most of the stories below are results of procrastination, and I only ever write when inspiration strikes really hard. regardless.... i hope you enjoy <3
---
Jason Todd
A Character Study in Grief - series, complete.
series overview . part 1 . part 2 . part 3
everything's growing in our garden
you don't have to know that its haunted
i get everything i want
i have everything i wanted
Welcome to the Pod (Class 4B) - series, complete
If found, return to the red hood - series, complete
5683
36 questions to fall in love - series, in progress
---
Clark Kent (Smallville and DCU)
Tell me, where’s your hiding place? - series, complete
part 1 . part 2 . part 3 . part 4 . part 5 . blurbs
Between a Rock and a Hard Place
Is it a crime to lie? - series, complete
---
Rafe Cameron
And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you. - series, complete
did someone say new 36 questions to fall in love tomorrow? super sweet with lots of fluff? maybe it’ll be finger lickin good? zohran mamdani is a love interest? caramel is involved? someone’s bush is involved??
what?? who said that 🫢
also look at my tomadachi jason todd free him from negative thoughts
my bad. i promise i am not disappearing i am just too slow at writing. In the meantime, here is a sneak peek of the opening.
Spoilers below obvi, if you would rater wait for the chapter you can but here are the first 1000 words or so:
Jason Todd is no longer a novelty item in your home.
Every single day since the great almost terrorism incident of christmas eve, he can be found in various areas of your apartment. The reading nook (classic), the couch (starting to dip in his spot, rip), the bathroom (he says your shower is twice the size of his so now he prefers to bathe here), and sometimes the guest room (because the respectful jerk is not picking up on the hints you drop and thinks he must refrain from sharing a bed with you).
Still, tonight he enters the apartment just after 9 PM.
Jason shake his head to remove the light dusting of snow that caught in his hair.
“Angel?” He calls out as he toes off his boots and lines them on the shoe rack.
“Living room!” you shout back.
Following your voice, Jason rounds the corner and his shoulders drop immediately from the calm your home emits. You are currently laying legs up on the couch under approximately two blankets, holding your nintendo switch close to your face. The rest of the apartment is dim with soft lamps on here and there, and the smell of something sweet in the air.
The cushion dips beside you, prompting you to finally glance up just long enough to press a quick kiss against Jason's cheek.
His smile could power all of Gotham, but unfortunately you don’t see it as you have turned back to your game. Jason pulls you in closer and kisses your cheek back.
"Think you officially replaced me with that thing."
You consider this. "Yes, actually! I have!”
Immediately, you shove the Switch directly into his face. "Look."
Jason glances down sceptically and squints. “Is that… me?”
You grin. “Yes that is your mii!”
A tiny Jason stares back at him from the screen.
“Why are there sparkles in my eyes?”
“Because your eyes sparkle in real life too <3”
Jason sputters and you take this opportunity to lean back into him further and explain the basics.
“Okay, so basically everybody lives on an island.”
“Sure.”
“And they make friends.”
“Right.”
“And get the hiccups.”
“Mhm.”
“And date.”
Jason nods slowly, still following.
You grin before you show your favourite part. “Your mii has a crush on my mii”
“Damn straight it does”
You snort as you pull up the information card. Suddenly, a pink bubble appears over Mii Jason’s head. You let out a shriek as you sit up straighter.
“What? What happened”
“Your mii is going to confess!!” You say leaning back into him, another kiss to his cheek, “we’re about to be sweethearts!! I have been waiting for this for two days!!”
Jason mumbles that you two are already sweethearts as you’re literal soulmates, but his grip tightens on your shoulder, telling you that he is hooked.
Tiny mii Jason stands in the middle of the market square you so lovingly created.
Jason's arm remains draped across your shoulders, but you can feel the subtle tension in it now.
The man is invested.
"Look," you whisper.
"I'm looking."
"No, like really look."
"I'm literally looking at it."
Tiny digital Jason shifts nervously from foot to foot.
A text bubble appears.
I've got something important to tell you.
You clasp both hands dramatically beneath your chin.
"Aww."
Jason rolls his eyes.
The smile he's trying to hide says otherwise.
The little confession music starts playing.
Tiny you appears on the beach a second later.
Jason's Mii immediately turns toward yours.
I think you're really special.
"He gets it from me."
You snort.
"Oh, now you're taking credit?"
"Damn right."
Will you be my sweetheart?
You immediately grab Jason's arm.
"Oh my god."
The screen pauses dramatically.
The culmination of two days of careful relationship management.
Tiny digital Jason waits hopefully.
Then another Mii runs onto the screen.
Jason freezes.
"What."
And there, standing on the beach between you and your soulmate, is the Mayor of New York City, Zohran Mamdani.
The one who truly loves Angel is…… ME
The real Jason beside you blinks slowly. "...What the hell is wrong with this game?"
"Shhh!" You smack his arm immediately. "It's fine."
"Angel, that's the mayor of New York."
You wave him off. "We're barely acquaintances."
"I do not care. He is literally trying to steal my soulmate"
You lean further into his side. "That’s literally impossible."
On screen, Mii Jason is still standing there holding flowers.
You feel Jason relax slightly.
Because it is impossible. The outcome is obvious, love will prevail.
I’d love to go out with you….. Zohran Mamdani.
"No."
Beside you, Jason is frozen.
"No."
You can barely breathe.
"Oh my god."
"No."
His hand shoots out. "Do it again."
"Jason-"
"Do it again."
"It doesn't work like that!"
"It absolutely does."
"What the actual fuck."
"Jason."
"No. No, because explain it to me."
He points accusingly at the Switch.
"Explain the logic."
"There is no logic."
"Exactly."
You wheeze.
Jason looks personally betrayed.
"Mii me had flowers."
"He did."
"Your Mii liked my Mii."
"She did."
"We had mutual crushes."
"Correct."
Jason throws both hands up.
"THEN WHY DID SHE PICK THE MAYOR?"
You are laughing so hard your stomach hurts.
Jason slumps back into the couch with disbelief. What has this world come to. He went through all this character development just so digital you could run into the arms of a mayor.
"If it'll make you feel better, I can show you the other island relationships."
He lifts an eyebrow "Go on."
"Okay." You point. "So this one is probably my favourite."
Jason leans closer.
Then stops.
Then leans closer again.
"...Is that Batman?"
You nod proudly.
"And Two-Face."
Jason stares at the screen. Batman and Harvey Dent are sweethearts. Holding hands. On a beach.
"...Huh."
"Huh?"
"Good for them."
You bark out a laugh.
You click through another menu.
"Oh!"
"What."
You grin.
"This one is funny."
Jason narrows his eyes immediately.
Whenever you say that, bad things happen.
You pull up another profile.
"Wonder Woman has a crush on your Mii."
Jason sits up straighter.
"...Really?"
You immediately start laughing.
"No."
"What?"
"No."
"What do you mean no?"
You are crying laughing again.
"The way you sat up-"
“You know what, I think we should look into soulmate refunds. This cannot be my life for the next sixty--”
You cut him off with a kiss. “No refunds. I made cookies for the office party. Your portion is on the counter”
“--The next sixty years of my life will be filled with joy and wonder and each day I will wake up wondering how I got so lucky”
“Just go eat your cookies, bro”
Jason does in fact go eat his cookies.
You settle back into the couch while he wanders into the kitchen then returns carrying the container like a dragon making off with stolen treasure.
"Angel."
You smile without looking up from your Switch.
"Yeah?"
"These are incredible."
"Thank you."
"You put cinnamon in them."
"I did."
Another cookie vanishes.
"I love your workplace."
You laugh.
"You've never even been to my workplace."
"I don't need to. They keep creating situations where you make baked goods."
"The monthly potluck is always cute," you say. "Everybody gets weirdly competitive about it."
Jason scarfs down yet another cookie when your phone rings. A horrified gasp escapes you.
"What happened?"
You shove your phone at him.
"Read that."
The office Slack channel is open on your phone. Beneath the potluck sign up sheet is a fresh reply from Stacy (your #1 opp in the workplace) :
@(reader) signed up for desserts again? No offence but the cookies are getting old.
Jason's eyes immediately go wide. "She did not."
"RIGHT?"
"No, seriously."
"RIGHT?"
"You literally bake for them! How can someone be that ungrateful”
"I KNOW."
That is when Jason sees that your thumbs are moving. The expression on your face suggests that you have decided to be petty. Oh no.
Don't worry :) I made something different this time.
"...Angel. You leave for work in 9 hours. What will you make that’s better than cookies”
"Jay, WE are making a croquembouche."
…
“The fuck is a croak in bush”
"Croquembouche."
"That is not a real word."
“It’s French”
“Oh who cares. We’re on a time crunch. Let’s go croak all ‘em bushes”
did someone say new 36 questions to fall in love tomorrow? super sweet with lots of fluff? maybe it’ll be finger lickin good? zohran mamdani is a love interest? caramel is involved? someone’s bush is involved??
what?? who said that 🫢
also look at my tomadachi jason todd free him from negative thoughts
summary: your soulmate has ghosted you? time to become an international terrorist.
wc: 5.3k
---
Questions used: 10. If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?
---
The first day you thought he was just napping.
By day three, you stop checking the window every time headlights pass your apartment building.
By day five, you start doing it again.
Jason should have been back by now.
Because logically, Jason being gone longer than expected is not unusual. Vigilante adjacent mercenary work probably does not operate on clean scheduling. There are explosions involved. International airspace violations.
Still.
A week feels strange.
The apartment feels wrong too.
His stupid boots are not by the door. His jacket is not slung over the couch. Nobody is stealing bites of cookie dough directly from the mixing bowl while claiming it’s “quality control.”
The reading nook sits empty. Fatson Todd has somehow migrated into Jason’s usual corner like he’s inheriting territory.
You stare at him suspiciously while curled beneath a blanket.
“This is bad, right?” you ask the plushie.
Fatson Todd offers no useful insights.
Which had not actually answered anything.
Next, you texted his family. Unfortunately, all they had to say is that Jason is fine. Dumb, but fine. Apparently he threatened them with bodily harm if they gave you any details.
After that, you waited. Because Jason had a key.
And the thing about Jason was that he appeared in places unexpectedly all the time now. Fire escapes. Balconies. Your couch at two in the morning claiming he “was in the area.”
So naturally, you kept expecting to hear the lock click.
You figured eventually he’d appear in your apartment like nothing is wrong. You even rehearsed your response. Or variations of responses depending on how mad you want to act.
Cool and casual:
oh wow look who remembered i exist
Maybe slightly emotional:
i was worried, idiot
Possibly dramatic:
i almost filed a missing persons report with batman
But the lock stayed still. The apartment stayed quiet.
By day six, desperation won and you decided to try the old faithful. You dragged your cooler down to Crime Alley with enough cookies to feed a small militia and left a note tucked beneath the lid.
for jason <3 pls stop acting mysterious and text me back
It had felt solid at the time.
Romantic, even.
Unfortunately, when you returned the next morning, five homeless men had somehow picked the cooler lock and were happily eating chocolate chunk on the curb.
One of them waved. “Those peanut-free?”
You blinked.
“…yes?”
“Oh good,” another said around a mouthful of cookie. “Frank’s allergic.”
So now this was your life. You got bullied by five homeless men and volunteered to bake them cookies weekly. You stared darkly at the tray of fresh snickerdoodles sliding into the oven.
That is when an idea struck you. If being nice and baking cookies doesn't wrok… you will have to get Jason’s attention some other way.
You have to become a criminal.
—
Post your latest cookie drop off (Anthony loved the snickerdoodle but asked if you can add caramel next time), you are contemplating your life of crime as you walk home.
You needed to do something dramatic enough to get the Red Hood’s attention. Preferably not dangerous-dangerous. Just a little concerning.
A little criminal.
You chew on your lip thoughtfully while waiting at a crosswalk.
What crimes even existed?
Grand larceny?
Absolutely not. You did not have the upper body strength for grand anything.
Auto theft?
You pause.
“…I don’t even have my full license yet,” you mutter to yourself.
Also Gotham cars probably exploded when hotwired wrong. That felt like important information.
Arson was obviously out.
Tax fraud sounded boring.
Blackmail required confidence.
You pass a tagged wall.
Graffiti, though…
Now there was something with flair.
Low stakes.
Artistic.
Very Gotham.
Batman probably saw graffiti constantly.
The Red Hood definitely did. And it is enough a crime where people intervene but criminals don't get arrested.
A tiny spark of determination settles in your chest.
Yes, this could work. You nod to yourself decisively and step off the curb—
A horn blares beside you.
You freeze mid-step.
The walk signal is still red.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
You just jaywalked.
Your heart launches directly into your throat while a taxi speeds past, the driver glaring at you through the windshield.
For one horrifying second, genuine panic grips you.
This was it.
Your descent into criminality.
First jaywalking.
Then graffiti.
Then somehow you’d end up with a rogues gallery nickname like the baker or something and several unresolved issues with Batman.
You stand there for a moment, breathing hard.
Then slowly you push the panic down.
You needed to get used to this feeling now.
The adrenaline.
The danger.
The lawlessness.
This was your life now.
You were living a life of crime.
Baby steps.
—
CRIME ATTEMPT #1
—
The spray paint situation is your first obstacle.
“This is criminal discrimination,” you mutter under your breath while standing in the Michael’s craft aisle at eight thirty at night.
Apparently Michael’s Arts & Crafts did not cater to aspiring vigilante bait.
You pick up the glitter silver can with deep resentment.
“…Fine,” you whisper. “We adapt.”
Ten minutes later, you are speed-walking through Gotham with a tote bag full of craft-store spray paint feeling profoundly unqualified for organized crime.
The December cold bites instantly through your coat. Wind whips down the alleyways hard enough to sting your eyes, but you keep going, scarf pulled high over the lower half of your face like the world’s least threatening supervillain.
Honestly, you look less like a criminal and more like someone about to lose a fight with seasonal allergies.
Still.
Commitment mattered.
You finally find the wall near Crime Alley by complete accident.
Tall brick.
Mostly empty.
A battered NO TRESPASSING sign hanging crooked nearby.
Your pulse spikes immediately.
Perfect.
This was exactly the kind of place vigilantes probably monitored.
The Red Hood would absolutely investigate suspicious graffiti activity here.
You glance around nervously before ducking into the alley, boots crunching against thin patches of snow.
Time to become mysterious.
