may i request a jason x reader fic where the reader has a huge crush on jason but she thinks he doesn’t feel the same way because he basically always pretends like she doesn’t exist but it’s actually because hes hopelessly in love with her but he doesn’t want her to get in trouble with dick and also he thinks he doesn’t deserve her. i love your writing i can’t stop reading your jason fics 🫶🏼
The Art of Pretending You Don't Exist
navigation , dc navigation
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
Jason Todd was exceptionally good at many things. Hand-to-hand combat. Marksmanship. Sarcasm. Making his family worry about him.
What he was truly, remarkably talented at, however, was pretending you didn't exist.
You'd noticed it about six months ago, right around the time you'd realized you were completely, hopelessly in love with him. It was like a switch had flipped. One day Jason was tolerating your presence at family dinners, occasionally making dry comments that made you laugh. The next, he was leaving rooms when you entered them.
At first, you'd thought it was coincidence. But after the seventh time Jason had suddenly "remembered" he needed to be somewhere else the moment you walked into the Manor, after the twelfth time he'd gone silent mid-conversation when you approached, after the twentieth time he'd looked straight through you like you were invisible—you'd gotten the message.
Jason Todd wanted nothing to do with you.
Which was devastating, considering you'd been harboring an absolutely ridiculous crush on him for the better part of a year. A crush that had started innocently enough—admiration for how protective he was of his family despite his rough edges, respect for his dedication to his work in Crime Alley, appreciation for the rare moments when his guard dropped and you saw the person underneath all that armor.
Then Dick had invited you to family dinner one night, and Jason had been there, leather jacket and white streak and green eyes that saw too much. He'd made exactly three comments the entire evening, each one dry and cutting and somehow hilarious, and you'd been completely gone.
You'd started looking forward to the dinners where he showed up. Started paying attention when he spoke. Started noticing things—how he always made sure there was enough food for everyone before taking seconds, how he deflected attention from Tim when their younger brother was clearly exhausted, how he softened almost imperceptibly when Damian forgot to be prickly for five seconds.
You'd fallen in love with Jason Todd slowly, then all at once.
And he'd responded by acting like you didn't exist.
"He's doing it again," you muttered to Dick, watching Jason's back as he quite literally walked away from you mid-conversation. You'd been asking about a case you'd worked together last month—a simple question about a witness statement—and Jason had just... left. Turned around and walked out of the room without a word.
Dick winced. "He's—Jason's complicated."
"Complicated. Right." You laughed, but it sounded bitter even to your ears. "Dick, I get it. He doesn't like me. That's fine. But could he at least pretend to tolerate me? We work together sometimes. It's getting ridiculous."
"It's not that he doesn't like you—"
"Then what is it? Because from where I'm standing, it seems pretty clear. I walk in, he walks out. I talk, he goes silent. I exist, he pretends I don't." You wrapped your arms around yourself, hating how much this hurt. "Did I do something? Because if I did, I'd like to know so I can apologize and we can move past this weird... whatever this is."
Dick looked deeply uncomfortable, which was how you knew he knew something you didn't. "You should talk to Jason."
"I've tried. He won't stay in the same room as me long enough for a conversation."
"Then corner him. Don't let him leave." Dick's expression was sympathetic. "Trust me on this—you need to actually talk to him."
"Why?"
"Because—" Dick stopped himself, clearly biting back something. "Just trust me. Talk to Jason. Really talk to him. Don't let him deflect or avoid or pull his disappearing act."
You wanted to argue that talking to Jason was impossible when he treated you like you were invisible, but Dick was already being pulled away by Tim for some kind of tech emergency, and you were left standing alone in the Batcave, wondering what the hell Dick knew that you didn't.
You cornered Jason three days later, which was harder than it sounded considering he had a sixth sense for your presence and an irritating habit of vanishing the moment you got close.
But you'd learned from the best. Dick had taught you patience. Bruce had taught you strategy. And you'd taught yourself that sometimes, the direct approach was the only one that worked.
So when you heard Jason was at his safehouse in Crime Alley—intel courtesy of a sympathetic Stephanie—you went straight there. You knew which building, knew which apartment. You'd been there before, months ago, back when Jason still acknowledged your existence.
You picked the lock (thank you, Damian, for those lessons) and let yourself in.
Jason was at his kitchen table, cleaning his guns with methodical precision. He looked up when you entered, and something flashed across his face—surprise, then something else you couldn't identify, then his usual blank mask.
"Breaking and entering," he said flatly. "That's new for you."
"You won't talk to me any other way." You closed the door behind you, leaning against it. "And we need to talk."
"No, we don't."
"Yes, we do. Jason, what did I do?"
His hands stilled on the gun he was cleaning. "You didn't do anything."
"Then why—" You gestured helplessly. "Why do you act like I don't exist? Why do you leave every time I walk into a room? Why won't you even look at me anymore?"
"I look at you." His voice was carefully neutral.
"No, you look through me. There's a difference." You moved closer, and you saw him tense. "Dick said I should talk to you. Said I should corner you and not let you leave until you actually explain what's going on. So that's what I'm doing. I'm not leaving until you tell me why you hate me."
"I don't hate you." The words came out sharp, almost angry.
"Then what is it? Because it feels like you hate me. It feels like—like I'm something unpleasant you have to tolerate occasionally when you can't avoid me."
Jason stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "You should go."
"No."
"This isn't—you need to leave."
"Why? Why do I need to leave, Jason? What is it about my presence that's so unbearable that you can't even stand to be in the same room as me?"
"It's not—" He stopped, jaw clenched, hands fisted at his sides. "You don't understand."
"Then help me understand! Because I've been trying to figure out what I did wrong for months, and I can't—I don't know what I did to make you hate me so much."
"I don't hate you!" Jason's voice rose, and he looked almost stricken by his own volume. "I don't—fuck. I don't hate you."
"Then what?" You were close enough now to see the tension in his shoulders, the way he was holding himself like he was barely keeping control. "What is it?"
"You need to stay away from me." His voice was quieter now, almost desperate. "You need to stop—stop being around me. Stop coming to the Manor when I'm there. Stop working cases anywhere near me. Just—stay away."
The words hurt more than you'd expected. "Why?"
"Because—" He stopped, and when he looked at you, there was something raw in his eyes. "Because I'm not good for you. Because you're Dick's—you're his friend, and he trusts me around you, and I can't—"
"What does Dick have to do with this?"
"Everything! He—" Jason ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "He trusts me. He brought you into the family, and he trusts me not to—" He stopped himself.
"Not to what?"
"Not to ruin you." The words came out flat, final. "Dick trusts me not to drag you down to my level. And I can't—I won't do that to you. Or to him."
You stared at him. "You think being around you would ruin me?"
"I know it would."
"That's—Jason, that's ridiculous."
"Is it?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I'm a crime lord. I kill people. I've done things that would make you—if you knew half the things I've done, you wouldn't even want to be in the same room as me."
"I know what you've done. I know who you are."
"No, you know the version of me that shows up at family dinners. You don't know—" He stopped, shaking his head. "You don't know me. Not really. And you shouldn't want to."
"What if I do?" The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Jason went very still. "What?"
You'd started this, might as well finish it. "What if I do want to know you? What if I want to be around you, even knowing everything you've done?"
"You don't mean that."
"Yes, I do." You moved closer, and this time he didn't back away. "Jason, I've been trying to figure out why you hate me for months. I've been trying to understand what I did wrong, how I could fix it. And you're telling me the reason you avoid me is because you think you're not good enough for me?"
"I'm not." He said it with such certainty that it broke your heart. "I'm not good enough for you. You're—you're brilliant and kind and you actually give a shit about people. And I'm—I'm the guy who came back wrong. I'm the mistake Bruce couldn't fix. I'm the son who died and came back as something—" His voice cracked slightly. "I'm not what you deserve."
"You don't get to decide what I deserve."
"Someone has to. Because you clearly don't see it." Jason looked at you, and there was so much pain in his eyes that you could barely stand it. "You deserve someone good. Someone like Dick—not him specifically, but—someone like him. Someone uncomplicated and kind and—"
"Someone who isn't you," you finished.
"Yeah."
You were close enough now to touch him, close enough to see the scar on his cheekbone and the way his jaw was clenched and the careful way he was trying not to look directly at you.
"What if I don't want someone who isn't you?" you said quietly.
Jason's breath caught. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't—don't say things like that. Don't make this harder than it has to be."
"Harder than what has to be?" You reached up, and he flinched but didn't pull away when you touched his face. "Jason, what are you trying to say?"
"I'm trying to say—" He stopped, and when he spoke again his voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm trying to say that I've been avoiding you because I can't trust myself around you. Because every time you're near me, I want—" He stopped himself.
"Want what?"
"Things I shouldn't want. Things I have no right to want." His hand came up, covering yours where it rested against his face. "You're Dick's friend. You're—you're good and I'm—I'm not. And I can't—I won't drag you into my mess."
"What if I'm already in your mess?" Your heart was pounding. "What if I've been in your mess for months and I don't want to leave?"
Jason closed his eyes. "You don't know what you're saying."
"I'm saying I have feelings for you. I'm saying I've had feelings for you for months. I'm saying that every time you walk away from me, it hurts. Every time you act like I don't exist, it feels like—" Your voice cracked. "It feels like something in me is breaking."
"Don't." Jason's eyes opened, and there was panic there now. "Don't say that. Don't—you can't have feelings for me. You can't."
"Too late."
"No. No, this isn't—" He pulled away from you, putting distance between you. "You think you have feelings for me, but you don't. You don't know me. Not really. If you did, you wouldn't—"
"I do know you," you interrupted. "I know you're protective of your family even when you pretend not to care. I know you run a criminal empire but you have rules about who gets hurt. I know you read Jane Austen and know poetry and you pretend to be this big bad crime lord but you're actually—you're good, Jason. Under everything else, you're good."
"I'm not." He sounded almost desperate. "I'm really, really not."
"Yes, you are. And I—" You took a breath. "I'm in love with you. I have been for months. And you avoiding me, pretending I don't exist—it's been killing me. Because I thought you hated me when actually—" You stopped. "Actually what, Jason? Why have you really been avoiding me?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Because I'm in love with you too. And I can't—I can't be."
The words hit you like a physical blow. "You're—what?"
"I'm in love with you." He said it like a confession, like an admission of guilt. "I have been since—I don't even know when it started. One day you were just Dick's friend, and then you were—you were everywhere. Every thought, every—" He stopped, laughing without humor. "I'm in love with you, and it's the worst possible thing that could happen."
"Why is it the worst possible thing?"
"Because I'll ruin you! Because I'm—I'm not good enough for you. I'm not—I'm the guy who died and came back wrong. I'm the mistake. I'm the fuck-up. And you're—you're perfect. You're everything good and I'm—" His voice broke. "I'm everything that's wrong."
"You're not—"
"I am. And Dick knows it. He trusts me around you because he thinks I'll never—he thinks I have enough control to not—" Jason stopped. "He trusts me not to fall in love with you. And I couldn't even do that right."
You stared at him, your heart breaking for this man who thought so little of himself. "Jason, Dick doesn't—he wouldn't care if you had feelings for me."
"Yes, he would. You're his—you're important to him. And he knows what I am. He knows I'd just—I'd drag you down. I'd get you hurt or killed or—" Jason was pacing now, agitated. "You need to leave. You need to forget this conversation happened and you need to stay away from me."
"No."
"What do you mean, 'no'?"
"I mean no. I'm not leaving. I'm not forgetting this. And I'm definitely not staying away from you." You moved closer to him. "You just told me you're in love with me."
"Which is why you need to go—"
"Jason." You waited until he looked at you. "I'm in love with you too. We just established this."
"Which is exactly why—"
"Why we should be together." You cut him off. "Not why we should avoid each other."
"You're not listening—"
"No, you're not listening. Jason, I don't care about your past. I don't care that you think you're not good enough. I care about you. The you that exists right now. The you that's standing here telling me you love me while simultaneously trying to push me away for my own good."
"I'm trying to protect you—"
"I don't need protection from you. I need—" You stopped, gathering courage. "I need you to stop pushing me away. I need you to stop pretending I don't exist. I need you to give us a chance."
"I can't." But he sounded less certain now.
"Why not?"
"Because what if—what if Dick's right? What if I do ruin you? What if being with me gets you hurt or killed or—"
"What if it doesn't?" You reached for his hand, and this time he let you take it. "What if being with you is the best thing that ever happens to me? What if we're good together?"
"We won't be."
"How do you know?"
