shouldn't he shouldn't he shouldn't–but he hears himself asking anyway. "What was the plan?"
"What?"
"Last night, your wine-induced plan to seduce me." You groan and his grin widens when you try to cover your face again, stopped by his grip. "How would today have played out if it went according to your plan?" Dick's words play through his mind. You should see the way she looks at you. He'd be lying if he said he never noticed questionable glances, but he always wrote it off as more of a platonic adoration. He likes the thought of you thinking about it. Everything he's done, he's done for Josie, but ultimately it's been for your approval of his ability to be in her life; to become that other safe constant.
He spent most of the day mulling over the events from last night, moving pieces together like a puzzle. Drunk words are sober thoughts and all of that, what Dick had said, his own feelings, Josie. It was a jumbled mess but the pieces were able to fit together into something that made sense, if Jason let himself think that way. He could be astronomically wrong but it had been too close of a call to ignore. And every day he finds it harder and harder to choke back words, to restrain his own actions.
"Bold of you to assume there ever was a plan."
"Humor me then," he says, a daring lilt to his voice. "What would've happened today? What would we have told Josie?"
It feels like you're being tested and it makes your heart pound anxiously. What kind of question is that? Is he asking about what you want? Is he gauging the thought of you wanting something more, something less? "The way–the way things were before wouldn't work." Your voice is barely above a whisper as you glance between his eyes, trying not to get distracted by the purple and blues and reds of neon lights dancing in his eyes, glowing beneath them. "Not with Josie."
"No, they wouldn't," he confirms with a hum. He relaxes his arms, loosely holding your wrists in his hands as he looks down at you, far closer than he probably should be.
"So we'd... it wouldn't be able to happen again," you continue, your heart beating in your throat. "Unless it was something more serious. More permanent."
"Naturally. Which would you have advocated for?"
You laugh, breathless and without a trace of humor. "I'm not going to answer that."
"It's only a hypothetical."
"You're just being cruel now," you tell him sharply. Is he trying to punish you? It's hard enough to swallow rejection once–and even that's brimming with the threat of spilling over again–but a second time and so sooner after? Absolutely not. "I'm not going to do this again with you–"
"You think it was easy for me, saying no to you?" It's a bewildered laugh that reverberates when he speaks, reeling the way you avoid giving him a direct answer. The way you avoid telling him the truth, saying it out loud. It infiltrates his veins, goading him on. You should see the way she looks at you. "You know... when you shut me out, it fucking sucked. We could go so long without talking sometimes and yet the minute I realized you were actually done with me, I felt... I instantly missed you. I missed being able to send you the stupidest shit I found and I missed sifting through dozens of those dumb little videos you'd send. I missed you every time I let myself think about how I couldn't reach out to you anymore." His thumb lightly traces the veins in your wrist absentmindedly as he speaks. "I missed my best friend. I'm not gonna lie to you and say that I spent every single day of the last six years pining over you but... I missed you for so fucking much of it."
Words are lost on you and you aren't even sure they exist to accurately express how you feel. Breathless? Nervous? Excited? All of aforementioned? None of them? "Oh," you breathe out. "Oh, um-"
"It made me realize that you meant so much more to me than I thought. I thought it was probably for the better, because eventually I would've slipped up, you know? Said something stupid. Better things end before I scared you off with my feelings. But these last few months... those feelings pale in comparison to what they've been since. I..." he trails, averting his eyes briefly when he feels his cheeks warm up. "The only thing that's kept me in line is Josie."
"We wouldn't want to confuse her," you agree, your hands falling to your side once he lets go of them.
"No, we wouldn't," he murmurs, lifting a hand to your cheek. His fingers map your face gently, the delicate touch of his thumb tracing the edge of your bottom lip sending shivers down your spine. "But there's nothing confusing about two parents being together, right?" You inhale shakily, eyes dropping to his lips just before his free hand finds your other cheek, tilting your head up to meet his eyes again. "Focus," he chastises lightly, the corner of his lips exposing his amusement. "We're communicating like responsible adults here."
Huffing, you narrow your eyes at him. "Two parents not being together, being together, then not being together again is definitely confusing," you point out, fingers tapping against your leg nervously. He's standing too close.
"Why's there the assumption we'd break up?" he asks, his bottom lip jutting out in a small pout. "Think you'd get sick of me?"
Trying to push him away, his hands cover your own, keeping them against his chest. "I'm just pointing out a very real possibility," you retort, ignoring the body heat radiating through the soft fabric of his shirt.
"Yes, but I'd like to think we've defied the odds before," he counters. "Not that I really think they're against us here."
You find yourself believing his words. You believe that he wouldn't have brought it up if he thought it'd be too risky. Not only that, but you agree with him. It doesn't feel like that much of a gamble–you don't think Josie will have an issue with you and Jason being together–and you'd like to think that you and Jason could be reasonable adults if there does come an end. No, you do know that. Even something as heavy as a breakup wouldn't disrupt things; it may change them, but it would never ruin it. Not as long as it's you and Jason. "Is this a really long-winded way of you telling me you want to be with me?"
The smile on his face radiates off of him, his hand slipping behind your head. Space dissolves, the last few inches separating your faces standing strong while everything else fades away. Your name falls from his lips softly. "I'm gonna kiss you now." It a warning, an invitation, an oath. It's the dotted line that calls for careful consideration before signing to binding terms.
You tug at his shirt, closing the distance yourself, and he doesn't miss a beat, fingers curling in your hair as he responds. It's a familiar dance, like remembering the lyrics to a song you haven't heard in years or getting back on a bicycle. Your lips fit together flawlessly, sliding and slotting with no need for guidance. Your hands are still gripping his shirt, hanging on for dear life and searching for more. His tongue slips inside your mouth, the sensation blurring the world around you, paying no attention to the way he slips his hand behind your back while slowly moving in backward.
A small gasp from you interrupts the kiss as soon as your back presses against brick. Jason's hand protects your skull from the rough surface, the other grasping your waist to pull you closer. "I got you, don't worry," he mumbles against your lips and you don't even realize that he's moved into an alley, pressing you against a random building in the middle of the night, barely concealed. You only notice the feel of his body and lips against yours and the pressure of his fingertips resting on your scalp. "I thought about this a lot." You'd almost forgotten about his propensity for talking. Almost. "Thought about you." He pulls away from your mouth completely, nose sliding along your jaw, his tongue licking along a sensitive spot below your ear. "Nobody else has ever come close to how good you are to me. For me."
Your eyes flutter, leaning into his palm to give him easier access. "You're really thinking about other people? Right now?" you breathe out.
He laughs before digging his teeth lightly into your skin, your body pressing closer to his in response. "Not really, just pointing out that nobody else has ever compared to you and me." His hand wanders from your waist and traces down your side, testing slowly with every inch. "Same thing you'll realize soon enough."
You don't tell him that the same is already true for you. Nobody else has ever known your body as well as Jason did, never took such careful consideration to know where to touch and when and how much or how little. It's the difference between a complex instrumental and a full-scale symphony, engulfing your being like nothing else. "Stop, there won't be enough room for both of our egos," you complain, flushing at his words.
"I'll step aside for you," he promises, lips connecting to yours again in a shared breath. His body presses heatedly against yours, searching to get impossibly closer, and you're not sure if it's your own thumping heartbeat or his and you don't care. It consumes you, lost to the moment as you return the kiss and let your hands slide up, up, up, until they're threading in his hair.
Nothing else matters in this moment. Nothing but the way that Jason grabs at your hips and pushes his thick thigh between your legs and utterly devours you, kissing you as if he'd be able to one day make up for lost time. "That feel good?" he murmurs as he pulls away, resting his forehead against yours with labored breathing that mirrors yours.
It's only then that you realize you had started unintentionally grinding against his thigh, as subtle as one could be, but Jason doesn't miss a thing. "Sorry, I didn't realize–" You flush, mentally slamming your head into the brick behind you. You've never been so forward–especially in a very public alley in the middle of the night–but Jason's ability to twist your brain has always been the exception.
"Don't apologize," he scolds lightly, bumping his nose against yours as his hand trace along the waistband of your jeans. He hooks his fingers just underneath, his thumb grazing the button. "Don't apologize. I'll help you cum right here, if that's what you want."
Your breath intermingles with his, visible in the cool air of the night. "Is that a promise?" you counter, raising an eyebrow. Within seconds, the button of your jeans are undone and his hand disappears beneath the denim, beneath the soft material of your underwear, and his fingers slide along your clit, your body responding with an instant jolt.
He sighs, unable to care about the brick biting into his knuckles as he grasps your hair a little tighter. "You're gonna be the death of me," he breathes out, licking at your lips. He sucks the bottom one between his, grazing his teeth against the plush skin as he pulls back until you separate with a small pop. "How long's it been since somebody's touched you like this?"
The noise you make it a cross between a groan and a whine, your hips trying to find more friction to no avail. "You are so obsessed with everybody else," you complain, avoiding his question.
Oh, how wrong you are. "I'm not gonna give you anything 'til you answer me," he warns, his palm practically dripping from how wet you already are.
Exhaling through your nose, you close your eyes. "Around Christmas," you admit, recalling a tipsy hookup with a coworker at a work Christmas party. Your inhibitions were just low enough to give into their advances, the liquid warfare winning along with the need to be touched.
"Yeah? And how'd they do?"
"Nobody's made me cum since you, Jason," you bite, hating how vulnerable he's insisting on making you feel tonight. "It–I've told you it's never been easy for me, for somebody else to get me there. And it's not like the sex has been bad outside of you, I just–I also haven't had a lot of time to date, so it's not-"
He cuts you off shamelessly, his finger disappearing to the first knuckle inside of you with ease. Your legs shake, threatening to buckle beneath you. "Oh, baby. I think you were made for me, you know that?" His head moves to your ear, teeth nipping at your earlobe before moving further to lazily drag his mouth along your neck. "Couldn't tell you how many times I've thought about having you this way again." A soft moan escapes you and he feels you tighten around him at his words. He angles is hand, palm adding pressure with every curl of his fingers. "You like that? Thinking about me imagining you to get off? Thinking about how gorgeous you are until I cum?"
The ground is shattering to pieces beneath you, gravity pulling you closer and closer to crumbling yourself. You're so close already, so so close and Jason can tell by the way you tremble and shake and he hopes you remember to fucking breathe. Your lips part in a silent gasp, ready to tell him, when he stops, tensing up. After a few agonizing seconds, he moves his hand, pulling you away from the wall to button your jeans in a swift movement.
Just when you're about to ask him what the hell is going on, you hear them before you see them. Boisterous laughter breaks through the quiet night, a group of guys walking passed the open alley sooner after. Jason pulls you close and you feel him hold his breath as they walk by, not releasing it until they pass without noticing you. He lets you go but grabs your cheeks, holding you in place as he kisses your forehead tenderly. "I'll make it up to you, I promise," he whispers, feeling awful that he brought you so close just to have it ripped away.
You tilt your head, pressing your lips to his. "Do you live nearby?"
"Still the same place."
"Take me there."
The walk is as short as it's always been but feels like an eternity. Jason keeps his fingers intertwined with yours, loosely but keeping you close while his thumb continuously moves on your skin, caressing and tapping in a way that can only be attributed to nerves. It reminds you of the much younger version of him you met all those years ago. His armor has always been carefully crafted and meticulously structured but underneath it all, he's still the same boy that stammered through your first conversation.
His apartment complex looks the same, you notice, as you wait for the elevator to come down. He follows behind you once the doors open, waiting until they close again before pulling you against him. Your arms automatically find their way around his neck, standing as tall as your legs will allow to reach him quicker. The kiss is overflowing with passion, emotions flaring and igniting at the feeling of him through his jeans, already hard and pressing into your stomach.
He's gone the second the elevator dings, dragging you down the hall and into his apartment. He manages to lock the door behind him, his keys dropping seconds later before he's grabbing at you again, lifting you up to set you on his desk nearby. Things clatter to the floor but he pays them no mind, pulling your shoes off and then following with your jeans, dragging your underwear along. He fits himself between your thighs, as if the space had been carved out just for him, towering over you as he grips one of your thighs tightly, anchoring himself, and pushes two fingers inside of you without any warning. Gasping, you arch your back, nails digging into the wooden desk and your legs tightening at his hips.
White spots cloud your vision quickly, time and denial and more time leaving you wide open and defenseless to the pace Jason falls into, determined to experience you unraveling from his touch. "Think you've waited long enough, baby," he drawls softly, the affection in his voice a stark contrast to the sinful ways his fingers move. "You gonna cum for me? I can feel you shaking–yeah, baby, there you go." He'd burn the world down to find somebody skilled enough to capture how fucking ethereal you look at that moment, gasping out his name and writhing against his fingers as you ride out the orgasm that wracks through your body.
Your eyes feel heavy when he moves his hand away, watching as his lips wrap around his fingers, cleaning them. He moans lightly and butterflies erupt in your chest, yearning for more. His lips find yours when he's done and the taste of yourself on his tongue makes your head spin. "Let me taste you first," he whispers against your lips. "Fuck–I'll give you whatever you want if you just let me taste you."
There's nothing you want more than him inside of you, nothing more than having him again after so long; well, nothing except giving into his pleas, giving into the pure, unadulterated desire in his eyes when you take too long to respond. He takes the whimper in the back of your throat as confirmation, hands moving underneath you to lift you up. He expertly moves across his apartment without breaking the kiss you pull him into, only doing so to drop you onto his bed. He shrugs off his jacket and kicks his boots away, something rattling across the floor as soon as the first one hits the ground.
Narrowing your eyes, you glance at the culprit before looking at Jason, who was leaning over to try to pull at your shirt. "Do you always have a knife with you?" you ask, the low light coming in through the window glinting off the shiny metal.
"Well, technically, it's a dagger–" He pauses and you let him pull your shirt over your head, leaving you grossly underdressed in comparison. "–and yes, I do. It's Gotham."
"How have I never seen that?" He sits toward the head of the bed, tugging you gently by the hand to sit on his lap. "What if Josie found it?"
He grins when you widen your eyes and smack his shoulder with little force at the thought. "Relax, sweetheart," he coos, kissing you slowly once before laying back. You try to follow his mouth but he stops you with a grip on your waist. "If we're home, I keep it on top of the kitchen cabinets–out of sight and reach from both of you."
"I still wish you had said something-"
"You can tell me all about it later, I swear I'll listen," he interrupts, hands moving to your hips to nudge you forward.
Once he's nestled between your pretty, shaking thighs, he sets out to clean up the mess he caused minutes ago, so painfully thorough at his job. When he's eventually satisfied, he dips his tongue into your entrance, groaning at the taste. He can't tell if you taste better or exactly how he remembers or not at all; the ability to coherently think is long gone. He focuses on only you, trying not to dwell on how fucking unbelievable it is that he's right here, with you, like this.
His determination has always been unmatched, the ever-present scratching, clawing need to get his hands on whatever he wants, even if it's for no other reason than to prove to himself he can. But never could he have imagined getting you in his bed like this again would've ever been within his reach again. Any intrusive thought he's had of anything more than being, at best, friends had been guarded, locked up and labelled unattainable. Untouchable.
His grip on your thighs tighten, burying his face as much as possible. You dig your teeth into your bottom lip, one hand holding onto the bedframe to give his lungs a fighting chance while the other finds his head. Pushing the hair sticking to his forehead away from his eyes, you whimper at the sight of him between your legs, devouring you like it's his one and only chance.
"Fuck, you taste so good." His words are muffled, never fully straying away from kissing and licking and sucking and moaning. His hands reroute, both splaying across your ass. "However you want it, baby, take it." Your hips involuntarily jump as he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue moving languidly. "Just want you to cum, sweetheart, that's all I want."
Your hand tightens around the metal frame, fingers tightening in his hair as your hips find the most efficient pace. Jason follows your lead, letting you ride his tongue. It's everything about him that brings you so close to the edge; the noises he makes, the way his eyes flutter like nothing else has ever graced his tongue so deliciously, the bruising grip of his finger digging into your flesh.
Jason's eyes meet yours and suddenly you're falling, crashing, soaring. He's drowning–in how fucking pretty you look above him, how you twitch and spasm and cry out as you give into yourself. Even once your orgasm subsides, he returns his hands to your thighs to keep you pressed against his mouth, his tongue swirling and savoring you.
He lets up when your grip on his hair grows rougher, attempting to hold him back with a broken whine. "Too much," you tell him, but his chin is soaking and his hair is a disheveled mess and his eyes a hazy glow and, despite the oversensitivity, your body still begs for him.
In the blink of an eye, your positions flip. He pulls you down far enough to ensure your head lands on the pillows and your depleted strength leaves you on your back, legs spread open and his body fitting perfectly between them. He holds his weight as he hovers over you, leaning down to kiss along your lower stomach lazily. "Be honest with me," he mumbles, lightly sucking at the skin on your hipbone. "How many times have you thought about this?"
You exhale shakily, goosebumps breaking out as his lips move along your naval, heading upward. "Like, ever?" you ask, nearly forgetting how to speak when he lingers at the bottom of your breast, sucking at the skin tenderly. "Or since you've been back?"
He grins devilishly, glancing up at you again, and you start to resent the way his hair keeps falling into his face, obscuring your view of his eyes. "Surprise me." He closes his lips around your nipple, sucking softly and outlining it with his tongue. He skirts a hand along your side, squeezing a ticklish spot when you don't answer.
You gasp, jumping unexpectedly. "That wasn't nice."
He laughs at your narrowed eyes. "Not answering my question isn't nice," he muses, moving to your other breast to repeat his actions.
Asshole. "Do you want me to tell you about the most recent first time?"
It was a few weeks after him and Josie met. You had borrowed your mom's minivan to take Josie to school after she'd missed the bus (you took full responsibility, the three of you engaged in a Mario Kart competition so intense that the "two responsible adults" lost track of time) and it had broken down less than five minutes away from the school on your drive back. You could've called roadside assistance but instead found yourself dialing Jason's number. In all fairness, you knew he knew something about cars–but to what extent was lost on you. In less than ten minutes, his motorcycle was parked behind you and he was working away diligently.
He had told you what the problem was–something about it being a temporary fix and that he'd be able to fix it as soon as got the parts–but watching him underneath he hood, in such concentration and maneuvering expertly as he worked, it was distracting. Every now and then he'd let out a small curse, or furrow his eyebrows and chew on his lip in thought, the muscles in his neck flexing as he did so.
He'd needed your help holding something in place and it took three tries to get it right because his hands were so big and covered in grease and how in the world were you supposed to know what he's pointing at when all you could focus on was every vein and tendon that popped out beneath his skin?
"Remember when I needed help with my mom's car?" Of course he does. You had been especially uncooperative and he felt bad every time he got frustrated because of it, assuming you were exhausted from the night before. He didn't intend to rile you up so much that Josie stayed up so late passed her bedtime, but old habits die hard. He hums in response, mouth moving along your sternum. "Couldn't sleep that night, I don't know why. But I kept thinking about you."
"Pure thoughts, I assume."
"I couldn't stop thinking about your hands. Watching them work on the car and thinking about how they'd feeling touching me instead." You're emboldened by the way he pauses, caught off guard by your words. "I don't remember my hand slipping beneath my shorts but the next thing I know, I'm touching myself, wishing it was you. Trying to do it that way I thought you would, but..."
"But what?" he presses, lifting his head to meet your eyes. His eyes are hardened, restrained, feral. Holding on to your every word and impatiently waiting the next.
"I couldn't do it." Your voice is small and it feels embarrassing to admit out loud, that you had struggled with something that should've been so simple. "My fingers–they do not compare and-"
Jason cuts you off with his mouth, tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of your neck. "Naughty fucking girl." He means it lighter than his cock takes it, aching in his jeans. "And I thought you were just too tired to help, made me feel bad about keep you up so late."
You don't say anything, using your hands on his cheeks to pull him deeper into the kiss, effectively shutting him up for now. His hips roll against yours, the rough denim doing very little to conceal his excitement, warm and throbbing and desperate to be inside of you. One hand travels down to grab at his waistband and he gets the hint, pushing them down just enough to pull himself out.
He breaks the kiss, parted lips and cheeks flushed as he looks down, watching as he drags his hand up and down his length, slowly and so, so close to your entrance. You can't help but watch too, chest rising and falling with anticipation.
When he press the head against you, using himself to drag your wetness back and forth, your hand flies out to his wrist. "Wait." He freezes, worry clouding his eyes as he looks at you. "I want to see you too."
Jason's brain joins his body, stilling. He hadn't even realize that he hasn't undressed at all. He's always had an inkling that you thought his sex life was more riveting than it really was. It's not that Jason intentionally abstains, it's just that he struggles to find somebody he's interested in enough to be involved with. And even when he did, he typically found his place in throwing his attention into his partner.
Sex with you had always been different–felt different, in more than just a physical sense. He never felt self-conscious when it came to your fondness for skin-to-skin contact during sex, and he quickly found himself craving the same thing. There was nothing timid or hesitant about your touch, appreciating his body as if it possessed a fraction of the imperfections it does, and it invigorated him in a way he's never experienced elsewhere.
Jason sits back and your eyes don't waver, watching the flex of his muscles as he reaches back to pull his hoodie off, bringing his shirt along with it. Watching the lines on his torso contracting and relaxing as he bends to push his jeans off. "Quit objectifying me," he teases quietly, hovering over you once again and finding your lips, trying–and failing–to shield his darkened cheeks before you notice.
You make a small noise of protest when you feel his fingers gliding between your folds, pushing two inside of you, agonizingly slow, but he only shushes you. "I'll take care of you, don't worry," he murmurs against your lips, scissoring his fingers and stretching you and making your toes curl. "You're gonna take me so good, aren't you?" He tests pushing in a third finger, feeling the way your walls stretch graciously, welcoming. He sighs, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth before he sits back on his heels, pulling his hand away and grabbing at your waist roughly to pull you further down the bed. "Just like you always did."
It hits him at the worst possible time, just as the tip of his cock presses against your warm entrance, begging for him. He stops. "Please tell me you have a condom." Please please please.
You don't, of course, and even if you somehow found one buried in the depths of your back, you doubt it wouldn't be expired. All that talk about being responsible and neither of you thought about the most responsible aspect of this, waiting until the very last second for it to occur. "No," you whisper, a sinking feeling filling your body. "I don't."
"Fuck me," he mutters, one hand moving to his hair, fingers tugging on the end as he leans back on his heels.
"Just make sure you pull out." The words tumble from your lips without adequate thought, driven by the fear of this being delayed any longer. "I'm also on much better birth control."
Logically, he knows the right thing to do is not go any further than you have until he can get a condom–and he know you know that too. But how is his logical side supposed to take over when your rationalization sounds so right and the thought of stopping is as awful for you as it would be for him? And what right does he have to say no to you, the center of his world, begging him to take you?
He leans back over you, catching your lips in a kiss that would've taken your ability to breathe had it not already been long gone. Needy, desperate, but doused in unspoken words and thoughts and feelings. Time and space doesn't exist–solely his tongue grazing yours and his hands slowly guiding one arm above your head, dragging his palm along the length of it before doing the same to your other. He breaks the kiss, barely, as he laces his fingers with yours. "You're so fucking beautiful." Your heart pounds in your chest and you're sure he can hear it as he brushes his nose against your. "So–" He pushes inside of you slowly, carefully. You gasp, your hips moving instinctively and every ounce of strength goes to his self-control when he slips further inside, his own lips parting. "–so beautiful."
It's familiar, how accommodating your body is to him, but that doesn't lessen the electricity coursing through every part. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering as his fingers unwittingly tighten with every inch of him that you take. Your body tingles, from your toes to your head, and the feeling is simultaneously far too much and far too little.