You pull the silver spray can from your tote bag with trembling fingers. The little metal ball inside rattles ominously. Your breath fogs through the scarf while you stare at the blank brick wall.
Then you realize something horrifying.
You never actually planned what to paint.
“Oh no,” you whisper.
Your brain immediately empties itself.
What did criminals even paint?
Threats?
Symbols?
Cryptic warnings?
You panic instantly.
The spray can hisses accidentally when your finger jerks.
Twenty minutes later, the alley is covered in glittering silver and blue snowflakes.
The glitter paint catches the alley light beautifully, sparkling softly against the dark brick while snow falls around you in lazy white drifts.
You step back slowly, breathing hard through the scarf.
“…Wait.”
It’s actually kind of cute.
Not intimidating.
Not remotely criminal.
But cute.
The problem is that now you’ve committed to the bit.
So you shove your hands into your coat pockets and linger awkwardly near the alley entrance waiting to be arrested.
Or confronted dramatically.
Or at minimum mildly questioned.
This was still Gotham.
Surely suspicious alley graffiti would trigger SOME kind of vigilante response.
You wait ten minutes.
Nothing.
Fifteen.
Still nothing.
A stray cat walks past and ignores you completely.
“Oh, come on,” you mutter.
By twenty minutes, your toes have gone numb.
The Red Hood does not appear from the shadows.
Batman does not descend dramatically from a gargoyle.
Nobody even yells at you.
Eventually you trudge home offended.
Honestly?
Rude.
You committed crimes for him.
The least he could do was acknowledge them.
—
The next morning, Gotham Instagram discovers the alley.
You learn this while eating cereal in your pajamas and scrolling half-asleep through your phone.
@gotham.city.aesthetic: ❄️ whoever made the snowflake alley downtown… i owe you my life actually
Attached is a professionally edited reel of your graffiti set to melancholy indie music.
You sit bolt upright.
“What.”
More notifications flood in.
People are taking photos there.
Someone proposed there apparently.
A local influencer called it: “a symbol of fragile beauty surviving gotham’s darkness 🥺”
There is now a location tag called:
#snowflakealley
You stare at your screen in horror.
This was not the intended outcome.
This was supposed to summon Jason Todd.
Not accidentally improve Gotham morale.
—-
CRIME ATTEMPT #2
—-
Mugging, you decide, is probably the fastest way to get the Red Hood’s attention.
Vigilantes loved muggings. That’s how Jason and you met after all.
Which means all you have to do is create one tiny robbery scenario where you steal from a sweet grandma and Jason will practically materialize from the shadows himself.
Perfect.
Unfortunately, Crime Alley at nine p.m. contains absolutely no muggable people.
This city was unbelievable.
Where were the old ladies with purses?
Where were the businessmen carrying suspiciously robbable briefcases?
You specifically picked nine p.m. because movies suggested that was prime mugging time.
Instead Gotham apparently believed in bedtime.
A taxi splashes through a puddle nearby.
You sigh dramatically into your scarf.
Maybe you needed to think bigger.
Big risks equaled big rewards.
That was probably what criminals said.
Your eyes narrow on the next pedestrian approaching down the sidewalk.
Not an old lady.vBut non-threatening.
Average height.
Beanie.
Holding grocery bags.
You could absolutely rob that man.
Probably.
Your pulse immediately skyrockets as you step into his path.
The poor guy startles hard enough to almost drop his groceries.
“HEY,” you blurt.
Excellent opening.
Very criminal.
The man blinks at you cautiously.
“…Hi?”
Okay.
Commit.
You square your shoulders and point at him dramatically.
“Hand over your money.”
Silence.
A car alarm chirps somewhere in the distance.
The man stares at you for a long moment. “Are you lost?” he says.
You panic slightly.
Stay focused.
You lower your voice another octave, which unfortunately just makes you sound congested.
“Give me money.”
The man’s expression shifts instantly from confused to deeply concerned.
“I mean…” He adjusts the grocery bags awkwardly. “I can buy you a bus ticket if you need help?”
You stare at him.
“No,” you say carefully. “This is a robbery.”
The man goes pale. “Oh my god.”
Finally.
Recognition.
Fear.
Respect.
“You’re being robbed?”
“What?”
His gaze darts around the alley frantically. “Did somebody take your wallet? Are they still here?”
“No! I’m robbing YOU.”
Then his entire expression softens in a way that immediately offends you.
He lowers his grocery bags carefully onto the pavement like he’s approaching a frightened animal.
“Okay, sweetheart,” he says cautiously. “Can I call someone for you?”
You stare at him.
“What.”
“A friend? Your parents? Somebody who can pick you up?”
“I’m committing a CRIME.”
“You seem overwhelmed.”
“I’m threatening you!”
Before you can recover, headlights suddenly sweep across the alley.
A police cruiser rolls slowly past the entrance.
The man’s eyes widen immediately. “Oh thank god.”
“No no no no—”
The cruiser stops.
A cop steps out, one hand already resting near his belt while he looks between the two of you.
The man points directly at you.
“This poor girl needs help.”
You actually recoil. “WHAT.”
The officer’s expression shifts instantly into concern.
“Miss?” he asks carefully. “Are you alright?”
“I’m robbing him.”
The cop blinks once.
The man gives him a deeply sympathetic look. “I think she’s having some kind of episode.”
“I AM ACTIVELY THREATENING YOU.”
“You’re shivering pretty badly,” the officer notes gently.
“That’s because crime is stressful!”
Ten minutes later, you are sitting in the back of the police cruiser wrapped in an emergency blanket while the officer gives you hotline numbers and tells you that “vigilante-adjacent emotional situations” are more common than people think.
—-
By late Christmas eve, you are officially out of ideas.
Crime has failed you.
The Gotham Police Department had gently encouraged therapy.
And Jason Todd was still ignoring every single attempt you made to reach him.
Which meant you were now curled sideways in his armchair in the reading nook at one in the morning feeling deeply, catastrophically pathetic.
Fatson Todd is tucked beneath one arm like emotional support artillery while snow taps softly against the apartment windows.
Your chest aches.
Maybe honesty really is the best policy.
No more crimes.
No more emotional terrorism.
No more failed muggings.
Just try talking to him.
You open Twitter for the first time in years because it’s probably the only place where he hasn’t blocked you yet. You smile when you see the handle. @boomeringue. It used to be the username you used for everything from twitter to club penguin.
You try to keep it brief. You don’t want to seem overbearing:
@redhood city square. christmas eve. 8pm.
You stare at the tweet for a long moment before hitting post.
Hopefully, by some miracle, he’ll see it and you can finally talk.
—
Wayne Manor is miserable on Christmas Eve.
The tree is lit.
The garlands are up.
There’s music playing softly somewhere down the hall.
And yet the entire manor somehow feels like somebody kicked a puppy directly into the holiday spirit.
Jason is sitting in the armchair nearest the fire looking like human seasonal depression in a leather jacket. Which means everyone else is suffering too.
Dick breaks first. “This sucks,” he announces.
Nobody disagrees.
Even Alfred pauses briefly while serving dessert.
“Master Richard,” he says diplomatically.
“No offence, Alfred,” Dick says immediately, “but if she was here we’d have chocolate mousse right now instead of fruitcake.”
“None taken, sir.”
Tim pokes at his slice with visible despair. “She would’ve decorated the cookies.”
“She would’ve made hot chocolate,” Steph mourns.
“She would have laughed at my joke about superman and mistletoe," Duke adds quietly.
Damian scowls down at his tea. “Todd has ruined morale.”
Jason doesn’t look up from the glass in his hand.
“Can all of you shut up.”
“No,” Dick says instantly. “This is weird. You’re weird.”
Jason’s jaw tightens.
For the last week he has been moody, snappy, and Cass once caught him sobbing to All too Well on his bike.
Which, in fairness, narrows his behavior down very little.
Steph finally snaps.
“Okay, I’m saying it,” she declares. “Go apologize to your girlfriend.”
Jason’s expression hardens instantly.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Oh my god,” Tim mutters.
“And she’s not my soulmate,” Jason says flatly. “Drop it.”
Silence falls across the room.
Even Alfred stops moving for half a second.
Dick stares at him. “Jason.”
“I mean it.”
Something ugly twists briefly across Jason’s face before disappearing behind that familiar hard expression again.
“We got confused,” he says shortly. “That’s all.”
Nobody responds immediately because that explanation makes absolutely no sense and noody believes it.
And because Bruce, unfortunately, now looks like he wants to have a father-son conversation.
Before that catastrophe can occur—
Ping
Barbara’s laptop lights up on the coffee table.
Everyone turns automatically.
Barbara frowns down at the incoming alert. “That’s weird.”
“What?” Duke asks.
She opens the file.
Then immediately straightens.
“Oh, that’s bad timing.”
The room shifts instantly.
Jason sits forward slightly.
Bruce is already on his feet.
Barbara answers the incoming GCPD call on speaker. “Oracle.”
“We’ve got a flagged threat tied to tonight’s Christmas market,” a dispatcher says quickly. “Cybercrimes escalated it to major incidents.”
Barbara’s eyes skim rapidly across the report.
The dispatcher lowers his voice ominously.
“We think the suspect may be operating under the alias Eringue.”
Silence.
“Potential extremist,” the dispatcher continues confidently. “Possibly foreign.”
Bruce’s expression sharpens immediately. “What’s the threat level?”
“Potential bombing,” Barbara says grimly. “Christmas Eve market. High civilian density.”
That gets everyone moving instantly.
Finally,
Action.
Dick stands so fast he nearly knocks over the fruitcake.
Duke’s already reaching for comms.
Tim peers over Babs’ shoulder for the report.
Damian actually looks excited for the first time all evening.
“The mayor doesn’t want the festivities disrupted publicly,” she says. “So GCPD’s sending bomb squads in plainclothes while we establish perimeter positions.”
Bruce nods once. “Assignments.”
“Nightwing and Spoiler cover east exits. Robin with Red Robin on rooftop surveillance. Signal monitors crowd movement.” Barbara pulls up the city map. “Red Hood takes the central market.”
Across the city, entirely unaware you had accidentally triggered Gotham’s anti-terror response, you were standing in a flower shop holding two bouquets with increasing distress.
“Do these look too breakup-y?” you asked nervously.
The cashier blinked. “The… roses?”
“No, roses are romantic.” You frowned down at the white lilies in your other hand. “The lilies feel profound.”
Outside, Gotham police quietly established a bomb perimeter around the Christmas market.
You picked carnations.
—
The Gotham Christmas market is operating under active anti-terror surveillance.
Fortunately, none of the civilians know that.
Families drift between vendor stalls beneath glowing string lights while Christmas music crackles softly through overhead speakers. Kids clutch cups of hot chocolate with mittened hands. Someone nearby is aggressively roasting chestnuts.
Meanwhile every available vigilante in Gotham is perched somewhere overhead waiting for a potential bombing.
“East side clear,” Nightwing says through comms.
“Couple arguing near the skating rink,” Spoiler adds. “The boyfriend definitely cheated but probably not terrorism related.”
Robin crouches at the edge of a rooftop overlooking the market, cape snapping sharply in the winter wind.
“A man near the fountain has been pacing for seven minutes,” Damian reports.
Red Robin glances down at his scanner. “He’s waiting for his wife. Elevated heart rate but no weapon signatures.”
“Disappointing,” Damian mutters.
Below them, plainclothes bomb squad officers weave carefully through the crowd pretending to browse holiday stalls.
Oracle’s voice cuts cleanly through the comm network.
“Reminder: the mayor's office does not want panic. Keep movement controlled unless we confirm a threat.”
Jason stands on a roof closest to the square with his helmet on, arms crossed tightly over his chest while snow drifts slowly onto his jacket.
“West perimeter,” Signal says suddenly. “Guy in the green parka keeps touching his pockets.”
Jason’s attention snaps over immediately.
The man pulls out:
“A candy cane,” Nightwing sighs.
“Oh come ON,” Steph groans.
A child drops hot chocolate nearby. Jason flinches instinctively at the sound hitting pavement.
Oracle’s voice crackles suddenly through the comms.
“Hold.”
Every channel goes quiet instantly.
Barbara’s typing echoes faintly in the background before she says:
“Red Hood.”
Jason straightens automatically. “What.”
“Your soulmate just entered through the west gate. I see it on camera three.”
Silence detonates across the network.
Every Bat immediately turns toward the west entrance.
Jason’s stomach drops hard enough to hurt.
“No,” he says instantly.
And then he sees you.
Winter coat.
Scarf.
Flowers tucked carefully against your chest.
Flowers?
Nightwing squints through binoculars from the rooftop.
“…Is she on a date?”
Jason’s grip tightens so hard around his gun holster it creaks.
Spoiler gasps dramatically. “OH MY GOD SHE’S ON A DATE.”
“She brought flowers,” Duke says weakly.
“Perhaps she finally located a man with emotional intelligence,” Damian offers.
Jason genuinely considers violence.
Not because you’re on a date.
You should be on a date.
You should move on from this entire disaster and find someone normal and alive and uncomplicated who doesn’t vanish for two weeks because he’s too damaged to process affection correctly.
Still. It's been two weeks.. Did you move on that quick?
The sight of those flowers in your hands makes something ugly twist low in his chest.
Dick’s voice softens slightly. “Jay…”
“She deserves better,” Jason says flatly before anyone can say it first.
The words land heavily across the comms.
For one brief second, nobody jokes. Then Oracle cuts through the silence sharply.
“Can you people be serious for ONE second?”
Barbara sounds genuinely appalled.
“There is an active potential bomb threat at this location,” she snaps. “And his soulmate is standing in the middle of it.”
Jason freezes.
Right.
The threat.
Your flowers suddenly stop looking romantic and start looking terrifyingly vulnerable.
Oracle’s voice hardens instantly into mission mode.
“Red Hood, get her out of there now.”
Jason moves before anyone can say another word.
“One minute,” Batman says sharply through comms.
Jason ignores him completely.
The rooftop door slams hard enough behind him to rattle the stairwell as he tears downward three steps at a time. Snow and cold air still cling to his armor while Oracle continues talking in his ear about evacuation routes and threat containment.
He barely hears her.
All he can think about is you standing in the middle of a potential bombing with flowers in your hands.
Idiot.
His idiot.
Jason yanks the helmet off halfway down the stairs and shoves it into an abandoned maintenance cabinet without slowing. Next go the guns. Holstered beneath his jacket where civilians won’t see them.