"Because I'm—" He stopped, looking down at your joined hands. "Because I don't deserve you."
"That's not your decision to make. That's mine." You squeezed his hand. "And I choose you. I want you. Not some perfect version of you, not some other person who's 'good enough'—I want you. Jason Todd. Crime lord and book nerd and protective brother and the man I fell in love with."
Jason was quiet for a long moment, and you could see him struggling with himself. Finally: "Dick will kill me."
"Dick will be fine."
"He trusts me—"
"To make my own decisions. Which I'm doing." You moved closer. "Jason, Dick isn't in love with me. Dick is my friend. And if he has a problem with us being together, that's his issue to work through, not yours."
"But—"
"No more buts. No more excuses about not deserving me or ruining me or whatever else you've convinced yourself of." You reached up, cupping his face with your free hand. "I love you. You love me. That's what matters."
"It's not that simple—"
"It is that simple. We make it complicated."
Jason closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. "This is a bad idea."
"Probably."
"You're going to regret this."
"I doubt it."
"I'm going to fuck this up."
"Maybe. But I'm willing to take that risk." You smiled. "Are you?"
He opened his eyes, looking at you with an expression so vulnerable it made your chest ache. "What if I hurt you?"
"What if you don't?"
"I'm not—I'm not good at this. At—at being with someone. At being—" He struggled for the word.
"At being loved?" you supplied gently.
Jason flinched. "Yeah."
"Then it's a good thing I'm patient." You stood on your toes, bringing your face closer to his. "Jason Todd, I'm in love with you. Completely, irrevocably, stupidly in love with you. And I'm not going anywhere. So you can either keep pushing me away and we can both be miserable, or you can take a chance and see what happens."
"Those are terrible options."
"They're the only options you've got."
He laughed, soft and surprised. Then, so quietly you almost missed it: "I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Of this. Of—of wanting something this much. Of caring about someone this much. Of—" He stopped. "Of losing you."
"You're not going to lose me."
"You don't know that."
"No," you admitted. "But I'm choosing to believe it anyway. Because the alternative is walking away from you, and I can't—I don't want to do that."
Jason was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
"This. Be with someone. Be—be the kind of person someone like you would want."
"You don't have to be anyone but yourself." You brushed your thumb across his cheekbone. "That's all I want. Just you."
"That's a terrible deal for you."
"Let me be the judge of that."
He was looking at you now with an intensity that made your breath catch. "If we do this—if we try this—and I fuck it up—"
"Then we'll deal with it. Together." You smiled. "That's how relationships work, Jason. You don't have to be perfect. You just have to try."
"I'm going to be bad at this."
"That's fine. I'll probably be bad at it too."
"And Dick—"
"Will be happy for us. And if he's not, that's his problem, not ours."
Jason searched your face, looking for—you weren't sure what. Doubt, maybe. Fear. Some sign that you didn't mean what you were saying. Finally, he said, "You're sure about this?"
"I'm sure about you."
"That's not the same thing."
"It is to me."
He was quiet for another moment. Then, slowly, carefully, he leaned down and kissed you.
It was gentle and tentative and nothing like you'd imagined kissing Jason Todd would be. There was no confidence, no swagger. Just Jason, uncertain and vulnerable and kissing you like you were something precious he was afraid to break.
When you pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours. "I'm still going to fuck this up," he whispered.
"Probably," you agreed. "But I'll be here anyway."
"Even when I'm difficult?"
"Especially then."
"Even when I push you away?"
"I'll just push back."
He smiled, small and real. "You're stubborn."
"You're one to talk."
"Fair point." He kissed you again, longer this time, his hands coming up to frame your face. When he pulled back, there was something lighter in his expression. "Dick really is going to kill me."
"He really won't. He'll probably say 'I knew it' and be insufferably smug about it."
Jason groaned. "That's worse."
"You'll survive."
"Will I though?"
"Yes. And I'll be there to make sure of it." You wrapped your arms around him, and after a moment, he returned the embrace. "We're going to be okay, Jason. Both of us. Together."
"You sound very certain about that."
"I am certain. About us. About you." You pulled back enough to look at him. "I love you. And I'm not going anywhere. So you're stuck with me."
"Stuck with you," he repeated, and there was wonder in his voice. "That doesn't sound so bad."
"It better not. Because I'm very serious about the not going anywhere thing."
"Good." He kissed your forehead. "Because now that I have you, I don't think I could let you go even if I tried."
"Then don't try."
"I won't." He held you closer. "I'm still going to be difficult."
"I know."
"And I'm still going to worry that I'm not good enough for you."
"I know that too."
"And I'm probably going to push you away sometimes when things get hard."
"And I'll push back. We've established this."
He smiled against your hair. "You're very annoying, you know that?"
"You love me anyway."
"Yeah," he said softly. "I really do."
And standing there in his safehouse in Crime Alley, Jason Todd's arms around you and his heart finally, finally open to you—you thought that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.
Even if you did have to deal with Dick's insufferable smugness later.
(Which you did. Dick took one look at you and Jason walking into the Manor together the next day, holding hands, and said "FINALLY" so loudly that it echoed through the entire building.
Jason had been mortified.
You'd just laughed.
And that, you thought, was a pretty good summary of your relationship: Jason being dramatic, you finding it endearing, and both of you figuring it out together.
your morning's are quiet; neither of you say much, if anything at all, until you've had breakfast. sometimes jason showers first in the morning, other times you do. you'll find him halfway through making coffee, he'll find you simultaneously popping toast into the toaster and drying your hair.
you do the grocery shopping of the week hand in hand–always holding his at that awkward angle he complains about, just so you can feel his pulse in case. you argue about popsicle flavors too loud and buy two tubs of ice cream because one of you can't stand vanilla and the other strictly eats vanilla. jason gets a bad case of baby fever when you take a side quest through the park on the way home.
lunch blinks by the two of you, mainly consisting of you nagging jason about how he always stains his shirts and surfaces. it's with sauce in the context of lunch, but with blood typically.
you sit in the balcony together. you work on the small chair he moved outside for you while he smokes at a distance, trying not to trigger another monologue. or another of your attempts at getting him to quit smoking through sheer annoyance. replacing his cigarettes with lipglosses hadn't worked, yet he feared what you would try next.
jason gets a sock to the face while he reads at the table. he places the photobooth strip of the two of you–four monochrome pictures of you two undeniably in love, each photo mushier than the last–into his book to mark the page. he laughs when you go off about the socks he leaves lying around and the shirts he randomly throws around and never picks up.
he listens to your playlists while he's out for patrol to bring him a semblance of peace. a reminder of the sanctuary and warm arms he gets to return to after a long day of crime fighting and beating ass. you stay up to make sure he gets home safely, even on the days when you're fighting. sometimes he'll find you've fallen asleep on the couch while waiting. he joins you wordlessly.
most nights, jason gets home with shoulders slumped lower than usual. on those days, you work your fingers against the mechanics of his helmet in that way he finds weirdly intimate; the way you know all the intricate buttons and every little piece to undo his mask. the literal and figurative one. you ask about his hobbies because patrol is always the last thing he wants to talk about. he tells you about the hidden meanings and foreshadowings in his most recent read. you debate him on characters and analysis just because it gives him something else to focus on. his answers shift from passionate to slow, half-hearted. you know by the lull of his head against your chest when he's fallen asleep. you tuck the both of you in under a single blanket, despite knowing he'll end up hogging it all. you kiss his forehead with the same small smile you wake up to and all the tenderness the world has robbed him of. "goodnight, jason."
tags: meet cute? meet ugly? who's to say. socially awkward reader. hopefully not ooc
an: this is my first time writing jason so if it's bad you can burn me at the stake im sorry it's also not proofread
wc: 1.3k
Jason doesn’t usually eat in public. It’s loud, the chairs are uncomfortable, and he doesn’t like being around so many people. Despite knowing that he’s probably just being paranoid, it doesn’t make him feel less.. Watched.
And today, apparently, he was being watched.
You approach him, mid bite of his sandwich, eyes wide and somewhat teary.
“I’m sorry, this is so weird. Could you just- Pretend to be my boyfriend for a minute?” You whisper, not wanting to risk a glance behind you. You’d been seeing the same guy all day now, and he’s been following you for three blocks. The last thing you want is for him to catch you alone and unguarded.
Jason raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t put up a fight. He nods wordlessly, and you take the seat across from him, trying to seem natural.
“What’s your name?”
“Jason.”
The man lingers by the front counter, eyes glued to the back of your head. You feel his glare burning a hole through you. You’re not wearing anything revealing, and the only things you’d done today were buy a few comic books and grab some ice cream. It’s baffling to you that this creep has chosen you to harass. There were other, prettier girls to stalk. Preferably, on the other side of the city. Or in a different country.
“Is that guy following you?” He asks after swallowing his food. The panic painted across your face is plain, and it wasn’t hard to deduce that the guy blatantly staring at you was the reason why.
“Yeah.”
“You know him?”
“Nope.”
“Do you want me to go deal with him?”
Your eyebrows knit together, curious as to what he means by that. What, was he going to take him out to a back alley and take him out Old Yeller style?
“Um, maybe not yet. I’m wondering if he’ll just go away once he sees I’m with you.” You sigh, foot tapping nervously against the floor. “Y’know, ‘cus you’re big.”
“I’d like to believe you’re right, except I think he’s coming over here now.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Not at all. Look alive.”
Much, much to your dismay, your conversation is quickly invaded by the man. His posture is odd, hunched forward in your direction.
“Do you mind? We’re talking,” Jason says, voice stern. You’d like to speak too, but you’re worried it’ll come out like a nervous squeak. The look in this dude’s eyes is enough to give you nightmares. In fact, you’re sure it will tonight.
“I was just wondering.. What’s your name?” The man asks, completely ignoring Jason’s previous statement. If looks could kill, you’d be dead in a ditch somewhere. Maybe that’s this guy’s plan.
“Hey, I’m fucking talking to you,” Your date snaps, finally grabbing the man’s attention. “We’re in the middle of something. Leave.”
The man processes the words silently, his heavy lidded eyes boring into Jason’s own. His blank expression transitions into a grin that makes you scoot your chair a few inches further away.
“Relax, man. I’m just being friendly.” His eyes scour your body slowly, threateningly. “She’s fine. Right, sweetheart?”
Wordlessly, you shake your head. Your deft hands rummage through your purse, desperately trying to find your pepper spray (just in case).
“You’re real quiet now, but something tells me you’re a loud girl. Isn’t that right?” He moves slightly forward, caging you in against the wall. Your eyes shut tightly on instinct, trying to shrink away and disappear.
There’s a loud thump before you open your eyes again to see the man on the floor, hand cupping his now bleeding nose.
“Jesus Christ, man!” He shouts, tears welling in his eyes. “Calm down!”
The other customers stare onward in silence, unsure of how to act. Your eyes wander to the cashier, wondering if she’ll do something. Upon further inspection, though, you guess she’s only about fifteen or so. She stands awkwardly behind the counter, fingers whizzing across her phone keyboard.
Jason looks to you, extending a hand. “You okay?”
“..Yeah.” You mumble, quickly accepting it. He pulls you to your feet and towards the door, but you pause to kick the guy in the gut. Hard. He groans loudly and mumbles something under his breath.
Outside the cafe, you find yourself clutching Jason’s hand far tighter than you need to, though you don’t adjust your grip. You sigh in relief upon the situation’s conclusion, a weight lifting itself off of you.
“Where are you parked? I can walk you to your car,” Jason offers, but you only groan in remembrance.
“Shit. I walked here.”
“S’fine. I can walk you home if you want. No problem.” There’s a pause before he speaks again. “Unless you don’t want a random guy to know what building you live in. Which is completely understandable.”
“I’d really appreciate that.” You reply with a relieved smile.
It’s not a far walk, but it’s certainly one you’re not ready to do alone. Reluctantly, you let go of his hand and start the long, treacherous journey (A fifteen minute walk).
“So,” Jason starts, not sure how to carry this conversation. “Does this kinda stuff happen to you often?”
“No. I mean, I’ve heard lots of horror stories from my friends. But, like, half of them are basically models, so I just kind of assumed that came with the territory of being super hot.” You shrug. “Guess it can happen to anyone.”
He laughs, head cocked towards you. “That sounds a little self deprecating.”
“It’s just realistic!”
“I don’t think so. I mean, you’re one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen.”
You almost choke on your saliva. Is this dude actually complimenting you? He’s practically a walking muscle.