For him, it's a noose. A literal noose, tied around his neck and pulling tighter, tighter, tighter once he bottoms out. Have you always felt so good? He has no fucking idea, every neuron in his brain firing in rapid, chaotic successions and he feels like a virgin again, struggling to keep his ground in a matter of seconds. He's surrounded by how wet you are for him–the insides of your thighs still wet from your previous orgasm and sticking to his skin–and it drives him fucking crazy.
"Jason-" It comes out strangled, the pressure of his body pressing against your clit and how full of him you are, it's blinding, it's overwhelming–it still isn't enough. You tighten around him, arching into him and letting out a broken moan when your nipples brush against his warm chest.
He laughs breathlessly, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips. "Not gonna be able to fuck you properly if you keep clenching around me like that," he warns, grinning despite his own shaky inhale when you whine. He withdraws slowly before thrusting back inside, gaining momentum with each movement. Your fingernails are digging into the bruises blossoming on his knuckles almost painfully yet it only spurs him on. "You're fucking unreal."
"Feels so good, Jason." Your voice sounds a million miles away to your own ears. The pressure inside of you is building and building and you feel like you're going to burst into thousands of pieces, but somehow you remain aware enough to catch the stutter of his hips, the physical effect your words have on him. Hell, he'd sign his own death sentence if it was given to him in that breathy little voice of yours.
He doesn't know what to do with himself. He wants it all–to fuck you slow, to fuck you fast; to be as close to you as possible while longing for a full view of you–as if he's not sure he'll ever get the chance again. Deep down (or maybe not so deep) there's that stupid fucking voice that threatens that this could be the only time he gets to have you like this again–gets to have you at all–even if his rational side knows better.
Releasing your hands, he steadies himself on your hips, keeping you still as he thrusts inside of you, silently begging and pleading with his body to hold out. "Yeah?" he asks through raspy laughter, more focused on watching the swell of your breasts bounce with each thrust, your hands still stretched above your head and blindly grasping for something, anything you can get your fingers on. Watching as he disappears inside of you, as you swallow him, eager and impatiently. He can feel how close you are, fluttering around his cock with shallow breaths. As much as he wanted, needed to feel you cum around his cock, he savors every second he's surrounded by you.
"Nobody–ah–nobody fills me up the way you do." You're babbling at this point, words disrupted by the gasps and moans he elicits whenever there's extra friction or he hits that aching spot inside of you. "So good to me. Ruined everybody else."
Good. There's a choked sound in the back of his throat as he falls on top of you again, held up by his arms on either side of your head, caging you. "Barely hanging on by a thread here, baby, you can't say things like that to me right now." Every action defies his words; his pace grows sloppier, needier, less controlled and his hips move sporadically along your neck and collarbone.
Your vision starts blurring, growing fuzzier as your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck in desperate attempt to keep him there–as if any outside force could pry him away from you. "Please, please. Need this, need you. Need to feel you inside of me." It's an alarm he ignores, pushing away the selfish need to elongate this and zeroing in, shifting to his sole priority. One hand moves to the back of your knee, bending it and hiking it up his waist, allowing him to reach deeper, amplifying every sensation. You cry out, pulling harder on his hair, arching further into him. "Right–right there, oh my god-"
His name falls from your lips as you unravel around him and he coaxes you through, whispering praises like he's trying to appeal to a higher power, a heavenly deity. Jason doesn't relent as the crashing waves fade into a calmer tide, but the clenching and pulsing of your velvety walls squeezing him brings his breaking point. "Fuck, sweetheart, I'm gonna–I have to-"
You're not thinking clearly, victim to the lingering orgasmic haze, and your body uses that to its advantage, a being acting without the shackles of your brain. Dragging his lips to yours, meeting clumsily with teeth bumping as your legs tighten around his waist. Jason. Jason. Jason. He overrides all of your senses along with your brain, replacing it with uncensored, anguish need.
He groans into your mouth as he fists the sheets, the devil on his shoulder translating your body language into something that pushes him to drive into you with reckless abandon, breathing becoming increasingly difficult as his chest gets tighter and tighter until–
It's a familiar sound, the cross between a whiny gasp and guttural moan that's muffled by him burying his face in your neck, sending tiny shockwaves through your abdomen as his hips still and he empties inside of you. The dull throbbing doesn't subside completely, morphing into a soft sensation while silence fills the air, nothing but Jason's search for adequate air near your head and your own shaky breathing interrupting it.
"You are fucking evil." Jason breaks the silence first, quiet and with soft laughter.
Blood rushes to your face and you avert your eyes when he lifts his head, his hand gently grabbing your jaw to force your eyes back to him. "I'm so sorry. I-I don't know why–I wasn't thinking, I-"
Your nervous, embarrassed form underneath him is a far cry from your demeanor just moments ago, unabashedly telling him all about how you'd touched yourself to the thought of him. The inexplicable force that left you wrapped around him, so fucking needy for his cum inside of you, was the same power that left him utterly defeated and giving into his own identical desire. It may be wildly irresponsible, especially for two people who have already experienced the consequences, but he'll be damned if he lets you apologize for that.
Jason shushes you, kissing you lips softly, slowly, lingering. "Don't be sorry," he whispers, leaning his head down to press chaste kisses along your chest. "Stay here." He hisses lowly when he pulls out, his thumb stroking along your inner thigh before standing up to leave you completely.
You lift your hands to your face, rubbing your eyes as the world settles around you. Without the impossible distraction of Jason, reality feels heavier, leering around in the depths of the shadows. Is it selfish? Is anything that conspires between you and Jason nothing more than two people being unequivocally irresponsible?
While you do believe that nothing irreversible would come from things not working out between you, there's no way to avoid a shift; a shift that Josie would have to get used to. What if it's progressed to moving in together by the time you break up? How would she react to him being around all the time to anything less than?
The thought of split custody is ready to swallow you whole when you feel fingers circle your ankle, tugging. When you move your hands, Jason's standing at the end of the bed, sweatpants hanging low on his hips and a small towel in hand. He offers a soft, comforting smile and you return it, taking in as he moves. His eyes are exhausted, heavy as they follow the path his hand takes, so methodical and gentle. His hair is an absolute mess, sticking up in some place and stuck to his skin in others. You can faintly make out the red marks along his shoulders.
Kneeling on the bed, Jason tosses the towel behind him when he's finished, making the shot into an overflowing basket of clothes without looking. "Got this for you, if you want it." He drops a folded up shirt on your stomach, taking your spot in the middle of the bed when you stand up, thanking him before wandering into his bathroom with weak knees.
You linger in the bathroom far longer than you intend, staring at yourself in the mirror. The black shirt he'd given you hangs loosely on your body, decorated in fraying edges and tiny holes along the collar and smelling of Jason's laundry detergent. You'd done the best you could with your hair, scooping it out of your face and into the scrunchie around your wrist.
In the mirror, your eyes look almost as tired as Jason's, and your lips are swollen. Despite that, you feel... sated. When you're able to temporarily suppress the bubbling worries, you can appreciate how weightless every inch of your body is, practically floating, and the pattering of your heart turns into a thumping lull, growing and growing inside of your chest. Every neuron in your body wants nothing more than to be out there, in bed with Jason, but for some reason your hand is stuck to the sink, unable to reach for the doorknob.
The three taps on the door are familiar. You open the door and Jason stands on the other side, closer than you expect as he leans against the frame. "Just making sure you didn't fall in," he kids lamely, an attempt to hide his own nerves.
"Of course not," you scoff, stepping back. "Impressively clean bathroom. I was thinking about hiring you as our maid because Josie's a terror sometimes. It's clean and then you blink and boom, the bathroom looks like a bom-"
He cuts off your rambling, resting his hands on your face as he presses his lips to yours. It's innocent, reassuring. It helps you remember to breathe. "We're okay." He pulls away just enough to glance between your eyes, searching. "It's just me."
Sighing, you laugh breathily. "How are you being so calm about this?"
He isn't, but he's glad you think so. "Come on," he urges, pulling you by your hand to the bed. You crawl in first, an unsure feeling weighing you down while Jason gets comfortable. You feel awkward and it's suffocating. It had never been awkward, and you know that Jason's half the reason for that. Things just simply worked, made evident by the smooth-as-can-be transition with Josie. "Stop being so weird." Jason breaks your train of thought lightheartedly. He's settled on the pillow, one arm bent behind his head and the blanket pulled up to his stomach. He tugs you forward, pulling you flush against the side of his body.
Yet again, muscle memory takes over and you find your place easily tucked into him. He pulls the blanket over you before his arm winds around your shoulders and your legs intertwine. Your hand finds his chest, fingers moving on their own accord to trace along muscles and scars, trying to memorize every single one. You feel the goosebumps break out beneath your fingertips but he doesn't ask you to stop, his own fingers drawing mindless shapes along your arm. Your fingers pass his collarbone, drifting along his neck. "This is new-ish, isn't it?" You already know the answer to the question referencing the scar on his neck, positive it wasn't there before.
He hums as his eyes close, turning his head to rest his cheek on your head. "Gift from Bruce," he mumbles, ignoring the tight feeling in his chest at the memory and resenting his tired, unshielded self for allowing it to occur in the first place.
Frowning, you lean up on your elbows, disregarding his confused eyes and kissing him. His eyelids droop but don't close completely, returning the kiss on instinct despite being caught off guard. Without words spoken aloud, they speak loud and clear as your lips move to his chin and along his jaw, your hand resting comfortably on his cheek as you trek along his neck, linger over the scar.
Jason swallows thickly, the tenderness of your touch breaking through the heavy, unimaginable grip around his throat. That day had stupidly wrecked him all over again, another reliably sturdy nail in the coffin that was his relationship with his adoptive father. He'd vowed then that it would be the last time that Bruce fucking Wayne was going to disappoint him; the last time Jason would give him the opportunity to.
He'd had no idea then about the ace Bruce already had in his sleeve.
♡ ♡ ♡ ♡
Jason's intentions were pure: to come wake you up, maybe indulge in some persuasion if the situation called for it, because he'd woken up a couple hours earlier and laid with you until he could peel himself out of bed to put on coffee and hopefully something to eat (if he could find it–he hardly spent enough time at his place these days to keep his kitchen stocked with much).
But once he's standing at the edge of the bed, he can't help but take in your sleeping form. Your sleep position has changed, taking advantage of the extra space and leaving you sprawled out on your back, one arm resting on your stomach while the other is bent with your hand rested on the pillow, only inches away from your parted lips. The blanket covers you mostly but a bare leg is exposed, the curvature of your hip on full display and reminding him that nothing more than his comforter and his t-shirt obscures your body.
Before he knows it, he's crawling over you and dragging his lips everywhere he can until he reaches your neck. When he hears you sigh in content and shift, allowing him more space while your fingers tangle in his hair, his goal changes. His sense of urgency is much more subtle than it was last night, slow but not lazy; patience guiding every movement and embedding every dip and curve into his memory over and over again as if he's even capable of forgetting.
For an unknown amount of time, the only noise that fills the room is uneven breathing and soft moans as the blanket's kicked aside and he's situated between your legs once again. "Please." Your quiet plea breaks the silence, your arms wrapped around his shoulders and nails gently biting into his skin, hips moving to seek a shred of friction.
He exhales through his nose. "Yeah, sweetheart," he murmurs, one hand reaching down to push his sweatpants down his thighs. "I got you."
When he pushes inside of you, it feels like a breath of fresh air. Like trekking through the desert for hours and hours only to find fresh water waiting for him at the end. Last night was frenzied, every part of him dutifully lost to you and him and the feeling of being with you again–and it isn't like that's any less true, nor does he think it'll ever be that way–but he's in a much better place to properly appreciate it this time. Appreciate the way your body embraces him, pulling him in with a grip that threatens to never let go. He takes in every sound you make, every hitch of breath and quiet moan that falls from your lips, trapping them in his own mouth and storing them for later.
It's soft and tender, Jason's calloused hands gentle and kneading plush skin, and he doesn't need to be told when you're about to cum, cradling your jaw with one hand and forehead against yours while he grinds into you more than anything, adding just enough speed and pressure to work you through your orgasm, unraveling rather than erupting, with his shortly following.
Jason collapses onto you afterward, pulling out before he buries his face in your neck, trying to steady his heart as much as his breathing. Fighting against the urge to doze off at the feeling of your fingernails softly scraping his scalp, he hums lightly, lips pressing against your neck. "G'morning," he greets softly, fingertips grazing along your leg bent against his waist.
Giggling softly, tiredly, you push away the hair from his forehead, kissing his hairline. "What a wakeup call," you respond, matching his tone.
He grins, lifting his head. "Wasn't my intention, I promise." One arm holds most of his weight off of you, the other hand tracing your face before settling on your cheek, rushing this thumb against the bone. "You distracted me."
You could get lost in this feeling. Being surrounded by Jason, staring into the eyes that look at you like you crafted the universe with your very fingers, and hands that touch you with the same delicacy. It's heavy but not suffocating and there isn't anything you wouldn't do to keep him like this; safe, comfortable, unguarded. Not something that was once hard softening but rather something that's always been there, locked away and never allowed to be. "Quick shower first, then coffee," you announce, pulling away from your thoughts.
"Deal, we shower first."
"I said quick, which means I should go alone."
"I'll be good." His actions defy his words, his thumb brushing your bottom lip while his eyes follow.
"Liar."
You catch the smirk forming on his lips just before he kisses you and you cave instantly, leaning into the hand that cradles your head. He sighs into your mouth and you take advantage, deepening the kiss. Your arms slip around his shoulders, trying to pull him closer, when a stomach loudly growls–yours, specifically.
He breaks away laughing, back falling easily to the mattress when you push him away with burning cheeks. "Easy, tiger, don't worry. I won't stand between you and your food."
Rolling your eyes, you sit up while he stands, staring at the hand he reaches out to you. "I hate you," you deadpan. "Thoroughly."
"Who's the liar now, sweetheart?" he counters. "Come on, shower and then we'll feed the beast." His grin widens when your eyes roll for the millionth time but you accept his hand anyway, standing carefully. "I'll be good," he repeats teasingly. "You have my word.
𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: five years after ending something that hovered between more than friends and less than lovers with jason todd, he finds out that he has a daughter
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: jason todd x f!reader
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+. dad!jason todd. slight miscommunication trope (i know i know). slow-burn-ish. angst. sickeningly fluffy. two idiots who don't realize they love each other. minor descriptions of wounds. eventual smut. no use of y/n.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 16k
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: i have been working on this for an embarrassingly long time & if i keep rewriting it i will lose my actual mind! i didn't want to break it up into parts but the whole thing came out to roughly 30k words and i didn't want it to be intimidating especially because i crave copious amounts of backstory ANYWAY, this is not nearly as eventful as the second half but if you make it through this part, part two will be posted tomorrow, same time :-) (5pm eastern)
Running into you is pure luck. There are an array of scenarios that, had they played out a little differently, he never would've seen you. If he didn't spend the previous week thousands of miles away helping Dick with a mission (that, had Jason had his way, could've been over in less than forty-eight hours, but god forbid anybody listen to him). If that hadn't left him so physically and mentally drained, too exhausted to make something as simple as ramen at home. If he didn't decide to walk the extra ten minutes to his favorite pizza place.
If any of that had gone differently, then maybe he wouldn't have spotted you sitting at one of the booths inside the small restaurant. He blinks once and then twice, briefly wondering if his exhaustion has him seeing things, but it's mostly wishful thinking. Somehow you look completely different–a touch more mature, similar to the way the last six years had aged him–while looking exactly like the person he once knew. Just as beautiful as the first time he saw you.
Just as beautiful as the last time, too.
He wants to get your attention. He wants you to notice, to look his way, to catch his eye. The warm feeling that washes over him is familiar, a luxury that your presence had always provided him. It eased him, allowing him to let his guard down and just... be. He'd run into you during one of the darkest times of his life yet you'd brought light, like a sliver of sun peeking through on the cloudiest day. Despite that, seeing you also comes with a brand new wave of uncertainty and that produces the dread coursing through his body, years of training and experience triggering his instincts and leaving him locked in some kind of hellish purgatory.
Six years since he's last seen you. Just like your relationship, it feels impossible to find adequate words to describe the end; to say it was amicable feels like a gross understatement but there was no explosion or wreckage. The end crept up quietly and unbeknownst to both of you, building brick by treacherous brick during hours of processing and talking in circles and heavy silences. At the time, he couldn't identify the shift but he sure as hell felt it through your protective body language, your tired eyes, your shortening responses. The weight of it was agonizing.
How do you come back from a positive pregnancy test? The talk was under the guise of "going over options" but neither of you were naive enough to believe in a true second option. Jason wasn't in any kind of position to be somebody's partner, let alone somebody's father. God, how fucking scary would that be? The thought alone tied his chest in knots in a way he'd never felt before; why on earth would he doom somebody with his bloodline?
He voiced those very concerns and then, just like that, it was settled. Yes, I'm going to make the appointment. No, I don't need you to take me. Yes, we're okay. That last one was more idealistic than honest. He tried carrying on as if things were normal, texting you and trying to meet up when he was able to. Work's been short-staffed, you'd said, and you needed the extra money. Eventually he stopped trying altogether, one last text left on read dealing the final blow to his ego. If you wanted to speak to him, you'd reach out.
Needless to say, you never did.
Shouting from the kitchen yanks him from his thoughts, sending one final glance your way before deciding against approaching you–it's the smarter choice, anyway. He keeps his back to you while he places his order and then finds the seat furthest from yours. He lets himself sneak a glance every now and then, finding you scrolling through your phone aimlessly, oblivious to your surroundings.
When his name is called and you don't bat an eye, he makes his way to the counter, affirming that it would've been weird trying to make casual conversation and awkward small talk with you after all these years. You aren't exes, just two people with a shared history far too messy to unpack. That's all. While he's grabbing his pizza, thanking the man and shoving whatever cash he has in his pocket into the tip jar, two more pizzas are placed on the counter. The name that's called isn't yours but as he turns to leave, he accidentally catches your eyes, widening at the sight of him.
It could've been seconds, it could've been minutes–Jason has no clue how long the two of you stand there. You, frozen like a deer in headlights, and him, paralyzed by the look of fear in your eyes. It's enough to throw him completely off balance. Never once had he ever given you a reason to be afraid of him. Finding out about Red Hood wasn't necessarily his plan (as if he' ever had on'd had one to begin with) but he was transparent about it once you did know. He didn't offer details but he never kept secrets and you never shied away from him. His hands were drenched in blood and he instilled the fear of god in people for a living but you knew that and you let him in anyway. So what changed?
The name is repeated, lost on his ears but you blink a few times, finally retrieving your food from the counter and the entire time you maintain as much distance as you physically can.
"Hey," Jason tests carefully.
"Hi." It's a polite response, like the way you'd greet a distant family friend at a function or an old classmate you run into at the grocery store. The smile pulling at your lips is only for show, no real emotion behind it.
"I... didn't know you still lived around here," he comments, pushing through the molasses-like tension. "I'm surprised I haven't run into you sooner."
You laugh, the sound too rehearsed to be genuine, and lift your thumb to point behind your shoulder for a microsecond before pretending the goal had been to scratch your shoulder. He spots it easily but keeps quiet. "I was on my way back from a trip and decided to stop here. Get some pizza, you know," you ramble. "Same as you, obviously." Witnessing your nervous rambling would be far more amusing for him if it didn't stem from some deep-rooted fear. Of him. "Anyway, I should get-"
"Pizza!" The voice of a little girl rings through the shop, catching both of your attention. Walking from the bathroom is an older woman, hand-in-hand with a young girl. The woman resembles you–an older relative, maybe–and the little girl looks less like you, her messy black hair pulled into two braids, unruly pieces escaping from their confinement beneath the purple pompom beanie on her head. But then she smiles widely and you're all he can see.
"We've secured dinner," you confirm, tone ten times lighter than he'd gotten just seconds ago. "Here, how about you guys take it to the car and I'll be right out, okay?"
"C'mon, let's go get the heat turned on. It's freezing outside," the woman suggests, handing the girl striped mittens before pulling on her own gloves. It takes zero percent of his expertise to notice the not-so-discrete look the woman sends your way, as well as the similar look you return as you hand her the food pointedly.
"Okay! I think I want to watch Tangled while we eat. I know I said I wanted to watch Finding Nemo but I want to watch Tangled now," she rattles on, ensuring the gloves are snug on her small hands.
"That's a great idea!" she gushes, using her free hand to clasp the girl's hand. "Can you get the door for me?"
Both you and Jason are quiet as they retreat, pausing right as they reach the door. Then the little gir turns around with her hand on the metal bar. "Is Tangled okay with you, mommy?" she asks, pleading eyes directed right at you.
Jason's head turns toward you and the weak upturn of your lips paired paired with empty eyes has returned. He doesn't hear your response, the static in his ears getting louder and louder. Every gear in his head begins turning as he looks at the little girl–actually looks at her. In the fluorescent lights, it's easy to make out her features despite the distance. Like her hair, as true black and unruly as his own has always been. Or her eyes, an amalgamation of greens and blues that blend into a very, very familiar shade of teal. Eyes an apparition of his own, with more spirit and life than the ones he tends to avoid catching in the mirror.
Time doesn't move and neither does he, cemented in place as he tries to think while the conversation finishes and he watches them walk out of the door. You didn't have a child six years ago, which means she can't be older than five. But she also can't be much younger than that based on appearance. That doesn't necessarily rule out the possibility of a rebound resulting in you getting pregnant so soon after you two parted ways. Maybe your way of moving on involved a hell of a doppelgänger and something occurred. It's certainly plausible.
Somehow, though, Jason knows that isn't the case. Which leaves a single possibility.
"Jason-"
"She's mine?" It isn't actually a question but Jason's blindsided beyond belief. Like a sucker punch to the gut, only amplified and resonating through every single bone and nerve and organ inside of his body. The floor vanishes beneath his feet, emotions crashing through his body like a tsunami and worsened by every second.
"Don't patronize me."
His head shoots up, eyebrows pulling together to accentuate his glare. Anger sparks in his veins, burning out every other emotion threatening to break through. "Patronize you?" How dare you? "You have the baby we agreed on not keeping and I'm the one patronizing you?"
He stuns you momentarily, your jaw dropping. "We didn't agree on anything!" you snap at him, louder than intended.
"Everything alright here, you two?" The owner glances between you two warily, clearly uninterested in having to stir things up by needing to request the presence of Gotham's finest.
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry," you apologize, cheeks burning as you shoot daggers at Jason before taking off toward the door. He follows after you without hesitation and, despite never looking back, he knows you're aware of him. You glance at your mother through the windshield of her red minivan parked out front, pivoting to walk a little ways down the sidewalk until you're out of earshot, spinning around to face him. "Just so you know, asshole, we agreed that we weren't ready to become parents. I told you that I'd take care of it and that's exactly what I did. I decided that I wanted to have her and I was fine with doing it by myself. I didn't need your help then and I haven't needed it a day since."
He scoffs, the integrity of his pizza long forgotten, gripping the box tightly and parallel to his body, and he uses his free hand to rake his fingers through his hair. It's grown out a bit over the years, the sides still cut shorter than the rest but not as closely, and the wavy strands on top leave enough length for stray, white pieces to fall onto his forehead. "This isn't a puppy, this is a child. A child that is half me." He shakes his head, fingers involuntarily adding pressure to the cardboard. "Jesus Christ. How could you not tell me about this?"
"You made it clear that you didn't want to be a father and that's fine, I don't condemn you for that. We were young. We were stupid and reckless," you explain, angry at yourself for feeling like you need to explain yourself in the first place, as if you deserve the guilt that creeps up on you. It had never been your intention to hurt him but his reaction confuses you as much as it pisses you off. Is it the seeing her in person that bothers him so much? Had it been easier to digest when she was only a concept to him? "There was no guidebook on handling something like this, so I did what I thought was best. I made a choice."