By the time he hits street level, he barely looks like Red Hood at all.
Just Jason.
Just a man sprinting through Gotham Christmas crowds with panic clawing up his throat.
He spots you near the center fountain immediately.
You’re standing on your toes slightly, scanning the market crowd with your bouquet tucked against your chest. When he shouts your name. Your head snaps toward him instantly.
Your entire face lights up.
Relief crashes across your expression so openly and immediately it almost stops him in his tracks.
“Jason!”
You hurry toward him through the crowd, smiling so brightly it physically hurts to look at after two weeks of silence.
Jason reaches you and immediately grabs your hand.
“We need to go,” he says.
“What?”
“There’s a threat. C’mon.”
He starts pulling you quickly through the market crowd toward the nearest exit, grip tight around your wrist while his eyes scan rooftops and civilians automatically.
Behind him, Oracle is feeding him updates through comms.
“No suspicious movement near the north barricade—”
“Bomb squad entering west side—”
“Red Hood, keep moving.”
You stumble slightly trying to keep up.
“Jason, wait”
“No time.”
“What do you MEAN no time??”
“There’s a potential attack here.”
Your eyes widen instantly.
“Oh my god.”
“Exactly.”
Jason keeps moving, pulse pounding violently now.
If something goes off before he gets you clear—
“Jason,” you say again, tugging against his hand this time. “Wait, hold on.”
“We are literally not holding on.”
“No, listen to me first!”
Jason finally slows just enough to look back at you.
You stare up at him, confused now.
“…Did you get my message?”
Jason pauses.
The crowd noise dulls strangely around him.
“…What message?”
“The tweet,” you repeat slowly. “I asked you to meet me here at 8”
Jason stares.
Snow drifts lazily between the market lights while Gotham continues bustling around you completely oblivious to the active anti-terror operation currently unfolding in the background.
“You…” Jason says faintly. “You sent that?”
“Yes?” Your eyebrows knit together. “Why else would you be here?”
Oh my god.
Behind Jason, somewhere across the rooftops, half the Batfamily is currently preparing for a bombing because of a twitter account you made when you were 12.
You keep talking before he can process that information.
You shift awkwardly beneath his silence.
“…Okay, well now I feel stupid,” you mutter. “But you blocked my number, which was honestly insane behavior by the way, and nobody would tell me where you lived, and I even tried the cookie cooler thing again but homeless people stole them—”
Jason actually stops breathing for a second.
“Who?.”
“That’s not important.” You wave it off immediately. “The point is I had to escalate.” You sound genuinely defensive about this.
Jason’s eyes sting suddenly. There is no threat. For a moment when he saw you standing there, he was terrified. All his neurons fired with a single message of get her out.
He pulls you into him so suddenly you gasp.
The bouquet crushes awkwardly between your coats while his arms lock around you hard enough to almost lift you off the ground. Jason buries his face against your hair immediately like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.
His shoulders shake once.
“Oh,” you say softly.
His breath catches sharply against your temple.
“I missed you.” You keep talking. “I almost became a criminal.”
“Almost?”
“I jaywalked.”
“…Oh my god.”
“And then I did graffiti but it accidentally became an Instagram spot instead of a threat to society.”
You keep ranting on but Jason is barely hanging onto your words because a realization washes over him like warm water. You came here for him.
Not because fate told you to.
Not because a timer forced you to.
But because he disappeared and you refused to let him go quietly.
Your voice keeps tumbling out in nervous little bursts.
“And then the mugging thing didn’t work either—”
“The WHAT.”
“Again, not important.”
Jason’s chest cracks open.
Because suddenly he sees it.
Not a mistake.
Not confusion.
Not some dead soulmate’s empty place he accidentally crawled into.
You.
Choosing him over and over again anyway.
All his life Jason had wanted one impossible thing: Someone who would fight for him back.
Willis didn’t.
Catherine couldn’t.
Bruce loved him, yes, but even that love always came tangled in grief and rules and distance.
But you committed crimes for him.
Badly.
Terribly.
Emotionally.
But still. His shoulders shake once before he can stop them.
He is such an idiot. He was so scared that he wasn't your soulmate that he failed to consider that you are exactly what he needed. Someone who’ll fight for him. Of course the universe gave him you.
You’re still talking softly against his chest.
“…and honestly the graffiti turned out kind of nice actually—”
Jason laughs once.
You pull back just enough to look at him properly and see that his eyes are wet.
Your entire expression crumples instantly.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “Jason.”
He looks wrecked. Like he’s been holding himself together by force for weeks and finally ran out of strength.
“I’m sorry,” he says roughly. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
And that’s when you realize.
He thought you were really angry.
“Oh no no no,” you say immediately, grabbing his jacket. “Wait, Jason, it’s okay. I’m not really mad, you’re here now!”
That undoes him completely.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, like the words aren’t enough but he has nothing else to offer. “God, I’m so sorry.”
Then quieter.
Smaller somehow.
“I thought…” His jaw tightens painfully. “I thought I was ruining your life.”
Your face falls instantly.
“What are you talking about?”
“The bracelet broke,” he blurts suddenly. “And your timer stopped before we met and I just—I thought maybe your real soulmate died and we got it wrong somehow and you deserved someone better than—”
You cover his mouth with your hand. “Do not finish that sentence, Jason. That is the dumbest thing I have ever hear”
He laughs into your palm before gently removing it. “I love you so much.”
Your breath catches sharply enough that Jason’s expression immediately shifts into panic like maybe he said too much..
So you kiss him.
Immediately.
One hand grab his face at once as you pull him down into you, flowers crushed hopelessly between your coats while Jason makes this startled sound against your mouth before kissing you back like he’s starving for it.
Jason’s hands slide into your hair while your fingers curl tight into the collar of his jacket, pulling him closer every single time he tries to breathe. The cold air disappears beneath the warmth of him entirely. Snow melts against your cheeks. Christmas music hums faintly somewhere behind you but it feels very far away now.
All you can process is Jason.
Jason kissing you back like he means it.
Like he’s relieved.
Like he’s still a little afraid this might disappear if he stops.
Around the square, Gotham’s vigilantes are collectively witnessing far more intimacy than anybody signed up for tonight.
Then Jason’s comm crackles violently in his ear.
“HELLO?” Oracle snaps. “Potential bomb threat? Massive public gathering? Ringing any bells??”
Jason breaks away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard.
His eyes are still half-lidded when he presses a hand to the comm.
“There’s no threat,” he says hoarsely.
“…What.”
Jason glances down at you.
At your flushed cheeks.
Your crushed flowers.
The fact that you are very obviously not an international terrorist.
His mouth twitches helplessly.
“Go home,” he tells Barbara simply.
He kisses you again.
The bouquet finally slips from your hands somewhere between kisses.
Flowers scatter across the snow near your boots.
You pull back suddenly.
“Oh!”
Jason looks alarmed for half a second like maybe something exploded after all until you crouch quickly to grab the roses.
“No wait,” you mumble, laughing breathlessly now. “I forgot.”
Jason’s still staring at you like he hasn’t fully recovered from the fact that you kissed him back.
You straighten again and hold the bouquet out toward him properly this time, cheeks pink from cold and kissing and emotional terrorism.
“I got you these.”
Jason blinks.
The market noise seems to disappear completely around him.
“…You got me flowers.”
You frown slightly. “Well, yeah.”
Like that’s obvious. Like people bring Jason Todd flowers every day.
“It’s a date,” you explain softly. “I was trying to be romantic before you started your mysterious self-destructive disappearing act.”
His throat works visibly.
“Oh my god,” you say immediately. “No wait, are you crying AGAIN?”
Jason laughs once through it, embarrassed and wrecked all at once while taking the bouquet from your hands with absurd care like it might break.
“Thank you,” he mutters hoarsely.
You smile a little helplessly at that, shifting closer automatically beneath the market lights while snow drifts softly around you both.
Around you, the Christmas market buzzes warmly with music and laughter and the smell of cinnamon.
A perfect date setting, honestly.
You open your mouth.
“So,” you say carefully, “do you maybe wanna—”
“Can we go home?”
The words leave Jason immediately.
Jason looks suddenly overwhelmed by the entire concept of being perceived.
“I just…” He exhales hard through a laugh, eyes still suspiciously wet. “I think if we stay here much longer I might actually lose my mind.”
Your chest aches so violently it feels unfair.
“Okay,” you say softly.
Jason reaches for your hand automatically after that, intertwining your fingers like it’s instinct now. The flowers remain tucked carefully against his chest while the two of you begin walking slowly out of the market together.
You bump your shoulder lightly against his while weaving through the crowd.
“I still cannot believe you ghosted me over a bracelet,” you mumble.
Jason looks offended immediately.
“It was broken.”
“I have, like, twenty bracelets.”
“It symbolized you.”
“It was from a retreat gift shop.”
Jason tightens his grip on your hand slightly. “It mattered to me.”
Your expression softens instantly.
Then you remember something and squint at him again.
“Well I can’t believe you thought I’d stop talking to you forever.”
“You accidentally became a terrorist to contact me.”
“I became emotionally resourceful.”
“You triggered bomb squad deployment.”
“You blocked my number.”
“That does not justify federal crimes.”
“I also jaywalked, did graffiti, and tried mugging.”
He shook his head at that and slung an arm around you, pulling you closer to kiss your temple.
“I’ll let you know the next time I have a self destructive spiral”
“That’s all I ever wanted” You say, “Now come on, Fatson missed his papa”
---
a/n: so you can probs tell how long this sat in the drafts from the christmas eve setting. also add me on club peguin @boomeringue
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taglist: THE TAGLIST IS NOW CLOSED (cause i am bad at it and its not working). to stay updated with the story follow: #goblin-writes
summary: jason thinks he is invincible after the retreat. the world (and his mind) proves him wrong
wc: 2.3k
---
Questions used:
10. If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?
---
“That rug has to go”
“No way! The texture is the only reason I get out of bed”
“It’s an allergen trap is what it is”
You snort softly, fingers bunching instinctively in the fabric of his jacket. Somewhere over the last few weeks, touching Jason stopped feeling terrifying and started feeling natural.
The Outlaws’ jet is already running behind you, engines rumbling low across the rooftop, but Jason has somehow managed to completely forget he is supposed to be leaving Gotham, and is instead discussing your decor choices”
You are tucked against the front of his jacket near the edge of the landing pad, hidden just enough from the worst of the wind by the broad line of his body. Snow drifts lazily through the floodlights overhead, catching in his dark hair before melting away again. Jason’s gloves are off. Which means his hands are warm.
Which means your brain has not processed a single coherent thought in at least three minutes.
“I was thinking,” he murmurs, “I could bring more stuff over when I get back.”
Your stomach flips instantly.
“More stuff?”
“Mm.” His hand squeezes around yours once. “Already got the backup gear there.”
“You mean the one you left on purpose?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“And the books.”
“You’re the one who made me a reading nook.” he points out reasonably.
“And the coffee beans,” you continue weakly.
“I had to intervene.” He sounds deeply serious about this. “All you had was instant coffee. I couldn’t morally allow that.”
You laugh again, softer this time, because he’s smiling now too. It still feels a little unreal every time you see it.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, “if I’m over there all the time anyway…”
Your heartbeat stumbles.
All the time.
Before you can answer, a voice bellows from the jet behind him.
“HOOD. WE ARE LITERALLY ON A TIMER.”
Jason doesn’t even blink.
“Ignore them,” he says immediately.
You bite back a smile. “Your team sounds upset.”
“They’re dramatic.”
“You’re making them wait.”
“They can’t leave without me.”
The jet engines hum low behind you.
Snow hisses softly against concrete.
Jason’s heartbeat sits slow and steady beneath your hands.
You suddenly become very aware of how close he is.
Again.
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes like he caught himself doing it.
Then his hands slide lower, fingers hooking lazily through your belt loops and tugging you in closer.
“You gonna miss me, angel?”
The rooftop suddenly feels about ten degrees warmer.
“Maybe,” you mumble.
“Mhm.”
“A normal amount.”
Jason hums thoughtfully like he’s considering this very seriously. “Interesting.”
“What?”
“Cause your arms’ve been around me for,” he glances at the jet casually, “roughly the last twenty minutes.”
Your face burns instantly.
“You’re clingy too!”
“Never denied it.”
Unfortunately, that is true.
His grin softens slightly at the edges as he looks down at you, snow catching briefly in his lashes.
Then his attention shifts.
To your wrist.
His fingers slide gently from your belt loop to your wrist instead, hooking his pointer under the lilac beads. Before you can blink, he slides the bracelet off your wrist and presses a quick kiss against the skin underneath.
The sound that leaves you is deeply humiliating. Jason maintains eye contact while he slips the bracelet onto his own wrist.
Against black leather and scarred hands, the lilac beads look impossibly smooth.
“I’m taking it with me,” he says with a dumb grin.
And god help you, the retreat really has ruined your emotional stability because that is somehow the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you.
“You better bring it back in one piece,” you mumble. “It’s very special to me.”
You see it happen in real time, the teasing easing out of his expression until he’s just looking at you again. Snow drifting between you. Gotham roaring somewhere far below.
You haven’t kissed since the motorcycle ride weeks ago.
Suddenly the space between you feels very, very small.
Jason leans in slightly.
You do too.
“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU MISS THIS EXTRACTION WINDOW BECAUSE YOU’RE FLIRTING—”
You’re still laughing when he kisses your forehead quickly, almost like he can’t help himself.
“I’ll be back soon”
—
.
.
.
—
“Batman?”
The word leaves Jason before he even knows he’s saying it.
Dust chokes the air around him, thick enough to taste. Something heavy presses across his back and legs. Concrete. Metal. Smoke. His ears ring violently, drowning out everything except the distant crackle of fire and… Laughter.
High. Sharp. Wrong.
For one awful second, he’s fifteen again.
The warehouse smells the same.
Explosives.
Blood.
Burning plastic.
His chest seizes so hard he almost can’t breathe.
“Bat—”
The Joker’s laugh echoes somewhere beyond the rubble, warped by memory and concussion and pain until Jason can’t tell if it’s real or buried inside his skull.
This is how it happened.
This is—
Something digs sharply into his wrist.
Jason’s eyes snap open.
Purple.
The lilac bracelet is tangled against a slab of broken concrete, beads pressed hard into his skin.
The rooftop flashes through his head instantly.