“Thanks,” You mumble, doing your best to avoid eye contact. You’d do better in a saw trap than flirting with someone, and you’re not trying to ruin this successful interaction with your fumbling.
A half peaceful, half mortifying silence washes over the two of you as you walk. You feel far safer with him playing body guard, but now you’re in a situation worse than physical danger. Being alone with a hot guy.
“I feel kinda bad,” He says, smiling. “I mean, we were out on a date, and you didn’t even get to order anything.”
“What?” You blurt out in surprise, face burning. “Oh. Yeah.”
You’re fumbling. You know it, yet you also have no idea what you could say to save this interaction. God, what would your friends say? You watch them flirt with guys when you go out together all the time.
“Maybe it’ll go better next time.” You say, staring down at your shoes. Don’t look at him. Don’t do it.
“Next time, huh?” He laughs softly. “I scored a second date?”
“If you want it. I mean, it’s not like we had an actual first one. Not that it wasn’t a cool date concept. Beating a guy up. We just didn’t talk. I mean, I don’t even know your favourite colour. I just know you apparently have a killer left hook.” You ramble, unsure of when to stop talking. Maybe now would be good.
“It’s red.”
“Oh. Red’s good. Not like a bright red. A deep red.”
“I agree.”
Home, sweet home. You’ve never been so relieved to see your dilapidated apartment building. You take a few steps away, now facing Jason.
“Well, thanks for the walk. And the punch.”
“No problem.”
You stare blankly up at him, fidgeting with the strap of your purse. He’s rugged, but he also looks like at the end of the day, he sits down and watches trashy reality television. It’s a unique combination.
One more time, you rummage through your purse, pulling out a pen. You gingerly take Jason’s hand and inscribe it with your phone number.
“Text me. If you want. Or don’t.” You chuckle nervously before turning around and scurrying inside. You try to think positively. Maybe he likes really awkward girls with absolutely zero sex appeal?
Jason Todd wakes up one day and actually looks in the mirror and realizes he has more white hair??? like it’s spreading randomly throughout his hair and he’s panicking that his white tuft spread and what does that mean and ahhhhh…until his spouse is like dude you’re just aging your hair is going white bc that’s what happens when you get older (they’re 60 with two rescues, they own a thrift bookstore, and Jason retired the red helmet yeaaaaars ago but he still can’t believe he’s still alive)
summary: Jason Todd agrees to talk to the demon brat's teacher when she sends home a letter saying she's concerned about him. Now he is becoming a better brother and also totally not flirting with the classroom teacher
wc: 3.5k
---
You press your thumbs into the paper cup, the cardboard going soft under your fingers, lukewarm coffee sloshing against the lid. The staff room smells like burnt espresso and dry-erase markers. Somewhere, a printer is jamming in rhythmic, hopeless clunks.
You sit on the edge of the vinyl couch, clutching a paper cup of coffee that went cold fifteen minutes ago, and try not to look as out of place as you feel. Six weeks ago, you were still in teachers’ college. Six weeks ago, you thought you’d be teaching science units and reading comprehension to twenty-four kids who went home and talked about baseball or TikTok or who they sat next to at lunch.
Six weeks ago, you didn’t think you’d end up here.
Gotham Prep wasn’t the plan. It was the only place hiring, the only one that offered a full-time position with benefits. You didn’t want private school. You didn’t want to stand in classrooms with glossy floors and kids in starched uniforms who talk about Hamptons houses and casually say “our driver” like it’s nothing. But here you are.
And you’re… trying. You’re trying so hard.
Which is why Damian Wayne has been on your mind since September.
Nine years old. Fourth grade. Perfect posture, perfect handwriting, perfect work and…. absolutely no connection to anyone. He sits alone, eats alone, spends recess standing at the edge of the field with his arms crossed, watching like he’s waiting for a battle to start. Brilliant, curious, but untouchable.
You’ve tried everything. Group activities, partner projects, lunch buddies. He doesn’t push back, he just… folds out of reach.
And today, during reading time, you’d caught him pressing his pencil into the desk so hard it snapped clean in half. His jaw clenched, chest rising and falling too fast, like he was holding the entire weight of Gotham in his tiny ribs.
So now you’re here, curled over lukewarm coffee, explaining this to the handful of veteran teachers around you.
“I just think he’s having a hard time,” you say finally, softer than you mean to. “He’s so bright, but he doesn’t talk to anyone. He doesn’t want to.”
A middle-aged math teacher looks up from her crossword and laughs, not unkindly, but weary. “Sweetheart, this is Gotham Prep. Half of these kids’ parents have three vacation homes and haven’t hugged them since birth. If you burn out worrying about every lonely genius in this place, you’re not gonna make it to Christmas.”
You blink, caught off guard, but before you can answer, another teacher chimes in, sipping from a chipped travel mug.
“You said Wayne, right? That explains it. Every Wayne kid who’s come through here’s been the same. Independent, detached, never any parents at conferences. If a butler shows up, consider it a win.”
You freeze. “…A butler?”
“Alfred,” she says casually, like that explains everything. “Lovely old guy. Shows up for everything. Father figure, chauffeur, medic, I think he runs the company too, honestly. Point is, if you haven’t heard from anyone about Damian, don’t take it personally.”
You nod, forcing a small smile. You murmur something polite, something like, thanks, that makes sense, and sip your cold coffee like you’re letting it go.
You’re not letting it go.
By the end of lunch, you have a letter prepared.
—
Damian sits in the backseat like a man (a nine-year old) awaiting trial.
The Wayne car hums softly through afternoon traffic, but inside, it feels suffocating. His blazer is buttoned, his tie perfect, his shoes polished to a mirror shine. None of it matters. His entire life is over.
The letter is heavy in his hands, edges crumpled where his fingers have been digging in. He hasn’t let go since Miss Y/N gave it to him, leaning down to his desk at the end of the day, voice soft and sweet as spun sugar:
"Make sure you give this to your dad, okay, sweetheart?"
Sweetheart.
She called him sweetheart.
That was before he read between the lines. Before he realized what this letter truly was: a declaration of his failure.
He is an Al Ghul. A Wayne. He has trained with assassins since he could walk. He speaks six languages, can scale a wall in under eight seconds, and once killed a man with a pencil in Prague. And yet. And yet.
She thinks he’s weak. He knows it.
He should’ve known something was wrong when she smiled at him this morning with that small, infuriatingly warm smile she gives to everyone, not just him. He thought she was naive, too soft for Gotham, but he didn’t think she would… betray him like this.
None of the other students got letters. Not one.
Which means this is about him.
Which means he has failed.
Which means Father will find out that his own bloodline, the heir to both Wayne Industries and the League of Assassins, the rightful protector of Gotham, cannot perform adequate group work in a fourth-grade classroom.
Damian can already see it: Bruce standing in the Batcave, gauntlet braced on the console, sighing in disappointment. Alfred, shaking his head silently. Drake, smirking behind his hand. Todd, laughing so hard he chokes.
He imagines himself packing his katana into a duffel bag, banished to some Himalayan monastery to “reflect on his failures.”
A low, quiet groan escapes his throat.
From the front seat, Alfred glances into the rearview mirror. “Master Damian, you are holding that envelope,” he observes, voice perfectly calm, “as though it contains confirmation of your death sentence.”
Damian doesn’t look up. “…It might.”
Alfred hums, unbothered. “I see. And have we prepared last rites, or shall I arrange a priest on retainer?”
The silence stretches, heavy and deliberate, and he can practically feel Alfred’s pointed glance in the rearview mirror. But he refuses to speak, refuses to give the butler even the smallest opening.
Because he has already made his decision.
This letter will not reach Father.
Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.
He’ll destroy it if he has to. Burn it, shred it, feed it to Titus and let the hound digest the evidence. Better to die honorably than live with the humiliation of Bruce Wayne reading whatever fresh indignity Miss Y/N has scribbled onto school stationery.
Alfred clears his throat, a soft ahem that carries the full weight of an English battlefield. “Very well. Your silence, Master Damian, has been noted and catalogued for future reference.”
Damian crosses his arms, tucks the letter under his elbow like it’s state secrets. He’ll hide it until midnight, slip down to the Batcave, and dispose of it in the incinerator with the precision of a trained assassin. No one will know.
The car glides into the Wayne Manor driveway, smooth and unhurried. Damian is already mapping his route from garage to corridor to safety, every footstep calculated. He is three seconds from executing a flawless escape when Alfred, with the unfortunate efficiency of decades of service, rounds the hood and opens Damian’s door.
And that’s when it happens.
The letter slips.
It slides from under Damian’s arm, dips into open air, and lands neatly at Alfred’s polished shoes.
They both freeze.
For one brief, terrible second, Damian entertains the fantasy that Alfred won’t pick it up. That the butler, bastion of restraint and decorum, will respect his autonomy and allow him this shred of dignity.
Alfred bends, retrieves the letter, and dusts it off with the casual elegance of a man wiping fingerprints off a murder weapon. He studies the front, expression unreadable.
Damian’s heart rate spikes.
“You will, of course, be delivering this to Master Bruce,” Alfred says mildly, handing the envelope back.
Damian accepts it with the blank stare of a boy planning six separate contingencies to fake his own death before dinner.
He says nothing.
But in his mind, the vow is sworn:
This letter will never reach Bruce Wayne.
…And that’s the exact moment the sound of boots hitting gravel echoes off the driveway.
Jason Todd, resident chaos incarnate, rounds the corner. Fresh leather jacket, cocky grin, energy radiating the way it always does when he smells potential trouble.
“What’s that, Demon Brat?” Jason drawls, nodding at the envelope clutched in Damian’s iron grip. “Ooooh, secret admirer? Tell me it’s a crush.”
Damian glares, sharp as a blade. “Leave me alone, Todd.”
Jason grins wider. “So it is a crush.”
He snatches the letter before Damian can react.
Damian lunges.
Jason dodges, backing up with both hands in the air, the letter held high like a prize. He is laughing so hard he’s wheezing, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.
“Oh my god,” Jason gasps, cracking up again. “She called you very bright but a bit anti-social.”
“It is slander,” Damian hisses, full offense-mode activated. “She has no right. You have no right. Return the letter immediately before I dislocate your jaw.”
Jason snorts. “You’re nine. You can’t even reach my jaw.”
“I trained in the mountains of Tibet.”
“And I died. We all have our burdens.” Jason flips the letter around, reading aloud in a terrible attempt at a high-pitched voice. “Damian is a curious and intelligent student—”
“I will tear out your spine—”
“—though he sometimes struggles with social interaction and collaborative tasks—”
“You’ll be struggling with living soon, Todd.”
Jason is cackling now. He stumbles up the porch stairs, kicking the door open, still holding the letter like it’s comedy gold. “Bro. She’s not even mad! She’s worried about you! This is, like, the nicest concern-mail I’ve ever read.”
“She called me sweetheart,” Damian spits, venom in every syllable. “Then sent home a letter. She lured me into a false sense of security and then attacked.”
Damian’s eyes narrow to slits. “You are not telling Father. Or Grayson. Or anyone.”
Jason wipes his eyes, sobering slightly. “I mean. I could just hand this over. But…” He smirks, tapping the envelope against his palm. “I’ve got a better idea.”
Damian stills. Suspicion blooms like a stormcloud. “What do you want?”
Jason leans back, hands behind his head, pure smug menace. “I go to the school tomorrow. Talk to your terrifyingly adorable teacher. Smooth things over. You don’t have to explain anything to B.”
A pause.
“…In exchange?”
“In exchange,” Jason says sweetly, “you owe me one favour. Future. Undisclosed. You agree, and the letter stays between us.”
Damian narrows his eyes further. “Define ‘favour.’”
“Nothing permanent.”
“That is not reassuring.”
Jason shrugs. “I’m your best shot. Otherwise, this letter ends up on Bruce’s pillow with a sticky note that says talk to your son before he starts a supervillain arc.”
Silence.
Then, stiffly, like chewing glass:
“…Fine.”
Jason grins like the devil himself. “Pleasure doing business, little brother.”
–
Jason parks the quietest bike he owns. Which is still a bike. A powerful, purring beast that he coasts into the staff parking lot like a reformed delinquent.
He pulls off his helmet, fixes his hair in the reflection of his rearview mirror, and adjusts his leather jacket (the good one, without visible stab holes.)
He is calm. Collected. Playing the long con.
He knows Gotham Prep. Hell, he went here before the whole dying thing. It’s a tight ship. A conservative ship. Every teacher either hates children or hates him specifically. This will not be hard.