"Yeah, I can see that now. The same choice you chose to make every single day, over and over again." He doesn't mean to spit the words out with such venom but he's reeling. Five years. Five years he's missed. Five years worth of birthdays and holidays, and countless firsts, countless milestones, countless moments. Five years that she's been walking on the same earth–in the same city–as him and he's missed every single step. Steps that he can never get back.
"Don't paint me out to be the villain," you warn, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "Maybe I didn't tell you about my decision but you-" You cut yourself off with a huff, struggling to retrieve the excessively vibrating phone from your jacket pocket. "Mom, I-" He hears speaking on the other end and he doesn't bother trying to make out the words. Everything about this situation–about you–is unbelievable. Seeing you had shaken him up enough but now this? How does he begin to wrap his head around something like this?
"I have to go," you mutter, pocketing your phone and walking around him.
"We aren't done here," he calls out, in utter disbelief that you'd think this conversation is anywhere close to being finished.
Turning around, you narrow your eyes at him. "We're not getting anywhere either, so what's the point?"
"The point is that you didn't tell me that I had a daughter for five years-"
"I'm not gonna stand here and-"
"-but that doesn't mean that I want this to end here. I..." He exhales through his nose deeply, trying to center himself. Feeling the ground beneath the soles of his boots, the cold air brushing his cheeks, his heart thumping in his chest. "This can't be done here. I can't just pretend like this didn't happen." He gestures around vaguely. "So I want to figure this out, whatever that means."
There's a voice in your head screaming at you to tell him to go to hell because you don't trust him and you won't have your daughter involved without it. But every instinct, intuition, and basic shred of knowledge tells you otherwise. That the Jason you knew is far from perfect but he's never been cruel or malicious. It doesn't ensure he's the same person you once knew, of course, but at his core, Jason Todd is one of the most kindhearted people you've ever met.
"I'm not going to apologize for having her," you assert, crossing your arms.
"I would never ask you to."
Something softens and you sigh, moving to dig through the bag slung across your body in search of a writing utensil. Pulling out a green marker, you walk close enough to grab the corner of his pizza box, his own hand never letting go as you begin writing on the blankest spot. "This is my address. Next weekend, Josie will be at my mom's but I work late Friday and she'll be home early on Sunday. If you're free Saturday, you can come over and we can talk. That's all I'm promising."
He hears every word but clings to only one. "Josie?" he echoes.
For the first time that day, he's on the receiving end of the genuine smile that softly stretches your lips. "Josie," you confirm. "Well, Josephine, but she prefers Josie."
He blinks a few times before nodding, your words fully processing. "I can be free Saturday. Give me a time and I'll be there," he promises.
"Does six work?"
"Perfectly."
Nodding, you drop the marker back into your purse. "I never wanted to keep her from her father, you know," you admit, hand gripping the strap tightly, your voice quiet. "And I never wanted to keep her father from her."
Jason nods, holding up the pizza box. "Thank you."
Whether it's for your words or you giving him a chance, he isn't sure, but he does know that there isn't a goddamn thing that could keep him from making it to your house by six o/clock next Saturday.
♡ ♡ ♡ ♡
"You're fucking dead to me, Steph," Jason snarls beneath his helmet, his motorcycle roaring in the rain as he takes every possible shortcut to get him to his destination faster.
The last week and a half had been a torturous blur. He kept himself busy to pass the time, dragging out his usual patrols to keep his mind as occupied as he could. When that wasn't eating up time, he found any other way to keep himself from drowning in his own thoughts. His apartment was spotless, the disorganized mess on his bookshelves transformed into a much more organized version. He'd reread half of his Jane Austen collection, slapping a sticky note to his fridge to track down his extra copy of Pride & Prejudice (he'd lent it to Damien weeks ago, the little shit making fun of him for reading Austen; after reading the first chapter on Jason's couch, Damien got called away by Barbara and announced that he'd return the book when he was finished before promptly leaving). He'd spent hours between safehouses and his apartment, sharpening every blade he owned to precision and cleaning the tiniest speck of dust from each firearm.
Each distraction was crucial to his survival. He attempted to write it out, trying to make some sense of clusterfuck of thoughts in order to have a concept of what he wanted to say when he saw you, but his brain's never been wired that way and it only left him more frustrated with himself, with you, with the entire situation; the blank piece of paper taunted him and his hand was unable to guide the pen between his fingers to form a single word, much less an entire sentence.
Any time he let himself think about it, he spiraled. Jason still stands on what he said to you six years ago; the thought of bringing his kid into this world terrified him. From a young age, he'd seen the darkest parts of humanity in new and creative ways time and time again. He became all too familiar with gut-wrenching disappointment far too soon. In all honesty, he could recognize a sort of selfishness in the idea of somebody choosing to bring life into a world that was such shit. How is it fair to force this existence, this life, onto somebody who never had a chance to make that decision?
Not to mention he doesn't know the first thing about being a father–how could he? Bruce did the best that he could (a fact he's still working on accepting) but that doesn't lessen the irreparable damage he's caused to every kid he's been responsible for. His relationship with Bruce is arguably at its best since he'd been that bright-eyed twelve-year-old kid posted beside Batman in bright tights and brimming with pride, and yet even at its best it remains painstakingly fragile and permanently scarred.
But none of that mattered because she's already here. Despite every unrelenting fear that embedded itself in his brain, there's no scenario where he wouldn't want to be in Josie's life. He tried not to mull over the possibility of the best course of action is for him to stay out of her life. If he had even a fraction of a chance to be in her life, he's going to take it.
What he shouldn't have taken was Steph's call that morning.
She'd had a lead on some lowlife expecting an "important shipment" arriving at the docks at five; something she could have easily handled herself (he never asked, but Jason had an inkling that Bruce was not included in the loop for this). The problem arrived in the contents of the shipment: a boat filled with kids with an unmarked semi-truck waiting for their arrival. He shouldn't have answered the call but once she told him, there was no declining. Human trafficking in Gotham has become almost as high as its arms counterpart, and he couldn't just look the other way.
All he had to do was be efficient with his time and, between him and Steph, they'd be able to get it done and they would've done just that had another boat full of kids not arrived just as they did, along with a whole new round of defense.
Taking them out barely broke a sweat, but it was time-consuming due to sheer volume. By the time the situation was under control, dozens of terrified children kept Jason there, doing anything he can to lessen the tremors while Steph begrudgingly called Dick.
"He's on the way," Steph told him after hanging up the phone. He was crouched down, grinning at the girl who'd only minutes ago winced when he stepped toward her, now giggling softly as she lifted his helmet off of her head. "He's bringing backup, too."
"You gonna be okay hanging out with my friend here, Lila?" Jason directed his question to the girl, taking the helmet from her outstretched hands. She nodded and he mimicked the action, smiling at her before standing up, glancing at Steph. "I've got somewhere to be."
"Hot date?" she teased at Jason's retreating back. He didn't respond, only holding up his middle finger before pulling on his helmet and picking up his pace, hopping onto his bike quickly. He ignored his ringing phone and when Barbara tried reaching him through his earpiece, he tossed it.
When he finally–finally–reaches the address, he finds himself at the end building in a string of townhomes. He yanks off his helmet and takes enough care to make sure his bike is propped up correctly before rushing to your door in a few long strides, rapping his knuckles against the chipped blue door. He waits. And waits. He knocks another three times and then waits some more. There's light behind the curtains and there'd been movement as well during his hurry to your door. You're there; you're just ignoring him.
Resting his forehead against the cold wood, he ignores the growing knot inside of his chest and breathes in through is nose, out through his mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. "I'm sorry." He has to raise his voice of the sound of rain crashing against the pavement but he ears a muffled creaking sound coming from the other side of the door. "I know you don't have a single reason to open the door but I'm begging–begging you to give me one more chance. Please."
When he didn't show up at six sharp, you were mildly annoyed. By the time thirty minutes passed, you were pissed. But by this point, by the time an hour and a half has gone by without a single word from him, you're fuming. You went out on a limb agreeing to this in the first place and you endured every snarky comment your mom had made since, about how big of a mistake this was. More than that, you feel so stupid for believing him at all, for allowing yourself to consider something that would only end in shambles for Josie.
Jason has always had the effect of skewing your judgment. There'd been something so captivating about him from the first moment he spoke to you. Everything about him was intimidating–towering over everybody in a leather jacket that stretched across strong, broad shoulders and wearing military-grade boots–but then he fumbled over his words in the first five minutes of speaking to you. Sharp eyes, his left on outlined by splotches of purple and blue, and a strong jawline adorning a not-brand-new-but-definitely-not-old gash below it contradicted his darkened cheeks and soft eyes when he talked to you. He was obviously nervous but that hadn't outshined his charm or ability to hold the conversation.
Outwardly, he screamed trouble, but you were young and Jason excited you. He carried this intensity about him, this fire inside of him that drew you in like a moth to a flame. What ensued over the following two or so years was a friendship of sorts. It had become more than that fairly quickly, lines blurring and unsure of who made the initial move into the new territory.
It was something that worked for both of you–Jason had his hands full with what you'd eventually learn was Red Hood and you were infatuated with living your own life. Having just moved out of your mom's house, who you didn't get along with nearly as much as you have since getting pregnant, you ached for freedom and you enjoyed every bit you were able to make for yourself. It would just complicate everything, you'd told him, and Jason certainly wasn't in a rush to take on such a commitment.
So you just hung out when you could. Sometimes you'd see him a handful of times in a couple days, other times it would only a be a few interactions within a few months. You never spoke over the phone but texts ranged from heated debates about Shakespeare to the thread being filled with flurries of memes and nudes sporadically timed. Sometimes plans were cancelled last minute but the beauty of it was that nobody got upset because there would always be a next time. And there almost always was.
It was simple. Easy, until it wasn't.
When you swing the door open, you find Jason sitting on the top step of the porch with his back facing you. His head whips around at the sound of the door and in one graceful movement he's on his feet, eyes trained on you. Wordlessly, you step aside to let him in. He breathes out another apology as he crosses the threshold, subconsciously holding his breath as he passes you.
"I'll get a towel. Can you take your shoes off?"
He glances down at his wet, muddy boots before giving you an apologetic look. "Yeah, of course." He watches you disappear up the stairs before carefully taking off his boots, neatly setting them beside a pair of tiny light-up dinosaur sneakers. He can't name the twisted feeling that arises in his chest, forcing himself to focus on anything else after a few seconds while he shrugs off his jacket, hanging it on an empty coat rack.
He takes a step toward the living room when something catches his eye. Polaroid pictures taped along a doorframe that leads to what he assumes is the kitchen. Bending down, he gets a better look at them, allowing his fingers to brush along the small horizon lines carved into the wood. The lowest one is about two feet high, with four more above and separated by five or so inches. Each one is accompanied by a photo of Josie, smiling and standing in front of that doorframe, along with her age written at the bottom. A new line and a new photograph for every birthday.
Inspecting the photos more closely, he's drawn to her hair. In every photo, in the center of her hairline, are strands of white contrasting harshly against the black. It's not like he's thought of it very often, the concept of passing along his genes, but it's never crossed his mind that that too could be inherited. Until you got pregnant, he had no clue he was even capable of conceiving a child.
"My mom did that with me, so it's kind of become a thing, taking her picture every year." His shoulders noticeably jump at the sound of your voice and you toss the towel at him once he stands. He catches it easily. "It's why she looks half-asleep in the last few; it's the first thing she asks about in the morning."
He smiles softly. "She's got my hair," he observes, almost in admiration.
"And your eyes."
"Your smile, though," he responds, gripping the towel tightly. "Knew she was yours the second I saw it."
You don't reply and he stays quiet, focusing on drying himself off. You let your eyes linger, wondering what his life's entailed since you last saw him; how he's been, what he's seen, who he's become. Physically, he doesn't look much different, but you notice a horizontal scar along the side of his neck, as if something graze him; thick and white and healed over. It definitely hadn't been there before. "Why? After all this time?"
He pauses at your words, towel pressed against his scalp. "Why what?"
"Why show up now? What made you care all of the sudden?"
There's no malice to your words but it still strikes like an arrow to the chest. "All of the sudden?" he repeats, scoffing. "How do you expect me to be able to show up or care when I'm left in the dark? I didn't even know you were still in the city!"
"See, you say that, but the checks you've been sending every month say otherwise." His eyebrows furrow as if he doesn't know what you're talking about but you refuse to let him play dumb. Turning your heel, you move up the stairs with intent, straight to your bedroom to pull out the manila folder hidden away in your closet. It feels heavy in your hand as you march back to the living room, where he hasn't moved. You stop a few feet away from him, tossing it carelessly at his feet. "You act like I've kept this big secret from you as if you haven't been throwing money our way since she was born. Like I said, I don't need your help and I don't want your money."
The towel slips from his fingers, falling to the floor as he reaches down to grab the folder. The crease between his eyebrows deepen as he opens it and pulls out its contents. His lips part, thumbing through check after check, each valued at an even ten grand and made out to you. "I don't-I didn't-" Speechless, eyes scanning the little piece of paper. There's nothing identifiable on it, no watermark or detail down to the generic printed letters and numbers on it.
Jason's head spins and his legs grow weak, his body settling on the edge of the closest armchair. There's nobody he knows with this kind of money that would not only send it to you every month but also keep it from him. Nobody except one person.
He can feel the fury burning away any rational thought that barely existed in the first place. How could he? Bruce Wayne has let him down time after time after fucking time but he never would've thought he'd keep something like this from him. Every time he called, every time they spoke. Every time he went out on a fucking limb for him–
"If not you, then who?"
His head is swirling, clouded by thoughts and emotions and methodical plans that involve varying levels of violence being inflicted on Bruce. He can't help but wonder who else knows. Definitely Alfred, which stings. Does Dick know? Did he have it in the back of his mind every time he invited Jason to dinner with Barbara or demanded his attendance to "mandatory sibling outings"? There's no way Steph knows; no way she would've stayed silent. Tim and Damien are wildcards, though he's sure one of them would've called him a deadbeat at some point through the years if they did know.
"Talk to me, Jason."
Jason's eyes dart to yours, his head shaking. "I had no idea," he asserts, trying to keep his voice steady. Trying to fight the urge to storm out and rip Bruce apart with his bare hands. "You have to believe me. About you, about Josie, about these checks–I thought about calling plenty of times but you shut me out and I didn't want to push it. If I had any clue that I had a child, I would've been at your door in a heartbeat."
His tone is sincere, threaded by shameless pleading. You know very little about Jason's relationship with his parents; you know his biological parents are dead, as well as a previous step-mom, and you know his relationship with his adoptive family had always been strained. It's hard to imagine somebody who's been on the other side of abandonment, especially somebody like him.
It isn't lost on you that he hadn't answered your question, though it's obvious he has directed suspicion, but he'd been your best friend once upon a time and he was always honest with you. You choose to trust that hasn't changed.
"Yeah?" He breathes the word out and for the first time in almost two weeks, he feels himself relax. The weight that had only grown heavier over the last few hours lightened. His eyes soften. "Tell me something about her. Anything."
"She loves musicals; any one I turn on for her and she'd embedded in the screen until it's over. She likes collecting weird rocks she finds and she likes painting–never the rocks, though. Loves Pokemon, hates raisins," you list off, before pausing a second. "I can put on some coffee, if you want. I can grab her baby book too."
His chest is tight and he clears his throat as he stands to his feet, subtly rubbing his chest. "Yes, please," he answers, grateful. "Yes to both."
For hours, Jason listens. Every goddamn piece of literature written pales in comparison to learning about every moment Josie's had in her life, absorbing each tiny detail studiously. Seeing her newborn picture (he tries imagining how small four pounds eight ounces and seventeen inches long would've looked in his arms); her second birthday, sat in her high chair and laughing to heartily, so carefree, with cake smeared on her face and the little table in front of her (you're leaning down beside her, laughing as he hand full of cake reaches your own face); to her first day of school, tiny fists gripping bright orange backpack straps and an overly-excited smile stretching across her face; to every other moment.
Once the baby book's complete, he moves onto the shoebox you'd also brought down, housing miscellaneous photos mostly of Josie as well. He finds a duplicate of one he's already seen in her baby book, taken soon after her birth. The picture's blurry and it's too overexposed to make out a lot of it but the center of it's visible, a close up of Josie in your arms. Your hair's a mess and Josie's busy crying her first cries but you're beaming through the exhaustion, smiling as you lean down toward her.
His thumb brushes the corner of the photo, letting himself steal a glance at you. Despite obvious signs of sleepiness, you still offered anecdotes and answered every question he's had all night, flicking through pictures as if it was your first time seeing them. Jason's certain that you could never stop talking about Josie and he'd never notice.
Jason treads lightly but the question's been nagging at him for days. "So when did... when did you decide to keep her?" he asks. "I mean, did you make the appointment at all?"
His question catches you off-guard but not by surprise. The topic's inevitable, you suppose. Curling your legs up, you wrap your arms around them, shrugging lightly. "I did, but the morning came an I felt so awful, throwing up and I could barely get out of bed. I rescheduled but I... I don't know when I decided to, but I couldn't bring myself to go. Then I broke down and told my mom about it, and she was–she was surprisingly great about it, supporting me either way, but she said she'd help me with whatever I decided."
Jason nods, unable to formulate much of a response. "That's good," he finally murmurs. "I'm glad you didn't have to do it alone."
Chewing on the inside of your lip, you watch him absentmindedly stare at the picture in his hand. "I thought about telling you, so many times." Your voice is quiet, averting your gaze when he lifts his. "But you were adamant about not wanting to be a parent and I didn't want to corner you with it. I didn't want you to be in her life out of pure obligation and turn her into a burden."
"She wouldn't have been a burden," he insists, though unsure of how he would have reacted.
"You were quite busy with other things during that time, weren't you?" His jaw tightens. You're not wrong–without you around, he found himself with a dangerous amount of free time, isolated and hyper-focused on his molten anger. He'd thrown himself back into his plan, feet hitting the ground running after halting once he met you, and became increasingly aggressive in his pursuit of Batman. If the timelines matched up the way he's pretty sure they did, he would've been holed up after the incident with Batman and Joker while Josie was being born, seething and licking at his own wounds.
"I guess I was," he concedes, regardless of what the truth may be. Glancing at the clock on the coffee pot–the second one of the night, warning only thirty minutes left before it times out–he sees it's passed two in the morning. "It's getting late," he mutters, looking at the picture in his hand one more time before placing it reluctantly back in the box.
"Places to be?" you tease more than anything as you stand. "Done?" He nods when you gesture toward his cup, carefully sitting as far away from the pictures on the table as possible. Grabbing it and yours, you move toward the sink.
"I feel bad," he admits sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Are you still bartending? That why you were working late last night?"
"I bartend sometimes, when I need the money. It's usually a Friday or Saturday night, when the money is almost worth the torture. My mom helped me get a job at the same firm as her a few years ago, so that's what I do during the week," you explain, returning to your seat. "Besides, I don't mind. As I'm sure you've noticed, you don't need to twist my arm to get me talking about Josie."
After a few moments, he voices the other big question haunting his brain. "D'you think she'd like me?"
Again, your chest tightens. Spending all this time thinking Jason willingly stayed away just to be utterly wrong feels like the air is being forced out of you each time it's made glaringly evident that that never was the case. He wants to make the effort. "She's going to love you."
She's going to. Not she would, as if it's a hypothetical; she's going to, as if it's already been cemented as fact. He laughs but it's heavy in his chest. "Thanks."
Insecurity on Jason is a weird look, something you never thought you'd so explicitly. His armor's a facade mostly, made up of ego and intimidation. It's not all fake–Jason's well aware of what he's capable of–but it's the tiny threads of vulnerability scattered throughout that form a much more complicated truth. "I mean that," you insist. "There's a frustrating amount of you in her, trust me. I think you two will get along just fine."
His chest feels much lighter when he laughs this time. "What do you think about me meeting her?" he asks quietly, cautiously, as if he's trekking through a minefield.
You tug at the sleeves of your hoodie, pinching and folding the fabric between your fingers while thinking. He doesn't push or break the silence, giving you as much time as you need. "Josie's only recently started asking about you. I've never had a plan for when she starts asking for specifics, but I'd choose that battle any day over having somebody who doesn't plan on sticking around." Your arms are crossed over your chest now, an attempt to convey your conviction after noticing his glancing at your jittery fingers. "I'm not saying that you would ever intentionally do it, but being a parent is full-time and it's demanding. And I know you know that but I think knowing and fully understanding and experiencing that are very different things."
Something akin to pride blooms in his chest. He's aware of how nerve-wracking this uncharted territory is for not only him but especially you, tasked with the ultimate decision, yet you maintain clear boundaries and precise lines that all stems from a fierce protectiveness. It's the same thought that eases the sting of this entire situation; every decision made regarding Josie is fueled by unconditional love and good intentions and it's evident.
Instead of triggering his defenses, he only digs his heels deeper into the sand. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table and eyes focusing on yours. "There are only two things capable of keeping me away; you and Josie," he speaks, calm and with purpose. "Nothing else."
His response should've brought comfort and it does, briefly. But soon your stomach churns, a familiar ache settling in the pit of it. You and Josie. You're guilty of doing that very thing, inadvertently or not. Since the day at the pizza parlor, the thought of what could've been different crept into your mind incessantly. Doubt and second-guessing invading your brain like a virus every time you let yourself think about it.
The knock of Jason's knee against yours pulls you from your thoughts successfully. "Don't do that." He's stern, eyebrows pulled together. "There's nobody to place blame on here." Nobody at this table, at least. "I'm not going to ask for your trust without giving you mine and I trust that you did what you thought was best for the both of you. No need to go crazy over pointless what-ifs, you know?" Oh, if only he could stomach the taste of his own words.
You let his words process. "Okay," you nod. "Okay. When did you want to meet her?"
"Ideally? Yesterday."
The soft laugh that leaves your lips makes his heart soar, even if you do punctuate it with an eye roll.
Technically, he could meet her tomorrow. It's difficult to shake the feeling of moving too fast, but you also trust Jason's word. Taking this risk with him doesn't feel nearly as risky as it might with anybody else. The problem lies in being unsure of how Josie will react to not only meeting him but finding out about him in general. She'd only started asking questions a few months ago, likely realizing that two-parent households are common amongst her classmates. So far, she's accepted that he's just not around, but she's stubborn and it's only a matter of time before she wants more–understandably so.
"I think it'd be better if I talk to her first. I don't want her to feel obligated to react any certain way just because you're there," you explain, more so thinking out loud. "What about tomorrow?"
He blinks clearly taken aback. "Like, tomorrow tomorrow? Or today tomorrow?"
"Today tomorrow. Sunday," you clarify, before adding. "Tentatively. I mean, I can talk to her when she gets home in the morning and see what she thinks about meeting you. I don't think she'll react badly but if she needs time, she needs time. I'll let you know if it needs to be moved to another day." His eyes are widened and no sound comes form his parted lips and you suddenly realize how presumptuous the offer is. It isn't his fault if he already has plans, and you don't want him to feel pressured to say yes to avoid an ultimatum. "Unless that's too soon, of course. I get it, I just figured-"
"It's not too soon," he objects, arriving back to his body once you start backpedaling. "Not too soon at all, I just wasn't expecting you to suggest so soon. I can do that."
"It's less than a twenty-four hour notice, so don't feel like you have to say yes-"
"I don't feel like I have to," he interjects again, this time with an amused tone. "I want to. As soon as she's ready, I'm ready. What time should I be here?" he asks, pulling his phone out of his pocket and setting it in front of you.
His phone screen is shattered, dents outlining the entire perimeter of it due to the lack of case. "Some things never change," you mumble and he hears it, chuckling. "How is this thing even still functional?"