Snow.
Your laugh.
I’m taking it with me.
His lungs finally drag in air.
No, he is not fifteen anymore.
He is not small enough to die like that again.
Jason grits his teeth and shoves upward with a yell that tears through his ribs. Concrete shifts an inch. Then another. Pain explodes through his side, hot and vicious, but he keeps pushing anyway, muscles straining hard enough to shake.
The rubble gives.
Cold air slams into him all at once as he drags himself free, collapsing onto shattered pavement with a rough cough.
Someone is shouting his name in the distance.
Roy, maybe.
Jason barely hears it.
He rolls onto his back, staring up at the ruined ceiling above him while snow drifts through the hole in lazy white flakes.
His ribs are definitely broken.
Again.
But he’s alive.
Alive enough to crawl out this time.
Alive enough to survive it.
The thought barely settles before something taps weakly against the concrete beside him.
Clack
Jason’s breathing stutters.
Another sound follows.
Clink
Small.
Fragile.
Wrong.
He turns his head slowly.
The lilac bracelet lies half-buried in the dust beside him.
Broken.
For a second, his brain refuses to process it. The beads are scattered across the cracked pavement, some lodged between chunks of concrete, others rolled farther into the rubble. The string hangs loose and snapped, one fractured bead dangling from the end like it’s trying not to fall apart completely.
Jason just stares.
Then his pulse drops straight into his stomach.
“No, no—”
The words leave him rough and breathless.
He pushes himself upright too fast and immediately regrets it. Pain rips through his ribs sharp enough to blacken the edges of his vision, but he barely notices. His gloves scrape uselessly against broken concrete as he reaches for the nearest bead.
One of them has split clean down the middle.
He grabs another one.
Cracked.
Another.
The rubble shifts under his knees while he searches frantically through ash and shattered concrete, fingers shaking hard enough he keeps dropping the beads as soon as he finds them.
You better bring it back in one piece.
The memory hits so clearly it almost makes him nauseous.
Jason swallows hard and digs deeper into the debris, ignoring the wet warmth spreading beneath his armor where something in his side definitely should not be bleeding this much.
There has to be more.
There has to—
A bead slips from his fingers and disappears somewhere beneath the rubble.
“No, come on,” he mutters hoarsely, shoving broken concrete aside with bare hands now. “C’mon…”
Pain tears through his ribs hard enough to make his vision pulse white, but Jason barely registers it. Dust grits beneath his gloves while he digs frantically through fractured cement and twisted metal, searching for tiny flashes of lilac between the debris.
Another rolls loose near his knee when he shifts a slab aside. He grabs for it too fast and nearly drops it again because his hands won’t stop shaking.
“Jay.”
Roy’s voice sounds distant. Muffled.
Jason ignores him.
“There was another one,” he mutters instead, eyes darting across the rubble. “I saw— there’s still another—”
“Dude.” Boots crunch against broken concrete beside him. “The building’s coming down.”
Jason finally looks up long enough to glare. “Then help me look.”
Roy blinks.
Because Jason Todd is kneeling in the middle of a failed mission, bleeding through his armor, digging through rubble for little purple bracelet beads like his life depends on it.
Artemis lands beside them both with a heavy thud.
“We need extraction now,” she snaps. “Whatever that is can wait.”
“It can’t,” Jason says immediately.
The words come out too fast.
Too sharp.
Roy and Artemis exchange a look.
Jason hates that look.
The concerned one.
Artemis swears under her breath. “That was not a suggestion, Todd.”
Roy crouches suddenly, reaching into the debris near Jason’s knee.
“There.” He lifts something small between two fingers. “Got one.”
Jason’s gaze snaps to it instantly.
A tiny lilac bead. Intact.
Something in his chest clenches so hard it almost feels like gratitude.
His expression softens just slightly as he places the bead into Jason’s waiting palm.
“C’mon, man,” he says carefully. “You can put it back together on the jet.”
Jason stares down at the collection in his hand.
Broken beads.
Whole beads.
Frayed string tangled through his fingers.
Put it back together.
This time Jason lets Roy haul him upright.
Pain explodes through his side immediately, sharp enough to pull a rough sound from his throat. Artemis catches his other arm before he can stumble, already steering him toward the extraction point while snow drifts through the collapsed ceiling overhead.
Jason barely notices.
His fist stays closed tight around the shattered bracelet the entire walk back to the jet.
—
The jet is loud enough that nobody tries talking to him.
Good.
Jason sits hunched forward on one of the side benches, elbows braced against his knees while Gotham disappears beneath the clouds outside. The medkit Artemis dropped beside him sits untouched on the floor.
His ribs hurt.
His shoulder hurts.
Something is probably concussed.
None of it feels important.
The bracelet lies in pieces across his gloves.
The elastic string snapped almost completely through. Half the beads are cracked, tiny fractures spidering through the lilac surface. Three are missing entirely, still buried somewhere beneath a collapsed building halfway across the world.
His hands feel too big for this.
He fumbles another bead immediately when he tries threading it back onto the string. It bounces once against the jet floor before rolling beneath the opposite bench.
Jason swears under his breath and bends down too quickly trying to grab it.
Pain detonates through his ribs instantly.
“Jesus Christ,” Roy says from across the cabin. “Sit down before you puncture a lung.”
Jason ignores him completely.
The bead finally catches beneath his fingertips. He grabs it carefully and sits back again, breathing harder now.
One by one, he starts trying to rebuild the bracelet.
It goes terribly.
His fingers are clumsy even on a good day, and this is delicate work made worse by turbulence and blood drying stiff against his gloves. The elastic keeps slipping loose. The cracked beads refuse to sit properly together.
Every time he thinks he’s fixed part of it, another section falls apart.
Like the bracelet itself knows it’s ruined.
Jason stares at the mess in his hands for a long moment before finally pulling his phone from his pocket.
The screen lights instantly.
Missed notifications flood across it.
Mostly from you.
His chest tightens before he even opens them.
you better not die btw
followed immediately by:
that sounded threatening. i meant on the mission. not like. in general.
Another one.
i know you probably wont see these till later but i passed that bench you like today :)
Then:
made cookies. accidentally made enough for a family of six again. this is your fault somehow
Jason’s mouth twitches faintly before it disappears again.
There are more.
A picture of fatson todd sitting on his chair in the reading nook captioned your son is taking over
And then another photo loads: Two M&Ms sitting side by side on a countertop. One normal-sized. One absurdly oversized.
US!!!!!!
Jason actually laughs once at that.
Another notification appears at the top of the screen.
Newest message.
Jason opens it automatically.
NEED the bracelet back asap btw so you should come over the second you see this message. to return it obvi ;)
His breathing stops.
The cabin noise dulls instantly around him.
Jason looks down slowly at the ruined bracelet in his hands.
A cold feeling settles heavily into his stomach.
Of course.
Of fucking course.
Nobody ever did see his timer disappear. Because he never had one.
Not after the Lazarus Pit.
Not after death hollowed something out inside him and stitched it back wrong.
Somewhere out there, years ago, there probably really had been a fifteen-year-old boy whose timer stopped the same night yours did, and the same night he also died. Some kid who died before he ever got the chance to meet you.
And then Jason stumbled into the empty space afterward like a fucking imposter.
You saw meaning where there was only coincidence.
Because you wanted it to mean something.
Because you looked at him with those soft hopeful eyes and decided the universe had finally given you your person back.
Meanwhile Jason had just taken it.
Taken the apartment.
Taken the reading nook.
Taken the hot chocolate and forehead kisses and domestic little routines like they belonged to him.
Taken you.
His chest tightens violently.
No wonder the bracelet broke the second he almost died again.
Like the universe itself finally trying to correct the mistake.
Jason turns the phone face-down before he can do something stupid like answer, already feeling the shape of the loss settling in around him. The apartment. The couch. The reading nook. His books still stacked crooked beside your bed.
You.
Jason closes his eyes briefly.
Then he turns his phone off.
-----
a/n: people are gonna read this and say i should have not continued this story fr. but dw!~ the next chapter will be up tonightish for surel:). like it was all going to be one giant thing but i feel like it reads better in two so i am just editing that
also some updates!! i had my winter depression arc but things are great now. i have moved out of uni and graduated thank goodness. i am also in the final round of a really really great job. just need to not mess up my fourth round interview on tuesday,, and i will have a great career for life.
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taglist: THE TAGLIST IS NOW CLOSED (cause i am bad at it and its not working). to stay updated with the story follow: #goblin-writes
just re-read 36 questions to fall in love and realized its a banger of a series? my winter depression arc stopped me from continuing it but have no fear i am back.
expect a new chapter tonight :))))))))))
would anyone be interested in toddlet chaos. like todd family lore from the everything is growing in our garden series. because i have so many lore thoughts for each child over the years
can be read as standalone but continued from part 1
---
Taking out your key is your favourite part of the day.
There’s something about the weight of it in your hand, the familiar scrape of metal, the little resistance in the lock Jason keeps saying he’ll fix and never does. It has been a long day. The kind of long day that lives in your shoulders and behind your eyes. Meetings, emails, fluorescent lighting, office politics.
But then the door opens.
And there it is.
Home.
Warm air brushes your face, carrying traces of lunch, laundry detergent, and the faint smell of the wallflowers you had dutifully chosen at the mall last weekend. You step inside and nudge the door shut behind you with your heel.
Best part of the day. Every time.
You toe off your shoes by the mat, dropping your bag beside the stairs. The hardwood is cool under your socks as you take a few steps into the foyer and glance toward the kitchen.
Nothing.
No tiny ambush from behind the island. No suspicious whispering from the living room. No husband pretending he did not hear the door open because he wants to be dramatic about his entrance.
You narrow your eyes.
The lower floor is completely empty.
Well.
This will not do.
You plant your hands on your hips, draw in one deep breath, and let your voice ring through the house.
“BABIES!!!!!!!”
Your shout bounces up the staircase, down the hall, through the vents, into the bones of the place itself.
thud thud thud thud
A shriek of delighted little boy laughter tears down the hallway, followed by the frantic slap of feet against wood.
“Mommy!”
The toddler appears at full speed like he has been launched from a cannon, hair wild, shirt half untucked, sippy cup in hand, joy radiating off him in visible waves. He barrels straight into your legs with enough force to make you stagger.
“Good gosh, River,” you say, shifting him to your hip. “Give me a moment. You turned two and suddenly weigh as much as a refrigerator.”
The second he’s in your arms, he grabs your cheeks with both hands and starts planting wet, determined kisses everywhere he can reach.
“Mwah! Mwah! Missed you!”
Your heart melts on contact.
“I missed you too, baby,” you murmur, kissing one cheek, then the other, then the little wrinkle between his brows that only appears when he’s concentrating very hard on loving someone.
A warm body appears beside you before River can land the next one.
Jason slides an arm around your waist, pulls you gently against his side, and uses two fingers to hold River’s face back.
“Easy,” he says, voice low and amused. “Daddy gets first kiss.”
River gasps in theatrical betrayal.
You barely have time to laugh before Jason kisses you slow and easy, like he hasn’t seen you in years instead of eight hours. Familiar, grounding, a little smug.
When he pulls back, you’re smiling already.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi yourself.”
River wedges a hand between your faces in protest. “My turn!”
Jason snorts and kisses the top of his son’s head. Then you glance past him toward the staircase.
“Where are the other babies?”
Jason sighs like a man burdened by impossible trials. “Ma, they don’t like when you call them babies anymore. They’re big now.”
“That is ridiculous,” you say immediately.
“I’ve told you this.”
“I reject it.”
He pecks you once more, because apparently he cannot pass within kissing range without abusing the privilege, then straightens and raises his voice in the tone that has ended fights, started baths, and once convinced a child to apologize to a goldfish.
“TRAITORS,” he bellows upstairs. “COME HUG YOUR MOTHER.”
A chorus of groans answers from above.
You grin. “Music.”
Heavy footsteps pound first.
Briar appears on the stairs with all the weary dignity of someone forced into nonsense against his will. Ten years old now and trying very hard to become composed, he takes the last few steps quickly, crosses the foyer, and gives you the briefest possible side hug.
You gasp. “Nope. Try again.”
He recoils. “This is so dumb. I’m in fifth grade.”
You shift River to one side. “Terrible diagnosis. Come here.”
“I own a calculator,” Briar adds, as if presenting legal evidence.
“I do not care if you own a submarine.”
You catch him around the shoulders and pull him into a proper hug. He makes a dramatic sound of suffering but melts after two seconds, arms wrapping around your middle. You kiss the top of his head anyway.
“Perfect,” you say. “Where’s the next baby?”
“I’m not a baby either,” he mutters into your sweater.
Two more sets of footsteps race each other down the stairs.
Sophie (8) and Winnie (6) arrive side by side. Sophie rolls her eyes the moment she sees your open arms.
“Mom,” she says, scandalized. “Please.”
But she hugs you anyway.
Winnie notices the eye roll, pauses, then carefully rolls her own eyes in imitation before stepping in for the sweetest, quietest hug of the bunch, cheek pressing to your side.
You barely make it three steps toward the kitchen before everyone starts talking at once, each child apparently convinced their update is both urgent and legally entitled to first priority.
“I crossed level twelve,” Briar announces, appearing at your elbow with the grave importance of a man reporting market trends. “And I unlocked the obsidian blade, which is actually hard to get, so.”
“That’s amazing,” you say immediately.
“It took strategy,” he adds.
“I’m sure it did.”
Sophie shoves past him with the offense of someone denied spotlight. “I almost did a cartwheel.”
“You almost did one yesterday.”
“This one was closer.”
“How close?”
She demonstrates by kicking one leg up in the hallway and nearly taking out a lamp.
“Closer than yesterday,” she says triumphantly.
Winnie slips in beside you, holding a paper with both hands so carefully it might be sacred. “I drew the park.”
You take it like an artifact. A sweep of green trees, a yellow sun, a suspiciously square dog, and five stick figures holding hands.
“It’s beautifu, baby,” you say.
Winnie glows so quietly it could be missed if you did not know her.
River, who has no art and no measurable achievements to present, simply grabs your chin and announces, “Lollipop.”
You look at Jason.
He looks at the ceiling.
“Purple,” River adds helpfully, showing you his stained tongue.
“Excellent work, baby.”
River objects immediately when you place him on the floor and attaches himself to your leg like ivy.
“No down.”
“You have feet,” you remind him.