“Talk to the old lady, reassure her the Wayne kid isn’t a sociopath, fake some guardian paperwork if needed, and dip before lunch is over” he mutters, walking in. “Easy.”
He walks through the front doors like he owns the place. The admin secretary glances up. Jason gives her his best tired-parent smile. She waves him toward Room 104.
He’s halfway down the hall when he smells it.
Citrus.
Not old cleaning lemon. Not overzealous janitor lemon. No. This is intentional citrus. Diffuser-level citrus. Pinterest citrus.
Jason blinks. Pauses outside Room 104. Peers in.
The room is… insane.
There’s a reading nook with beanbags. A corner labeled “mindful minutes” with fidget toys in a basket. Art projects hanging from clothespins. The lights are soft. There’s a mug that says “TEACHERS PLANT SEEDS OF THE FUTURE” next to a succulent in a cat planter.
Then he sees you.
Standing by the whiteboard, sundress swaying slightly, cardigan sleeves pushed to your elbows. You’re balancing on a step stool, pinning up vocabulary cards. Your hair is pulled back with a scrunchie. Your earrings are tiny silver pencils.
You turn just as he knocks.
Bright smile. Warm eyes. Voice like sunshine. “Hi! You must be Damian’s guardian! I’m Miss Y/N.”
Jason forgets how to speak.
You don’t seem to notice. You gesture for him to come in with a little wave, then hop off the stool and land with a soft thud. You smooth your dress, grab a folder from your desk, and head toward the horseshoe table tucked near the reading nook.
“Come sit,” you say brightly. “Lunch break ends in twenty, but I really appreciate you swinging by. Most of the time I get voicemail. Or silence. Or an assistant who tells me to submit a formal calendar request.”
Jason follows you on autopilot. The chairs are too small. He folds into one like an origami disaster.
You flip open a folder, click your pen, then pause.
“Sorry, name? Just so I can match it to my records.”
“Jason,” he says. “Todd.”
You scribble something down, nod to yourself. “Damian’s brother”. Jason’s even more shocked you know that.
“I want to start by saying he’s... really something special. He’s so bright. Incredibly articulate. Analytical. The kind of kid who notices everything.” You smile a little. “Last week, he corrected me on the etymology of the word gladiator. He was right.”
Jason huffs out a small laugh. “Yeah. That sounds like him.”
“But,” you say gently, and his stomach drops.
You flip the folder toward him. A worksheet in Damian’s precise, tiny print. There’s a drawing of a falcon in the corner, mid-hunt. The answers are perfect. The edges are frayed, torn, then carefully taped back together.
“He’s very hard on himself,” you continue. “I’ve seen him rip up an entire page because he made one mistake. I try to encourage a growth mindset, but… I don’t think it’s getting through.”
Jason swallows.
“He’s also alone. During group time, partner work, and free play he doesn’t try. He won’t even look at the other kids. I’ve tried seating changes, shared interests, but nothing sticks. And I get the feeling he’s used to being alone. Like it’s a choice, not a phase.”
You glance up quickly, like you’re checking if you’ve gone too far.
Jason forces a neutral nod. He’s used to damage reports. But this one’s different. This one feels like it comes from a place of—what, concern? Care? Actual emotional investment?
“He’s a complicated kid,” Jason says, carefully. “Always has been.”
“I’ve noticed,” you say gently. “And I get it. I know transitions can be hard. But it’s not just that. Sometimes he looks so tired. Like bone-deep tired, you know?” You give a little laugh, but there’s an edge of worry behind it. “He fell asleep sitting up during a spelling test last week. I thought it was a fluke. But it’s happened twice.”
Jason is spiraling internally.
Because wow. You care. A lot.
You’re not just checking boxes or calling out grades. You’re showing him drawings and asking about his sleep cycle and actually worried about whether this kid has friends.
And he cannot tell you the truth. That Damian sleeps four hours a night because he’s training with ancient swords or running rooftops with his dad. That he doesn’t make friends because he used to consider socialization a weakness. That this is progress from when he first got here. He scrambles for something plausible.
“Uh. You know how it is. New city. New school. Family stuff.”
You nod empathetically. “Of course. Change is hard.”
Jason exhales.
Crisis: delayed.
Somehow.
You pause for a second, like you’re deciding something. Then you offer a soft, tentative smile.
“I hope this isn’t overstepping, but… is Damian’s mother in the picture?”
Jason’s brain goes completely silent.
Then:
International assassin.
Tried to brainwash him into becoming a child warlord.
Has attempted to kill Bruce on multiple occasions.
Resurrected me from the dead using a Lazarus Pit and a bucket of moral compromise.
Once made Damian fight a genetically enhanced clone of himself on his birthday.
Possibly owns a volcano lair.
Definitely owns a tiger.
“…She’s,” he says slowly, “around. Sometimes. Travels around.. for .. work.”
You nod like that’s a totally normal answer. “I just wasn’t sure. I haven’t heard from anyone except you. And he doesn’t really talk about home.”
Jason opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks about saying something helpful. Lands on:
“Yeah. It’s… complicated.”
“I figured,” you say gently. “He’s guarded. But sweet. In his own way. The other day, he offered to sharpen all the pencils for me before math. Said my current ‘supply chain’ was inefficient.”
Jason nearly chokes.
You smile to yourself and reach for your laptop.
“Anyway, I just want to make sure I’m supporting him the right way. Kids his age need a lot of encouragement at home. Routines. Structure. Praise. Someone to ask about his day.”
Jason doesn't answer.
Because he’s suddenly thinking about the manor.
The rotating cast of trauma survivors.
The dinners eaten in silence.
The doors always shut.
You notice his silence and wince. “Sorry. I might be overstepping.”
“No,” he says. “You’re not. It’s just…”
You’re saying things no one’s ever said about him. Or to him. Or to Damian.
“…Complicated.”
You nod, gentle. “Most things are.”
Then your whole face lights up. “Oh! Before you go, you need to download the Classroom Update app!”
Jason blinks. “The what now.”
You’re already typing something on your screen. “It’s adorable. Totally free. You’ll get photos, homework reminders, behavior notes, all of that.” You tilt the screen toward him. “It’s called GuppyBoard! Each class is a pod of fish!”
Jason squints.
Sure enough, a cartoon pufferfish with a graduation cap bobs on the loading page.
“Oh my god,” he mutters.
You grin. “Here. I’ll wait while you download it. Nobody from Damian’s household signed up, and honestly? It kind of broke my heart.”
Jason exhales. Opens the App Store. Taps “Get.”
The app opens with sparkles and a steel-drum jingle. A banner floats across the screen:
“Welcome to the pod, grown-up guppy!”
Jason makes a face.
You laugh. “Now pick your avatar!”
He scrolls past smiling jellyfish, business casual sea turtles, and a dolphin in a hoodie.
Eventually settles on a grim looking shark with a bowtie.
“That one,” he says.
You beam. “Great choice. Mr. Shark means business.”
“Damn right he does.”
You hand him a sticky note with the class code written in bubble letters.
“Welcome to Fourth Grade,” you say. “We’re lucky to have you.”
Jason joins the class.
The app plays a trumpet fanfare.
His shark does a little spin.
You grin like the sun. “There we go! I’m really glad you joined.”
Jason looks up.
You’re still smiling at him. Not politely, but genuinely. That bright, proud kind of smile like he just accomplished something important. Like signing up for a classroom app actually meant something to someone.
“You’d be surprised how many don’t,” you add, softer now. “It’s been hard, getting parents to engage. Private school comes with a lot of… busyness.” You wince a little, like you’re trying to be diplomatic. “A lot of nannies and driver pickups. It’s rare I get to talk to anyone face-to-face.”
Jason frowns. “That sucks.”
You huff a laugh. “It’s just Gotham Prep. I knew what I was signing up for.”
Then, glancing toward the door: “But Damian’s really special. I’m glad someone came in for him.”
Jason blinks.
You’ve already turned back to your laptop, typing in the new name on the roster: Jason T. (Shark, Damian)
His ears feel warm.
Before he can say anything else, the bell rings.
You startle slightly, then leap to your feet like you’ve done this a thousand times. “Okay! That’s our warning. Twenty-three tiny hurricanes inbound.”
Jason backs toward the door, hands up in mock surrender. “I’m going.”
He steps into the hallway just as the first wave of kids turns the corner with shiny shoes and messy backpacks and way too much volume for 12:40 p.m.
Jason keeps walking.
What the hell did I just sign up for.
A classroom app. Behavior updates. A fish-themed newsletter. Probably getting mauled by Damian.
But then he remembers the way your face lit up when he picked the shark.
How proud you were of Damian’s falcon drawing.
How serious you looked when you said he needed someone to ask about his day.
Jason sighs.
He’s never seen his little gremlin brother the way you described him.
Not really.
word count: 11.3k
warnings: ANGST, pining, enemies to lovers, violence, violence against reader, arguments/fighting, alcohol, murder
When you first meet Jason Todd he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him. (Loosely inspired by the book/film Pride & Prejudice)
Winter
“Honestly, I can’t wait for you to meet him, I can’t believe you haven’t already.”
More often than not, it was endearing to hear Babs talk about her boyfriend. You would think that Dick Grayson had hung the stars in the sky the way she sang his praises. It almost made you sick, the way her eyes would get moony as she practically recited poetry about his charms, his kindness, and occasionally, his body.
She was right though; you and Babs had been friends for as long as you could remember, it was absurd that you were yet to meet her long-term boyfriend. Phone calls and photos hadn’t really been enough to capture a true image of him, who he was and what he stood for. Babs meant the world to you, however, and you were determined to meet the man who had crashed into it so suddenly.
‘Suddenly’, you’d believed, until she’d informed you that he did in fact used to be the Robin to her Batgirl. You’d barked out a laugh at the time, there was nothing sudden about the relationship in that case – Babs had been pining over him for as far back as your mind would stretch.
It had been a rocky few years for your relationship, your time at Gotham University had separated the pair of you, forcing you to become little more than a library recluse, drowning in books on any given day. Babs had been equally as busy, rebranding herself as Oracle and working so diligently with the Bats most days until the sun came up. It was never anything less than an honour that Babs had trusted you with her identity, the identities of most of them – she’d claimed it couldn’t hurt to have someone like you, a journalist, on the inside if needs be. Deep down, you knew she just wanted to have someone to talk to about it who didn’t dance around every evening in a spandex suit.
Degree finished and countless more hours on your hands, Babs had welcomed you back with open arms, your relationship immediately rekindling to a mirror image of what it had been in your youth. Even Jim had been ecstatic to see you, pulling you into a bear hug when you’d appeared on the doorstep.
This is how you ended up where you are now – nursing a drink in some shitty Gotham dive bar as Babs practically vibrates beside you, anticipating the arrival of her beloved. As hard as it is to resist the urge to wallow in the dingy, depressing lighting, it’s difficult to remain glum with your best friend so excited at the mere prospect of her two favourite people finally meeting. You’d resolved to try and make a good impression, working your utmost to disregard of any animosity you held for excruciating small talk.
“Oh, there he is! Dick!” Babs calls, waving a hand out enthusiastically. Dick saunters over to the table with a million-dollar smile plastered across his cheeks. The images hadn’t done him justice and you can’t help but feel proud of her as he materialises in front of you. He was, admittedly, hot. Jet black hair swooped almost too perfectly against a seamless California tan, defined muscle decorating any visible parts of his physique. Peppy, is the word that comes to mind, and instantly you can see how a man like Dick Grayson would have enraptured your friend so.
“Nightwing,” you whisper, all tongue in cheek as he settles at the table, “Nice to finally see the face behind the mask.”
So much for a good first impression.
You don’t miss the way Dick’s smile falters for just a second or how his body seems to go rigid – or the soft slap Babs throws against your shoulder. It’s amusing to watch, as Dick and Babs eyes flicker in silent communication, Babs offering him a delicate smile to let him know that you were trustworthy.
Clearly, otherwise you wouldn’t know in the first place.
Babs, out of nothing other than good manners, repeats your name to Dick as soon as it becomes apparent you aren’t going to offer it up out of goodwill any time soon. She throws a teasing smile in your direction before adding, “She’s always like this, it’s been a blessing and a curse over the years.”
In spite of your brashness, Dick extends his hand politely, flashing you a stark white grin and a bemused look, “It’s nice to finally meet you. You may as well of been hiding behind a mask too up until this point, ya’ know?”
Begrudgingly, you shake it. It’s frustrating, how difficult it is to remain prickly against all of his oozing charisma. Disarming is what it is, with how quickly his demeanour seems to be crumbling your defences – you can imagine Dick Grayson is a man used to being adored.