"Maybe four? I can make dinner around five or so."
He looks at his phone when you give it back, seeing your name simply typed. "Four works for me." He presses a button and your own phone vibrates on the table. It hardly rings before you decline the call but he sees his name pop up, still accompanied by the same obnoxious eggplant emoji he'd put next to it years ago when he typed it in himself. His phone number hasn''t changed but he's surprised that you still have it saved. It puts a weird feeling in his chest. He ignores it. "I can make dinner."
"No, that's fine. I can cook, let you have time with her."
"I want to, I have to show off anyway. Don't worry, I won't burn your kitchen down." His grin widens when you scoff. Objectively speaking, he can't necessarily blame you for your reaction–steak used to be the most gourmet thing he could produce back then and he still usually opted for something far easier to make, ideally microwaveable–but since then, he's found a sort of comfort in cooking. It's not often he has the time, desire, or any sort of necessity to implement those skills, and he's no culinary expert, but. he knows enough to make his way. "Any allergies? Hard-no foods?"
This time, your scoff is laced with laughter. "Not at all. She will eat just about anything."
He chuckles, his chest warm. Like father, like daughter. "And you?"
"I'm not picky."
"Okay," he decides, nodding. "I'll think of something." He notices how tired your eyes look and his feet don't want to move but you both need sleep. He needs to be prepared and the clock is taunting him. "I'm... gonna go ahead and go. It's late."
He's aware that if you even implied he could stay any longer, he would without hesitation, but luckily you don't. "Yeah, my mom usually brings her home pretty early anyway," you agree, stretching your arms. The hoodie you're wearing rises enough to show a sliver of skin on your lower stomach as you do. He averts his eyes, respectfully, as soon as he realizes he's looking.
Standing to his feet, he starts carefully stacking the mess of photos sprawled all over the table. He lingers, trying to memorize every one. "You can hang onto that, if you want," you offer, the minuscule jump of his shoulders indicating just how lost in thought he is again. "A lot of those are copies in there, so you can go through and pick out ones you want to keep. As long as I'm willing to part with him, obviously."
He swallows thickly, the tease of your comment falling on deaf ears. "That'd be great," he responds, voice low. "Thank you."
Your eyes soften at the level of his gratitude. "She's yours, too." It's said so nonchalantly that he has no idea if you're aware of the effect those words have. on him. "And take your time, but I do want those back."
Laughing, he finishes putting the rest of the photos back into the box at a much quicker pace than before, closing the lid carefully. "Ma'am, yes ma'am," he salutes lightly.
Jason grabs the box before heading toward the door and you say nothing when he grabs the envelope of uncashed checks on his way. Watching as he pulls on his jacket, you lean against the banister of the stairs, again wondering how much the man in front of you has changed. You wonder how this conversation would've gone if it had happened six years ago, how that Jason would've reacted.
While you didn't actively keep tabs on the Red Hood, it's impossible to avoid the headlines involving him. After your fallout, it seemed like he got more dangerous–more lethal, with more theatrics–but he seemed to change over the last couple of years, his recklessness decreasing with time. There's less of the demand for the spectacle he used to crave, still providing efficient results through more direct approaches.
"You gonna say goodbye or were you just gonna stare at me 'til I left?"
Already fully dressed, the amused almost-smirk on his face pairs all-too-irritatingly well with the faint taunt dancing in his eyes. "Shut up," you grumble, sleepiness hindering your ability to think of a more impressive response.
"Genuine question, really," he insists, grabbing the shoebox and tucking it carefully beneath his arm. "I'll see you later."
"See you later."
His hand is on the doorknob, ready to leave, but instead his feet turn him around, closing the gap between you two and winding his free arm around your shoulders, bringing you into his chest. It's unexpected, surprise keeping you in place with your arms crossed, and he mumbles a quick thank you and then he moves away before you're able to process his actions. "Lock this behind me," he instructs, shutting the door behind him. Your stomach flips in recognition, the same sentiment echoed that he used to bid to your every time before leaving your apartment.
♡ ♡ ♡ ♡
Jason's plan was and still is to go home and get some sleep so he'd have plenty of time to figure out what he's making for dinner as well as getting to the grocery store to get whatever he'll need. But the second he left your house, the veil dropped, his anger seeping through the cracks and demanding a detour first.
His plan was simple, adamant on remaining levelheaded and calm. It felt so natural, so easy, to keep his head on straight while he was at your house and he used that to convince himself that he is totally, one-hundred percent able to have a civil conversation. He didn't want this looming over him when he meets his Josie or is spending time with her, so it needed to be gotten out of the way.
Unfortunately, things don't always go according to plan.
Upon entering the cave, Jason finds Dick, fully dressed in his Nightwing ensemble and sitting in the computer chair, heavily focused on the screen, and Bruce, still in his costume minus the cowl and hunching over Dick's back. Red bleeds into his vision, taking long strides toward the two. Both men glance Jason's way a second too late, giving him just enough time to lift his fist and swing it at Bruce's face.
He hears Barbara's voice come through the speakers and Dick scrambles out of his seat. "Hey, hey, hey!" he shouts, using both hands to grab at Jason's jacket to pull him back.
Satisfaction blooms inside of him, at the sight of Bruce's bleeding nose and the brief stagger in his step. Fucking good. He tears away Dick's hands, shoving the envelope at his chest. "Did you know too?"
"What is going on-"
Barbara's voice abruptly disappears when Jason slams the button to end the call. Nothing's said as Dick looks through the overflowing contents. He pulls out the checks, turning to Bruce and holding them up. "Who is this?"
Jason doesn't give him time to respond, your full name falling from his lips. "She's somebody from my past," he starts, forgoing any more detail. "What you're holding are the checks he's sent her, every month after my daughter was born."
As usual, the older man is stoic, no tell for what he's actually thinking and it's fuel to Jason's fire. "Daughter?" Dick echoes, eyes moving between the two cluelessly. "How did I not know you have a kid?"
"Because I didn't know." His stare is like stone, unwavering and locked on the man who's too cowardly to say anything. "Because he found out somehow and chose to keep it to himself for five and a half fucking years."
"Holy shit, Bruce," Dick mutters.
"If you don't start talking right now, I swear to god-"
"She was searching your name. A lot," Bruce interrupts gruffly. He spits the blood out from his mouth before continuing. "After looking into her background, it was clear to me that she needed the financial support, so I helped provide that."
Jason laughs sardonically. "Batman, my savior," he bites out. "That doesn't explain you not telling me. Wanna try that again?"
"You were in no position to raise a child then and you're smart enough to know that now." His words aren't spoken with malice, rather stated as factual. "You were reckless, dangerous and unpredictable. None of that is good for a child."
"Do you even see the irony in you giving me parenting advice?"
"That's not what this is," he argues calmly, as if this is just a run-of-the-mill spat between father and son. "She gave birth soon after you tried killing the Joker. I had no clue what kind of condition you were in or your state of mind."
"And you continued to feel that way even after I came back?" In truth, the larger part of Jason's fury is rerouted to himself, feeling stupid for the pang of hurt caused by the notion of being treated like a loose cannon. Another reminder of being permanently stuck on the other side of the glass. "Still thought I'd be a danger to my own child?"
Bruce raises his chin. "It wasn't my secret to tell. There was another flag three months after the child was born and then nothing else. It told me she stopped looking for you."
Anger scratches and claws and fights its way to the surface. "Our child," he corrects, fists clenching at his side. The pain that shoots through his right hand leverages him, keeping every violent urge at bay. He didn't hold back on that punch and, despite the lack of reaction, there's no way it didn't hurt Bruce too. "Our daughter. Which means that it wasn't your secret to keep either."
Silence falls yet again. Jason's heavy breathing is the only exception–until an alert begins flashing on one of the screens. Go fucking figure. It finally dents the thick tension, Bruce wordlessly taking a seat in the computer chair and instantly locked in on the screen. Dick is still off to the side, unsure of what to do.
Blinking a few times, Jason scoffs, shaking his head. "Stay away from her, and stay away from our daughter." He refuses–refuses–to say her name out loud inside of these walls–to him. "And get me off of your fucking alert system," he demands, turning to get as far away from him as possible before he does something unproductive (but deeply satisfying).
"Jason, hang on-"
He yanks his arm out of Dick's grasp. "Don't touch me," he snarls, exiting without anybody falling after this time.
♡ ♡ ♡ ♡
After leaving the manor, Jason had been too wired to lay down, opting to ride around in an attempt to clear his head. How could he let allow himself to be blindsided by Bruce yet again? Time after time, he's proven that his loyalty belongs to his own antiquated code of ethics and, every single time, Jason lets himself get caught in the crossfire, like a glutton for disappointment.
But Bruce doesn't get to take this away from him; not when he's so close. So he did what he does best: he threw himself into the mission. Somehow, deciding on dinner plans became more nerve-wracking anything Jason's faced before, but he managed. By the time he got home, showered, and finally ate something, he could feel the exhaustion taking hold. He sent you a quick text asking if you had a few ingredients he'd need already at your house, then dragged himself to bed.
Jason woke up hours later, with two hours to spare. After spending far too long worrying about what he should wear–seriously, when did this become so fucking hard?–he headed to the grocery store to grab the handful of things he needed. You'd responded to his text only a couple of hours later, and then sent another not long after to let him know that the conversation with Josie had gone okay, giving him the greenlight.
Now, with ten minutes until four, he's standing at the end of your short walkway. His feet won't move, Bruce's earlier words replaying in his head like rapidly growing virus. None of that is good for a child. Yeah, he may not know a goddamn thing about being a good parental figure, but both things can be true at the same time. It validates his own concerns about his ability to be a good parents. Is it selfish? Doing all this with uncertainty?
His phone vibrates in the pocket of his jeans and he digs it out, your name appearing on the screen.
stop being weird, the neighbors are going to call the cops
His shoulders loosen and he laughs under his breath as he pockets his phone. Taking a deep breath, he walks until he reaches the door, rapping his knuckles against the door three times before he can talk himself out of it.
There's two muffled voices coming from the other side and then a few seconds of quiet before the door swings open. You're slightly out of breath but you give him a smile. "Hi. Sorry, she's been off the walls today. Spent hours on the neighbors trampoline earlier."
"No worries."
"You ready?" you ask quietly, raising an eyebrow.
His hands are sweaty and he's pretty sure the inside of his cheeks are going to be hollow by the end of the day, but he nods anyway. "Yeah, I'm ready," he answers, barely above a whisper. He steps inside once you move aside, toeing his boots off and setting them in the same spot they were earlier in the morning. After hanging up his jacket, he looks forward, catching Josie's eyes peeking out from behind a wall. He's sure that his eyes were only the blueprint, the blues and greens intertwining into the prettiest color he's ever seen and sparkling with a glimmer that's foreign to his own. Lifting his hand, he gives a soft wave. "Hi," he greets simply, hoping the smile stretching against his lips doesn't appear as off-putting as it feels.
You turn your hand, smiling at your daughter and holding your hand out. "C'mere," you say, softly encouraging her. She moves from her hiding spot and walks over, one little hand gripping yours and the other playing with a piece of her hair nervously. "Josie, this is Jason. Jason, this wonderful little girl is Josie."
Jason crouches down, steady on his feet. "Pleasure to meet you." He hold his hand out carefully, an invitation rather than a request.
She doesn't speak for a few seconds. "Do I have to call you dad?" she finally asks.
"You can call me whatever you want to," he responds, his heart on the verge of beating out of his chest. As long as she's talking to him.
Again, she's quiet for a moment. "Your hair is like mine," she observes, pointing toward the white streak.
He grins almost sheepishly, nodding once. "Yeah, sorry about that."
She shrugs. "I think it's cool. Mommy says different is a good thing," she explains nonchalantly, shaking his head. She never lets go of yours but you can feel her grip weaken ever-so-slightly. Jason's far too aware of how tiny her hand feels in his, how fragile in comparison. "Are you an astronaut?"
He chuckles, resting his elbows on his thighs. "No, not quite." He resists the urge to tell her that he has been to space though, pocketing that for another time.
She pouts briefly. "I was hoping you were an astronaut, that'd be really cool."
"I'm cool in so many other ways, though, you'll see." How do he live up to that? "Your mom did tell me though that you like rocks, and I found these on the way here and thought you might like them." By found, he means he scoured around looking for any semi-interesting rock he could find, but that's not relevant. He reaches to pull the handful of rocks out of his jacket pocket, offering them to Josie.
She giggles, her hand leaving yours to scoop the rocks up with both hands. "There are stones–not rocks–but I still like them," she explains, inspecting the stones. "Do you wanna see the ones I already have?"
"I would love to see them."
She turns to you, looking up with wide eyes and both of her small hands housing the stones. "Mommy, is that okay? Can I show him?" she asks.
"That's fine," you reply, turning to Jason. "I'll take that bag. I'll find somewhere to put this stuff and then I'll be right up."
"Can you carry these until we're in my room?" Josie asks him, that same wide-eyed questioning look directed toward Jason this time. He could've passed out on the spot.
"Of course." Handing you the bag, the takes the stones from Josie, fitting them in one hand. She starts up the stairs, her small hand gripping the banister as she takes each step one by one.
"Don't overthink it, you'll be fine," you nudge him quietly, once Josie's halfway up the steps and he still hasn't budged.
Unsurprisingly, you're right.
Josie needs a bit of help at times, suddenly growing shy every now and then after excitedly rambling about something (a trait she definitely got from you), but it never takes much to get her going again. She shows off her rocks, taking up a whole shelf and neatly organized on the small bookcase (she'd placed his stones together and near the front, he'd noted triumphantly). One comment about the stuffed shark on her bed and she's launching into introduction of all her stuffed animals (the shark is Ralph, by the way, and he's her favorite). His brain functions like an efficient machine, listening to every word and hanging onto everything she says as if he's going to be tested.
You take your time putting away the groceries, listening to Josie talk Jason's ear off. Nobody's around to see but you're smiling smugly, sending a mental I told you so to Jason. Josie's generally a friendly and outgoing kid but she can be shy when it comes to meeting new people–yet things had been seamless from the moment she shook Jason's hand.
By the time you finish and make it upstairs, you linger by the door. Jason's laying on his side, propped up by his elbow with the sleeves of his deep red sweater pushed up his forearms. Besides him, Josie lays on her stomach, propped up by her elbows with her legs aimlessly swinging in the air. It only takes a few seconds of eavesdropping to recognize the book he's readying to her. You listen to the array of voices Jason makes for different characters and the humor it brings to Josie, waiting until the end to interrupt. "It's getting a little late. Think it's about time to make dinner?" you ask, both of their heads whipping back to look at you in almost perfect sync. "Jason's the cook tonight."
Flipping over, Josie sits with her legs outstretched and leaning back on her palms. "What's for dinner?" she asks, tilting her head. When you point to Jason, she gives him the same curious look.
He sits up, resting his arms on bent knees. "How do we feel about making pizzas?" he offers. "With you as co-chef, I think we'll be able to perfect the art of a pizza."
She scrunches her nose. "I don't like mushrooms though," she states.
He laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "No mushrooms, got it."
"I like cheese. Lots and lots of cheese. And pepperoni," she lists off informatively.
"I think we can make that happen."
"How about you go wash your hands and then we'll get you your apron, okay? Your stool's still in my bathroom," you tell her. She makes a noise of excitement before standing, the sound of little feet padding as she walks down the hall to your bedroom. You turn back to Jason, raising an eyebrow with a knowing grin. "So?"
He lets out a breathy laugh, fingers combing through his hair. "She's... she's perfect." It's the only word he can think of and it still doesn't feel quite right. Her little giggles, the way her eyes light up when she gets excited, the small huff she makes every time a piece of hair falls into her face. You and him, creating an entire little human. It's something he can't fully wrap his head around, like a dream more than reality. "I-" He cuts himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose and laughing thickly.
Before he can continue, Josie comes hurrying back into the room. "My hands are all clean!" she exclaims, holding them up for extra measure.
Jason composes himself skillfully, pushing himself to his feet. "Looks like we should get to work then," he states, rubbing his hands together.
Jason's clean and mostly organized as he cooks, allowing Josie to help as much as she's able. He's patient with her, instructing her and maneuvering around like a pro. You spend most of the time watching them together, seemingly forgetting your existence except for the occasional did you see what I did, mommy?
"So, on a scale of one to ten–ten being best–how do you think we did?" Jason asks once everybody's finished eating, leaning back in his chair.
Tapping her chin, Josie mulls it over thoughtfully. "Thirteen," she decides.
"Exactly what I was thinking." He holds his hand up in a high-five, which she excitedly returns.
"Do you have to leave now? Since dinner is over?" Josie asks, growing shy again.
"I'm not in a rush," he answers. He wonders if she'll ever ask where he's been all this time. He wonders what he'd say. "Any ideas on what to do now?"
You stand, collecting the dishes and bringing them to the sink. "We could watch a movie!" she suggests, her eyes lighting up with the idea.
"I think that's a great idea, why don't you go pick one?"
Nearly two hours later, the three of you are shoved onto your small couch. Josie's in the middle, curled up in a ball and wrapped in a blanket with her head resting on your lap. Jason's on the other side of her, arm bent on the back of the couch and holding his head up as the credits roll. Josie had picked Tangled (yes, again, but when Jason said he hadn't seen it, it became non-negotiable) and lasted about halfway through before she was asleep on your lap, worn out from the day. Neither you or Jason said anything during that time, choosing to mostly focus on the TV screen.
"I'm gonna go ahead and get her to bed," you whisper, grabbing the remote and turning the TV off, leaving only the soft glow of a single lamp to brighten the space. "You don't have to stick around."
"I can wait," he offers quietly, stretching his arm out.
Nodding, you lean down to brush Josie's hair out of her face. "Josie, baby," you gently coo, her eyes fluttering open. "Let's get you to bed, okay?" She nods sleepily, sitting up and rubbing her eye with the heel of her hand. You stretch your own limbs before before scooping her up, her head resting on your shoulder. "Say goodbye to Jason."
Jason stands, rubbing his hands on his jeans. "Are you gonna come back soon?" Josie asks, still groggy with sleep.
"Do you want me to?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll be back as soon as I can," he promises.
She yawns, nodding. "Will it be as long this time?"
His heart aches and you hold your breath. "No. Never," he vows.
"Okay. Goodnight."
"Goodnight. I had a lot fun today."
It doesn't take long to get Josie back to sleep, the biggest hurdle being her lack of energy to help get her changed into her pajamas. She's asleep before her head hits the pillow and you press your lips to her head and whisper a soft sweet dreams, I love you to her before turning on her nightlight and quietly closing her door, leaving it cracked.
When you return downstairs, you follow the noise into the kitchen. Jason's standing in front of the sink, his back facing you and holding onto the edge of the counter, a washcloth in one hand. The dishes from dinner are now clean and sitting on the drying rack, and you wonder how long he's been standing there lost in his own head.
Jason's always tidied up in times of stress. You remember plenty of times you'd arrive to his apartment to find him obsessively rearranging bookshelves or tending to one of his many, many weapons. Or times that you'd wake up in his bed alone, only to find him in the kitchen, scrubbing the countertops with intent strong enough to burn a hole through. You remember what the easiest route used to be to get Jason Todd out of his own head and your cheeks flush at the unexpected thought. It continues without your consent, visions of wrapping your arms around his waist and kissing along his shoulders and back and sliding your hands lower and lower until–
Clearing your throat for your own benefit, the only sign that he hears you is the slight turn of his head. You walk closer but stop by the island, maintaining distance. It's been a long, long day, and you're clearly not thinking straight. "You didn't have to clean up, especially since you made dinner," you tell him, offering your hand. "I'll finish up. You can-"
He doesn't let you finish, turning and using your outstretched hand to pull you closer until he can wrap his arms around you. He can't explain it but he feels like he's going to float away if he doesn't stabilize himself somehow, and this feels like the only logical solution. You respond by wrapping your arms around his waist. When his breathing stutters–despite his persistent efforts to steady it–you let your fingers move along his back freely, silently.
♡ ♡ ♡ ♡
Jason's oath to come back soon holds true, showing up every chance he's given. When Josie plays the understudy of Tree #2 in her school play–ultimately never getting stage time–he's there with a bouquet of flowers. When she comes down with a bad cold, he's at your door with apple juice, soup, and crackers, despite your insistence that it isn't necessary. If Jason's unable to visit that day for whatever reason, he always makes sure to call her before she goes to bed. He holds his promise near and dear to his heart, carefully, growing closer and closer with Josie.
It takes exactly fifty-three days and seven hours from the time that Josie met Jason to the first time an accidental "dad" slips up. In that time, she never addressed him directly, choosing more not-so-subtle subtle ways, like cheering out an ooh, look at this! for a picture she's drawn or playing a little extra loudly to get his attention. Jason doesn't mind, of course. He pays close attention to her anyway, and he's quickly learned how to read her and anticipate her needs.
On that day, the three of you are playing hide and seek, the current round appointing you and Josie as the hiders and Jason as the seeker. He finds you easily, Josie deeming the perfect hiding spot for you to be behind the curtains. You obliged, taking position behind the thin fabric as you listened to get scurry away and up the stairs while Jason loudly counted to twenty from a corner in the kitchen.
"Trying picking somewhere that covers your feet next time," Jason suggests oh-so-helpfully.
"I'd win the game before I got too cocky if I were you."
It's taken some time but Josie's gotten far better at hide and seek. It used to be that she'd tell you where she was going to hide or telling you where she's actively hiding or talking and giggling loudly from her hidden spot. Now, a couple of minutes pass of following Jason around while he looks for her and you're waiting for him to forfeit–until he reaches her bedroom.
His eyes scan the room as he moves to open her closet door and check under her bed. "If there's a secret attic I don't know about, that's cheating," he points out, pushing himself off the floor. Before you can answer, muffled laughter comes from the pile of stuffed animals on the bed. He grins, glancing at you before standing at the end of the bed, hands loosely resting on his hips. "Now, where could that have come from?"
The shriek that escapes Josie when he grabs her feet and tugs, pulling her from underneath the plush mountain, is mixed with laughter that's soon made worse when his hands move to her sides, tickling her. She's lost in a fit of laughter, writhing around when– "Daddy!"
Everything stops. Jason's hands stop moving, one knee fixed on the bed to hold his weight. Josie freezes, any noise from her coming to an abrupt silence. You're unsure of what to do, knowing that she's only going to get more nervous by Jason's lack of reaction. "Is it okay that I said that?"
Jason's head is spinning and part of him thinks he must've misheard her but his ears know what they heard. It's clearly a slip-up–does he pretend he didn't hear it? The single word that made his heart stop, made the world stop turning, how does he ignore that? He has no idea what he's supposed to do but upon hearing her question, so small and meek and unsure, he pulls his head from the water instantly, instinctively. "Yeah, baby," he responds softly, falling into a sitting position. "You can call me that."
She beams. "Can we play another round?"
"How about you go get some juice or water and then we can do that?" you suggest, trying to give Jason a minute to process.
"Okay! And then it's my turn to be the seeker, don't forget," she reminds you before heading toward the kitchen.
You take a seat next to Jason on the bed, back against the wall. You don't shift away when you realize you sat a little closer than intended, your shoulders brushing just barely. "Do you think you'll survive?" you tease lightly.
He chuckles, running his fingers through his hair roughly before dropping his hand to his thigh and his head against the wall. "Thought I was gonna have a heart attack, that's for sure."
Smiling, you turn your head to look at him. "She loves you a lot, you know. Talks about you when you're not around and she's been including you in all of her family drawings. She fights pure exhaustion sometimes just to stay awake for your nighttime calls." Your hand finds his, curling your fingers around his own. "It might've taken a bit for her to say it, but I think she's seen you as her dad for awhile."