“They’re tired.”
Then the complaints begin.
“Briar took my charger.”
“It was on the floor. Floor means community property.”
“Sophie kept singing the same line from one song for an hour.”
“It was catchy.”
“Winnie hid under the table and scared me.”
You hold up one hand. “I need everyone to understand something very important.”
No one stops talking.
You try again, louder this time.
“Children.”
Still they continue.
“I was reading.”
“River bit my shoulder.”
River gasps. “No.”
“You absolutely did.”
You are still processing that when Sophie delivers the final grenade.
“And Dad burned lunch.”
Jason straightens from where he was unloading groceries you definitely did not ask for. “I did not”
“He made smoke,” Briar says.
“The pan was dramatic,” Jason counters.
“We had pizza instead,” Sophie continues, delighted now. “And Dad gave us all five dollars not to tell Mom.”
You slowly turn your head.
Jason points at her. “You little snitch. Give me the money back.”
Sophie clutches imaginary pearls. “It’s already spent.”
“On what?”
“I have plans for it.”
“What exactly?”
“My first Birkin”
River tugs your pant leg with both hands. “Up. Up. Up.”
Then, because no one in this house fears consequences, he adds:
“Kiss.”
You inhale slowly through your nose.
Jason glances over, recognizes the look instantly, and takes one respectful step backward.
Smart man.
You clap once. Sharp enough to bounce off the cabinets.
Everything freezes.
Even River pauses mid climb.
You smile with terrifying calm.
“New rule,” you say. “No one speaks to me for the next five minutes unless someone is bleeding, on fire, or legally changing their name.”
Silence.
It lands across the kitchen like holy light.
Sophie opens her mouth.
You lift one eyebrow.
She closes it.
It is one of your greater powers.
“Quiet time,” you repeat, gentler now. “Words can resume when plates are down.”
A chorus of groans follows, but feet begin moving.
And in the blessed hush that follows, you look around. The house is clean. Mostly. There are crumbs under the counter stool and one marker without a cap and a suspicious wet towel on the stairs, but overall? Remarkable.
Jason and the kids always manage it. While you’re at work, they run this little kingdom beautifully. Jason handles mornings, school runs, lunches of varying structural integrity, homework, laundry, scraped knees, art projects, and the thousand tiny gears of daytime life. Then, when the city darkens, he becomes something else again and goes out into Gotham’s night.
It is a strange system.
It is a good one.
In silence, Briar sets forks with unnecessary precision. Sophie carries napkins like she’s doing everyone a favor. Winnie arranges cups by height. River places one spoon in the fruit bowl and beams when corrected. Jason brings dinner to the table with theatrical exhaustion. You all sit.
For one brief second, there is peace before someone shares a fact, asks for ketchup, or starts a war.
River is in Jason’s lap, because apparently his own chair is now beneath his dignity.
He sits sideways against Jason’s chest as a part of the new arrangement you have recently adopted. If you place identical food on River’s own plate, he rejects it as poisoned. If it comes from Jason’s plate, it is gourmet cuisine.
Parenthood is rich with mysteries.
Jason blows on a forkful of pasta and offers it over. “Open.”
River opens immediately.
You reach across the table and steal a piece of bread from his plate, because like your son, you, too, think stuff tastes better off Jason’s plate.
He catches your wrist before you can retreat and kisses the inside of it like you are alone instead of surrounded by children and carbohydrates.
Sophie gags theatrically.
“Can you not romance each other over the penne?”
“No,” Jason says.
You bite into the stolen bread. “We’re in love.”
“That’s disgusting,” Briar mutters “Can we have one normal dinner.”
Jason leans closer, voice dropping just for you. “You look pretty.”
“I look like I got tackled in the foyer.”
“Still counts.”
You nudge his knee under the table. “Flirt.”
“Always.”
River, unwilling to be excluded from any affection economy, grabs your chin from across the gap and blows a wet kiss in your direction.
You catch it dramatically and press it to your heart.
He beams.
Jason looks deeply offended. “I was in the middle of something.”
Before you can answer, Briar gasps. “YOU TAKE THAT BACK.”
Every head turns.
At the far end of the table, Sophie is sitting ramrod straight, fork in hand, eyes blazing with the righteous confidence of someone who has chosen war.
“No,” she says crisply. “And I mean it more now.”
“What did you say?” you ask, already tired.
Briar points at her with the full betrayal of an older sibling wronged. “She said my haircut looked like I did it myself in the dark.”
“It does,” Sophie replies.
“That was not all you said,” Briar says, voice climbing.
Sophie lifts her chin, doubles down, and delivers the killing blow with all the grace of a tiny tyrant.
“I said, That's why you’re adopted and I’m the real one.”
You slowly set down your fork.
Jason blinks once. Twice.
Then, with the casual tone of a man correcting the weather, he says, “Uh, no?”
Sophie turns to him, already certain of victory. “What?”
“Babygirl,” Jason says, adjusting River higher on his knee. “You’re adopted too.”
She laughs once. A short, confident sound.
Then no one joins her.
Her smile falters.
“What.”
Jason gestures vaguely around the table with his fork. “All of you are. We found every single one of you.”
You close your eyes. “Jason.”
He continues, because self-preservation has never been his strongest skill.
“On the streets, mostly. I made the mistake of bringing you all home and haven't known peace since.”
Sophie is still staring, fork suspended in midair.
“No,” she says slowly. “No. I’m not adopted.”
“You absolutely are,” Briar says, recovering fast enough to become smug. “I knew before you.”
“You did not know before me!”
“I’m the oldest, I know everything”
Now Sophie looks to you with widening eyes, seeking the last honest authority in the room.
“Mom.”
You shoot your husband a look sharp enough to peel paint.
He has the decency to look only slightly ashamed.
Then you sigh, reach for your water, and take a long drink before answering.
“Well,” you say carefully. “I did want to tell these stories when everyone was emotionally stronger.”
“No,” Sophie says again, louder this time. “Tell me right now.”
River slaps the table with both hands.
“Story time!”
---
By unanimous decision, and also because no one can hear family lore over the sound of forks hitting plates, the trial is moved to the living room.
The migration happens in pieces.
Sophie stalks out first, still wounded and dramatic, carrying the energy of someone who has just discovered both betrayal and excellent material for future arguments.
Briar follows at a measured pace meant to suggest emotional distance, though he very obviously chooses the armchair furthest to Sophie.
Winnie climbs up beside Jason before he even sits down fully, tucking herself into his side with the ease of long practice. He drops an arm around her automatically, somehow Winnie and Jason always find each other on the couch.
River has already claimed your lap by the time you lower yourself onto the couch. He settles there like a cat who pays no rent and fears no authority, wrapping both arms around your middle and pressing his cheek to your chest.
“Mama,” he says.
“Very flattering,” you murmur, smoothing his hair back.
“Someone start talking.” Sophie crosses her arms. “Start with mine.”
“No,” Briar says at once. “Start with the important one.”
“That would be mine,” Sophie snaps.
“Me!,” River adds, though he has no idea what anyone is talking about.
Winnie says nothing, but leans further into Jason as if to secure her place in the narrative hierarchy.
You lift a hand. “Start at the beginning.”
Then, Jason clears his throat with great ceremony.
“Once upon a time,” he begins, voice deep and grave, “when I had a better back and was full of optimism, there lived a handsome man who never complained and had excellent knees.”
You smack his arm.
He grins. “Ow. Abuse in front of the children.”
“Proceed honestly.”
He sighs like art is under attack.
“It was 10 years ago,” he says, shifting Winnie a little higher against him. “There was an accident on Park Row. Building fire. Bad one.”
The room quiets.
You know this story by heart. You still feel it in your ribs.
Jason’s hand rests on Winnie, but his eyes find Briar.
“I got there late,” he says. “Fire crews were still pulling people out. Whole place was coming down. Smoke everywhere. Thought I was looking for survivors.”
Briar, who usually performs indifference like it is a competitive sport, has gone very still.
Jason’s voice softens. “Then I heard crying.”
River looks up at you. “Baby?”
“Yes,” you whisper, kissing his forehead. “A baby.”
Jason nods. “I followed the sound upstairs. Last room at the end of the hall. And there he was.”
He points across the room.
Briar rolls his eyes immediately, too fast. “I know it’s me.”
“Let me be dramatic,” Jason says. “Tiny little soot covered thing in the corner. Loud as hell.”
“I was not loud,” Briar mutters.
“You were furious,” Jason says fondly. “And alive. Only survivor in the whole building.”
The words settle heavily for a moment.
Then Jason smiles, small and crooked. “I picked him up, and he grabbed onto my vest like he was practicing bouldering. Wouldn’t let go, so I brought him home”
“Here? Winnie piped up.
“No. Years ago, your mom and I lived in an apartment further in the city, and that's where Briar first lived too”
Sophie piped up with a “HA, Briar lived in the discount home”. Jason gave her a look which said shut your trap or else I will never finish this story
He settles deeper into the couch, Winnie using his ribs as a pillow.
“It was late. I came home through the window, because doors are for cowards. And over here,” he points at you, “your beautiful mother was on the couch with cucumbers on her eyes.”
The children lose their minds immediately.
“Mom!” Sophie cries. “Why?”
“It was skincare,” you say with dignity.
Jason keeps going, warmed by his own nonsense. “I remember thinking, wow. How did someone this perfect marry me? Stunning face. Incredible hair. Strong moral compass. Great legs.”
“Just tell the story, man,” Briar says.
Even Winnie snorts.
You cover your smile with River’s hair. “Yes, storyteller. Plot.”
“No,” Jason says. “Art takes time.”
“I brought him home,” he says. “Walked in through the window, covered in ash, holding a screaming baby, and your mom just stared at me with vegetables on her face.”
The room erupts again.
You point a warning finger. “I was processing.”
“She was shocked for exactly four seconds,” Jason says. “Then she stood up, took the baby from me, and became the scariest competent person I’ve ever seen.”
“That sounds right,” Sophie says.
“She had him cleaned up, fed, wrapped in a towel, and asleep before I’d found a clean shirt, and then after that we kept him and he became our first baby”
Briar, cornered by emotion, rolls his eyes with great force.
“This is embarrassing.”
You reach out from the couch. “Come here.”
“No.”
“Briar.”
He sighs like a burdened saint, crosses the two steps between you, and lets you pull him into a hug. You kiss the top of his head.
“First baby,” you murmur.
He groans into your shoulder.
River lifts his face and announces to the room, “Briar baby.”
Jason laughs so hard Winnie starts laughing too, though she missed the joke entirely.
Briar escapes your hug the second dignity becomes available again and drops back into the armchair with all the composure of someone who definitely was not just kissed on the head in front of witnesses.
“This family is humiliating,” he mutters.
“You’ll survive,” you say.
“Unfortunately.”
Before the softness can settle too long, Sophie flings herself upright on the couch like a lawyer objecting in court.
“Okay,” she says, clapping once. “We know Briar was adopted. That’s old news. Can we get to the cooler stories already?”
Briar gasps. “My story has fire.”
“And cucumbers,” Sophie says. “not cool, soot baby”
Winnie, still tucked into Jason’s side, lifts her face just enough to be heard.
“Where did you find me?”
Jason looks down at her, his whole face softening.
“You?” he says. “You were a professional handoff.”
Winnie blinks. “What.”
You laugh. “That is not how we’re phrasing it.”
“It’s accurate.”
He shifts, tightening his arm around her as if memory itself makes him hold her closer.
“I was out on patrol one night,” he begins.
“Out on a walk,” you correct instantly.
Sophie groans. “Mom.”
Briar throws his head back. “We know Dad is Red Hood.”
“No, he is not,” you say.
Jason nods solemnly. “Yeah, of course not. Anyway, I was on patrol. In a red helmet. As one does.”
You rub your temples.
He continues, deeply pleased with himself.
“I was passing the fire station when a couple firefighters came running out waving me down.”
“Why were they calling you?” Sophie asks.
Jason shrugs. “Community outreach.”
“Because you’d helped them before,” you translate.
“Because I’m beloved,” Jason counters.
Winnie is watching him with huge eyes now.
“They had a baby,” he says, looking back at her. “Tiny thing. Wrapped in one of those striped hospital blankets. Someone had left you there and rung the bell.”
“One firefighter asked if I could do something about it,” Jason says. “Said they were waiting on the proper people. But since its Gotham it was taking too long and the baby was getting restless”
Sophie, entranced, asks. “And what did you say?”
He clears his throat. “‘No problem. I’ll take her to social services immediately.’”
All four children stare at him.
“You lied,” Briar says, impressed.
“Spectacularly,” you confirm.
Jason looks offended. “I prefer strategic rerouting.”
“You came straight home,” you say.
“I did.”
The memory pulls a grin from him before he can stop it.
“He walks through the front door,” you tell the kids, “holding the tiniest baby I’d ever seen.”
Jason points at you. “And I said, very kindly, ‘Ma, congrats, you’re a mom again.’”
Sophie collapses sideways laughing.
“That is insane,” Briar says.
“It was midnight!” you add. “I had work in the morning!”
Winnie’s mouth has curved into a shy smile.
Jason tips his head down toward her. “You barely cried. Just stared at me like you were evaluating whether I was qualified.”
“Were you?” she asks.
He grins. “Debatable.”
She considers this seriously, then leans into him harder.
You reach across and smooth her hair back. “You were so little. Quietest baby I’ve ever met.”
“Still true,” Sophie says.
Winnie gives her a look so mild and so devastating that Sophie recoils instantly.
“Okay, wow.”
Jason laughs under his breath and kisses the top of Winnie’s head.
“You came home,” he says softly. “And then it felt weird imagining the house without you in it.”
Jason’s hand is still resting over hers where it clutches his shirt. You are halfway leaned across the couch, fingers in her hair. Briar is pretending not to be touched by anything. Sophie is pretending to recover from being verbally annihilated by a six-year-old.
And then River springs upright in your lap like a jack-in-the-box.
“RIVER NEXT!”
Everyone startles.
He points both thumbs into his own chest with such force he nearly topples backward.
“Me. Me next.”
You catch him around the middle before gravity can humble him. “Strong pitch.”
“My story,” he insists, bouncing once on your knees. “Baby story.”
Jason leans back, eyes narrowing in theatrical suspicion. “You just want attention.”
“Yeah,” River says immediately.
Honesty. Rare and refreshing.
Sophie groans. “We know his story. We were literally there.”