Ice broken, the conversation begins to flow smoothly, allowing you to slowly loosen up with every passing phrase. Dick politely asks about your time as a student, making it clear he’s listened diligently to the scraps of information Babs had no doubt given him, and you give him the same courtesy of asking about his day job as opposed to his night one. As your eyes travel between the couple in front of you, you can’t smother the flicker of warmth that makes its home in the pit of your stomach; they look good together, and anyone with a working pair of eyes could see they were absolutely smitten.
“Oh, Babs, I hope you don’t mind, I invited Jason. He’s been a bit down in the dumps recently. Thought a bit of socialisation might do him some good.”
Instantly, you throw Babs a scrutinizing glare, trying to assess if this has all been some ruse to set you up with some random her boyfriend has decided would be a good fit for you. Instead, all you see on her face is genuine surprise, if not a smidge of happiness.
“Of course, Dick, Jason is always welcome – I’ve tried to tell him the same.”
As if on cue, the bar door slams open, ricochetting against the wall behind it. A man who could only be Jason, based on the way Dick and Babs’ faces light up, seems to practically storm in, stopping sharply on his heel to survey the room before his eyes finally land on you.
Naturally, the first thing there is to notice about him is his sheer size, towering over you, your companions and likely everyone else in the bar as well. But its more than that, the way he seems to fill the space, not just with the throes of muscle that seem to be a constant cycle of tensing and relaxing down his neck, arms, jaw – but through an aura, glowering, almost dark. The hair on his head is such a shadowy black it’s striking even in the dim light of the bar, but what’s even more noticeable is the tendril of white that curls its way forward to rest on his brow. His features, you think, wouldn’t be amiss on some kind of Greek statue, distinct and severe. What catches your attention the most, however, is the deep frown etched into his brow, matching seamlessly with a similar snarl of disgust on his lip – you’d think he’d stepped into a sewer with the repulsion that seems to emanate off him.
Without even an acknowledgement, Jason simply marches over to the booth and plants himself in the only empty space directly beside you.
“Jason! I’m happy to see you, in person anyway. How you feeling?” There’s an impossible degree of kindness in Babs’ voice, you think, for a man seemingly so vehement at even being here in the first place. Your impression isn’t helped by the curtness of his response.
“Fine.”
“Jay, you want a drink from the bar? I was just going to –”
“No, I’m not planning on staying long.”
You have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from admonishing the man for his sheer rudeness, his nerve to come blazing into your evening and sap every smidgeon of happiness out of the room without a care in the world. Concern is written plainly across Dick and Babs’ faces, but you can’t pretend to share the same sympathies. To you, Jason seemed to be nothing more than a dickhead with an attitude problem.
“Jason, this is an old friend of mine,” Babs offers him a smile, “I think the two of you would get along pretty well.”
“Oh great, a friend,” Jason’s words are practically lethal, “How on Earth should we celebrate such a momentous occasion?”
“I’m guessing it’s not one you get to celebrate much,” the words spill out of your lips before you can stop them, nothing more than a quiet mumble, but Jason’s head snaps to the side in an instant. There’s a fire that rims his greenish eyes, and there’s not much more that you can see in them other than downright murder. His fingers begin to lighten from his chokehold grip on the table in front of you.
“Who are you and why are you talking?” Jason bites, eyes quickly returning to the chip in the wood you wouldn’t be half surprised if he created with the intensity of his stare.
“Oh, you know, nobody you should care about. By all means, take centre stage. You’ve practically done it anyway.”
Dick’s voice comes out nervously, a hand scratching the back of his head, “Easy, guys.”
“I’ve sat down and said fuck-all,” Jason spits, “I’m not the one making bitchy comments about guys I don’t even know.”
“Bitchy? What is this 1813?” You turn your body to face him directly, edging on shouting. You try to ignore the flutter of regret in your stomach when he does the same, his figure casting a shadow across the entirety of, well, you.
“Well, I like to think of myself as a pretty modern guy but if the shoe fits.”
“That’s enough,” Babs’ voice is swift and severe when it rises, and Jason must be familiar enough with her to know to snap his mouth shut as you do, the pair of you shuffling back to how you’d been seated before. “We’re trying to have a nice evening, not start a war. Jason, why don’t you go get a drink at the bar?”
“I said I don’t want a fucking –”
Babs sends him a particularly pointed look, at which Jason seems to huff and hoist himself out of the booth. Dick is quick to follow, sliding out and trailing in the footsteps of his counterpart.
As soon as they’re out of earshot, you practically lurch forward to Babs, “Who the fuck is he and why –”
“You need to calm down,” Babs’ voice is as stern as it had been only seconds before, and you’re fairly certain you can feel your jaw drop.
“I need to calm down? I need to calm down? Babs he –”
“He’s my friend. Whether you like him or not,” her voice softens ever so slightly, and she reaches across the table to grasp your hands, “I understand he can be difficult, but so can you. He wasn’t being any worse than you were.”
You can’t muster the words to form an answer, instead opting to slump down into your seat with a few breathless grumblings. You cast your eyes over to the boys at the bar, and based on the way Jason’s shoulders are hunched forward, you can imagine he’s getting a similar tirade from Dick. That thought comforts you at least.
When they return, Dick slots himself next to you with a bubbly smile, Jason collapsing opposite him next to Barbara. There’s an awkward silence that seems to engulf the table, until Dick’s eyes begin to shine as he starts on the story of some thug he’d arrested the other day and the chaos that followed. It’s almost manageable like that, Dick happily chittering away as Babs listens intently, leaving you and Jason to glower in silence.
It’s brief, but for just a second, your eyes meet Jason’s. It’s only as you look up from the table that you realise, he’s staring, and you can’t help but feel a little burned by his gaze. If anything, you would say its apologetic, and ever so slightly longing. You watch as his lips part, almost as though he’s about to say something, but instead he just reclines back in the seat, crossing his arms over his chest and ripping his eyes away to stare at the poker table across the room.
The rest of the evening continues in that stead, and as time ticks over you find it easier to edge yourself back into the conversation, offering up small stories or observations of your own. To your surprise, even Jason pipes up every half an hour or so, mostly to offer some snide remark that sends Dick and Babs into a fit of giggles.
The four of you stay until the bar closes, a worker coming to awkwardly rush you out onto the street into the smoggy Gotham night. Babs and Dick turn to chatter to each other hurriedly, no doubt trying to orchestrate where they would be staying this evening, leaving you and Jason to stand awkwardly to the side swinging on your heels like petulant children.
Eventually, Babs sighs and turns to the pair of you, a stern look in her eye, “I need to go home with Dick to check out a case he’s been working on, I promised him I would a few days ago.” She pauses before turning sharply to Jason, “Can I trust you to walk her back home without starting a fight?”
“I don’t want him to know where I live!” You throw your arms up in exasperation, “I’ll be fine on my own.”
“Wow,” Jason’s chuckle is bone-chillingly dark, “Charming. I’m charmed. Truly.”
“You’re not walking on your own,” Babs snips, before tempering, “I’m sorry. I forgot about this, but it’s important. Please can you do me a favour and just go with him.”
“Do I get any say in this?” Jason quips, back half turned to the conversation.
“No, you don’t,” Babs replies firmly.
It’s not long after that Dick and Babs depart, Babs offering you what seems to be a look of both sympathy and warning as the car pulls away from the sidewalk, leaving you and Jason alone in the silent early morning air, refusing to even cast a glance in each other’s direction.
The only word to describe the walk back is painful.
It’s completely silent, bar for your mingled breathing, and the occasional call of directions on your part. Not a glance is shared, the pair of you pacing side by side without any acknowledgement of the other. You have to pretty much jog to keep up with Jason, who if he notices, does not seem to care.
Time seems to drag impossibly slowly until you reach the door of your apartment building, and you swallow your pride as you turn to face him. He seems to recoil slightly as you meet his eye, clearly not expecting such a direct confrontation.
“Uhm, thank you,” you sigh, almost defeatedly, “I wouldn’t really have wanted to walk back on my own. And,” you pause, scrubbing a hand over your face, “I’m sorry, for how I acted in the bar.”
Just as before, you watch as his lips part ever so slightly, like there are words bubbling on his tongue attempting to fight their way forward. His eyes almost seem frantic as they flitter up and down over you with a confused kind of scrutiny.
Then he turns and walks away.
You don’t stop watching him until he disappears around the corner at the end of the street, not once turning to check if you’re still stood gaping like a fish behind him. The rage that burns through your veins is hot and fast, and you nearly slam the door off its hinges as you make your way into the building.
Never before have you met such an arrogant, entitled, rude caricature of a man. Not one who would so shamelessly put on the performance Jason had this evening. It was foolish of you, you think, to believe that the two of you could have come to some kind of level-footing.
As you climb into bed, attempting to quieten the anger that seems to course through every limb, there is only one desire that twists in your stomach.
To never see Jason again.
Spring
It was only so long, really, until you got invited to a Wayne gala.
Babs had requested you come as her plus one, seeing as Dick was (naturally) invited regardless. It had taken no shortage of begging on her part, pleading and harassing you with various different threats and promises until eventually you’d lapsed and agreed. To most, you can imagine, it would be a great honour – but you can only seem to focus on the way your toes seem to be splintering against the heels that had been dashed away into the back of your closet until exactly three hours ago.
The beauty of Wayne Manor cannot be understated, with its grand archways, decadent furniture and collection of gargoyles crooning mercilessly overhead. It reeks of an almost sterile air of perfection, not a single decoration out of place, every member of staff working diligently and only answering with a set of perfectly rehearsed responses that you were certain had been tailored to every possible whim. It’s a battle with your more inquisitive nature to venture beyond the contained room in which the party takes place, longing to explore the vast halls and the secrets that must be embedded within them.
Bruce Wayne does moonlight as a bat, after all.
Babs had been by your side for the first hour or so, pleasantly making your introductions to the wealthy of Gotham, many of whom you’re sure could skyrocket your career forward with nothing more than a click of their fingers. You try your best to be pleasant and accommodating, laughing at their jokes and basking their minor achievements in glowing praise. It’s deceptively easy, at this point, to slip into your professional persona, the voice echoing from your throat one that you can barely recognise as your own.
You can see Babs becoming impatient at your side, longing to go and mingle with a few others across the room who you could hazard a guess were some of her more super friends based on the way they lingered around Dick Grayson. You’d been assured that Dick was typically the life of an event of this calibre, enrapturing guests with his charms, but instead he had been left fairly stationary by a leg break in two places, wincing from his spot in the corner as his cast pokes out the bottom of his suit trousers.
“Go,” you’d huffed with a giggle, “Go see them. I’m going to get a drink anyway.”
“I won’t be long,” she assured before barrelling away. It was sweet, the way Dick’s eyes seemed to light up when he saw her approach.
Without Babs at your side, however, it seems impossible to mix with the elites. To them, you are nobody, and without an ‘in’ into their conversations, you may as well be dressed as one of the wait staff. You opt instead to haunt the walls, trapsing round the shadows of the hall with a flute of champagne in hand that seems to empty itself far too quickly.
“I can show you where they keep the bottle, if you like,” a gruff voice calls out from beside you, and your stomach twists when you realise that it’s Jason, slotting himself between you and the wall. He looks, well, good. His suit is clearly tailored, as you would imagine it would have to be for a man of his stature, and there’s a loose red tie knotted somewhat haphazardly around his neck. In any other context, it would scream of laziness, but somehow, he seems to make the whole affair work for him.
“That’s oddly generous of you, you feelin’ okay?” You keep it curt, barely sparing him a glance and instead keeping your eye fixed on the couples swaying about the dance floor.
“That’s oddly presumptuous for someone who doesn’t actually know me at all,” Jason’s words lack the bitterness they had the evening at the bar, instead dripping out like smooth velvet, and seemingly somewhat amused.
“I think I know enough to make a judgement on your character,” you quip, downing the last of your champagne and placing it politely on the tray of the closest waiter with a quiet ‘thank you’.
“Is that so?”
“It is, I’m afraid.”
“Dance with me.” It throws you for a loop when he says it, offering a hand out at your side. He looks somewhat amused as you must stare at him like he’s grown a second head, but still waves his fingers insistently.
Speechless, and albeit a tad shaken, you take his hand as he guides you to the dance floor. It’s swift as he spins you to face him, a hand settling loosely on your waist. You swallow a gulp before bringing your own to settle on his shoulders, and as the music starts up again the pair of you begin to sway in tandem. You’re certain he must be able to feel how tense you are beneath his palms, but if he does, he doesn’t mention it.