Jason doesn't allow himself to doubt things when it comes to Josie; it's something he's been adamant about since the beginning. He puts his entire being into being the best he can be with her and he's seen with his own eyes how that's changed their relationship, how it's improved it. It harder some times than others to fend off his insecurities but he always ends up doing it.
But while he doesn't need to hear the affirmations, that doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate it endlessly.
His thumb brushes along your knuckles without his brain's instruction, head rolling against the wall to catch your eyes. He's overly aware of how cold your fingers are in contrast to his warm skin and the amount of pressure from your shoulder pressing against his. He's overwhelmed with emotion and he has no clue where to put the big, heavy feeling that's nestled in his chest. It obscures his critical thinking skills and brings forth an almost magnetic pull to you, aching to be closer to you–and it's certainly not the first time.
Building a relationship with Josie isn't possible without building a relationship with you, and you and Jason have always clicked effortlessly. Awkward tension melted away, shortly replaced with a nearly identical version of the friendship that you used to have–minus the sex, obviously.
But recently, that same pull had been nagging and nagging at him. And he's felt need for you before but this is something different entirely. In and of itself, it's generally decent; like fighting the instinct to press his lips to your hairline when you accidentally fall asleep on his shoulder during movie night or longing for the freedom to crawl into bed with you after a long day, your body nestled against his.
Things were never just sex for the two of you and he's always silently acknowledged that much. For him, you'd been his sole constant; a buoy centered in otherwise treacherous waters. There was no thinking or calculating because his brain wasn't going a hundred miles a minutes; all his bullshit seemed to transform into a low hum, easy to drown out by just being around you. From being tangled up on the couch, quiet murmurs passing between you two with the TV long forgotten to being lost in the sheets, goading every pretty little sound he could get out of you until you were begging him to stop–god, it muted all the chaos.
And–okay, yes, he had woken up hard as hell a few weeks ago after a dream about you that was more reminiscent than imaginary, but his dreams are out of his control, in his defense. But now? Now it's the pressing urge to feel your lips against his, slow and sweet; innocent and chaste.
"I don't think-"
"I finished my juice!" Josie's voice rings up the stairs, causing you both to jump.
Get it together, dumbass. Jason clears his throat, eyes darting away from yours as he pushes himself to his feet. "Sorry about that, I just-" What is he apologizing for, exactly? He shakes his head once, hand waving aimlessly by his head. "I'm all-you know." A-fucking-plus.
There's a confused look on your face for a brief moment before you replace it with a small smile. He wonders if his face had shown how badly he wanted to kiss you. "It's been a big day, it's fine. Don't apologize." You stand, heading toward the door. "We should get down there."
Later that night, you've fallen asleep on the couch. You'd only intended to stretch out, maybe scroll through your phone while Jason read to Josie, but sleep hijacked that plan as soon as you laid down.
Jason quietly walks down the steps, finding the least creaky part of each step. He finds you curled up with Josie's small plush blanket, hardly covering the bare skin of your legs that your cloth shorts left exposed, and lips parted to exhale soft breaths. Carefully leaning on the back of the couch, he sees himself bending further, brushing your hair out of the way to softly kiss your shoulder, your cheek, your temple, your forehead, until you stir awake.
Luckily, the responsible half of his brain his forgoes on acting it out but his hand still moves toward you, his fingertips grazing along your hairline with a featherlight touch. Your eyes slowly open and he pulls his hand away, a small smile on his lips as he looks down at you. "She's out like a light," he informs quietly. "Tried to fight it like hell but she was gone before I even finished the book."
Rubbing your eyes, you sit up straight, curling your legs closer with your back pressed against the arm of the couch. "Okay," you mumble sleepily. "Are you heading out?"
"I actually wanted to run something by you, if you think you've got the brain power."
Your face is blank as he walks around, taking a seat at the other end of the couch. "Ha ha, very funny," you deadpan, readjusting the blanket over your legs.
He winks, settling his arm on the back of the couch and using his fist to prop his head up, his body angled toward you. "So, Dick keeps talking about wanting to meet Josie," he starts, dubious. "He's mentioned it before in passing but when I turned down his last offer of dinner with him and Barbara, he brought it up directly."
You wait for him to continue, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never comes. He only looks at you expectantly. "And?" It's not dismissive or rude; you're genuinely confused about what he's expecting of you.
"And, I wanted to run it by you and see what you think. About him meeting her."
"Did you think that I'd be against her meeting your family?" Perplexed, you don't know if you should feel offended or not by the implication.
Family is an interesting choice of words, he thinks. "They're... complicated," he settles on. "It's completely understandable if you have, you know, reservations or whatever."
Eyeing his curiously, you respond. "If I have reservations, or if you do?"
He groans, head falling to the back of the couch. "Oh, fuck off."
It's an empty sentiment and you laugh. "If you want any of them to meet Josie, it's not my blessing you need, but I'm okay with that. Do you want them to meet her?"
The million dollar question, it seems. He isn't stupid–he knows that Dick's reaching out to him more frequently since that day in the cave is overcompensation to a degree–but there's also a solid part of him that wants to say yes, he does want Dick to meet his daughter. But there's also a part of him that feels protective over the little life he's worked so hard to build with Josie (and subsequently you) and saying yes meant allowing his two realities to finally collide, to potentially crash, and that fucking scares him.
He lifts his head, resuming its previous position as he exhales and stares off, eyes settling on picture of you and Josie on the wall. "Yes? No? Maybe?" All three words taste the same on his tongue. "It's always been... catastrophic with them. Things are better, in some ways, but still so fucking hard in others." His hand moves, rubbing the side of his face and his forehead, frustrated. "I don't want it to ruin things."
"Have you thought about it before?" When he doesn't respond, you stretch one of your legs out from the under the blanket, pushing your foot against his thigh. It works, reigning him in, and he looks forward with a small shrug. His hand drops to your ankle and you don't think he realizes it when his thumb starts moving, carressing your skin.
"I mean, yes." He gnaws on his bottom lip for a second before continuing. "Dick would love her and Barbara's great, most of the time. Josie would be great with Steph, too." He didn't care to take chances with the rest of them. Not yet, anyway.
"Then what's the problem?"
What is the problem? The problem is that his relationship with any of them varies depending on the day. If they're going to come in a pry and comment and wait around for him to screw up, he wants no part of that. But would they actually do that?
"Did he suggest a specific time?" you ask once you realize he won't–or can't–answer your previous question.
He turns his head to look at you again, his thumb halting its movements but leaves his hand in place. "No," he answers. "He's back in Bludhaven on a job, but that shouldn't take longer than a week. We'd just have to pick a day, see if they can make it."
You squint your eyes, trying to make out the calendar on the wall above Josie's workstation in the dim lighting. "She has a sleepover party next weekend but any other day can work."
Suspiciously, he narrows his eyes. "Sleepover party, huh?" he inquires, feigning nonchalance. "You know much about their parents?"
"I've met them many, many times but if you mean did I run a full-scale background check on them, the answer's no. I also don't think it's necessary. They're nice people and their daughter is Josie's best friend. We've all spent plenty of time together over the years."
He lazily holds his hands up in defense and you instantly miss the warmth of his hand. "I'm just saying," he insists. "One word and I can know everything there is to know about them within the hour. No farm if there's nothing to find, right?"
"Calm down, dad, she'll be just fine."
He laughs, a comfortable silence blanketing the room. "I'll talk to Dick about next Friday, let you know what he says." You nod wordlessly and the rational side of his brain is telling him to leave–it is a work night for you–so he stands to his feet. "I'll head out, let you get some sleep." There it is again, the pesky thought of following you into your room.
"Okay. Are you still coming over Thursday?"
He grins. "Of course. Can't miss taco night."
♡ ♡ ♡ ♡
Can you come outside?
Jason provides no detail, confusing you further. He never announces his arrival through text, instead letting you know when he's on the way and entering with the key you'd given him weeks ago. Josie's sitting at her workstation, finishing the last of her homework. You drop your phone on the couch, closing your laptop and deeming work done for the night. "I'm gonna take the trash out. I'll just be a second, okay?" you tell her, standing to your feet.
"Okay, I'm almost done! Is daddy still coming over?" she asks with signature wide eyes. It isn't like Jason's ever not shown up when he planned to but sometimes you wonder if him being gone for so long ever made her worry about him walking out the door and never returning again. It always sends a rush of guilt through you that you do your best to ignore.
"Of course, baby, he should be here any second." Grabbing the half-full trash bag from the kitchen, you slip on shoes before heading outside. Jason's sitting on the bottom step and he turns at the sound of the door, the hood of his red hoodie covering most of his head. It's his left eye that catches your attention first. It's bruising badly, the color of his eyes a sparkly centerpiece to the splotchy, dark coloring surrounding it. Above it, a thin bandage adorns his eyebrow vertically and holds together a nasty looking gash. There's a small line on the side of his bottom lip and the similar scratch stretching across his cheekbones that pale in comparison to the other wounds. "I didn't hear you pull up."
He chuckles half-heartedly, rubbing the back of his neck and causing the hood to fall down. "Yeah, I parked it on the next street over and cut through. Wanted to talk to you first." He waist before continuing, eyes following you during the short walk to the trashcan. "I didn't want to just not show up, but I also didn't want to just waltz in with... this," he explains, gesturing to his face. "I don't really know how to navigate this."
Leaning against the railing, you angle yourself to keep Josie in your line of vision through the window. "And you think I do?"
He raises an eyebrow, leaning his elbows on the step above him and looking up at you. "You make it look so effortless, doing the right thing for her. I trust your opinion." He finishes with a goofy grin but the sincerity leaves your cheeks feeling warm.
"I think I might just be better at pretending." He opens his mouth to object but decides against it. "She's going to ask what happened, at least. What are you planning on telling her?"
He leans forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. He plays with the keys in his hand, consisting of only three keys–to his bike, to his apartment, and to your house–and a small Hello Kitty keyring that Josie insisted Jason would love, and he'd responded by vowing to never take it off. "I don't want to lie to her," he voices quietly, breaking the silence as his thumb brushes across the the tiny scratches indented on the plastic of Hello Kitty's face.
"But you can't really tell her the whole truth. She's five."
He hums in acknowledgement but it's distant, far away in his own head while his eyebrows pull together and he chews on the inside of his cheek. No, he can't really tell her the whole truth. He hates the idea of having to twist the truth to make it digestible for Josie–he gets it, obviously, but it doesn't make it feel any less wrong. "Tell me to stop right now and I will."
"What?"
"Tell me that the best thing to do for Josie is to put it all behind me–Red Hood, the bullshit, the everything–and I will do it in a heartbeat."
Raw sincerity wraps around every single word loudly. He's been in Josie's life for such a short period of time but the unequivocal love he has for her was written all over his face from the first day he met her. But you also know that this decision needed to be his and his alone, without anybody else's influence–and that includes your own. Losing Red Hood would mean losing a piece of himself at best or his entire self at worst, whether he's aware of it or not. Sure, maybe there's another life where he'd be perfectly content sitting on the sidelines, but not in this one. Jason Todd is, and always will be, the kind of person who refuses to let injustice go by unnoticed, unhandled.
"Is that what you want?"
"If it means my family will be safe? Absolutely."
You don't allow yourself to linger on his definition of that word. Perhaps this topic should've been broached earlier on, but this is the first time it demanded to be addressed. You've never questioned Jason's whereabouts when he isn't at your place but you don't live under a rock and his name is in the headlines on a regular basis.
It's how you know that two nights ago, a man that heads a sex trafficking ring targeting children evaded arrest. The paper from that morning broke news that that very man had been found dead with a single bullet to the head, all of his security left alive, though unconscious and defenseless to the arrival of the police. It's technically an open investigation, since it happened in the middle of the night and all the cameras on the property were disabled, but the pieces fit easily.
You try to choose your next words carefully. "Safety isn't something that can be guaranteed one-hundred-percent, ever, and no matter what you do, you're always going to have a past. But I... I believe in what you do, Jay. I always have."
The nickname is a slip-up but it's the first time he's heard it in years from you and Jason clutches to it. Buried beneath words that make his head feel light and his heartbeat pound in his ears, escaped from his chest. I believe in what you do. I always have. It's the kind of sentiment he's longed to hear his entire life and he knows, in that moment, there's nobody else he'd rather hear it from. "Thank you." His response feels underwhelming but it's the only thing he can string together. The weight of having somebody's–but especially yours–unwavering trust terrifies him just as much as it invigorates him.
Smiling, you push yourself off the railing. "I'm gonna head back inside." He leans to the side to give you space to pass by. You falter as you go to take the step beside him, letting your hand rest on his shoulder. "Don't take too long, she's waiting for you. I'm in your corner, whatever you decide." He doesn't respond, instead covering your hand with his own and squeezing gently, letting his thumb glide along your knuckles once before dropping it altogether.
Jason isn't ashamed of who he is or what he does. He doesn't feel guilt for the lives he's ended because they deserved it. The world is a safer place for their absence and he's more than pleased to be the one to make that happen. It may not be the conventional route but it's a permanent solution, which is something Bruce will never be able to provide for Gotham. Hiding behind a mask, split between two personas and never truly knowing where the person ends and the façade begins.
Aside from when he first donned the red helmet, equipped with a meticulous plan that required shielding his identity until the right time, he's never made it a priority to keep himself separate from Red Hood. It helps that the name Jason Todd means nothing to the majority of people and those who would attempt to look it up would dead end at the obituary of a younger, much different boy.
But that results in a target on not only his back but anybody who could be traced back to him, which hasn't been something he's needed to worry about before–until you and Josie. He can protect himself but he can't be with both of you twenty-four-seven. He can't watch over the lives of every single family member, friend, or even acquaintance that could potentially be traced back to you. He doesn't let himself think about what he'd do if anything did happen to either of you.
The sound of your voice calling for Josie to wash her hands pulls him from his thoughts. Reminding him that Josie's in there, waiting for him, expecting him to walk through the door any minute. This is stupid. If nothing else, he's sure of two absolutes: one, this decision doesn't need to be made right this moment, and two, he's not going to lie to his daughter. There's no need to sit here and come up with an excuse for the truth.
Dusting off his pants as he stands, he runs his fingers through his hair in a blind (and vain) attempt to not look so rough before going up the steps and opening the door. He's kicking off his shoes when he hears small feet on tile, Josie emerging from the kitchen with excitement. "You're here!" she exclaims before faltering slightly, head tilted and looking curiously.
"You're dripping water everywhere," you scold lightly, following after her. He swallows, glancing from her, to you, and then back to her as you help dry her hands with a towel.
"What happened to your face?" she ponders, stepping toward him.
Jason crouches, perched on one knee. He can tell she's hesitant to make another move, apprehensive. It's taken a lot of time to ease her nerves and get her to stop second-guessing her actions when it came to him and he refuses to regress. "Had to take care of some bad guys." It's simplified, but honest. He's aware of you linger a few feet behind her, watching silently, but he keeps his eyes fixed on Josie.
"Did you win?" she asks after what feels like an eternity.
Memories of the early hours of the day flash through his head. Sebastian Knox hadn't gotten a hit on him–hadn't even realized Jason had entered the room until the barrel of his gun was to his head–but his mass of heavily armed bodyguards got a couple good ones in. He left them all alive–they were just doing their jobs, to be fair, even if that employment put them in his way–but they stayed down long enough to let him reach his target. And his target now resides in a morgue somewhere. "I always win," he retorts with a scoff, winking swiftly.
She responds with only one question. "Will it hurt if I give you a hug? I can be careful."
Jason's heart could've stopped in that moment and he'd be none the wiser. He smiles, soft and wide, leaning forward to scoop Josie up in one arm. He stands straight, his other arm wrapping around her back. She returns it eagerly, short arms wrapping around his neck. He doesn't care that the side of her head is digging into his bruised eye and he doesn't care that her weight sends a shooting pain through his side.
He easily maneuvers Josie once she loosens her grips, keeping her on his less injured side. "Mommy, did you know that daddy takes care of bad guys?" Josie asks once they reach the kitchen.
"Does he? Sounds like a tough job."
"Yeah, but all the coolest jobs are touch ones," she says matter-of-factly.
"Yeah, I'm cool now," Jason informs you. "Not to brag or anything."
"No, never you."
This time his wink is directed at you before he sets Josie on her feet. "We ready to start dinner?" he asks.
"I'll start getting everything out for dinner but first–" You raise your eyebrows at Josie, who grins shyly in response. "Josie has something she wants to show you."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"It's a surprise," she giggles from behind her hands.
"I love surprises." For the first time in his life, he means it. "Lead the way."
He's doesn't know what to expect as Josie's hand grips his thumb, guiding him up the stairs and to her room. She lets go of him, going to her closet and using both hands to twist the doorknob. She has clothes hanging on a rack and a set of drawers positioned to one corner but the built-in shelves on the other side have been cleared of the clothes that previously occupied the space. "I made space so you can have clothes here, too, for when we have sleepovers." She's quiet and nervous and doesn't look at him while she speaks. "Mommy thought it was a good idea too so she helped me. Do you think so?"
He beams, brimming with emotions that escape through breathless laughter. Leaning down, he hoists her up, arms tightly wound around her legs. "I think it's a great idea, baby," he tells her, kissing the side of her head. "Thank you. It'll make things much easier."
Pairing: Cassian x female High Fae reader (Mor's twin sister)
Summary: When Mor is attacked and left for dead on the Autumn Court's border, you and Azriel take her to the Illyrian war-camp where he's stationed with Rhys and Cassian for her to recover. After she reveals she slept with Cassian, whom you've liked for some time, you pull back from the Illyrian warrior to focus on your sister. What you fail to realize is that Cassian has feelings for you, not Mor.
Warnings: mentions of assault and injury, angst, miscommunication trope, hurt/comfort
Word Count: 5,700
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Mor’s pale skin shone eerily in the moonlight that streamed through the window. Your sister lay almost completely still in the bed, save for the slight rise of her chest with every labored breath. The blankets covered the bloody bandages around her abdomen, but her neck and arms were covered in dark blue bruises and barely-scabbed-over cuts that screamed of the violence she’d endured.
“She’s bad,” Madja had said when you and Azriel brought her to Rhysand yesterday, “but not beyond repair.”
You clung to Madja’s words. In a world dominated by darkness, your sister was a light you desperately needed to endure your father and his cruel court. You hadn’t left her side, watching over her with trembling hands and fearing each breath might be her last.
Azriel sat defeatedly in the chair next to you, shadows darting anxiously between him and the bed Mor lay in. He had discovered her on the border of the Autumn Court, and he blamed himself for not tracking her more closely. You, on the other hand, credited him for saving her life. Mor very well could have died in the woods before Azriel had found her.
Cassian and Rhysand were also on edge. Both had been in and out all day, updating and checking in on you and Az between training sessions with the rest of the Illyrian warriors. Cassian had brought you all three meals, though you’d hardly been able to eat.
You were grateful for your cousin and Cassian, whom you’d met a few months ago when Rhys took you and Mor on a trip to the war-camp he was stationed at. You’d enjoyed the time with your cousin and your aunt, and had especially enjoyed meeting his two closest friends. Azriel was similar to you in many ways, quieter, reserved, more prone to observing than participating in group activity. And Cassian…
Cassian brought out an outgoing, carefree side of yourself that you didn’t even know existed. He was all sunshine and boisterous joy that had your heart pounding in your chest and butterflies swirling in your stomach. And Azriel had this oh-so obvious affection for Mor…
“Think about it,” you had told Mor once you’d returned home, getting ready for bed on opposite sides of your shared room. “We could each run away with an Illyrian warrior. Escape from this hell hole with an attractive male-slash-security detail. It’s fool proof.”
“Is this a real escape scheme or just your not-so-little crush on Cassian talking?” Mor had replied, casting a mischievous glance over her shoulder at you. You had blushed and told her to shut up, her assessment of you right on the nose as always.
How long ago that conversation seemed now.
Madja entered the room quietly, nodding to you and Azriel as she hovered over Mor. Az straightened in his seat, stretching his wings slightly while Madja checked your sister’s vital signs and administered the contents of a small glass vial. “Painkillers,” the healer explained.
“Is…” Azriel trailed off, considering his next words carefully. “How long do you think it will take her to wake up?”
Madja smiled sadly. “Only time will tell, young shadowsinger. I suggest you get some sleep in the meantime, and a meal, neither of which you will find in here.”
Azriel nodded dismissively, her words falling on deaf ears.
“Thank you,” you murmured, giving her a small smile.
“Of course,” Madja murmured, patting your shoulder softly.
The soft light coming from the hallway faded as she closed the door behind her. You’d all holed up in the small house Rhys shared with his mother on the outskirts of the war-camp. From the window, you had a perfect view of the training ring Cassian and Rhys had been in and out of all day, dimly lit by a few shoddy torches. Azriel had elected to stay with you by Mor’s side all day, shirking the training regime forced on all males in the camp. The punishment would be severe, and you knew he couldn’t afford to miss another day.
“Get some sleep,” you murmured, glancing at the disheveled male beside you. His eyebags were visible even in the near darkness.
“Y/n-”
“You’ll need to rest for tomorrow,” you interrupted. He sighed softly and nodded.
“I know,” he all-but whispered. “I just…I don’t want to leave her like this.”
“When she wakes up, you’ll be the first to know,” you said softly.
“If she wakes up,” he said, worry overtaking the careful-neutrality he usually wore on his face.
“When,” you said firmly, reaching out to squeeze his hand softly. “Go to bed.”
Azriel stood up slowly, quietly thanking you as he trudged out the door and down the hall, tired footsteps echoing in the quiet house.
You hummed to yourself softly in the darkness, far more alert than the shadowsinger had been. You were too anxious to be sleepy - how could you rest when the other half of your soul lay lifeless in the bed in front of you? She was the light to your shadow, the Truth to your Deceit, though your parents only saw value in her power. Controlling your twin sister had been your father’s main objective since you were young. You were quiet enough, obedient enough to slip under his radar.
The floorboards in the hallway creaked as someone knocked on the door lightly. You glanced over your shoulder, breath hitching at Cassian looming in the doorway, massive wings almost entirely blocking the light from the scone behind him.
“I come bearing gifts,” he said softly, a weary smile on his face as he raised two steaming mugs of tea. “Figured you could use some company.”
“I’d like that,” you murmured, beckoning him to sit in the empty chair beside you.
“It’s chamomile,” he said, carefully handing you one of the mugs before sitting down, chair creaking beneath the muscled weight of him. You breathed in the steam and took a small sip.
“It’s perfect,” you gave him a grateful smile.
“I remembered you saying you liked it last time you were here,” Cassian shrugged. An offhanded comment of yours one night weeks ago. “Figured it might be nice tonight. It’s kind of cold out.”
Warmth blossomed in your chest, and not just from the tea. “Thanks, Cassian.”
He shrugged, signature lopsided grin gracing his face as he stole a glance at you. “No problem, sweetheart.”
Perhaps your crush on him wasn’t as outlandish as you thought.
“How is she?” he asked softly, eyes lingering on Mor’s pale form.
“Madja says it’s just a waiting game now,” you muttered.
Cassian scooted his chair closer to yours. “She’ll be alright. She’s tough, like you.”
“I’m not tough,” you chuckled sadly. “Not compared to her, not compared to you all.”
“Don’t say that,” Cassian said, brows furrowing. “Both of you have spent your entire lives in the Hewn City and still manage to be some of the most kindhearted, genuine fae I’ve ever met. That takes a strength greater than what Az and Rhys and I have.”
You blushed, thanking the lack of light in the room. “Thank you. That…means a lot, actually.”
“Well, you mean a lot,” he said, leaning towards you. “Both of you.”