“That’s not the point,” you say, kissing River’s temple as he wiggles. “Some people enjoy being celebrated.”
River gasps. “Me!”
Briar folds his arms. “This is favoritism.”
“You were literally first,” you remind him.
“And yet somehow still oppressed.”
Jason snorts.
River twists toward him now, one hand reaching across the gap. “Daddy tell.”
Jason catches the little hand automatically and presses a kiss to the knuckles.
“Bossy,” he says.
River beams. “Yeah.”
You shift him higher on your lap and settle back into the couch. “Alright then. Tell him.”
Jason drapes an arm along the back cushions and looks at the ceiling like he’s searching the archives.
“River’s story,” he says slowly, “started with a mistake.”
You point at him. “Watch it.”
“A Blessing,” Jason clarifies. “A wonderful blessing.”
“That sounds more accurate.”
He grins and looks around at the kids.
“At this point, we already had three of you. Which meant the house was loud, messy, expensive, and full of tiny shoes.”
“So many shoes,” you murmur.
“Too many shoes,” he agrees. “And one day, your mom and I were talking in the kitchen when I said something I should never have said out loud.”
River goes very still, as if sensing myth.
Jason deepens his voice dramatically.
“I said… I miss having babies in the house.”
You cover your face. “I knew immediately we were doomed.”
Sophie points. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” you say, “that every time your father expresses a desire for something ridiculous, Gotham hears him.”
“True,” Briar says.
“Rude,” Jason replies.
You lean your head back against the couch and continue for him. “The second he said it, I told him, ‘Great. Now that you’ve said it out loud, a baby will be showing up in three to five business days.’”
Winnie blinks. “Business days?”
“It was an estimate,” you say.
River laughs just because everyone else looks delighted.
Jason nods solemnly. “And then, a few nights later, your mom and I went on a date.”
“Gross,” says three children at once.
“Jealousy is ugly,” you tell them.
“We were walking through Gotham,” Jason continues, “holding hands, minding our business, being gorgeous in public…”
“Debatable,” you mutter.
“…when we turned a corner and saw a car seat sitting right under a streetlamp.”
The room stills again.
River’s eyes go wide.
“Me?” he whispers.
“You,” you say softly.
“There was a note tucked into the straps,” Jason says, voice gentler now. “Said you’d been left there. Said whoever wrote it hoped someone kind would find you.”
River presses closer into you.
Jason reaches over and smooths a curl off his forehead.
“They were right,” you say.
He looks at you for half a second, something old and tender passing between you.
Then he taps River’s nose.
“We found you.”
River considers this with grave seriousness. “Kay”
Words of wisdom.
And then, from the opposite cushion:
“What about me?”
Sophie sits upright, arms crossed, chin lifted, every inch a woman prepared to litigate for equal representation.
“You skipped me.”
You glance at Jason.
Jason very suddenly studies the ceiling.
Coward.
“You know what,” you say lightly. “I can’t really remember.”
Sophie narrows her eyes. “You can’t remember where you found me.”
You double down with the bravery of protecting your daughter's dignity.
“It was years ago.”
“I’m eight.”
“Exactly. Ancient history.”
“Mom.”
You can feel Jason vibrating beside you with the energy of a man about to ruin your strategy.
You do not look at him.
Do not.
Do not.
“I do,” Jason says.
You close your eyes.
Of course he does.
Sophie brightens immediately. “See!”
Jason shifts like a storyteller preparing his finest work.
“It was the gutter on Fifth.”
The room detonates. Briar folds in half laughing. Winnie’s hand flies over her mouth. River, not understanding but committed to tone, starts cackling too.
You whip your head toward your husband. “Jason.”
“What?” he says. “That’s geographically accurate.”
Sophie’s jaw drops. “The gutter?”
“It was more of a storm drain situation,” he says generously.
“That is worse!”
You open your arms at once. “Come here, baby.”
“I am not coming there,” Sophie says, scandalized. She comes there immediately.
You pull her against your side while she continues protesting into your shoulder.
“There were mitigating circumstances,” you tell her hair.
“There better have been.”
Jason, entirely unrepentant, leans forward with his elbows on his knees.
“It was a rare sunny day,” he says. “Briar was two. We were out for a walk. Tiny Briar was babbling about trucks or snacks or physics, I don’t know, and then he just stopped. He freezes, stares at the curb, and goes…”
He drops his voice into a solemn toddler imitation.
“Baby.”
River gasps. Winnie smiles. Sophie stiffens in your arms.
“I look down and tell him, ‘No, Bri. That is a gutter.’”
The laughter starts all over again.
“But he keeps insisting,” Jason says. “‘Baby. Baby.’ Gets mad that I’m not listening. Starts trying to climb in there himself. So finally I crouch down,” Jason says, glancing at Sophie now, humor softening at the edges. “And I look.”
He pauses dramatically.
“And in the corner, staring up at me with these huge eyes…”
Sophie unconsciously widens her own.
“…was a tiny little baby in the gutter like Pennywise.”
The room shatters.
Sophie whips around. “Dad!”
“What?” Jason says. “She was in a drain and making intense eye contact.”
“That is so mean!”
“It is affectionate.”
You kiss the top of her head. “It is unfortunately affectionate.”
Jason grins and keeps going.
“The problem was, now I had to get you out.”
He spreads his hands. “Too deep to just reach. Too narrow to drop Briar in there with a rope.”
“So I hand Bri my phone and tell him to hold the flashlight.”
Jason nods. “Then I popped the manhole cover, climbed down, and there you were. Still in the corner. Still staring like you were judging my technique.”
Sophie tries not to smile.
Fails.
“I pick her up,” Jason says softly now, the humor easing into warmth. “And she starts crying like she’s mad at me for taking her away from her rat family”
“Dad!” Sophie yelps, scandalized.
River collapses into giggles. “Rat family!”
“She did not have a rat family,” you say, though you are laughing too.
Jason shrugs. “I don’t know her full backstory.”
Sophie buries her face in your shoulder for one second, then peeks back out. “I hate this story.”
“I’m sorry, babygirl, but its true.” says Jason
“I hate how you’re telling it.”
“That,” you say, kissing the top of her head, “is fair.”
“But the second I climbed back out and got you into the sunlight, you stopped.”
The room quiets.
Sophie looks up at him.
“Stopped?” she asks.
He nods. “Completely. Just blinked up at the sky like you’d never seen it before.”
You feel her shift against your side, listening with her whole body now.
“You had this little scrunched-up face,” Jason says, demonstrating badly. “Then the sun hit you, and suddenly you were calm. Quiet as anything.”
River tilts his head. “She solar powered?”
Briar snorts. “That explains a lot, actually.”
Sophie elbows the air in his direction without leaving your side.
“I was not solar powered.”
“You recharge dramatically,” Briar says.
“Be nice.”
Jason smiles to himself and continues.
“I figured step one after retrieving a drain baby was probably hospital.”
“That was the correct instinct,” you say.
“I have those occasionally.”
“So rare,” you murmur.
He ignores you. “I took her in, covered in grime, purple onesie, screaming on and off depending on whether I was moving too slow.”
“I remember getting the call,” you say, taking over before he can get worse. “Your father says, very casually, ‘Ma, don’t freak out, but I’m at the hospital with another baby.’”
Winnie giggles into Jason’s side.
“So I get there,” you continue, “and your dad is sitting in one of those terrible plastic chairs in the pediatric waiting room, holding the angriest little girl I’d ever seen. And… Briar was talking to social services arguing that he is the Daddy”
“WHAT??” came a Briar’s voice
Jason snorted and took over “Briar was ready to claim full paternal rights because in his head since he found the baby he should be the daddy. We had to negotiate with him to make him accept he’s the brother”
Sophie groans and mutters about how Briar was annoying even back then. You correct her that Briar was the first person to love her. A look passed between the siblings with begrudging acknowledgement to shelf the fight for now.
“They ran tests,” you continue the story. “Cleaned you up. Made sure you were healthy.”
“And then?” River asks.
“And then,” Jason says, leaning back into the couch, “we brought her home.”
Sophie looks between you both, voice smaller now.
“Just like that?”
You pull her closer and kiss the top of her head again.
“Just like that.”
Jason reaches over and taps the end of her nose.
“You were ours before the paperwork ever caught up.”
Jason stretches an arm across the back of the couch behind all of you and looks smug.
“Well,” he says. “Those are the stories of how the Toddlets found their way home.”
You turn to him slowly.
“The Toddlets?”
He shrugs. “Workshop title.”
“It’s terrible,” Briar says.
“It’s amazing,” Winniw says sleepily.
“Tod-let,” he repeats to himself, delighted.
Sophie is quiet.
At first you think she’s just tired. She’s leaning into your side now, fingers tracing the seam of the couch cushion, eyes fixed somewhere past the coffee table.
Then she speaks.
“So…”
The room shifts.
Children have a way of changing the weather with one word.
You look down. “Yeah, baby?”
She doesn’t correct the baby this time.
“You didn’t choose me,” she says softly. “You found me.”
No one moves.
The sentence lands in the center of the room and opens something tender in all of you.
Jason’s face changes first. All the easy humor goes out of it.
You turn fully toward her, brushing a curl back from her forehead.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“It’s okay,” Sophie says quickly, which means it is absolutely not okay. “I’m just saying. Briar was first. Winnie got brought to you. River was manifested. But me…” Her voice wobbles. “You just found me there.”
You gather her into your arms before the thought can grow teeth.
She comes willingly this time, folding into you with the sudden heaviness children get when they are trying not to cry.
“No,” you say softly into her hair. “We met you there.”
She sniffles against your shoulder.
“That’s different.”
“It is,” you say. “Where we met you is not the same as why you stayed.”
The room is so quiet you can hear the dishwasher click in the kitchen.
“You think families are made in one moment,” you continue, holding her tighter. “They aren’t. They’re made over and over again.”
You kiss her temple.
“We chose you when we stayed at the hospital.”
Another kiss.
“We chose you when we brought you home.”
Her shoulders shake once.
“We chose you every birthday, every bedtime, every school pickup, every bad mood, every hug, every argument, every single day after that.”
Sophie’s grip tightens on your shirt.
“And,” you whisper, smiling now, “you chose us too.”
She lifts her face, tearful and suspicious. “I did?”
“You did,” Jason says quietly.
Everyone looks at him.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“You could’ve screamed every time we held you. Could’ve hated the house. Could’ve decided we were weird.”
“We are weird,” Briar says.
“Deeply,” Jason agrees. “But you didn’t. You laughed with us. You grew with us. You loved us. That’s choosing.”
Sophie looks between the two of you, trying to decide whether to believe something that big.
Briar, unable to survive sincerity for more than thirty consecutive seconds, clears his throat.
“Yeah,” he says. “She could’ve gone back to her rat family.”
“There could’ve been tiny little rat parents waiting.”
“Briar!” you laugh.
River sits straight up, electrified.
“Rat grandma?”
Winnie, very quietly, adds, “Rat cousins.”
Jason folds in half laughing.
Sophie launches herself off the couch with a battle cry and charges her brother.
Chaos returns in a shower of cushions.
Briar is halfway over the armchair trying to dodge Sophie, who has abandoned all dignity in favor of vengeance. Winnie has joined the battle in the most Winnie way possible, silently lobbing highly accurate pillows from Jason’s side like a tiny mercenary. River is on his knees in your lap shouting battle commentary no one asked for.
“GET HIM!”
“I am getting him!” Sophie yells.
“You throw like a pidgey!” Briar shouts back.
“I don’t even know what that means!”
A cushion flies past your head and hits the lamp shade hard enough to tilt it.
You reach over and fix it automatically.
Beside you, Jason is laughing so hard he’s gone quiet.
You turn to look at him.
He’s watching the room the way people watch fireworks. Head tipped back against the couch, eyes soft, smile loose and helpless. The house is loud enough to rattle the windows. And he looks stunned by it.
You know that look too.
It’s the one that appears when joy catches him off guard.
His gaze shifts from the children to you.
For a moment, the noise falls away.
He reaches over and hooks two fingers in your sleeve, tugging until you turn fully toward him.
“What?” you ask, smiling.
His thumb brushes your wrist once.
“Thanks,” he says.
You blink. “For what?”
He glances at the battlefield in front of you.
At Briar laughing despite himself. At Sophie shrieking war crimes. At Winnie calmly reloading. At River trying to hold a pillow the size of him.
Then back to you.
“For giving me this.”
Your chest tightens.
“Jay.”
“This family,” he says, quieter now. “This house. All of it.”
There is still disbelief tucked inside the words, like some part of him cannot quite accept that this belongs to him too.
You cup his jaw.
“I should be thanking you.”
He huffs a laugh. “Me?”
“You’re the one who kept showing up with children.”
That gets a real laugh out of him.
“Fair.”
“You found them,” you say softly. “You brought them home.”
“No,” he says, eyes on yours. “We built the rest together.”
The room blurs at the edges.
You lean in first this time.
His hand comes to the back of your neck automatically, warm and steady, and then he’s kissing you slow and familiar in the middle of absolute nonsense, like there is no better place for it.
There probably isn’t.
Around you, the pillow fight screeches to a halt.
A chorus rises immediately.
“EWWWW!”
“GROSS!”
“IN FRONT OF US?”
“JAIL!”
You break apart laughing.
Jason keeps his forehead against yours. “Jealous.”
Another pillow hits his shoulder.
River, outraged by exclusion, climbs over your lap and wedges himself bodily between your faces.
“My turn.”
He grabs each of your cheeks with one hand and plants a loud kiss on your cheek, then Jason’s, then yours again just to be safe.
The older kids collapse into scandalized laughter.
Winnie smiles so hard she snorts.
Sophie points. “That is disgusting.”
“You made him this way,” Briar tells you both.
Jason lifts River one-handed and presses a kiss to his belly until he squeals.
You look around the room.
At the mess. The noise. The children. Your husband with a smile on his face and a toddler under his arm.
Nothing matches. Nothing is tidy. Nothing is calm.
summary: in which you tell a teensy little lie and the red hood recruits you (kidnaps you) for a road trip.
w.c: 9.8k
warnings: smut. 18+ pls
---
Jason had learned, over the years, that Gotham ran on bad information.
Rumors, half-truths, people talking just to feel important. Most of it died before it reached him. The rest led nowhere. Dead ends. Petty criminals trying to sound bigger than they were. Ghosts of threats that never materialized.