“I’m…” he starts, clicking his head to the side in frustration, “I’m sorry. For my behaviour that night. It was… rude.”
“It was,” you agree, not faltering at the sharp look he sends your way.
It takes him a few seconds to find the words, and you almost feel pity for the way he seems to struggle. Eventually he lands on, “I’m not known for my first impressions.”
You bark out a laugh at that, startling some of the other guests beside you. Jason’s eyes seem to widen in shock, but when they settle there’s no contempt in them.
“You can say that again,” you pause before adding, “But I appreciate your apology.”
He does little more than grunt in response, as the pair of you continue to rock back and forth. You would have expected it to be awkward, given your previous encounter, but you can feel yourself beginning to relax into his hold. He still appears tense, and you can feel his fingertips biting ever so slightly into your side, but there’s nothing about him that would suggest any kind of animosity.
“No offense,” you hum, just quiet enough for only him to hear, “What are you doing here? This doesn’t exactly scream of your scene.”
He chuckles lowly, spinning you in sync with the rest of the crowd, “No, it’s not. I usually avoid these things like the plague. I’m doing it to keep the old man off my back.”
“The old man?” You question, throwing Jason a quizzical glance. He too, looks confused at your admission.
“My old man. Bruce Wayne.”
You pretty much stutter to a stop on the dance floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. You’re not sure how it hadn’t clicked into place until this very moment, what with Nightwing being the one to introduce the pair of you – but you had never for a second considered that this Jason could be that Jason.
“You’re Jason Todd?” It comes out as an exhale, and Jason casts an obvious glance in your direction.
“Aren’t you meant to be a journalist? I thought you’d figured that out already.”
“No, I’d heard the news that you were…” you falter, watching as he seems to brace for the words that follow, “back from your, ah, imprisonment. That was what they said in the papers, correct?”
The look he throws in your direction is a grateful one, despite the shared knowledge that you both know what really happened to him. Babs had told you the bare bones of the story. It was enough to know that the man in front of you had travelled all the way from the grave to be here tonight.
“Me and Bruce have our differences,” Jason offers, and it’s the bluntest you’ve heard him all evening. A warning, not to press any further. You decide that it wouldn’t be the smartest idea to divulge your knowledge that this revelation would also make the man in front of you Gotham’s infamous Red Hood.
The two of you continue to dance for the next few songs, making casual but polite conversation amongst the crowds. Scarily, you begin to feel that his company might not be so deplorable after all when he dares to crack the odd joke or two, developing a sneaking suspicion he may be genuinely sorry about what had happened at the bar.
“Okay,” you huff out, sinking forward into him ever so slightly, “I think I might have to call it quits on the dancing for this evening. My feet feel like they’re about to tear in half.”
He doesn’t reply but instead guides you towards the edge of the room on his arm with more poise than you’d have thought him capable of, allowing you to perch down on a chez-lounge and give your tired body a brief reprieve. You sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Jason lets out an awkward cough.
“Look, I have to go and talk to some people,” he almost cringes as he says it, and it’s near enough a look of abject horror on his face, “But… thank you, for the dance.”
“Thank you,” you reply earnestly, meeting his eyes with as tender a look you can muster. Under your glance, he seems to mellow, the corner of his lip even quirking up ever so slightly.
“I’ll… I’ll catch you around,” He bumbles, “Maybe even see you later.”
“I would like that.”
And with that he’s gone.
You feel the loss of his presence almost instantly, and the emptiness that accompanies it is what surprises you most of all. You decide to stay put for the time being, most of the socialites so drunk at this point that they couldn’t object to your own lack of decorum without blatantly highlighting their own.
You remain perched for at least half an hour, grateful for yet another glass of champagne that gets thrust in your direction. You’re fairly certain you can make out Babs across the room, Dick draped dramatically across her wheelchair with an exuberant smile. The time passes fairly quickly as you glance over the hall, people-watching with the ever so slight buzz of alcohol muddying your thoughts.
“You might have just taken the best spot in the room,” a deep timbre echoes out from beside you, and of every person in the world it could have belonged to, you weren’t anticipating it being Bruce Wayne.
“Mr. Wayne,” you shoot up instantly, cringing at the way your ankle rolls in your heel. He only lets out a deep chuckle before motioning for you to sit again, occupying the spot next to you with his looming presence.
“I must admit,” he begins, all smile, “I was unfamiliar with your work before you appeared on my guest list, but you are indeed, incredibly impressive.”
You can’t do much to fight the blush that rises on your cheeks, “Thank you, uh, sir. That’s very kind. I’m only just starting out really, but it’s an honour to know my work has been recognised.”
“You will come to me,” he places a warm hand on your shoulder, “that is, if you need anything. Any friend of Commissioner Gordon and his family is a friend of mine.”
“That’s very kind of you, thank you,” you confess, wishing you had been slightly more sparing with your alcohol consumption in the past few hours. That being said, there was no part of your evening plans that had involved chatting with Bruce Wayne himself.
You dare not mention his other career path, not to his face. Not when you couldn’t be sure if Babs had divulged such information or not. Not that she needed to, he probably knew anyway.
“I must confess,” Bruce sighs, a tired smile drawing on his features, “I do have other motivations for coming to speak to you.”
“Oh?”
“I couldn’t help but notice you were dancing with my son earlier,” Bruce begins with a tut, “I get so little from him. I figured I would inquire about his, ah, connection with you instead.”
“Oh, oh, no,” you burst out almost too eagerly, “Me and Jason? This is only the second time we’ve ever met.”
“Is that so?” Bruce questions, a curious quirk on his brow. It only makes it all the more sudden when a stormy disposition seems to cross over his features, “In that case, I suggest you keep it that way.”
There’s little you can do to mask the confusion on your face at his remark. Sure, Jason had been more than a little rude on your first encounter, but he’d been nothing other than pleasant to you this evening. You weren’t unfamiliar with the Red Hood and his methods, under no illusions regarding what Jason was or wasn’t capable of.
“May I ask why you say that Mr. Wayne?”
“Ever the journalist,” Bruce hums, “My son has turned himself into a man not to be trifled with, and in that effort has made himself an outcast to both me and my family. I am aware you know of my family’s activities, Miss, and as a result you no doubt know of his. However, it is not Jason’s choices that bother me most, it is the pain that he inflicts upon those around him.”
The question stutters out of your mouth before you can stop it, not even sure you wanted the answer, “What is it that he’s done? To your family, I mean.”
Bruce doesn’t open his mouth to answer but instead nods to Dick now tucked away in the corner of the hall, struggling to steady himself on his broken leg. To most, Dick’s smile would be enough to ensure them that he was okay, but your multiple encounters with him at this point are enough to let you glimpse the pain in his expression.
“Jason tends to be destructive, and as much as I try to guide him, I’m beginning to fear there isn’t much else he knows anymore. It isn’t the first time he’s done such damage, and it won’t be the last.”
It’s sickening, the way that the universe chooses that moment for you to lock eyes with Jason, leaned against the bar. Swiftly as a growing forest fire, his eyes are a quiet smoulder when they lock with yours, only to grow into a blaze at the image of Bruce sat next to you. You feel at an impasse, two sides of you being tugged in opposite directions.
You look away from Jason quickly. If what Bruce was telling you was true, you had no reason to spare him a glance. Hurting Dick meant hurting Babs. Hell, Dick was a friend, and you couldn’t stand for the idea of someone hurting him either. A spin on a dance floor and a few uptight compliments wouldn’t change that.
“My advice, if you would take it,” Bruce sighs, beginning to stand, “you seem like an intelligent young woman, and you have a bright future ahead of you. I would make an expressed effort to stay out of Jason’s sights in your shoes, I fear it is not a particularly safe place to be.”
Your conversation ends fairly abruptly after that, Bruce shaking your hand and slipping you a business card with a reminder that he would be keen to help with your career given the opportunity. It’s difficult not to trust him, with his warm smile and kind words – you find it almost impossible to believe that his speech couldn’t have been without some kind of merit.
“So, you finally met him?” Babs wheels next to you when Bruce is out of sight, pressing a teasing elbow into your side. Her face seems to drop when she scans across your own, your turmoil clear as day, “Hey, you okay? What did he say to you?”
“Oh, nothing too crazy,” you snap yourself out of it, “Just work, really.”
The look that Babs gives you is enough for you to know that she doesn’t quite believe what you’re telling her, but your saviour appears in the form of Dick Grayson, hobbling over to join you with sweat practically dripping from his brow.
“Congrats,” he slaps an arm around your shoulders, positively beaming, “You just survived your first Bat interrogation.”
The two of them continue to chatter for a few minutes, and you can’t help but scan the room for Jason himself. It’s an odd sensation, and you can’t pinpoint why exactly you care where he is, but you can’t seem to settle without setting your sights on him.
You rejoin the conversation just as Dick turns to face you, “…Anyway, we were thinking of heading back to mine to chill, we’ve done our bit. Bruce can’t complain. Obviously, you’re more than welcome, we just need to find Ja – ”
“Actually,” you plaster on the brightest smile you can concoct, “I’m really not feeling too good. Definitely had a bit too much champagne. I might call it a night, I have work tomorrow, you know.”
“That’s fine, I get it, I get it. We can drop you back home –”
“Honestly, it’s fine, I think I’m just going to call a cab. Thank you though, it’s been a wonderful evening.”
You can only hope that Dick and Babs will chalk your eagerness to escape up to the alcohol as you make your departure, rushing to collect your bag and coat as quickly as you can in stupid fucking heels. As soon as you’re out of the hall, you peel them off your feet and set off at a brisk pace to try and get out of Wayne Manor as quickly as possible.
Until you collide headfirst with what may as well have been a wall, with how stiff and unyielding it seemed to be.
Jason stares down at you with an emotion you can’t quite name, and you’re reminded of just how big he really is. How imposing it would be to see him, clad in a red mask, glaring down towards whoever might be his latest victim. You think about what Dick must’ve felt, as his own brother battered him so.
“One final dance for the road?” He questions with a quirk of his lips, but you can see the nervousness in his eyes. It transforms swiftly into something else when you respond.
“No, I don’t think I will, actually,” you snap, pulling yourself out his way and continuing your mission towards the end of the driveway.
You’re thankful for the silence, that he doesn’t attempt to chase you or catch you in some kind of confrontation. You make it halfway down the drive before he finally calls out.
“What did Bruce say to you?” It’s quiet, and you can barely hear it behind you from the ruckus of the party inside. There’s something about it that pangs in your chest, but you steel yourself and continue walking, without even a glance behind you.
It’s only when you hail the cab that you turn around to face him, and unlike last time, he’s still there. Alone. Stood outside the manor with nothing other than hurt radiating off him. It’s surprisingly easy to turn away, ripping the car door open and slipping inside.
You climb over to the other seat so you don’t have to watch him as you pull away.
Summer
If someone had told you 6 months ago that you would be sat on the roof of Nightwing’s apartment building, surrounded by all sorts of metahumans and vigilantes, having a barbeque – well, you probably would’ve laughed in their face.
It’s hard to believe, as you’re reclined on a sunbed, cocktail in hand, best friend at your side while her boyfriend flips burgers in his, quite frankly, egregious Kiss the Cook apron, that things could be going so well. Bludhaven hadn’t ever been on your list of top holiday destinations, but basking in the hazy summer sun is more than enough to make up for it. It’s raucous, as you would expect many young superheroes crammed into a small space trying to cook a banquet of food would be, but the grouch within you can’t even seem to care about the chaos.
It’s jarring how well life seems to be going. Babs and Dick had pushed you to contact Bruce about working with Wayne Industries on some insider reporting, and the man himself had accepted your proposal with open arms. He’d even doubled the amount you got paid for the pieces as a ‘tip’, a token of thanks for your time dedicated to the cause. As a result, your writing had been the talk of the town since, and you had every major paper scrambling to offer you an exclusive contract.
You and Babs are closer than ever, and to your surprise, you’d integrated fairly seamlessly into their wider friend group as a regular staple of their gatherings. Sure, you were much quieter in comparison to the Titans and other various young heroes, but they seemed to enjoy your presence, nonetheless. You’d even spent some time at Wayne Manor with Dick and Babs, finally meeting the other members of the family after hearing about them in excess.
You’d run into Jason a few times.