You smiled, leaning your head softly on his large shoulder. Cassian stilled, then ever so gently tilted his own head to rest atop yours. You held your breath, eyes closing for the first time in a day and a half as you savored his closeness, how warm he was, even through the thick shirt he wore to fend off the cold.
Cassian slurped his tea loudly and you giggled.
“Sorry,” he chuckled. “Got a little thirsty.”
“Interrupting the peace and quiet,” you scolded playfully. “How typical of you.”
“You love it,” he retorted, and your heart leaped in your chest. Yes, you did. “The three of us have to go out again tomorrow. Az too.”
“I know,” you nodded into his shoulder. “Sent him to bed so he wouldn’t be so sleep deprived.”
“You’re too good to us,” Cassian murmured. Your face flushed again.
“That’s not true,” you half-whined half-yawned.
“It is,” Cassian insisted gently. “We’ll be gone all day. But maybe we can spend some time together when I get back? Go on a nice, er, evening stroll?”
You giggled. “You can be my protection decal.”
“Deal,” Cassian grinned.
A soft cough from the bed had both of you jolting, surging forward as your sister twitched under the sheets.
“Get Madja,” you ordered Cassian, hovering over her as she coughed again.
He tripped over the chairs as he sprinted out of the room, the harsh clatter of wood against the floor ignored by you as Mor blinked once, twice, confusion written across her face.
“Y/n…?”
“Mor,” you whispered softly, stroking her cheek. “Oh Mor.” Your eyes welled with tears as Madja burst into the room, all three Illyrians trailing behind her.
Your sister reached for your hand as Madja began fussing over her, insisting she needed to redress Mor’s wounds and find something for her to eat. You squeezed it tightly, hot tears streaming down your face as Mor gave you a weak smile. You felt Az and Rhys crowding behind you, Cassian standing behind Madja as the first rays of light streamed through the room.
Morning had come and your sister was awake.
—
Azriel, Cassian, and Rhysand were out on patrol, surveying the mountains surrounding the war-camp with the rest of the Illyrian warriors, leaving Mor, Madja, and Rhys’s mother, and you in the house all day.
Their absence was for the best. A quiet day was exactly what Mor needed.
By the afternoon she was sitting up in bed, slowly sipping the broth of a soup your aunt had made. The three of you sat in silence while Madja worked on brewing more pain killer in her room down the hall.
“It was Keir,” Mor said finally, you and your aunt’s heads snapping up from the bowls in your laps. Your heart dropped.
“What?” Rhys’s mother spat furiously, her crippled wings flaring as much as they could.
Mor nodded, tearing up as she set her soup down on the night table beside her bed. “It was him and his advisors who…did this,” she struggled, glancing down at the bandages covering the entirety of her stomach.
You exhaled sharply, moving to sit beside her on the bed and clasp her trembling hands in your own.
“Why would he do this?” you asked softly, voice trembling with your repressed rage. This was not about you or your anger, it was about her, and this awful thing she’d endured.
“He…he found out…” Mor glanced down at your hands as she shook her head softly. “I don’t want to tell you,” she whispered, biting her lip.
Your brows furrowed. “Why not?” you asked gently, glancing between her and your aunt. The older female looked just as concerned, sitting at the foot of the bed and rubbing small circles on Mor’s blanket-covered leg.
“I lost my virginity,” she admitted quietly. “A couple weeks ago. Right after the engagement was finalized.” Your breath hitched, realization hitting you like a sack full of bricks.
“So Eris wouldn’t want to take you as his bride,” you finished, sighing as Mor nodded. “Oh, Mor.”
“It was dumb,” she said, shaking her head. “But it felt like the only way I could…escape. And I knew Eris would be upset, I assumed he would be. Hoped for it, actually. But I never thought it would be our…our family who…”
Mor choked a sob and you hugged her gently, careful to avoid her midsection. “Those rats are not our family,” you insisted firmly.
“I know,” Mor whispered, leaning into you. “I’m sorry. I’ve caused you all so much trouble…”
“No. Stop it,” you shook your head. “You were between a rock and a hard place. How could anyone blame you for this?”
Mor glanced at you, a guilty look in her eye. You titled your head, confused. “What?”
“You’re going to be mad at me,” she muttered, looking down at your hands again.
“Why? Why would I ever be mad at you?” you asked incredulously.
She exhaled softly. “I slept with Cassian.” Rhys’s mother lifted her hand to her mouth, stifling what was certainly a gasp.
You blinked. “Oh.” You bit your lip, carefully considering your next words. “You thought I’d be mad at you because you slept with Cassian?”
“Well,” Mor shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Why?” you questioned softly.
“Because you said you liked him!” Mor exclaimed. “And I had already slept with him, and you were so excited about getting to know him, and I had gone ahead and ruined it-”
Your brows furrowed. “When did you sleep with him?”
Mor buried her face in her hands. “The first time we came here to visit Rhys.”
You sighed, realizing whatever you’d interpreted as Cassian’s affections for you last night must have been purely platonic, some manifestation of his feelings for Mor.
“See?” Mor insisted, voice muffled as she cast you a wary glance through her fingers. “You’re upset.”
“Morrigan,” you said seriously, reaching up to tilt her face towards yours. “For the love of the Cauldron, please shut up. I love you, and I don’t care who you slept with or when or how you managed to find a way out of that shitty engagement. I care that you’re alive.”
Mor sobbed, surging forward to hug you.
“Be careful,” you grunted against the force of her. “Your stitches.”
—
Mor had fallen fast asleep by the time Cassian, Azriel and Rhysand returned from the mountains. The four of you ate dinner by the fireplace to let her rest.
“No way she’s going back to the Hewn City,” you said firmly after revealing your father had orchestrated Mor’s torture. It had taken all of you plus your aunt to keep Rhys from winnowing there and slitting Keir’s throat that night.
“No way you’re going back either,” Cassian added, rage evident on his face as he glowered in the firelight.
You bit your lip softly, ignoring his comment as Rhys deliberated what to do next.
“We could set you up in Velaris,” he suggested.
“Maybe,” you shrugged. “But the three of you are stationed here.”
“We would check in on you,” Cassian said. You would check in on Mor, you thought to yourself.
“But not often,” Azriel murmured, head bowed as he watched his shadows weave between his hands.
“Could we not stay here?” you asked softly. “At least until Mor’s strength returns somewhat.”
Rhys chewed the inside of his mouth, considering. “You could, and of course you’re allowed to stay until she’s recovered, but this is not the safest of places for the two of you.”
“What do you mean?” you asked, pulse quickening as Cassian sat down next to you on the threadbare couch. You stiffened slightly.
“The Illyrians don’t know you’re here,” Rhysand said carefully. “And if they did-”
“Illyrians are a cruel lot,” Azriel spat quietly. “Who knows what they would do if they discovered two young, unwed females on the edge of their war-camp.”
“We wouldn’t let anything happen to either of you,” Cassian murmured, leaning towards you. You nodded awkwardly, scooting further towards the other end of the couch and ignoring the confused look that washed across his face.
“We wouldn’t,” Rhys insisted. “But it could cause more trouble than it’s worth for either of you.”
You nodded, carefully weighing your options. “I feel Mor has more to contribute to this court than a life stowed away in Velaris,” you admitted.
Cassian’s brow furrowed. “And you do not?”
“I am thinking purely of my sister right now,” you replied coldly. Cassian flinched.
Azriel lifted his head from his hands, concerned gaze darting between you and Cassian.
“As am I,” Cassian replied carefully, “but I am also thinking of you, Y/n.”
“You shouldn’t,” you said quickly, redirecting your attention to Rhys. “I want to give Mor the chance to think about these things for herself. For the time being, we will stay here. What we do when she recovers will be up to her.”
Rhys nodded. “I hope you know your gifts are just as useful in my eyes as Mor’s.”
You shrugged, balking at the sincerity in your eyes. “I don’t know about that. But…thank you.”
You pushed yourself up, collecting everyone’s empty dishes and making a beeline for the kitchen. You ignored the confused hurt on Cassian’s face as you walked past. You had to get over your feelings for him, for Mor’s sake. Icing him out surely wasn’t the most healthy means but it would be over quicker, and your sister could have him for herself if she wanted.
Your beautiful sister with her shining confidence - of course Cassian liked her. And why wouldn’t she harbor feelings for him? He was handsome, kind, strong…they suited each other.
Poor Azriel, you thought, dumping the dishes in the sink. You yawned, deciding you’d endured enough stress in the last two days to justify an early bedtime.
You turned around and stopped immediately. Cassian stood in the doorway blocking your exit, arms crossed over his chest as he tilted his head to the side.
“Are you alright?” he asked softly.
You froze, eyes wide, unmoving. Cassian stepped forward carefully, as if you were some wounded animal in a trap who might bolt if he got too close. “Sweetheart-”
“Don’t call me that,” you said quietly, indignantly. “Please don’t call me that.”
Cassian’s facade crumbled. “Did I do something to upset you?” he asked, crossing the room. You shook your head, looking away as he took your hands in his.
“Were you ever going to tell me you slept with her?” you asked finally. Cassian stiffened and you sighed.
“Y/n-”
“It’s fine,” you said, a little too loudly, pulling your hands towards yourself. “Just wish you’d have been honest is all.”
He reached for you as you darted around him, the soft sleeve of your shirt tugging out of his grasp. “Y/n please.”
“I get it,” you said tightly, spinning around in the doorway. Cassian stumbled, catching himself on the wooden frame to keep from crashing into you. “I love my sister, too.”
“Y/n that’s not it at all,” he insisted desperately. “Please.”
“It’s okay,” you reassured him, forcing a sad excuse of a smile on your face. “You’re a good match for each other.”
You bolted away before he had the chance to reply, leaving him in the doorway with a stunned expression on his face. You rushed past Rhysand and Azriel, still talking by the fire, bidding them a quick goodnight before rushing up the rickety flight of stairs to your room.
You shut the door behind you, locking it for good measure, and collapsed on the unswept wooden floor. Shouting erupted from the living room beneath you, no doubt your cousin interrogating Cassian. You drew in on yourself, tears streaming down your face. Curses to the Cauldron for pushing the one male you’d ever liked, the one male who’d ever cared when you were upset, to your sister.
You could get over him, would get over him, for Mor. You crawled into bed and drew the thin blanket over yourself, pulling the pillow over your ears to shut out the loud arguing echoing throughout the house.
—
You left with Madja at the crack of dawn to help her restock the house’s small herb supply. Better to do something useful than have to hide in your room until Cassian and the rest of them left for the day.
By midmorning, your baskets were overflowing. Madja guided you back along a small river, your heart clenching as you passed through a meadow Cassian had showed you the first time you’d been here.
Had that afternoon been before or after he’d bedded your sister?
You choked down your jealousy. It wasn’t fair to him or your sister.
When you returned to the house, your Illyrian hosts had left for the day.
“They’ll be back this evening,” your aunt said, helping you sort through your baskets. “They’re delivering weapons to the next camp over. Something about a sword shortage.”
You bit back a grin, shaking your head at the slight ridiculousness of Illyrian priorities as your sister appeared in the doorway.
“Hey,” you smiled, beckoning her in with a nod of your head. “Glad to see you out of bed.”
She smiled softly. “The credit goes to Madja’s painkillers. Easy to walk when you can’t feel how bad it hurts.”
You gave her a sympathetic look as your aunt fetched a chair for Mor to sit in.
“How’s your morning been?” you asked, plucking the leaves off the mint stems you’d picked earlier.
“Well, I had an interesting conversation with Cassian,” she said carefully.
You raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Oh yea?”
“Yea,” she nodded. “Something about you thinking he’s a good match for me.”
Madja and your aunt looked between the two of you carefully.
You shrugged. “If you like each other, you should go for it.”
“But I don’t like him!” Mor exploded, tossing her hands up.
“Mind your bandages, dear,” Madja said softly.
“What do you mean you don’t like him?” you asked crossly, setting your hands on your hips.
“I mean just that,” she insisted. “I don’t like him.”
“So you slept with the one male I’ve ever liked…why, exactly?”
Mor sighed, pinching the area between her brows as if the entire conversation had given her a headache. “I needed an out of the engagement. Cassian was willing to supply what I needed. No emotions, no strings attached, purely transactional. It was our second night here, before I knew you liked him.” A pause. “And before I suspected he liked you.”
You froze, mouth opening and closing as you searched for a response that didn’t come.
“Yea,” Mor doubled down. “I suspect he likes you, and you’re encouraging his affections for me like an idiot.”
“Let’s ignore that last bit for a second,” you said finally, shutting your eyes as you sifted through what she’d just told you. “You slept with Cassian when Azriel, who obviously likes you, was right there?”
The two older women slipped out of the kitchen quietly, arms full of plants to sort elsewhere. You paid them no mind.
“That’s exactly why I couldn’t sleep with him!” Mor cried. “I needed an out, not a ruined friendship because I took advantage of someone’s feelings for me, which I don’t return by the way. And what was I supposed to do, find some other young, strong, non-women-hating Illyrian to fuck? Oh wait, there are none.”
You groaned, flopping down in a chair of your own. “This is a nightmare.”
“You’re telling me,” Mor muttered, glaring at you. “I’m incapacitated for two days and you try to ruin the only chance at a relationship that’s ever presented itself to you.”
“Oh, stuff it,” you rolled your eyes. “He doesn’t like me. Not like that. And even if you don’t like him, who’s to say he doesn’t like you?”
“Becuase he came into my room this morning practically begging me to explain this to you!” she shouted.
“I don’t believe this,” you huffed, pushing yourself up to your feet.
“You must,” Mor insisted, watching you incredulously as you paced around the kitchen. “What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”
“Yes!” you screeched, whirling around to face her. “You almost die, I think Cassian has feelings for me only to find out he likes you only to find out that was me misreading the entire situation, we have to choose between going home or staying here or moving to Velaris…” You trailed off, threading your hands through your hair and groaning loudly. “I am losing my mind!”
Mor’s eyes widened, closing her mouth tightly and giving a tight lipped smile to the space behind you.
Your heart plummeted as you turned around slowly. Cassian stood stunned, hand still on the knob of the back door he’d opened who knows when, lunch fixings for you all tucked securely under his arm. His wide eyes met your own, throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly.
“Oh my fucking gods,” you muttered, spinning on your heel and stalking back up to your room. You threw yourself onto your bed and let out a blood-curdling scream into the safety of your pillow.
—
You skipped dinner. At half past 8 Madja knocked on your door, bearing a small smile and a fixed up plate for you, but even your favorite meal couldn’t coax you downstairs. You apologetically thanked her and returned to your bed, eating alone and contemplating all your mortifying life decisions while watching the storm brewing from your window. It was mid-spring, so the dark clouds approaching from the horizon would likely bear rain and no sleet or snow, but the flickering lightning and low droll of thunder made you uneasy.
You heard the soft switch of fabric behind you and glanced over your shoulder. Rhysand loomed awkwardly in the darkness, giving you a little wave. You rolled your eyes and turned back towards the window.
“You could’ve knocked,” you muttered.
“But I winnowed!” Rhys said, a grin evident in his voice. “Aren’t you proud of me?”
“You still could’ve knocked.” You turned a little, nodding towards the spot next to you at the foot of your bed. “You can sit if you’d like.”
Rhys hopped onto the bed next to you, knocking your shoulder with his own. You bit back a smile, shaking your head a little as you leaned into him.
“The winnowing is cool,” you said softly. “You’ll have to teach me sometime.”
“I will,” Rhys murmured. Lighting flashed outside and your jaw tensed. “Still afraid of storms, little cousin?” Rhys teased.
You laughed a bit and nodded. “Yea,” you answered honestly. “You could say that.”
“You might want to move downstairs,” he said, glancing up at the ceiling. “The roof leaks a little.”
“Quality accommodations here in the Illyrian mountains,” you teased.
Rhys chuckled and looked at you, face softening into something more serious. “Are you doing alright?”
You shrugged. “No.”
“Can I ask…what is going on with you and Cassian?” he asked tentatively. “I thought the two of you were getting along well, really well. And then yesterday…”
“What, my little freakout in the kitchen?” you laughed bitterly. “Did he tell you about what happened this afternoon? Where I all but admitted my feelings for him without realizing he was in the fucking room?”
Rhys grinned. “Yea, he did. If it’s any consolation, I think he’s so concerned over how stressed you are that he’s failed to put two and two together about you liking him back.”
You paused, stiffened, replaying his words in your head to make sure you’d heard him right. “He likes me back?” you whispered.
“Yes, cousin,” Rhys chuckled. “Very much so. It seems you’re both extremely blind to each other’s wants.”
You groaned, flopping backwards on the bed and covering your face with your hands. “I’ve fucked this whole thing up, haven’t I?”
“Hardly,” Rhys replied, leaning back to join you. “Have you met Cassian? He’s the definition of undeterred. The only reason he hasn’t come up here yourself is because Mor insisted you needed space.”
“I’m an awful sister,” you mumbled. “She gets all-but killed and I’m up here moping over a crush.”
“You kept watch over her for two nights while she hardly stirred, and almost cast aside an entire relationship for her sake. I figure you deserve a little dramatic moping after all that,” he said. “It goes without saying that you’re an amazing sister, and an amazing cousin.”
“Thanks Rhys,” you whispered.
The pitter-patter of rain against the roof drew your attention to the ceiling, quiet at first then louder, harder. It was steadily downpouring outside when the first drop of water seeped through the invisible gaps in the roofing and landed right on your nose.
You gasped, bolting upright. Rhysand laughed, curling in on himself.
“Shut up,” you grinned and shoved him off the bed. He landed with a heavy thud, laughter undeterred.
“I’m gonna take this downstairs,” you said, picking up your empty plate and reaching down to yank him off the floor.
“Ah, the troll emerges from the darkness,” Rhys mocked, delighted glee in his eyes as you tugged your hand free from his grasp and sent him tumbling back once more.
“Pick yourself up,” you called, opening the door and trotting down the stairs. The living room, thankfully, was empty. You ducked into the kitchen, pausing at the figure hunched over a cup of tea at the table. Cassian.
“It always ends up with the two of us in this kitchen, huh?” he chuckled, glancing up at you with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“It does,” you murmured, glancing down at the plate you held awkwardly. “I…uh…came down to wash this,” you explained.
Cassian’s smile relaxed into something more genuine. “Such a considerate house guest.”
“Surely the Illyrians will be most impressed,” you teased, turning towards the sink as he chuckled.
A loud clap of thunder had you jumping in place, plate clattering in the sink as you grabbed the edge of the countertop to steady yourself.
Cassian clambered to his feet immediately. “Are you okay?”
“Yea,” you breathed shakily, looking back at him. “Just a little-”
Thunder boomed again. You squeezed your eyes shut and swallowed roughly, trying to remind yourself you were inside and safe and that the storm could not harm you.
Soft hands caressed your arms tenderly. “Y/n?”
You opened your eyes, Cassian all too close and all too much as he towered over you, concern written across his face.
“I’m fine,” you whispered. “It’s just…storms.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Cassian murmured, drawing you closer to him. “Forget the dish. Wanna go back to your room?”
You shook your head. “It leaks,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips as Cassian chuckled, close enough for you to feel his muscled chest rumble.
“My room then?” he suggested. You glanced up at him, heat rising in your chest at the shy look on his face.
“Sure,” you breathed, nodding quickly.
The smile that erupted on Cassian’s face could outshine the sun. “Okay.”
He guided you around him, hand finding the small of your back as if it belonged there. He eased you back through the living room, into the hallway that led under the stairs to the first door on the right.
Cassian’s room was small and mostly undecorated. His armor lay in a heap on the floor, which Cassian frantically kicked under the bed with his foot. You giggled.
“Sorry for the mess,” Cassian said meekly, scratching the back of his neck.
“No need to apologize.” Your eyes darted around the room, seeing no place to sit save for…
“Oh!” Cassian exclaimed. “You can sit on the bed. I’ll go get a chair.”
“You don’t need to do that,” you said. “We can…both sit on the bed.”
Cassian's throat bobbed. “Okay.”
You moved first, sitting on the edge of the bed facing the window. The floorboards creaked under Cassian as he eased onto the bed beside you, careful not to sit too close. A soft silence enveloped the room, the rain outside sounding a lot less intense from the safety of the first floor.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Mor,” Cassian whispered finally. “She…I figured she would tell you, that she would explain how…er…situational it was.”
“It’s okay,” you murmured, gaze fixed to the tattered red blanket at the foot of the bed. “She wanted to, it just took her a while.”
“Still, it was unfair for you to find out in bits and pieces.”
“I was just nervous I had gotten in the middle of something without knowing,” you explained.
“You hadn’t,” Cassian said softly, hand finding yours on the bed. “From the moment you both arrived here I knew it was you. Sleeping with Mor…was a poor lapse in my judgement, as Rhys has let me know multiple times since.” You chucked, remembering their loud argument from the night before. “But you were…are the one I want to get to know, to keep safe.”
Your breath hitched, daring a glance at Cassian. A flash of lightning illuminated the sharp features of his face, his strong jawline and dark hair and eager eyes that had your heart melting in your chest.
“Cassian,” you murmured, inching towards him on the bed.
“Can I hold you?” he asked, so quiet you might’ve missed it if you hadn’t been utterly focused on him.
“Yes,” you nodded furiously, sighing as he drew you into his lap in one quick motion. Cassian released a tense breath as his arms wrapped around you, his embrace warm, safe.
Thunder crashed around the house and you didn’t so much as flinch.
“Didn’t know you were afraid of storms,” Cassian murmured against your shoulder.
You grinned. “It’s a well kept secret.”
Cassian breathed you in, holding you as if you might slip through his fingers any second. You threaded your fingers through his long hair, still damp from the bath he took earlier.
“Can I sleep here?” you asked softly, deciding against second-thoughts. It was overthinking that had kept you from Cassian needlessly.
“Yes,” Cassian breathed, pulling back from your shoulder to give you a tender, hopeful look. “Of course you can sleep here. We can sleep right now if you’d like.”
You laughed, leaning into him again. “Yea, I’d like that.”
“Good, great,” Cassian said eagerly, throwing himself back onto the bed and dragging you down with him. You squealed, giggling as he dug the covers out from under you. He cursed as he struggled to drape the blankets over you, tugging forcefully when they caught on the tip of his wing.
“Comfy?” he asked after he’d finally sorted out the covers, face inches from yours as he gazed at you.
“Yea,” you whispered, knocking his nose with your own. “Very comfy.”
Cassian’s face flushed, smile gleaming despite the darkness of the room. “Consider this an open invitation to sleep here anytime, sweetheart. Storm or no storm.”
You tucked yourself into his chest, sighing contentedly as he draped a large wing atop the two of you. “I may just have to take you up on that.”
hiii ive just discovered ur blog, and omg im glad you've started writing again bc I love ur fics!!! i was wondering, what characters do you write for in ACOTAR? thats all, tysm :) 🩷
Hi!!! Ty for the compliment :) I’ve written for Az, Cassian, Eris, Lucien, and Tamlin, but I’m also open to writing for Rhys, Tarquin, Mor, Amren, and any of the Archeron sisters. I’d be happy to write for some of the other side characters as well upon individual request!
the thing about captain america the first avenger is that it tries really hard to sell the idea of Bucky being a macho womanizer. Too bad they cast Sebastian Stan, the master of sad longing gazes you'd normally only ever see in eastern european gay porn.
Pairing: Eris Vanserra x female High Fae reader (Tarquin's younger sister)
Summary: Overjoyed to finally join your older cousin's Inner Circle, you're assigned the vacant emissary position to the Autumn Court. Navigating Beron's doings and an invitation to the secretive Harvest Fesitval proves challenging when you capture the attention of Beron's handsome but distrustful eldest son.
Warnings: smutty smut, mentions of sexual harassment
Word Count: 10,000
ACOTAR Masterlist | All works | Requests open!