This should have been one of those.
A Falcone soldier, drunk enough to talk. A waitress who overheard him. An informant who passed it along like it might actually matter. A girl in Crime Alley, claiming she was working for the Joker. Saying he was back.
Jason had heard worse.
He stood across the street now, helmet angled just slightly downward, watching.
The girl did not look like someone working for the Joker.
She had headphones in, head tilted faintly like she was following a rhythm only she could hear. There was no tension in her shoulders, no awareness in the way she moved. She stopped mid-step, crouching beside a stray cat slipping out from behind a dumpster, letting it brush against her hand.
Jason exhaled slowly through his nose.
This was stupid.
12 hours ago, he would have walked away already. 12 hours ago, he would have called it what it was and moved on. A bad lead. A wasted night. Not worth the time, not worth the energy.
12 hours ago, he had somewhere else to be.
The Cave. Tim under one of the bikes, swearing at a stripped bolt. Jason leaning against the workbench, pretending he cared about torque specs more than the city outside. He had said he would be there. Promised, even.
His phone buzzed in his jacket.
It had been buzzing all morning. Dick first. Then Tim. Then again. And again. The kind of persistence that wasn’t about logistics anymore. They were concerned. And rightfully so. Jason didn’t need to check to know what the messages said.
Where are you?
Pick up.
Don’t do this.
The phone buzzed again. For a second, he just held it in his hand, staring at nothing.
Then he powered it off.
The silence that followed felt heavier than the noise.
Across the street, you stood up, brushing her hands off her jeans. The cat slipped away, vanishing back into the alley like it had never been there. She adjusted her headphones, glanced at nothing in particular, and started walking again like she had nothing burdening her shoulders.
Jason watched you go. This didn’t make sense. He knew what the Joker’s work looked like. Knew the patterns, even when they tried to hide under chaos. There was always something underneath. Always a reason, a message, a trail if you knew where to look.
You skipped over a crack in the pavement.
His jaw tightened.
You were nothing like that.
Which meant one of two things. Either the rumor was garbage. Or it wasn’t.
Jason stepped off the curb. He would take whatever chance he could get. Even this one.
--
One moment you were on your way to work.
The next your cheek was smushed up against a brick wall with a man yelling into your ear. Your headphones were gone. You weren’t sure when that happened. One second they were there, the next they were dangling somewhere, the music cut off so abruptly it made your head ring.
“What--what the fuck-”
Your words came out muffled, your face still pressed into the wall. Something cold nudged just behind your jaw.
A gun.
Oh.
Oh, that was a gun.
Your stomach dropped so fast it felt like you’d missed a step going down stairs. Your hands came up instinctively, fingers splayed against the brick, like that would somehow help.
“I asked you a question.”
“What question--”
“The Joker.”
Everything in you went still.
Right.
Right, that.
For a second you considered telling the truth. It flickered through your head in a clean, simple line: I lied. It was a dare. I didn’t mean anything by it.
But the thought died just as quickly as it came. Because there was a man in a red helmet holding a gun to your head. And people with guns to your head were not people you told the truth to.
“Oh,” you said instead, because apparently that was what your brain chose in moments of crisis. “That.”
His grip tightened slightly where he had you pinned.
“Yes,” he said. “That.”
Your mind scrambled, tripping over itself trying to catch up.
It had been stupid. That was the problem. Stupid and quick and not thought through even a little bit.
You’d been walking through Falcone turf with your friends, laughing too loud, staying a little too long where you shouldn’t have been. Someone had dared you to tag their stupid little seal on the side of a building. You’d said yes, obviously, because saying no would have been boring.
You hadn’t expected to get caught. You definitely hadn’t expected three very irritated men to corner you and start asking questions you did not have answers to. Who are you working for?
You hadn’t even thought about it. Just blurted out the first name that came to mind.
“I’m working for the Joker.”
It had worked, somehow. The name alone had been enough to make them hesitate. Enough of a crack for you to slip through and run before they decided to test it. You’d assumed that was the end of it.
Apparently, it was not.
“I--yeah,” you said now, your voice wavering just enough to sell it. “What about the Joker?”
There was a pause behind you. Heavy. Suspicious.
“You are working for him” he repeated flatly.
You nodded, immediately regretting it when the motion pressed your cheek harder into the brick. “Not directly.”
“Explain.”
“It was anonymous,” you said quickly. Too quickly. You forced yourself to breathe. Slower. “I don’t--he doesn’t--he doesn’t exactly sign his emails.”
There was a shift behind you. Not loosening. Adjusting.
“Details.”
“What do you do for him.”
Oh.
Right.
Your mouth opened. Closed.
“Uh--”
The gun pressed more firmly into your skin.
“I leave things,” you lied harder. “Places. He tells me where to go and I just--drop stuff off. Packages, envelopes, whatever.”
You pushed forward before he could poke holes in it.
“I don’t ask questions,” you added quickly. “That’s kind of the whole point.”
“Where.”
“A P.O. box,” you said, the lie stacking on itself now. “Edge of town. That’s how I get the instructions.”
Silence.
“I forgot the number,” you added, because apparently you were committed to this now. “I don’t have it memorized or anything--”
The gun pressed just slightly harder against your skin before it loosened. Behind you, he inhaled sharply. You could hear it, feel it--like he was holding himself together by force.
“Get in the car,” he growled.
---
By some cruel, cosmic joke, there were actually P.O. boxes on the street you pointed to.
Not just one. A whole row of them, bolted into the side of a squat little building that looked like it hadn’t been updated since before you were born.
Jason did not like how easily this was lining up.
That was the problem.
The story made sense. Too much sense. Anonymous contact. Dead drops. No direct connection. It tracked in a way most lies didn’t. And he knew lies. Knew the way they bent, where they cracked under pressure.
He also knew Crime Alley.
Kids who ran their mouths when they were scared. Said whatever they had to say to get out of a bad situation. He had been one of them once. Still was, in some ways.
Part of him had been waiting for it to fall apart.
Waiting for the moment the seams split, when the truth showed through and this became what it was supposed to be--nothing. A stupid rumor. A scared kid who said the wrong name at the wrong time.
He would have let you go, if that was all it was.
He pulled the car to a stop along the curb, eyes already on the row of P.O. boxes bolted into the side of the building.
“Stay,” he said.
You opened your mouth. He didn’t wait to hear it. The door slammed behind him. The lock clicked a second later. Final. Jason adjusted his grip on the gun as he crossed the street, helmet angled toward the building. Every step was measured, controlled. Rational.
This was where it ended.
Inside, the security clerk barely had time to look up before Jason set the gun on the counter.
“Cameras,” he said.
That was enough.
No questions. No hesitation. Just shaking hands and a quick turn toward the monitors. The feed flickered on, grainy and low quality, cycling through angles of the street outside.
“Three days ago,” Jason said.
The clerk fumbled, pulling it up.
Jason leaned in slightly, eyes scanning.
Empty street. Static movement. Nothing--
The screen glitched.
Paused.
Then cut to black.
The clerk swore under his breath. “Yeah, uh--those’ve been down for a few days now. Wiring issue. We’ve got someone coming in to fix it, but--”
Jason didn’t hear the rest.
The cameras were down. On the exact day you said.
His grip tightened, something sharp and electric cutting through his chest.
Not a lie. The Joker really is back.
Jason stepped back without another word, turning and heading for the door before the clerk could say anything else.
Outside, the air felt different. He crossed the street faster this time, something like urgency bleeding into his steps.
And then he stopped.
Through the window he could see your face twisted in concentration. Tongue sticking out, you trying to bypass the child lock on the door by shimmying something through the gap. Wait, correction. By shimmying a sock through the gap.
Jason stared.
For a second, It was almost funny. Then a soft click sounded and the door popped open. Your face lit up in excitement,,,,, then you caught sight of him standing 10 meters away.
So you ran.
Jason moved instantly.
Three strides. Maybe four.
He caught you before you made it past the hood, slamming you back against the side of the car hard enough to knock the breath out of you, his hand closing around your arm like a vice.
“For fuck’s sake,” he growls, voice cracking through the modulator. “I told you not to run.”
You struggled anyway.
Of course you did.
Jason tightened his grip, pinning you in place, his mind already moving past it, locking onto the only thing that mattered now. You weren’t lying, which means he needs to keep you for a bit.
He cursed under his breath--quiet, strained. “I’m not--” He swallowed. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just… need to find him.”
The name sits heavy in the air. Joker.
Your skin prickles.
“Great,” you manage, voice high and shaky. “Love that for you. But I’m not talking to a guy with a--helmet for a head. It’s creepy.”
He freezes.
Then, without a word, he removes a pack of zip ties from his pocket, tying your wrists. Sits you back down in the car,, then he reaches up and unclips his helmet. The helmet hisses, then lifts off, revealing a face that should not belong to someone who terrifies half the city. Way too young, way too exhausted, way too human.
The most unhelpful thought ran through your brain. damn. wish he zip tied me under different circumstances fr.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
You snapped out of it like someone had clapped in your face.
“Actually,” you said quickly, voice a little too bright for the situation, “I preferred the helmet.”
His expression didn’t change.
If anything, it got worse.
Jason shoved your legs back into the car when you tried to angle yourself out again, one hand firm on your knee as he forced you fully into the seat. Not rough, but completely unmovable.
He reached beside you, flipping the child lock back into place with a sharp click. The sound echoed a little too loudly in the enclosed space. Final. Again.
Then he stepped back, shutting your door with a solid thud before circling around the front of the car. You watched him go, wrists bound, heart still racing, brain very much not cooperating with the severity of your situation. He slipped into the driver's seat flipping the engine back on.
“Put your seatbelt on”
You scoff. You cannot believe this.
“You kidnap me then care about road safety?”
He looked at you again. Deep green-blue eyes burning into yours.
“You should be thankful I don't put you in Arkham with all the other Joker Lackeys”
…
You click your seatbelt on.
Jason didn’t say anything after that. Just shifted the car into drive. The engine growled low as he pulled back onto the street, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting loose but ready near the console.
“Start talking.”
You blinked.
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Talking. Love that.”
His grip tightened slightly on the wheel. “What was in the messages.”
Messages?
Right. The fake ones.
Your brain scrambled, flipping through absolutely nothing and trying to make it sound like something.
“It wasn’t--like--it wasn’t super specific,” you said, nodding like that helped. “Very vague. Mysterious. You know. On brand.”
His eyes flicked toward you for half a second.
“Define vague.”
“Like… drop-off location,” you said quickly. “Time. No names. No context. Very cryptic. Honestly kind of annoying.”
You paused. Then, because apparently you had no self-preservation--
“Bad communication style, if you ask me.”
Jason didn’t react to that.
Which somehow made it worse.
“Names,” he said.
You froze.
Oh.
Oh no.
Names required… planning. Continuity. Memory.
You had none of those.
“Yeah,” you said anyway. “There were--there were names.”
His attention sharpened instantly.
“Which ones.”
Your brain panicked.
Alphabet.
Alphabet. Go.
“Uh--Aaron?” you said.
Nothing.
“Abel?”
Still nothing.
Your heart started racing.
“Arthur?”
The car jerked slightly.
Jason’s head snapped toward you.
“Arthur Fleck?”
You nodded immediately. Too fast. “Yes. Yeah. That one. That’s--yeah. That’s what I heard.”
Silence filled the car.
Heavy. Electric.
Jason turned his gaze back to the road, but something had changed. You could feel it. The tension winding tighter, sharper--like a wire pulled to its limit.
“Say it again,” he said.
“Arthur Fleck,” you repeated, much smaller this time.
His jaw clenched.
Of course it was him.
Of course he would use his real name now.
Not hiding. Not playing games the same way. Something new. Something worse.
Jason exhaled slowly through his nose, already putting it together, already building something out of the fragments you had handed him.
“Then we start where he started,” he muttered.
You blinked. “Where he--what?”
“Ace Chemicals.”
Oh that sounded… bad.
Jason pressed down on the accelerator, the car picking up speed as he merged onto the road, his focus locked forward now, completely gone from you.
Like you had already served your purpose. Like you had just handed him something real.
You sank slightly into your seat, staring ahead.
Two lies make a truth, right?
That was a thing.
Bedmas or something.
…Right?
---
The silence lasted about thirty seconds.
Maybe less.
It felt like hours.
You shifted in your seat, wrists still bound, eyes flicking between the window and the dashboard and him. Mostly him. He didn’t look back. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even seem aware you were there anymore, which was honestly a little offensive considering the circumstances.
You leaned back slightly, studying him from the corner of your eye. No helmet now. Just… a guy. A very intense, slightly terrifying guy, but still. A guy.
“So,” you try, “do you have a name, or is it just, like, Hood comma Red full-time?”
“I’m not giving it to you,” he said flatly.
You blinked.
“Okay, but I’ve already seen your face.”
Silence.
You frowned.
“What’s the difference?”
He didn’t answer.
Of course he didn’t answer.
You sighed dramatically, shifting again. “Fine. I’ll guess.”
“Liam?” you offered.
Nothing.
“Carlos?”
His jaw ticked.
Oh, you were onto something.
“Jonathan?”
Still nothing.
“William?”
His fingers flexed against the wheel.
You leaned in slightly, squinting at him like that would help. “Mohammad?”
That one got you a look.
A quick, sharp glance, half confusion, half irritation.
You straightened immediately. “Statistically, that was the most plausible one.”
He stared at you for a second longer.
Then looked back at the road.
You grinned, just a little.
“Okay, so not Mohammad. I’ll keep trying.”
His grip tightened again.
You settled back into your seat, entirely too pleased with yourself for someone currently zip-tied in a moving vehicle.
The drive lasted thirty-seven minutes.
You counted.
Every single one.
By the time the car finally slowed, turning off onto a cracked stretch of road that looked like it hadn’t seen maintenance in decades, you were ready to start naming him numbers out of spite.
You leaned forward slightly, peering through the windshield.
An abandoned factory loomed ahead, all rusted metal and broken windows, the kind of place that screamed bad decisions.
You blinked.
“Uhhh,” you said slowly, turning toward him, “Henry, I really hope you’re not taking me in there.”
No response.
Of course.
He stepped out of the car.
You watched him go, already bracing yourself.
Sure enough--
Your door opened a second later.
Darn it
You climbed out, eyeing the place like it might bite. Which, honestly, felt possible.