It never failed to be an awkward encounter, often comprised of curt greetings and nothing more. Jason showed no signs that your rebuff had scorned him but, as expected, any trace of the warmth he’d shown you that night at the gala seemed to have disappeared promptly. You were just as cold, often refusing to look him in the eye on the rare occasion he would enter a room that also contained you. It was baffling, that he still had a place beside Dick and Babs and the rest of them, given the only increasing rumours you’d heard once being integrated into the super-community about his mistreatment of those closest to him. You’d never brought the topic up to either of your friends, primarily out of fear that they would attempt to see beneath your distain for something deeper – you didn’t have to mention it, they were ever lenient on Jason’s behaviour and seemed to welcome him with open arms at every opportunity.
Which is why you’re unsurprised, later in the evening when most of the heroes have gone home or out on their various patrols, that Jason appears on the roof next to Dick overlooking the city, a quiet conversation muttering between the pair. Your eyes catch him, Jason, for just a second as he turns ever so briefly to watch you sprawled out with a book in hand. Your eyes meeting is enough to drive him away again, jaw grinding as he turns to look forward.
Good, you’re glad your presence is enough to piss him off.
You continue that way for the next hour or so, tearing through your book until the words begin to blur into a splodge of ink on the page. The steady cooling of the dusky air is a welcome reprieve from the blazing sun, and it doesn’t take you long to drift off, your last waking feeling being that of your book dropping onto your chest.
It’s significantly later when you blink yourself awake again, the moon settled comfortably against the Bludhaven skyline. You instantly take note of the blanket that’s been draped over your body, curled between your fingers, and take a second to scan around the rooftop in search for any other waking body.
To your chagrin, the only figure that comes into view is Jason, sat with his legs dangling over the side of the building and a cigarette clutched tightly within his fingers. It’s almost picturesque, watching him inhale and exhale with a stream of smoke, the plains of his face framed by the moonlight. It strikes you that he’s likely in his element, perched on a rooftop shrouded in the darkness of the night, and it pains you to admit just how beautiful he looks.
Without even a glance in your direction, he simply chuckles mockingly, holding the cigarette up plainly for you to see, “Been trying to quit for months now.”
“Maybe you should try harder,” it’s snide and a bit pathetic and you know it, but you can’t seem to mellow the bite in your words. He simply laughs and returns to taking slow drags, barely even acknowledging that you had said anything.
Quickly, you begin to gather your things together, pulling the blanket tightly around your body as you make your way to the door back inside, wishing to be out of this awkward situation and less than stellar company as fast as you can.
It’s Jason’s voice that stops you, “You never told me.”
“What?”
“You never told me what Bruce said to you.” There’s an odd resignation in his words, and his voice remains remarkably even, not giving away any hint of whatever emotion was hidden beneath his words.
“I’m sure you can guess,” you huff out, drawing your hand away from the door to turn and face him.
Wordlessly, Jason hoists himself up from the side of the building and starts to make his way towards you. He stops a comfortable distance away, not enough to be an imposing presence, but so close that you can see his fingers fidgeting in front of him.
“I just want to know if what he said to you is what changed your mind about me,” Jason bites, “or if it’s always just been how you felt.”
“Why do you care about how I feel, Jason?” It comes out far harsher than you intended. He only scrubs a hand over his face in response, and you’re not sure if it’s a laugh or a whimper that crawls its way out of his throat.
“Do you really not see what’s going on here?”
“No, Jason, if I knew what was going on –”
“I like you, okay? I’ve tried my best to make it obvious, I really have. And trust me, I don’t want to, but I do. You’re beautiful, you’re talented, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks because you know who you are. I like how opinionated you are, everyone else in my life fucking dances around me like I’m about to explode – but you don’t. I was rude at the bar because I wasn’t… I wasn’t expecting you, and I tried to make it up to you at the gala and then Bruce –”
“Bruce told me the truth, Jason.” The fumbling words are all that you can manage, your brain spinning at the revelation that Jason had just laid bare in front of you. Everything feels jilted, and surprisingly the only feeling whirring around your chest that you can articulate is anger.
“I don’t know what Bruce told you,” Jason’s practically pleading, “But I just wish you would judge me on me rather than what everyone else has to say.”
“Jason. You don’t know me,” your words are slow, but it does little to soften the viciousness tainting them, “you think you can – what? Just waltz in after months of being rude and judgy and – and after hurting my friends and act like all of it was okay because you like me? I haven’t been able to judge you on what you have to say because you never talk to me!”
The warm summer sun is long gone now, replaced with a chilling breeze and an ever so slight smattering of rain. The only word to describe Jason is speechless, but you don’t miss the way his fists curl at his sides. You practically leap sideways as he spins round with a number of cusses, pacing back and forth with what at a glance seems to be pure anguish.
“Hurt?” He spits out, all venom, “Who exactly have I hurt?”
“Well, Dick, for starters –”
“Dick? Oh, of course,” Jason lets out a bitter chuckle, “Of course, I hurt the golden boy.”
“He had a broken leg!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, and in an instant Jason is on you, so close you can smell his smoky cologne and the lingering touch of burnt leather.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” It’s nothing more than a ghost of a whisper, and he’s so close you can almost taste the words on his tongue.
“Real romantic by the way,” you refuse to back down, instead only edging closer and angling your chin to lock onto his eyes blazing down into your own, “I like you but I don’t want to. I didn’t realise I was just so deplorable.”
The rain is blinding now, hammering down around the pair of you, eliminating anything in your eyeline other than him. You’re both soaked to the bone, locked in a standoff neither one of you is willing to back down from. His hair is flattened to his forehead, and his shirt has plastered itself across his shoulders – you don’t dare to consider what you look like, clad in nothing other than a blanket and casual swimwear. It’s only then that you register the jittering of your entire body, and you can’t pinpoint whether it’s the cold or the sheer rage coursing through your veins as the source.
Both of your heads tear to the side at the soft call of your name, the silhouette of Babs highlighted from the doorway back into the apartment. Squinting through the rain, you can make out the shock and concern marring her features, and you instantly jump back from your stalemate. Jason takes a similar course of action, turning on his heel to march inside without a second thought.
He makes it halfway before he stops and turns to stare at you.
“You shouldn’t just listen to everything people tell you. I thought you were smarter than that. There are two sides to every story.”
And then he disappears inside.
Autumn
All the glee of summertime had been quick to disperse. Life seemed to pass by in a blur: work had slowed considerably as Gotham herself seemed to ready for hibernation, you had moved to a different apartment, nicer but nestled significantly further away from everything you’d become accustomed to. Babs had taken on a lot more work with Batman which seemed to consume the majority of her waking life, and with the loss of her constant company went Dick Grayson too. You still texted daily, but in person visits had become disappointingly scarce.
You’d be a downright liar if you said in every spare moment that your thoughts didn’t trapse back to your encounter with Jason. It reeled like film in the back of your mind whenever your eyelids fluttered shut, a constant rerun of every minute detail – the way his hands seemed to ring, the flexing and rolling of his shoulders as he paced, the hurt in his eyes as you’d unleashed a tirade onto him on what was supposed to be a relaxing summer evening.
It was nothing more than professional curiosity, you’d told yourself, your desire to know more. To glean some kind of insight into the other side of the story that Jason had preached. It was in your nature, journalism and the like. However, it was much easier to pretend that the world had alienated you from the answer, forcing you away from your work and friends, than it was to admit that you had run away because you were scared.
Which is why it took months for you to finally ask Babs to meet up for a coffee, rather than her asking you. The air had begun to bite as you lingered in the street, longing for a familiar face, even the nip of the cold bringing back persistent traces of that night. A sigh of relief materialises in a faint cloud of vapour as Babs appears round the corner, throwing her arms out for a hug as soon as she’s close enough. It’s uncharacteristically awkward as you settle down at a table, Babs doing little to hide her expectant stare as the barista places your drinks down in front of you.
“What did you want to –”
“Jason.” The slight curl of her lip at your mention of his name is enough to throw you, her knowing look pressing forward into what feels like every inch of your body.
“What do you want to know about Jason?” Babs offers, tracing her finger around the rim of her mug casually. If the display is supposed to make you feel less under pressure, it does nothing to alleviate the hammering of your pulse.
Your brain goes blank. “Uhm – how is he?”
Babs seems unable to stifle the laugh that barks out, bringing her coffee up to her lips, “You invited me out for coffee to ask how Jason is?”
You take a deep breath and muster all you can to steel yourself, allowing a smidgeon of your work persona to bleed in. “That night on the roof. He said some things and – and I never got any clarification. I just have some things I need to know.”
“How come you’re asking me and not him?”
“I don’t think Jason and I are in a place to be asking each other deep and thought-provoking personal questions,” you wince as the words tangle themselves on your tongue, and you can’t subdue the simmering feeling of disappointment that seems to accompany them.
Babs’ pauses for a second, as if weighing in her options, before eventually letting out a soft sigh and offering you a tender look, “Go on, what is it you want to know.”
“At the gala,” you begin far too quickly, grimacing at your own eagerness, “Bruce told me that Jason was dangerous. I’d already figured out that he was, you know, but the way Bruce painted this picture. It was like Jason was a monster, like he chose to hurt everyone close to him. He told me that he broke Dick’s leg.”
“Jason did break Dick’s leg,” Babs states plainly, and you can feel yourself deflate, “Jason broke Dick’s leg to save him. Dick was trapped in rubble, and he was losing oxygen fast. He was, he would’ve, died if Jason hadn’t gotten there before any of the rest of us could. The only options were to break Dick’s leg – who was unconscious by the way – to get him out or leave him to suffocate.”
You’re practically speechless. Never before has your mind stuttered so suddenly to a halt. All you can seem to do is gape at Babs as her jaw seems to clench; anger wasn’t a familiar emotion in your relationship, but you had seen it enough to recognise it.
“Bruce and Jason have a fractious relationship at the best of times, and they were certainly not going steady back then. Bruce showed up and saw Jason manhandling Dick out of a collapsed building with a broken limb and assumed the worst. God, it was awful, only Tim could stop them fighting and eventually Jason just disappeared. The first time any of us saw Jason after that was the Gala, and that was only because he promised Alfred.”
“Did Bruce ever find out the truth?” You’re practically reeling as all of the puzzle pieces begin to fall into place, Jason’s distance from his family at the Gala, his hurt at your insinuations about him. You’d treated him atrociously and this whole time he was the one that had been hurt.
“We told him straight away. We told him as it happened. But Jason and Bruce have this blindness when it comes to each other, they can only see what they want to see. Bruce refused to hear anything other than that Jason had brought the building down and Dick with it.” There’s a rawness in Babs’ voice, and a pearly ring of wetness dampening her eyes.
“But I’ve heard so much about…” you pause, contemplating the weight of your words, “It’s not just Bruce. I’ve heard everyone talk about him and the things he does, like he’s some kind of sadist. Like he kills people for fun and –”
“Jason does kill, there’s no doubt about that,” Babs’ tone hitches slightly, shifting to something more resolute, “but it’s not just for fun or how he gets his kicks. He has an ethos, a system, the same way Bruce or Dick or any of us do. Agree with it or not, he’s trying to make things better in his own way.”
It’s a harrowing feeling, every synapse being excavated and laid bare, the devastating realisation that all was not as it had seemed. Jason had been right, you should’ve known better than to presume. “I’ve really fucked up, haven’t I?”
Babs wastes no time reaching over to take your hands in hers, some of the warmth returning to her gaze, “No, you haven’t. You acted on all the information that you had and that’s all we can do. But you can –”
“No,” your reply is instant, and Babs draws back in surprise, “I can’t. Not after all this. I’ve hurt him, I can’t imagine he wants me in his life. And I still don’t know him. I just –”
Babs calls your name softly as you begin to gather your belongings, hastily sipping down the last of your drink and scanning desperately for the nearest exit. She doesn’t attempt to say anything, just offers you an almost infuriatingly tender look. You quickly mutter your goodbyes, a small smile and a promise to text later, before rushing out into the Gotham traffic.
It had been easy to be so righteous, so comfortable in your position, but now every noise and sensation felt like a slap. A kick while you were down. It had been so simple to deny anything you had felt towards him, any kind of attraction, from your high horse; to look down and tell yourself that you had been wronged and anything you felt was out of nothing more than a lingering feeling of pity.
It’s overwhelming, the sensation of missing out on an opportunity, a friend, and maybe something more that made itself so scarce in your life to begin with. It’s shame, you think.
You can’t help but think that if you were Jason Todd, you would never want to see you again.