The sun shone brightly through the windows of Adriata’s palace, light reflecting off the marble floors as you sprinted towards the meeting room Nostrus had summoned you to. The repetitive thwack of your sandals hitting the floor echoed loudly throughout the open halls, drawing the attention of a few cleaning faeries as you rushed past. You cast them an apologetic look, but did not stop to make conversation.
Finally, after months of begging, your older cousin had invited you to a meeting with his Inner Circle. You refused to be a moment late.
You slowed your pace as you approached a large turquoise door, grinning at a familiar head of white hair.
“Good morning, brother,” you called.
Tarquin glanced back at you, smiling as he pushed the door open. “I think it’s technically the afternoon.”
You rolled your eyes, falling into place next to him as you walked into the sage green room.
A small group of High Fae were scattered around a large wooden table, talking casually amongst themselves. You glanced around, smiling at your eldest cousin leaning casually against the edge of the table. Nostrus was laughing at something Cresseida had said, lazily ushering the other fae to take a seat with a wave of his hand.
Cresseida caught sight of you and beamed. “Y/n!”
You waved, grabbing Tarquin’s hand and practically dragging him over to say hello.
“It’s good to see you,” Cresseida said, hugging you warmly.
“It’s good to see you here,” Nostrus added from behind her.
Your older cousin had a larger Inner Circle than most of the other High Lords, or at least that’s what Tarquin had told you. Looking around, you realized it was probably because he went out of his way to include as many family members as he could. You understood why; you had a very close family, and it was probably safer for him to surround himself with people he trusted.
You sat down between Tarquin and Cresseida, slightly nervous but mostly excited to finally be included in the political happenings of the Summer Court. You were the youngest out of all your cousins, and you wanted nothing more than to prove yourself to Nostrus.
“As I’m sure you’ve all noticed, my younger cousin Y/n is joining us today,” Nostrus said with a smile, gesturing towards you from where he sat at the head of the table. You smiled awkwardly, inclining your head as the other members of the table clapped politely.
“As such, our first order of business will be assigning her a role within the Inner Circle, as then we will proceed as normal,” Nostrus continued.
Cresseida raised her hand, clearing her throat as Nostrus nodded in her direction. “We should consider Y/n for an emissary position, since no one has filled Tyrqos’ old position since he retired.”
Your Uncle Tyrqos had served the Summer Court for centuries before you were born, and was currently enjoying some well-deserved rest in his beloved beach house.
“That’s a good idea,” Nostrus said thoughtfully, redirecting his focus to you. “We would need to brief you on current affairs and how much information we chose to disclose with other courts, but that wouldn’t take very long at all.”
You nodded, brows furrowing as you tried to recall which court your uncle has been emissary for. You didn’t need to wait much longer for an answer.
“I nominate Y/n for the position of emissary to the Autumn Court,” Tarquin said from beside you. You bristled, head filling with images of the fiery, spiteful court and its cruel High Lord.
“I second the nomination,” someone added from across the table.
Nostrus seemed to sense your hesitation. “The Autumn Court can be difficult to navigate, and I understand why you might not be the most enthusiastic. But I definitely think having someone younger in this position, especially someone who might be able to coax information out of Beron’s sons, could be useful.”
You bit your lip, nodding as you considered his words. Yes, you were nervous, but you also wanted to prove yourself capable.
“Ultimately it’s your decision,” Nostrus continued. “We can discuss other roles you could fill if you’d like.”
You shook your head. “I accept the nomination,” you said, voice less steady than you would have liked.
“I make a motion for unanimous consent on the appointment of this nomination,” Cresseida said.
“Any opposed?” Nostrus asked the table, nodding at the silence that followed. “Then the motion carries, and Y/n will take on the role of our new emissary to the Autumn Court.”
The table burst into another round of claps, and you tried to look grateful as you debated whether or not this had been a good idea.
—
Your heart pounded in your chest as you followed Tarquin through the winding corridors of the Forest House. He had winnowed you in for your first meeting with High Lord Beron and the rest of his court.
The two of you were flanked by Autumn Court soldiers, sporting metal armor and stony expressions that did little to ease your anxiety.
Tarquin slowed his pace, squeezing your hand reassuringly as he walked beside you.
“You’re going to do great,” he said quietly. “Just focus on making a good impression. That’s all you have to do today.”
You nodded, exhaling shakily as the guards led you through an opened set of doors and into a large hall.
Sunlight streamed into the room through glass windows in the ceiling, and the wooden walls were adorned with garlands of red and gold leaves. You gaped as the guards pressed you forward, taking in the beauty of the grand room. Your gaze fell to the dozens of High Fae seated at tables on the floor.
At the front of the room, on an elevated stage, sat Beron and his family.
“There are so many of them,” you murmured to Tarquin, eyes locked on the stage you were being led to.
He nodded slightly. “Yes, he holds a public court, so we have no idea who his true advisors are.” You bit your lip, recognizing Nostrus was expecting you to figure that out.
Beron stood, raising his half-filled wine glass in your direction. “Rise, for our guests from the Summer Court.”
The fae around you stood in sync, as if they had done this a thousand times before. You forced a smile, recognizing the iron grip Beron held over the members of his court as you climbed the stairs to the stage.
The guards around you parted as you reached the top of the stairs. Beron was waiting there to greet you, an unsettling smile on his face and he reached out his hand.
You took his hand gently, dropping into a practiced curtsy as Tarquin bowed beside you.
“Let us eat, and welcome these guests to our home,” Beron declared, lifting his glass towards the room in front of you as food appeared on each of the tables. The fae watching lifted their glasses in response before sitting down and returning their attention to those around them.
You looked back at Beron, giving a small smile. “Thank you for having us,” you said genuinely. “It’s great to meet you face to face. Nostrus may have already told you, but my name is Y/n, and I’m sure you’ve met Tarquin before.” You gestured to your brother, who dipped his head respectfully.
“Yes, I believe I have met your brother a time or two,” Beron replied with a nod. “Please, come join my family for the luncheon. We’ve saved two seats for you.”
You stiffened as Beron placed a cold hand on your back, guiding you towards the long table around which his family sat.
Your seats were next to the head of the table, across from the Lady of the Autumn Court and a young, stony-faced male. The son sitting next to you deigned to pull the chair out from the table as you sat.
“Thank you,” you murmured. He gave you a nod as you tried to focus on memorizing the faces of the fae around you, and not on the sad eyes of Beron’s wife.
“This is my wife, and my eldest son, Eris,” Beron said, gesturing to the fae across the table. You bowed your head to them slightly.
“It’s lovely to meet you both,” you said, offering a small smile. The Lady of the Autumn Court returned the expression, while her son kept his cold gaze on his father.
Beron snapped his fingers, filling the empty platters on the table with all sorts of food. You and Tarquin murmured a thank you, waiting until the rest of the table began reaching for the dishes to start serving yourselves.
You reached for the turkey in front of you, hand colliding with Eris’s as you both grabbed the fork at the same time. He raised an eyebrow inquisitively as he glanced between your hands and your face.
“Er, sorry,” you said awkwardly, face flushing as you pulled your hand back. Eris smirked and looked back down at his own plate as he began serving himself.
“Ignore him,” said the brother on your right. “Eris likes pretending to be mysterious in front of beautiful females.”
You stifled a laugh while Eris gave him a pointed glare.
“I hear you are another of Nostrus’s cousins,” Beron said, drawing your attention to the head of the table.
“Yes,” you replied, straightening your back as you talked to the High Lord. “I’m the youngest of them, actually.”
“He always has been a family man,” Beron said, taking a bite of his food. “Tell me, just how young are you?”
“A little over a hundred,” you replied. “But I’ve been serving our court since I was very young.”
“Don’t give Beron reason to think you are inexperienced,” Nostrus had said. “You are young, but you are not stupid. Don’t let him think you are some toy he can play with.”
“Ah, you were born after the War,” he noted. “So was my youngest son, Lucien.”
You glanced down the table, where Lucien gave you a small wave. You recognized him from a trip he had made to the Summer Court a few years ago.
“Yes, I was born a century after the end of the War,” you said. “And Tarquin was born a few years before me. It was a very lucky time for our parents.”
“I can assume, having two children within such a short span of time is a rarity to be sure,” Beron added. “Tell me, do you know much about the Autumn Court?”
Tarquin and Eris both gave you a sideways glance as you cleared your throat. “I’m familiar with your court’s history, in the way most High Fae learn the history of the seasonal and solar courts during their schooling. I admit I have much to learn about the Autumn Court, and I’m eager to do so.”
“Don’t let him think you know too much about him, though. We also don’t want him to see you as a threat,” Nostrus had continued. “Let him think he’s controlling how you perceive the Autumn Court.”
“So I’m to pretend I have years of experience, yet know nothing?” you had asked.
“Precisely, cousin.”
“No shame in that,” Beron stated, grabbing the napkin from his lap and wiping his mouth. “Perhaps you’ll stay until tomorrow, and my family can show you around our estate? There is no one better to teach you about our court and customs than its own residents.”
You paused, glancing at Tarquin. “I…suppose,” you answered slowly. “I didn’t bring anything with me-”
“Oh, that’s no problem,” the Lady of the Autumn Court said softly. “I have some things I can share with you.”
Eris’s eyes flickered between you and his mother, clearly intent on keeping whatever he was making of this situation to himself.
You smiled at her. “That sounds lovely.”
“My sister cannot winnow,” Tarquin said to Beron. “I’ll come collect her tomorrow afternoon.”
Beron nodded. “I’ll have my guards escort you out after lunch, and retrieve you from the same spot tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Lord Beron, for your hospitality,” you said.
“Of course, anything for such an esteemed guest,” he replied, hints of that eerie smile from earlier still showing.
“Be on your guard,” Nostrus said. “Always be on your guard.”
—
After being shown to a guest bedroom, you spent the majority of the afternoon enjoying tea with the Lady of the Autumn Court. She’d taken you to a cozy lounge on the upper level of the estate, where you had a fantastic view of the forest.
“It’s so nice having company,” the Lady of the Autumn Court murmured. You looked over to where she was sitting on the couch next to you, gaze focused on the embroidery hoop in her lap.
“Surely you have many visitors,” you said, but she shook her head.
“Most only come to talk of trade and alliances. It gets very lonely.”
You took a sip of your tea, admiring the forest surrounding the estate and fields beyond.
“The harvest starts in a few weeks,” she continued. “We have a…festival of sorts beforehand, perhaps you’d like to join us?”
“I would love that,” you replied eagerly. Her entire disposition had changed the minute Beron had left her alone, anxiety replaced with ease and light humor.
A light rap on the doorway had the two of you twisting in your seats. Eris leaned against the wooden frame, his gaze locked on you.
“My father suggested I take you for an official tour of the estate,” he stated. “It is up to you if you want to come.”
You paused, glancing between him and his mother.
“Go,” she encouraged gently. “Eris is a great tour guide.”
You could have sworn you saw a tinge of blush on his cheeks.
“I would love to join you,” you said, setting your tea cup down on the table in front of you.
“Perhaps he could show you the waterfalls outside. They’re very lovely and the weather is still nice enough,” the Lady suggested as you stood up.
“That’s a great idea,” you grinned, looking over to Eris. He gave a slight nod before stepping into the hallway.
“See you at dinner,” you called, giving your new friend a wave before following behind her eldest son.
He had already started down the hall by the time you stepped out of the room. You quickened your pace to catch up as he led you down a large set of stairs.
“This is one of the several staircases that connect the top two floors. The main one, which you probably came up earlier, is the one with the glass roof,” he stated, his information perfectly rehearsed.
You nodded, brows furrowing as you followed him down the stairs. “Are there more floors than these two?”
“Most of this estate is underground,” he replied. “For defensive purposes.”
You hummed softly, starting to form a picture of the Forest House in your mind. The two of you had reached the bottom of the stairs, and Eris turned into a larger hallway you didn’t recognize.
“Where are we going?” you asked, voice breathy as you struggled to keep up with his quick pace.
“You’ll see,” he replied curtly. Your brows furrowed at the bored look on his handsome face.
“So this is the main floor?” you asked. He nodded quickly, your question seeming to irritate him somehow. “What sorts of rooms are down here?”
“The throne room, banquet halls like the one we were in earlier,” he listed offhandedly. “Meeting rooms, the like.”
“And the upstairs?” Trying to keep a conversation flowing with him was no easy task.
“Libraries, lounges, more casual spaces.”
“My bedroom is up there,” you noted.
“Yes, all the guest bedrooms are. The rest of us sleep in different areas downstairs,” he explained.
“How do you get around such a large house?” you asked curiously.
“We winnow,” he said, brow creasing as if he thought that was obvious.
“Tarquin told me there were wards-”
“Yes, you can only winnow in through certain locations,” he interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “Those of us who reside here can winnow within the house freely.”
You blinked. “Ah.”
The hallway grew darker, the wooden paneling of the walls morphing into carved stone.
“Where are we going?” you asked once more.
“The throne room,” he answered dryly. He hadn’t looked at you once since the lounge upstairs.
“I’m sorry,” you said, stopping in your tracks. “I’m- do you have some sort of problem with me?”
Eris halted, turning to give you a cold look. You gulped.
“It just feels like you might have some sort of problem-”
“You do realize you’ve come here as an emissary, correct? That you aren’t here to make friends?” His tone was more than harsh.
“I-”
“Did you think I’d start spouting information about our closest allies and worst enemies, and then we could all have tea and write letters to each other? Is that how you thought this would go?”
You gaped at him.
He sighed, rolling his eyes as if talking to you was the most tedious assignment in the world. “I’m sure Nostrus sent you here looking for all the sorts of things you could use against us if need be. I’m not exactly thrilled by the idea of befriending someone whose job is to learn how to best infiltrate my home.”
You nodded slowly. “Of course, how foolish of me,” you rasped, ignoring the prickling of tears in your eyes. By the Cauldron, you had just wanted to make a good impression.
“Like I said, the throne room is this way,” Eris said, returning to the route he’d probably taken guests along hundreds of times before.
You trailed after him, defeated. You remained silent for the rest of the tour.
—
The next day came and went. You spent the rest of your visit exploring the Forest House’s library by yourself and attending several of Beron’s meetings. And when you returned home, you told Nostrus you wanted to quit.
“Y/n, the Autumn Court is difficult, why do you think no one else stepped up for the job?” he asked.
You shrugged from where you sat listlessly on your bed. Nostrus sighed, pacing the length of your bedroom in front of you.
“You had one negative experience. And it wasn’t even with Beron, who’s been mean to every emissary we’ve ever had,” he pointed out. You rolled your eyes.
“Beron is a wolf trying to disguise himself in sheep’s clothing, and doing a very poor job at it. He’d bite my head off if I gave him reason to do so,” you stated.
“Please, Y/n,” Nostrus pleaded. You shook your head.
“I won’t do it. I won’t go back.”
“You’ve been invited to one of his planning meetings for the Harvest Festival in a few days. At least attend that, and then we can discuss you quitting,” he reasoned. You groaned, flopping down onto your mattress.
“Fine,” you grumbled, flipping Nostrus off as he cheered.
—
“We can request floral arrangements from the Spring Court,” one of the planning board members suggested.
You stifled a yawn. The meeting had lasted nearly three hours, and while you’d spent the first half taking dutiful notes on necessary imports and trading partners, you were now struggling to pay attention.
“What we need for the feast should arrive on time,” another advisor said. “But what of the Rite?”
Your brows furrowed. What Rite?
“We can prepare for the Rite ourselves,” Beron said firmly. “We’ve spent a fair sum on the Harvest Festival this year, but there is room left in the budget. Let’s keep it that way in case we discover we need something else.”
Eris, from his seat beside his father, noticed your confused expression. “Our emissary guest seems to have a question.” His eyes darkened as you flushed, uncomfortable with the sudden attention on you.
Beron gestured for you to speak. “I am unfamiliar with the happenings of this…festival. Especially this Rite you speak of, I have not heard of it.”
“You’ve heard of Calanmai, in the Spring Court?” Beron asked. You nodded. “It is much like that, but with a more exclusive guest list.”
“In…what way is it much like Calanmai?” you asked hesitantly, remembering the hoards of naked, writhing bodies you had seen last Fire Night.
“In exactly the way you’re thinking of,” Eris purred, a mean smirk on his face.
“May I ask a question about the pyres?” someone asked. Beron nodded, and the conversation moved beyond your flushed cheeks and racing thoughts.
You blinked hard, trying to revert your focus to the meeting in front you. Perhaps you would have to politely decline the Lady of the Autumn’s invitation to join the festival. Attending Calanmai was…intense, and it would be much harder to hide from the erotic festivities in a smaller crowd.
You glanced up, finding Eris staring at you intently from across the table.
It was impossible to ignore the icy fire that blazed in his eyes. You swallowed thickly, eyes darting to the other end of the room and the council member debating with Beron about fuel.
Eris did not take his eyes off you.
—
Not one for confrontation in public spaces, you had hurried out of the meeting room, offering a quick and polite goodbye to Beron before scurrying off to the small pavilion outside where your brother planned to pick you up.
Unfortunately, you had an hour left until he was supposed to arrive. If you’d been a little less intimidated, you would have headed upstairs. You would have continued to browse the library or sought out the Lady of the Autumn Court’s company, perhaps the only soul you weren’t afraid of in the entire court.
Seeing as that wasn’t the case, you found yourself alone on a bench next to one of the small waterfalls that flowed around the Forest House.
It was beautiful here, a quaint disguise for the treacherous fae you knew ruled over this land. You were no stranger to the rumors surrounding Beron, no stranger to why he was considered one of the most wicked High Lords.
Perhaps taking on this task had been too much too soon. Nostrus was lucky you had attended this meeting today. You’d have to give him your official letter of resignation later…
A high pitched whine jolted you from your thoughts. You looked down, smiling at the small greyhound that had sat at your feet. She panted lightly, staring up at you with large black eyes.
“Hello,” you cooed, reaching down to rub the dog’s head. She flopped onto her back as if imploring you to pet her stomach. You laughed lightly, crouching down next to her and petting her stomach lightly.
“You’re such a pretty girl,” you said in that voice everyone reserved for pets alone. She closed her eyes, tongue falling out the side of her mouth as she basked in the afternoon sun.
“Ashe!”
You jumped at the familiar voice, glancing over your shoulder as the dog sat up slowly. She too turned her attention to the path leading towards the Forest House, but made no move to leave your side.
Eris was climbing the small hill up to the base of the waterfall, a pack of dogs trailing energetically behind him.
“Is my dog up there with you?” he asked, practically shouting to be heard over the roar of the waterfall. You nodded, the small Greyhound poking her head out from behind you.
Eris seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, tension dissipating from his shoulders as he reached the top of the hill and crouched a few feet from you.
The dog - Ashe, he had called her - trotted over and nuzzled against his chest. He rolled his eyes, a rare grin on his face as he ruffled her short fur. “She loves to run away and then wonder why she’s in trouble,” he explained, glancing up at you.
You nodded, pushing yourself off the ground and back onto the bench. “Her name is Ashe?” you asked quietly.
He nodded, looking behind him and whistling sharply. The rest of the dogs began sprinting up the hill, having been distracted by a pair of birds in the bushes.
“Yes, Ashe, and then there’s Blaze, Ember…” He listed the dogs one by one, pointing them out to you as they made their way to him.
“I sense a theme,” you joked quietly, wringing your hands together.
“Oh, of course,” Eris replied. He stood up, seemed to count all his dogs, and nodded as if all was now in order. Then he looked at you.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.
“Oh, just waiting for Tarquin,” you explained quickly, not wanting him to think you were snooping. “He’s supposed to meet me here.” You gestured towards the pavilion.
“I thought he was coming in an hour,” he stated. You bit your lip and nodded, looking down at the ground in front of you.
“Er, yes,” you said. “I’m just…waiting.”
“An hour early?” he clarified. You nodded, glancing back at him. He still looked confused. “You didn’t want to look through the libraries?” You shook your head. “The archives?” You shook your head again.
“We have many treasures on the upper floor, rarities of all sorts,” he pressed, taking a step towards you. “Are you…not interested?”
“I didn’t want to intrude,” you muttered, picking at your nails.
Eris paused, considering you and your obvious anxiety. “You’re new to this whole emissary business.”
A statement, not a question. You nodded.
“You should be using any free time you have here to try and…I don’t know, explore, look around,” he explained. You scoffed, as if you didn’t know your own job description.
“I can discern enough of what I need to from conversation,” you said defensively.
A pause. “Most emissaries we host bother us nonstop for whatever time they’re here. You seem to do the opposite.”
“I guess,” you shrugged. “Like you said, I’m new to this whole emissary business.”
“You don’t say,” Eris muttered. You sighed, shoulders slumping at the edge in his voice.
You didn’t see Eris bite his lip, didn’t see the conflict written across his face as he glanced at the open seat next to you, took a step forward, and sat.
You inhaled sharply, refusing to look at him as his dogs swarmed around your feet. Ashe returned to the spot next to you, resting her head on your leg and staring at you again. You gave her a small smile, reaching down to rub the stop between her ears. Her tail began to wag.
“She seems to like you,” Eris said awkwardly, voice softer than normal.
“She reminds me of my dog growing up,” you replied.
“Did you and Tarquin have a lot of pets?” he asked. You shrugged.
“Not really. We had hermit crabs, but so does every child in the Summer Court. I begged our parents for something more…interactive, and we got a dog,” you explained.
“Hermit crabs?”
“Yea, the little ones with the swirly shells,” you said, looking at him and tracing the outline of a conch shell with your finger.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve never been to a beach in my life.”
Your brows furrowed. “That’s…sad,” you said. “Surely that can’t be true.”
He shrugged. “I fought near a beach during the War. After it ended, and we all returned to our courts, I had no time to travel to such places.”
“What about the eastern coast of the Autumn Court?” you pressed. “Surely you have beaches there?”
“No,” he shook his head. “It’s a very rocky shore, mostly cliffs, and the parts that aren’t are barely walkable. Nothing like a sandy beach.”
“I’m confident the heir of the Autumn Court could secure an invitation to the Summer Court’s beaches if he wanted,” you jested lightly. He grinned and shook his head.
“I would love to, but I have too many responsibilities here,” he reasoned. You nodded, looking back at Ashe as you continued to scratch her head and neck.
“This is the part where, as emissary, you would ask me what those responsibilities are,” Eris continued, an amused look on his face.
Your eyes widened. “Oh!” you said. “Right, um, what responsibilities do you have here?” you asked, cringing at yourself.
He grinned. “I oversee the harvest, help manage profits and wages and determine how much of what we make goes back to the farmers.”
“I assume it’s not a large sum?” you asked. He narrowed his eyes.
“Why would you assume that?”
You gave him a queer look. “Have you seen the shacks the farmers live in? I’m sure they would find nicer accommodations if they could afford them.”
He gave you a smile. “Good, that’s the right conclusion to draw. Though you might want to keep opinions on other courts’ weaknesses to yourself. Other fae might find it offensive.”
“Are you trying to coach me through this?” you asked him incredulously. He shrugged.
“You just seem to need a bit of a confidence boost,” he said. “Being an emissary isn’t all that hard, even in this gods-forsaken court. You just have to play the game right.”
“Was that what you were trying to do the other day?” you asked pointedly. “Boost my confidence?”
He grimaced. “That was…a miscalculation on my part. I did not think you were as genuine as you seemed at lunch.”
You rolled your eyes. “The Summer Court isn’t looking to sell you out,” you stated plainly. “We want to rebuild the ties between the seasonal courts, strengthen our alliances, not make enemies.”
“That’s a far more upstanding goal than most have when they come here,” Eris said quietly. “My father..well, he believes all visitors are secretly looking to ensure our demise.”