Winter
Gotham in the winter is a sight to behold: flickering lights casting a yellow haze over the murky skyline, the cold lick of the coast sneaking its way into the alleyways and street corners, an entire civilisation cloaked in a dreary blanket. It was much kinder from inside the warm glow of your apartment, staring out at the figures on the street below fighting against the elements.
Life had continued, as it always does. It had taken you some time to process what had happened with Jason, mourn the prospect of what could’ve been. Bruce had offered you a full-time position at Wayne Industries. You’d turned it down. Told him you wanted to ‘explore different avenues’ this early in your career, and in spite of the suspicious look he’d given you, he’d assured that there would always be a position for you if you desired.
Instead, you had taken a role at a local up-and-coming paper focussed on exposing corruption within Gotham’s elite. It was perfect, the hands-on kind of work you had favoured during your studies, and the success was already beginning to blossom. Babs and Dick had been nothing but supportive: you weren’t as involved with their ‘super-gatherings’ anymore, finding the whole group to be a tad overwhelming, but they still made time for you each and every week in the same dingy bar in which Babs had first introduced you to everyone.
Everything didn’t feel right yet, but it was getting there.
Being nestled in your apartment in the evenings alone didn’t feel so glum anymore, instead lighting a warm flicker in the bottom of your belly. You were working on a big piece, the biggest you’d written so far, scouring into the Falcone family and some of their more illegitimate dealings – papers sprawled across every available surface, a few stripes of ink now decorated your dining room table. You were certain you looked a wreck; sleep hadn’t come easy the past nights – you were in limbo. Until the article was published and in the public eye, there was little to protect you from anyone who had questions about what you were looking into. You’d even gone out and brought a gun. As a result, there was little that could drag you away from your laptop, a desperation to finish your work that felt somewhat like your life depended on it.
Which is why when there’s a hammering at your front door at 1am, it becomes difficult to breathe all of a sudden.
“Miss?” A gruff voice calls out, “Heard you had some interest in a friend of mine. I have some information that might be of use to you.”
As quietly as you can, you scramble for your keys. Dick had given you a small device, some kind of button, when you’d told him and Babs about your new job and its dealings – he’d assured you that as soon as you pressed it there would always be help on the way. It’s impossible to stifle the gasp of relief as you finally feel the tiny device roll between your fingers, pressing it down hard and watching as it illuminates your apartment in a soft blue.
“Miss? We know you’re in there,” the hammering gets much louder all of a sudden, and you dip down behind the couch, drawing yourself into a ball, “This can be much easier for you if you just let us in.”
From across the room, you can see your phone light up, and you thank the lord that you’d put it on silent – it’s Babs, you can see from the cheesy lockscreen of you draped across her lap after some raucous night out. The men, multiple of them now, continue to scuffle outside your front door as they no doubt contemplate the best method to enter and beat the shit out of you. You could make a run for the gun now, but if they came in you would be cornered in your bedroom, nowhere to escape to.
“Right, lady, you’re starting to piss me off,” A new voice calls out, “I’m giving you ten seconds to come out before we come in.”
Ten seconds is a long time for a vigilante, right? Normally, you’d pride yourself on your ability to think on your feet, but unfortunately the only course of action seems to be waiting out the storm. The idea of leaping out the window dances across your mind briefly, but with no fire escape and a 40ft drop it wasn’t the most thrilling concept. Quickly, you reach out and snatch your pen off the table – it was sturdy, metal, a gift from Jim Gordon when you’d graduated – it wasn’t sharp by any means, but with enough force it could definitely do some damage.
You grimace at the thought.
All at once, a barrage of sound erupts in your ears; the door swings open and groans as the hinges splinter bit by bit, the thundering of footsteps is instant, you can count one, two, three sets of steps against the creaking floorboards. It all happens far too quickly, one of them calling out a signal to the others that they’ve found you, and you’re hoisted to your feet, both arms held tightly by a brute on either one. You swing from side to side with as much force as you can muster, kicking out and screaming, relishing as you hear a deep groan from your right.
Nothing prepares you for the swing of a fist, though.
You’ve never been punched before, surprisingly, and it strikes you that maybe its one of the only things movies do justice. It’s less the impact itself, but more the way that your head wrenches to the side that sends you reeling. Before you can even recollect yourself there’s a hand clamped around your jaw, tugging your face back upwards. Most of the man’s face is covered, donned in all black, but there’s a cruelty in his eyes that collapses your chest. It’s disgusting, the way one of his fingers hooks around your teeth, keeping you trapped like a fish on a line. You contemplate spitting in his face, but as if out of instinct, you snap your teeth shut.
It makes you retch as he pulls back, the thick, hot metallic sheet that coats every surface of your mouth. Abject horror is the only phrase to describe the look of the man opposite you, clasping his mangled finger gingerly to his chest. Before you can revel in your small victory, another slap sends you clattering across the floor, wood splintering beneath your fingertips.
If a punch was a bee-sting, a kick to the ribs is a bomb going off.
“You fucking bitch!” The man hollers, drawing his foot back for another swift kick. His boots must be metal capped, you think.
“Haven’t you heard? Bitch is so 1800s.”
It’s a rough modulated voice that draws you from your stupor – it’s difficult to make out shapes through the tears that have spilled over, but if the shrill whimpers of the men around you are enough to go by, you’d say help has arrived. The pause gives you enough time to shuffle back against the wall, gradually shifting to something akin to a sitting position.
“Hood,” One of the goons whispers, and you’re not sure if its double vision or the man is actually trembling, “What – this isn’t your turf –”
“Don’t care. Goodbye.” The echo of a gunshot is so much louder up close, and you can’t help but slam a hand over your mouth as the giant of a man seems to crumple to the ground, brains splattered all over your bookshelf. One of the other goons attempts to make a run for it but is stopped by a gloved hand that shoots out and catches him by the throat. It’s a horrible wheezing sound that sneaks its way out of his windpipe, all while the Red Hood takes his time strapping his gun to his thigh, before bringing his other hand around languidly to snap the goons’ neck.
It’s all so quick, you think, not like the long-winded tit-for-tat action movie sequences where they trade blows, it’s just sheer overwhelming force. A black hole that’s come to consume anything that dare move in its presence.
It’s Jason.
Out of your peripheral you can make out the man, your main attacker, breaking from his stupor. You recognise the way his hands begin to curl in his pocket, a hand wrapping around an all too familiar shape that he begins to draw outwards painstakingly slowly. Before you can clamber to your feet, the gun is aimed straight for him, a clear shot, and Jason seems to realise just as you do that the man’s finger is contracting on the trigger.
You can’t even process your own movements, let alone pain, yet you feel your feet underneath you, pushing you forward. The cool feeling of the pen between your fingers feels so familiar yet so absurd, and with all the force you can muster you slam it round into the side of the man’s throat. It’s so much worse, watching death this way; Jason had the decency to make the others quick, but here you were watching a man bleed onto your rug as he stares at you with surprise and your engraved pen in his jugular.
It’s only seconds before he flops to the ground too.
Jason’s there before your knees can buckle, wrapping a solid arm around your waist and holding you up like a puppet on a string. As much as you try and move your tongue, it’s like lead in your mouth, and you can’t do much more than stand there gaping as Jason checks your injuries.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” You didn’t know a modulated voice could sound so tender, “I’m sorry I didn’t get here in time.”
“Jason, I –” It sounds so wet and broken, barely recognisable as your own voice.
“I know,” he coos, bringing a hand round to cradle your less injured cheek, “But you did so good, so good. You saved me.”
The tears begin to flow promptly after that, and you wonder if the Red Hood often has people sob into his chest, and if he ever lets them. Slowly, he lowers the pair of you to the ground, and as soon as you hit the floor it feels as though every drop of energy has been drained from your body.
“I’m so sorry,” you hiccup, “I’m sorry about what I said and –”
If you’re not mistaken, he laughs, and even through the robotic filter you can hear the hint of amusement, “You’re an idiot.”
“What?”
“You’ve just killed a man and you’re worried about apologising to me over an argument we had months ago.”
You let out a wet laugh, “Can’t help it. I don’t want to like you, but I think I do.”
“Maybe we should start again,” Jason hums, pulling off his helmet. You know deep down that he’s just trying to distract you from the weight of your evening, and you’re sure that it will hit you when the brain fog begins to wear off – but right now, you can’t seem to care. Clearly, a near death experience has changed your perspective.
You mumble your name quietly, offering your hand out to him, “I’m a journalist, I’m allergic to cats and I have a kill count of one.”
Jason only barks out a laugh, those mesmerising green eyes finally rimmed with mirth rather than rage, “I knew there was something I liked about you.”
Spring
You’d never thought that such a dingy, depressing bar tucked away in the veins of Gotham could feel so much like home – but the regulars at the poker table wave each time you step through the front door, the bartender smiles while she pours your regular and asks how your latest article is coming along. But your favourite part, without a doubt, is slumping in after a long day at work and seeing your closest companions huddled together at your booth in the corner looking up at you with beaming smiles.
You slide into the booth next to Jason without a word, and his arm drapes itself across your shoulders automatically. It’s still new, the pair of you sharing bashful smiles at every intimate moment, but there’s a love that burns in your chest brighter than any feeling you thought yourself capable of.
“You guys are disgusting, I hope you know,” Dick whinges, letting out a chuckle as Babs punches him hard in the arm.
“Be quiet, you,” Babs chuckles, “Our plan finally came to fruition.”
You narrow your eyes at her across the table, quirking your head to the side, “I knew it. You did want to set us up.”
“Well that was obvious from the get go, Princess,” Jason chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I like to think we gave them a challenge though.”
“I certainly didn’t think you would develop a body count on the way,” Babs brows go up and she sends a grin in your direction.
“That’s my girl,” Jason whispers, throwing a grin in your direction, “What a fearsome thing to behold.”
“God, I love it when you quote Pride & Prejudice to me.”
“I know you do, baby, I know.”
This has been a WIP for sooooo long, like since before I even started this account. I don’t know if it’s obvious but I really struggled to finish it, I had absolutely no idea how to leave it. But oh well 🤷♀️
also im SORRY for making Bruce the BAD GUY it was the only way i could make it work in my head 💔
If you liked it, well, like it - a reblog is always appreciated. If you don’t like it, leave me alone.
If I wanted to read Bruce/damien/tim/etc x reader I would have searched them pls stop putting other bats & birds under the wrong x tag it’s so fucking annoying
Jason Todd with a significant other who is kind and patient with him, but is also the most blunt person he’s ever met - and not in the same defensive, snarky way that he is. No, blunt as in brutually honest and without a filter about everything, including your relationship.
And yeah, considering communication and sharing his own feelings aren’t exactly his strong suits, he’s glad for it, cause if there’s something not sitting right with you, at least he’ll know immediately and can work on it. He’s used to always having to fix things, after all.
But then there’s the other things you say like it’s no big deal. He’s not sure what to do with any of that, cause he’s just not used to someone being on his side, someone quite literally shouting his self loathing and doubts into submission for him when necessary. What he does know is you’re about to put him in an early second grave, cause he swears his heart just about gives out with the stuff that comes out of your mouth at times.
“This is your home now, too, why wouldn’t you have your own space in the closet?”
“Hm? Oh yeah, I asked Alfred to give me the recipes for your favorite dishes; I won’t have you be the only one who cooks around here.”
“Wait you actually think I’d be turned off by your scars? You’re normally such a smart, observant man, how the fuck are you this oblivious??”
“Of course I worry when I don’t hear from you for days!! I’m not telling you to call me every hour, but put a freaking note on the fridge next time you leave the country god damnit!!”
“So I know you just got back from patrol and are probably tired, but before you take off all your gear, how are we feeling about you bending me over the kitchen counter in full costume, yes or no?”
“Jason Peter Todd, you’re not setting another foot down those stairs until I’ve had my goodbye kiss!”
“Don’t you fucking dare pull the whole ‘I’m putting you in danger, you’d be better off without me’ crap; you’d have bled out two times in the last month alone if not for me, so get your dramatic ass in bed before I put it there myself.”
If all of that weren’t enough, Jason will most definitely never forget the time you’d stared down Batman, not Bruce Wayne, but the literal fucking Batman, cowl and all, the figure that strikes fear into the hearts of hardened criminals and super villains alike, and had told him to maybe spend some more time down on the streets instead of above them before he lectures him about morals again, otherwise you’d shove his stupid cape so far up his ass, he’d be tasting Kevlar for weeks.
And maybe, just maybe, ever since then, Jason is inconspicuously sneaking glances at rings any time you two walk past a jewelry store.
Stay Whelmed @escapism-r-us - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