“I’m sure some are,” you shrugged. “But I think that defeats the purpose of communication. We’re supposed to build trust between the different courts, not bury it beneath the ground and fend for ourselves. That’s the only advantage our court system has over the Continent or Hybern.”
“That’s a very educated perspective,” Eris said.
“I spent two decades studying politics on the Continent,” you explained. “I’m not as clueless as your father wants to think I am.” You paused, realizing that was something you probably should have kept to yourself. “Maybe don’t tell him that, though.”
He grinned. “Don’t worry, I hate my father just as much as everyone else in Prythian,” he replied. “I would definitely keep up the naive act, though. That’s why he’s alright with you spending more time here than most other visitors.”
“That’s…reassuring,” you admitted.
“Why?”
“I was considering resigning.”
He gave you a shocked look. “Again, why?” he asked.
“I don’t know, I thought I was doing a shit job,” you threw your hands in the air. “But if I’m closer to your father than most other emissaries get, I won’t quit while I’m ahead.”
“Good,” Eris said. “Plus, my mother likes you. She doesn’t get many guests, so it would be a shame if you stopped coming.”
You grinned. “I love your mom, she’s sweet.”
“She is,” he said with a nod. “Which makes it even worse that she’s married to my father.”
“Yea, I gathered that,” you said. A pause. “She invited me to the Harvest Festival.”
He gave you a surprised look. “Did she? That’s great, are you coming?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know…”
“Why wouldn’t you come?” he asked, brows furrowing. “It’s typically a very closed-off celebration, it’s an honor to be invited.”
“I’m just not the biggest fan of Calanmai,” you said dismissively. “And if it’s anything like that, I don’t know. I think it would be very overwhelming-”
“You don’t have to participate in all…that, if you don’t want to,” he said firmly. “No one would force you.”
“That’s what they say about Calanmai, too, and yet every time I’ve gone…” You trailed off, not quite wanting to talk about your experiences with Calanmai. “It’s not a big deal, these just aren’t my kinds of celebrations,” you finished, glancing at the pavilion.
“Y/n-”
“I’m sure my brother will be here soon,” you interrupted, standing up abruptly. The dogs at your feet startled, most of them having dozed off while you were talking.
Eris grabbed your hand gently. “Please, come this weekend,” he said. There was a lightness to his eyes you hadn’t seen before. “If not for my mother, then for me.”
You paused, biting your lip. “I’ll consider it,” you said finally, pulling away as the outline of your brother began to materialize.
—
Your anxiety grew in the days leading up to the Harvest Festival. Nostrus, who was just glad you hadn’t quit, told you he had no opinion whether you went or not. Cresseida and Tarquin, on the other hand, thought it would be a waste to not attend.
“No one from the Summer Court has ever been invited before," she said one night at dinner. “You have to go, at least to tell us all what it’s like.”
“And to gain intel on the Autumn Court,” Tarquin added. Cresseida had waved him off as if that was not nearly as important. Both were right, and if Eris was being truthful that you wouldn’t have to participate…
Your thoughts kept drifting to the Autumn Court’s heir, to how gentle he was with his dogs and even with you once he’d realized you weren’t plotting his demise, to his dry sense of humor.
After days of deliberation you finally decided to go, sending your reply the night before. The next morning, you were surprised to find a letter from Eris on your nightstand.
I’m glad you’ve decided to come tonight, he’d written. I selfishly hope it had something to do with me.
You’d rolled your eyes, ignoring the butterflies in your stomach, and began preparing for the celebration.
Hours later, you waited in the palace entrance for someone from the Autumn Court to pick you up, since Tarquin wasn’t permitted to winnow you in. You tapped your foot on the ground anxiously, hands smoothing down the front of your auburn gown as the clock struck six.
As if on cue, Eris appeared in the foyer. You gulped, forcing yourself to breathe as you walked over to him.
He grinned as you approached, unabashedly looking you up and down. His gaze darkened as his eyes roamed over your body while you silently thanked the palace maids for choosing the tight-fitting dress.
“I didn’t know you would be the one fetching me,” you said lightly, grinning as his eyes snapped up to meet yours. He gave you a devious grin.
“You look amazing,” he murmured, casting a quick glance down at your lips. “Every single inch of you.”
You blushed at his forwardness. “Thank you,” you practically squeaked. He smirked, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer to him as he winnowed you to an orchard in the Autumn Court.
You opened your eyes, gasping at the garlands and strings of faelights that adorned the space. You made no effort to conceal your excitement as he led you towards the crowd in front of you.
“It’s gorgeous,” you whispered to him. He smiled.
“Not nearly as gorgeous as you.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the second round of blush tinging your cheeks as you shoved his chest playfully. “The Autumn Court sure does know how to decorate.”
“Yes, you can tell your cousin that’s our greatest strength,” he murmured, placing a hand on the small of your back as he guided you through the crowd.
“Oh? And what shall I say your greatest weakness is?” you teased.
He grinned down at you. “Beautiful women,” he replied. You smiled, remembering his brother’s words the other day at lunch.
“You’re turning out to be quite the flirt, Eris Vanserra,” you said, nudging him with your shoulder.
He guided you to a long table. You read the name plates on each place setting, eyebrows furrowing as you recognized the names of his brothers.
“This is your family table?” you asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “Is that an issue?”
You shook your head. “I just figured I’d be sitting somewhere else.”
“You’re a guest of my mother and a friend of mine, where else would you sit?” he asked, a twinkle of humor in his eye.
You spent dinner sandwiched between Eris and his mother, noticing that the latter of the two became ten times more comfortable after a few glasses of faerie wine.
“You know, Eris hasn’t stopped talking about you all week,” she said with a wide grin, cheeks slightly flushed as she swirled the wine in her glass.
You grinned, turning to the male on your left. “Oh really?” you asked, relishing in the way his face lit up with embarrassment.
He just stuck his tongue out at you playfully.
It was a lovely dinner, until Eris’s mother was whisked away by a group of servants. You didn’t miss the way her expression dropped, the small tremor in her fingers as she folded her napkin and set it atop the table.
“Perhaps I’ll see you next week?” she asked, laying a hand on your shoulder briefly.
“Of course,” you replied, trying to give her an encouraging smile as she was escorted away. You sighed as she vanished in the crowd, casting a glance at Eris. He was still watching where she’d disappeared, eyes darting across the expanse of the orchard while a muscle feathered in his clenched jaw.
You set your hand on his lap gently and tried to ignore the desperate look he gave you. “She’ll be alright,” you murmured.
He sighed, head dropping a little as he nodded. “I know, I know she will. I just can’t stand the way he controls her.”
You nodded, knowing he was referencing his father. “Could he not choose…another fae? To complete the Rite?”
Eris tensed again. “He could, and that’s the issue. He insists on my mother participating every year, despite the fact they haven’t shared a bed since Lucien was born.”
“That’s disgusting,” you remarked, a sneer on your face as you realized the full extent of Beron’s vile behavior. Eris nodded.
“I completely agree.”
Somewhere in the distance a drum began to sound, its low thrum indicating the start of the Rite was nearing. The anxiety you’d felt earlier returned, crashing over your body like a wave as a group of servants began ushering your table towards the other end of the orchard.
You gathered a vague idea of what was about to happen by listening to passerby: much like on Calanmai, Beron would be filled with a great magic and pursue his wife through the woods of the Autumn Court, until he caught up to her and…
And then everyone else would be allowed to engage in such activities, which is what the crowd seemed most eager for. Some fae were already ripping their clothes off, remnants of expensive gowns and suits left on the grass as you walked on.
Eris chuckled as you looked down incredulously at a green silk dress, completely intact on the grass except for a tear down the middle. “What a waste,” you muttered.
“Mmm.” He nodded in agreement. “But the richest fae in the Autumn Court see no end to their immense wealth, so what’s to keep them from simply buying another one?”
“Would you say a socioeconomic wealth divide is a weakness of this court?” you asked him bluntly. He nodded again.
“Very much so.”
The drums quickened as you found your places on the edge of an open clearing.
“Is it starting?” you asked Eris.
“Almost,” he replied. “A bell will ring when he starts his…pursuit, and again when he finds her.”
Beron had appeared in the center of the crowd, red hair blazing in the firelight and tunic slightly unbuttoned. You and the rest of the guests had lined up on both sides of a large pathway leading into the forest.
“My mother is already in there,” Eris said, gesturing to the woods. “He just has to track her down.”
“That must be so fun for her,” you said sarcastically.
Beron let out an animalistic roar and the crowd cheered. Eris nudged you with his elbow, and you forced yourself to clap politely.
The bell rang. Beron let out a growl before sprinting into the woods.
A hush fell upon the crowd. Your heart pounded in your chest, nervousness radiating throughout your body. You knew Eris could hear your racing pulse, and still he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you closer to him.
“No one will try anything with you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he murmured into the shell of your ear. You shivered. “You’re with me, only a fool would dare approach you.”
“Thank you,” you whispered, pressing yourself closer to him. “You’re so warm,” you added, resisting the urge to tuck yourself into his chest.
He chuckled. “It’s an added bonus of fire manipulation.”
“I figured, but I didn’t realize your powers would be so…tangible,” you said. He cocked his head, looking down at you devilishly.
“I use my abilities in almost all aspects of my personal life,” he drawled. You gulped.
“Like cooking?” you asked meekly. He just laughed quietly and shook his head.
“More than just cooking, Y/n.”
The second bell rang from somewhere deep within the forest, and the crowd burst into loud cheers. You had only a moment to think about the Lady of the Autumn Court, of what she must have been going through at that very moment, before the crowd began moving violently.
Passerby pushed and shoved their way through the masses of fae, some searching for partners and some already…engaged. You cringed at each sweaty body that made contact with your own, relishing in Eris’s touch as he steadied you in his arms.
“Shall we go somewhere more private?” he asked, tone suddenly serious as he searched your slightly panicked face for an answer. You could only nod, eyes wide as he winnowed you away without a second thought.
He’d whisked you away to a small hill nearby. It was darker, as no lights had been strung up here, but you still had a clear view of the revelry in the clearing below. Between torches and pyres were hoards of naked fae, gyrating and fucking like animals.
“Ah, such a lovely view of the fae orgy!” you exclaimed, clasping your hands together and sitting down as if you were watching a show.
Eris burst in laughter behind you. It was a beautiful sound. You looked over your shoulder, smiling at him.
“What’s that look supposed to mean?” he asked, sitting down beside you.
“You just look so handsome when you laugh,” you said softly, smile still on your lips.
He grinned, tinges of pink dusting his cheeks and ears as he looked down at you. “That’s very kind of you.”
“But it’s true!” you insisted, scooching closer to him. He draped a muscular arm across your shoulders.
“This is where I come most years during the Harvest Festival. To get away from it all,” he said.
You quirked an eyebrow at him. “To watch from a distance? Isn’t that a bit perverted?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “No, my mother tends a garden behind us,” he explained, twisting to point at the outline of a hedge in the darkness behind you. “It’s a nice reprieve from what’s happening down there.”
“You don’t like to participate in the festivities?” you asked genuinely. You were almost certain his younger brothers were somewhere in the crowd below.
“I used to,” he shrugged. “When I was younger. Now, I don’t know. It feels artificial.”
You nodded. “I get what you mean. It’s why I can’t attend Calanmai anymore - everyone either just wants a quick fuck or wants some sort of sway over you politically.”
“Exactly,” he drawled. “As if fucking Beron’s heir during the Harvest Festival will increase your status in this court. It’s pathetic.”
“They really try that?” you asked him. He snorted.
“Of course. They try it with me, with my brothers. I’m sure it happens with the advisors as well, but they’re so power-hungry themselves I doubt they notice.”
“I’m sorry,” you murmured, tilting your head and resting it on his shoulder. You felt him stiffen then relax, and then he shifted, resting his own head atop yours.
“It’s not your fault,” he whispered back. “But thank you for caring.”
“Of course,” you replied. In the silence, you couldn’t help but watch the happenings below you. It was almost mesmerizing, the countless bodies moving in the firelight, simultaneously in and out of sync. If you squinted, you could almost pretend it was a dance.
“What are you thinking about?” Eris asked softly.
“I’m thinking most of the people down there are probably quite lonely,” you murmured. “And that they spend most of their days working, or scheming, and they spend the whole year looking forward to today, when they can pretend they aren’t so alone.”
A beat.
“That’s so sad,” Eris said finally. “Are you…do you feel that way?”
“Sometimes,” you said. “Recently, less so.”
“Me too,” he answered. You felt him sit upright, felt the soft touch of his fingers as they brushed across your cheek and tilted your face toward his. “You have made me feel less lonely.”
You swallowed thickly, almost overwhelmed by the honesty in his voice, by his emotions practically written across his features. Your eyes darted across his face, admiring the angles and shadows highlighted by the pale firelight.
“You’ve made me feel less lonely, too,” you all-but whispered, sucking in a breath as he moved his face closer to yours.
You closed your eyes, sighing as he rested his forehead against your own.
“I know you are not a fan of this…ritualistic fucking,” he murmured. You chuckled and nodded. “But what I want to do to you is not at all like that.”
You opened your eyes, heart sputtering at his lust-blown gaze. “Eris-”
“I want to take care of you, keep you safe,” he whispered intently. “And then I want to ravish you. I want to make you feel good and keep doing that for as long as I can.”
Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the atmosphere of the festival, but you’d never known such a handsome, honest male as the one sitting beside you, regarding you as if you were worth more than the entire world. You captured his lips in a forceful kiss. He groaned, cupping your face in his large warm hands.
“I want that too,” you mumbled against his mouth. He grinned into the kiss.
“Thank the Cauldon.”
He kissed you again, your lips moving together languidly as he reached down and pulled you into his lap. You moaned softly, pressing down onto him as you began kissing down his jawline, his neck.
“Don’t stop,” he groaned. His fingers massaged the swell of your hips as he rocked himself into you.
“I don’t plan on it,” you huffed, sitting up only to push him down on his back, clamoring over him to reconnect your lips.
Eris made a strained noise, threading one hand through your hair and clasping your ass with the other. You moaned as you straddled one of his thick thighs, grinding against it shamelessly.
“You like that, pretty girl?” Eris asked breathlessly. You whined, tucked your head into the crook of his neck and nodded. He used the hand on your ass to help guide your movements, pushing you down against him, harder every time. “Keep going then, make yourself cum on my leg.”
You whined, tilting your hips so you felt him against your clit every time you ground down. “Fuck,” you gasped, pace quickening as you felt a familiar warmth begin to clench around your core.
“Such a dirty mouth,” Eris tsked. “Perhaps I’ll have to punish you later.”
You moaned languidly, humping his thigh as if it was your salvation. Eris breathed heavily beneath you, his chest rising and falling rapidly as you grew closer and closer to your orgasm.
“I actually don’t think I’ll have the restraint to see that through," he admitted, voice strained. “All I want to do is fuck you until neither of us can see straight.”
The tension within you snapped, and you cried out as you came on his thigh, body collapsing further onto his. “Good girl,” he soothed, rubbing your back as you panted. “Such a pretty little pet.”
You hummed, nuzzling against his neck. “That felt good,” you moaned. “I want more.”
“Gods be damned,” Eris groaned, flipping the two of you over and cradling your face with his arms. “I want you.”
“Then take me,” you whispered, wrapping your legs around his midsection as he pressed his hard length against you. “But perhaps you could rail me inside? Unless the wet grass is an integral component of this experience for you.”
Eris rolled his eyes. “So sassy.”
He winnowed you away, your surroundings shifting as you found yourself laying atop a firm mattress. You glanced around, drinking in the wooden walls and floors and the expensive chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
“My room,” Eris clarified. You made an “ah” noise, giving him an approving nod before clasping your hands around his neck and pulling his lips down to yours.
He slipped his tongue into your mouth, sucking a bit on your upper lip as he began unlacing the front of his tunic.
Your eyes glazed over as they flickered across the vast expanse of his chest. You reached a tentative hand out, lightly scraping down his chest to the top of his pants with your nails. He shivered above you.
“You’re so beautiful,” you murmured appreciatively.
“I could say the same of you,” he grinned, leaning down and licking up the column of your neck. You whined, arching against him. He reached beneath you and began untying the back of your dress.
You squirmed and started pulling your arms out of the sleeves, huffing at Eris while he chuckled.
“So impatient,” he crooned, stroking a finger down the side of your face. “Good things come to those who wait.”
“Haven’t I waited long enough?” you whined, grinding upwards desperately as you searched for any amount of friction. Eris groaned, biting your bottom lip softly.
“Yea, we both have,” he panted, slipping the rest of your dress down your torso. His mouth was on your breast in an instant, sucking and biting and licking while he rolled the peak of your other nipple between his fingers. Your moan was loud and desperate, and you clapped your own hand over your mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound.
Eris paused, lifting his head from your breasts with an amused expression. “There’s no one here,” he reminded you, shimmying the fabric pooled at your hips down further and further. “And if any of my brothers come back from that fuckfest early, let them hear you.”
“Fuck, Eris,” you gasped, hips bucking as he nipped your hipbone.
“That’s what I plan to do,” he chuckled, licking a line down from your navel.
You grabbed his fiery locks, legs spreading as he stopped just before he reached where you wanted him. “Please,” you whispered. “Please please please.”
Eris moaned as he buried his face between your legs, reaching one hand up to grasp your breast roughly while the other stroked the soft flesh on the inside of your thigh. You trembled, back arching as your grip on his hair tightened.
“Oh, yes.” The world had shrunk to just you and Eris and the pleasure coursing through you. “There, there…”
The hand on your thigh traveled up, up, up, until Eris slipped a long finger inside you and curled it upwards just right. You whined as he stroked that special spot within you.
“There,” Eris growled with a great deal of finality. “Is that good? Can you take another finger, pretty girl?”
You nodded desperately, moaning as he slipped another finger inside you, pussy clenching around him as he fucked you slowly. He pulled back, mouth falling open at the sight of you leaking all over his hand. “You’re going to be the death of me, Y/n.”
He dipped his head back down to you, licking tight circles around your clit while his fingers fucked you faster, harder.
“Eris!”
The male between your legs shifted upwards, pushing your legs wider around his broad shoulders as he devoured you. Your whole body trembled, head dropping back as you felt the tension within you tighten. “I’m-I’m…”
You came loudly, toes curling and thighs tightening around his head as you shook beneath him. Eris did not falter, did not stop. He kept sucking, kept fucking you with his fingers, eyes trained on you as he watched you writhe around.
“Please,” you gasped, pushing his head away as your orgasm ebbed, overstimulation left in its place. “Please, Eris.”
He pulled off of you with one final long lick up your pussy, drawing a ragged moan from you as your legs twitched involuntarily. “Please, what?” he drawled, the picture of sex and beauty as he kneeled between your legs.
“Please fuck me,” you begged, reaching out and raking your nails down his chest. He moaned, tilting his head back slightly as your fingers reached the waist of his dress pants. His cock twitched under the dark colored fabric.
“As you wish,” he groaned, surging forward to kiss you while he reached down to unbutton and tug off his pants and underwear. You helped him slide the fabric off his muscled legs, moaning at the taste of yourself on his lips. His clothes hit the floor with a soft thud that had both of you grinning into the kiss as he lowered himself against you.
He peppered your shoulders with kisses as he settled in the space between your spread legs, his toned body dwarfing yours completely. Eris bit at your collarbones as he pushed the length of himself between your slick folds while you gasped, clinging to his shoulders.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked softly, darkened eyes searching yours for any sense of hesitation. “We can stop if you want.”
“Yea, this seems like a really apt stopping point,” you grinned, glancing down at the precum leaking out of his cock and biting your lip as you rocked your hips up towards him. Eris chuckled, lining his tip up with your entrance. “And it’s not like I’ve been enjoying this at all. You definitely haven’t turned me into a moaning mess on your bed-”
Eris pushed himself inside you with a snap of his hips, your teasing interrupted as you gasped, nails surely leaving marks on his shoulders. Eris moaned loudly, eyes squeezed shut as he willed himself to remain still inside you.
“Put that mouth of yours to good use and kiss me, pretty girl,” he muttered, moaning into your mouth as you pulled his face down to yours, your thumbs caressing the tips of his pointed ears softly.
“I’m gonna fuck you so good,” Eris whispered as he began rocking into you slowly. Your breathing quicked, mouth falling open into a small “o” as you watched Eris trail his hand up the outside of your thigh and hip to thumb at your clit. You jerked against him, relishing the soft ache in your hips as your legs spread infinitely further for the male between them. “You won’t be able to walk tomorrow when I’m done with you.”
“I want you to fuck me all tomorrow, too,” you moaned in reply. Eris thrust into you sharply and you let out a soft cry.
“I’ll fuck you when and wherever you want,” he grunted. “As long as you’ll have me.”
Forever, you thought to yourself, head spinning with chants of Eris Eris Eris. Yes, you wanted him to be the one fucking you for forever. You wrapped your legs around his waist and his resolve shattered, hips snapping against yours as the sound of skin slapping skin echoed around the room.
“I’m…I’m not going to last long,” Eris admitted breathlessly, chest heaving either at the intense pace he had set or his own pleasure, or maybe some combination of both. His forehead fell against your own and you laughed breathlessly.
“Feels so good,” you babbled. “Want your cum, want you to cum inside me.” Eris groaned as you raked your nails down his back.
“Not until you finish,” Eris groaned, rubbing firm circles around your clit. You jolted at each pass of his thumb over you, moans growing high pitched and needy as he fucked deeper and deeper into you.
“Need you,” you pleaded. “Please, Eris, please.”
“Gods, baby,” Eris moaned, maybe the prettiest sound you’d ever heard. He grabbed your legs by the backs of your knees and pressed them to your shoulders, his cock hitting the perfect spot as he sunk back inside you.
“More,” you mewled, head falling to the side as you snaked your hands around his waist and pulled him further into you with each thrust. It was too much and yet not enough at the same time.
Eris licked the exposed side of your neck and sank his teeth into the flesh under your jaw, groaning as you screamed in pleasure. “It’s like you were made for me,” he muttered against your skin. “So fucking perfect.”
“Keep going,” you begged, the familiar feeling of your orgasm surging within you like the crest of a wave about to crash against the shore.
“Just a little longer,” Eris pleaded, thrusts quickening as he chased his own high. “So close, so fucking close.”
“There!” you cried, back arching as the wave crashed.
Eris roared, heat spiking under his skin as he came, fucking you through your orgasm as he spilled into you. You grinded against him until you couldn’t anymore, Eris sinking himself deep inside you with a final languid moan.
Eris collapsed onto the bed next you, rolling you onto his chest with one skilled swoop. You snuggled against him, shivering as he slipped out of you. His chest heaved beneath you, heart pounding loud enough for you to hear as he struggled to catch his breath.
“That was…” Eris paused, panting heavily. “Probably the best Harvest Festival of my entire life.”
“Really?” you asked softly, glancing up at him. His cheeks were flushed, eyes shut as he nodded with a blissful smile. You nearly blushed at how handsome he was.
“Yea, really,” he replied, opening one eye to glance down at you. “Wanna sleep over?”
You giggled, nodding as you settled back down against him. “I’d love to spend the night.”
“What about every night?” Eris asked softly, snaking an arm around your waist as his hands caressed the soft curve of your hip.
Your heart skipped a beat as you bit back a grin. “I’m sure Nostrus wouldn’t mind me spending more time here.”
“What a dedicated emissary you are,” Eris teased, tilting your chin up with his finger to look him in the eyes. A sweet, nervous look was etched across his face, so unlike the lustful expression he’d worn for the past hour, and yet just as beautiful. “And what about you, would you mind spending more time here? With me?”
“There’s nothing I want more,” you smiled. Eris beamed, heat blossoming between you as he radiated a warm joy you could see yourself getting used to.
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