The two of you found a gap in the fence a few steps later, the metal bent just enough to squeeze through if you tried hard enough.
Jason stopped, glancing at it once before nodding toward it.
“Go.”
You stared at him.
Then slowly raised your hands.
Still zip-tied.
You wiggled them slightly.
He looked down at your wrists like he had forgotten the ties existed. Then he stepped closer, and suddenly there wasn’t space anymore.You took a step back on instinct, your back hit the fence with a sharp metallic rattle, the cold biting straight through your shirt.
Up close you could see the green in his eyes had an unnatural depth to them. Something that doesn't seem real. He took one of your wrists in his hand and his lips parted in a soft breath that landed just near your forehead. A shiver ran up your spine and your own lips parted on instinct.
“I don’t like where this is going, Eric,”
“What?” he questioned, bringing his pocketknife through the layers of plastic, before stepping back.
Oh.
Right.
He was untying the zip ties.
Yes.
You clear your throat, heat creeping up your neck, and immediately ducked toward the gap in the fence, ignoring his confused expression.
The inside of Ace Chemicals felt wrong.
Your footsteps echoed too loud against the concrete floor as you ducked through a broken side entrance, the air thick with rust and something chemical that never really went away. The place looked frozen in time. Old equipment sat abandoned mid-use. Papers scattered like no one had bothered to clean up.
“Cute,” you muttered. “Super inviting. Love the vibe, Walter.”
Jason didn’t respond.
Of course he didn’t.
He moved ahead of you, slower now, more deliberate. Every step placed carefully, like he was mapping the space in real time, eyes scanning everything. You got the sense he’d been here before.
That made it worse.
You followed anyway, rubbing your wrists absentmindedly where the zip ties had been, glancing around like something might jump out at you.
“So,” you said, because silence was not an option, “this feels like a place where I die. Just putting that out there.”
Nothing.
You clicked your tongue. “Tough crowd.”
They moved deeper into the building, past rusted railings and darkened hallways until you reached a door at the end of a corridor.
Locked.
You brightened immediately.
“Oh,” you said, stepping forward, “step aside, Logan, this is my moment.”
Jason glanced at you.
You crouched slightly, already reaching toward the handle. “I actually know how to pick these. It’s a whole thing. Don’t even worry about it, Ethan, I got--”
The gunshot rang out.
Loud. Sharp. Deafening in the enclosed space.
You flinched so hard you nearly lost your balance.
The lock shattered instantly.
The door creaked open.
You stared at it.
Then at him.
Then back at the door.
“…rude,” you muttered.
Jason holstered the gun like nothing had happened and pushed the door open the rest of the way.
You followed him in, still mildly offended.
Inside, the room was smaller. Less industrial. More… administrative. Filing cabinets lined the walls, most of them rusted shut or left partially open, papers spilling out in disorganized piles.
Jason went straight to them.
Of course he did.
You hovered nearby, peering over his shoulder as he rifled through folders with quick, efficient movements. You considered helping, but knowing your luck, you’d be the one to find something real and make everything worse. Instead, you hop onto a cabinet and watch him work.
30 minutes passed. Then an hour. You were secretly glad. Hopefully he’ll reach a dead end then you could go home tonight. Maybe you could meet up again. Somewhere normal. Without the kidnapping. Dinner, maybe? He seems like the type who never had sushi. You could introduce it to him–
“You’re on the last cabinet”
You look down, mildly offended that your train of thought has been interrupted. Jason sighs and grabs your ankles, shifting them out of the way with gentle efficiency. He opens the drawer and pulls out the first file,, his expression immediately changing.
“Arthur Fleck,” he said.
Your stomach dropped.
Holy fuck you did it again. Sitting on evidence. Where is this luck when you buy lottery tickets?
You leaned closer, reading the file alongside him while he angles it so you can get a look. There is some basic stuff, name, date of birth (DAMN he’s old), family including a mother in a nursing home, yadda yadda basic stuff. Then you see it the same time Jason does. An address.
“He’d go back,” he said, almost to himself.
You blinked. “People usually don’t, actually.”
No response.
“He’d revisit it,” Jason continued, voice quieter now, more focused. “He’s using his old name. He’s feeling nostalgic. He is leaving clues like a puzzle to play with me.”
A beat.
“Like he wants me to follow.”
You shifted slightly. “Or,” you offered, silently pleading with him to drop it because these coincidences are coming from your lies, “its just a file?”
Jason ignored you completely, already moving towards the door.
“Where are we going?” you asked, scrambling to follow.
He didn’t slow down.
“Old Gotham.”
---
Old Gotham looked worse at sunset.
The light didn’t soften it. Didn’t make it pretty. It just dragged the shadows out longer, stretching them across broken pavement and hollow buildings like something trying to crawl its way back to life.
You followed a step behind him, arms crossed tight over yourself, eyes flicking to every movement in your peripheral vision.
Nobody lived here and that was the problem. Places in Gotham were supposed to be loud. Messy. Alive in some way, even if it was ugly. This place was quiet and abandoned.
The building loomed ahead of you, all cracked concrete and boarded windows, the front door hanging just slightly off its hinges like it had given up trying to stay closed.
Jason didn’t hesitate.
Of course he didn’t.
He stepped inside.
You lingered for half a second.
Then followed.
The stairwell smelled like mold and something worse you didn’t want to identify. Your shoes stuck slightly to the floor with every step, peeling away with a soft, wet sound that made your stomach turn.
“Cool,” you muttered. “Love this. Great atmosphere. Really thriving neighborhood, Daniel.”
Something moved in the corner of your vision. A rat darted across the landing, disappearing into a hole in the wall. You refused to acknowledge that for your own wellbeing.
You reached the apartment and Jason stepped in first. The door was unlocked. Jason’s eyes lit up like that means something. The space was small. One room bleeding into another, a sad excuse for a kitchenette shoved against the wall, cabinets hanging open or missing entirely. The floor was stained in ways you didn’t want to think about.
He was already moving through the space, scanning it, checking corners, opening drawers that didn’t open properly, like he was expecting something to be hidden just out of sight.
You stayed near the door, not touching anything. Partly because it was disgusting. Mostly because, at this point, you did not trust yourself not to accidentally uncover something real.
Jason worked with a quiet efficiency as he combed through the drawers of discarded junk, when thunder sounded outside. Classic gotham rain. But this means that the light is fading fast.
You tried the light switch. No electricity, no lights. Just the faint glow of whatever leaked in through the broken windows and the occasional flash of lightning. Jason slammed a drawer shut with frustration as he couldn't see its contents in the dark anymore.
“We’re staying”
You glanced toward the door. Then back at the windows. Then at him.
“Can I say no?”
Jason doesn't answer, just walks into the bedroom while you follow after hoping he’ll change his mind. The bedroom is worse, radioactive green walls and one mattress on the floor. A mattress which looks thin and discolored, like it had absorbed every bad decision ever made in the room.
He shrugged off his jacket like this was just another night, just another place, dropping it onto the floor before lowering himself down beside the mattress. He rolled it into a rough bundle and tucked it under his head like a makeshift pillow.
“Take the bed,” he said.
You turned your head slowly.
Looked at the mattress.
Then back at him.
Then back at the mattress.
“…Gee,” you said flatly, “thanks.”
---
A few hours passed.
Or maybe less. Maybe more.
Time felt strange in the dark.
You sat on the far edge of the mattress--the one corner that looked the least offensive--legs pulled in slightly, arms wrapped around yourself. You had tried not to think about what the rest of it had seen. You were succeeding. Barely.
Jason lay on the floor, His jacket was balled up under his head, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting loose at his side. Relaxed. Or at least pretending to be.
The rain hadn’t stopped.
It hit the broken windows in uneven bursts, the sound filling the silence just enough that it didn’t feel completely empty.
You stared at the ceiling.
Then at him.
Then back at the ceiling.
“…Vincent?”
You shifted slightly. “Why do you want to find the Joker?”
There was no hesitation.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Oh.
Okay.
You blinked.
“…Noted.”
You glanced down at your hands. Then back at him. “Am I an accomplice?” you asked, because apparently your brain still didn’t know when to stop.
“I’ll make sure Batman doesn’t know you were involved.”
Your stomach dropped. An unexplainable panic started rising in your throat. Everything was fine up until now. Yes you lied, but it's not like the lies seemed to have any impact. But hearing that Batman is involved? That has you regretting ever opening your mouth.
Jason’s eyes narrowed slightly as he noted the shift in your behaviour. People were scared of Batman. Of what he represented. Of what happened when you ended up on the wrong side of him. He pushed himself up onto one elbow, watching you more closely now.
“You’re fine,” he said, quieter. “He’s not--”
You shook your head quickly.
“No, I know,” you cut in. “I just--”
You hesitated.
Then shrugged, a little awkwardly. “It’s weird,” you admitted. “Because you did, like, have a gun to my head this morning, but I think you’re safer.”
“…What?” he said.
You leaned back against the wall, pulling your knees in a little tighter.
“In Crime Alley,” you said, like it explained everything. “People talk.”
Jason didn’t interrupt.
“They don’t really talk about Batman like that,” you continued. “He shows up, does his thing, disappears. It’s… different.”
You glanced at him.
“You help people.”
Silence.
“The Red Hood gets things done,” you added.
Jason stared at you like you’d said something that didn’t make sense.
Like you’d gotten it wrong.
“…You think that?” he asked.
“Don’t let it go to your head, Henry,” you add quickly, like you can take it back if you say it fast enough.
“You used that one already.”
You sit up with a grin. “So you are paying attention.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly.
The word hangs there, low and rough, and suddenly the room feels smaller. The faint chemical stink from years of decay lingers in the cracks of the walls, the rain drums harder against the broken window, but all you can hear is your own pulse and the slow creak of the mattress as you shift.
You slide off the edge first on instinct, maybe, or just needing to move before the air chokes you. Your knees hit the cold floorboards.
You don’t get far.
His hand closes around the back of your neck. Firm enough that your breath catches. The other finds your waist and yanks you forward in one clean pull. You stumble into him, knees bracketing his thighs, and then you’re in his lap, straddling him, chest to chest.
The kiss is immediate and punishing. You break just long enough to drag your lips along his jaw, under his ear, down the corded side of his neck. You nip light at first, then harder when he growls low in his throat. His hand slides up under your shirt, rough palm skating over your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra
You rock against him instinctively. Slow grind at first, testing, then deliberate rolls of your hips so the friction drags a hiss out of him. You can feel him thick and hard through the layers, and the realization makes you groan into his mouth.
He answers by gripping your ass with both hands and grinding you down harder, setting a brutal rhythm for a few beats that steals your breath. Then he catches your bottom lip between his teeth and holds just long enough for the sting to bloom before he soothes it with his tongue. You whimper, nails raking down his shoulders through the fabric.
You yank at his hoodie. “Off… come on, Brent.”
He lets you peel it over his head, a rough huff escaping him at the wrong name. Scars map his chest and stomach like a violent history book with bullet wounds, blade marks, like a jagged mess across his ribs. Your fingers pause on one, tracing it without thinking. He tenses.
You lean in and kiss the scar instead of saying anything.
He exhales hard through his nose, then his voice comes out low and rough right against your ear.
“The fuck are you doing to me?”
Your shirt goes next. He drags it up and off slower, eyes locked on yours the whole time like he’s memorizing you. Bra stays, but his thumbs hook under the straps and slide them down your shoulders anyway.
He begins to lift you off his lap. “Lay down. Wanna taste you”
You glance at the floorboards. Grimy, splintered, probably hasn’t been swept since the ‘80s. “I’m not fucking on that biohazard, Adam.”
He doesn’t argue. Just grabs the leather jacket he was using as a pillow. He spreads it on the floor, leather creaking as it settles over the worst of the filth. The thoughtful gesture makes your heart skip.
“Better?” he asks, voice gravel.
You grin, already lying back on it. “Romantic.”
He’s on you in the next second, but instead of letting you settle on your back he flips you with a rough grip on your hips.
“Face down,” he murmurs. Then the roughness slips back in: “Let me see you.”
You brace on your forearms, cheek pressed to the cool leather. He yanks your pants and underwear down together, then spreads your knees wider on the jacket. The position leaves you open and exposed, heart hammering.
He doesn’t tease.
His mouth is on you instantly. He licks a long, slow stripe from clit to entrance like he’s tasting something he’s been dying for, then seals his lips over your pussy and makes out with it. Messy, obscene, tongue pushing deep, sucking your clit hard before flicking fast and relentless. One big hand grips your ass cheek, spreading you wider; the other slides underneath to rub tight, perfect circles on your clit while his tongue fucks into you.
Your loud moans muffled against the jacket, curses, a new name breaking out every few seconds. You reach back and fist his hair, pulling hard. He groans right into your pussy at the tug, the vibration shooting through you.
You come hard, thighs shaking, a broken cry tearing out of you as pleasure crashes through every nerve. He works you through it with softer licks and gentle kisses to your clit until you’re whimpering and oversensitive, then presses one last soft kiss to the back of your thigh.
Only then does he sit back, breathing ragged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
You barely catch your breath before you’re crawling back into his lap, straddling him. He helps you, hands steady on your waist even as his grip tightens with need. You push his pants down just enough, line him up, and sink down slow.
The stretch pulls a hiss from both of you.
You pause when he’s buried to the hilt, foreheads together, breathing each other in. Then you start moving with deep rolls of your hips, grinding your clit against him on every downstroke.
His hands flex on your waist, letting you set the pace for a moment. But the desperation wins. He grips your ass, lifts you, and starts thrusting up hard with sharp, deep strokes that punch the air out of your lungs.
You’re panting, riding him harder, the wrong names still slipping out between moans because your brain is too scrambled to stop the game.
“Shit. right there, Lucas… fuck--”
He growls, hips snapping up sharper.
Then it happens.
The rhythm turns punishing, perfect, and the name just falls out of your mouth on a broken moan, pure coincidence, no thought behind it:
“Jason-- fuck, Jason--”
His whole body stutters.
His grip on you turns bruising for half a second, a raw, guttural sound ripping out of his chest. Hearing his real name fall from your lips like that while you’re clenching and falling apart around him shatters whatever control he had left.
He slams up into you once, twice, burying himself as deep as he can go, and comes hard with a choked groan, pulsing deep inside you in hot, endless waves. The feeling of him losing it so completely drags your own orgasm even higher, leaving you shaking and whimpering through the aftershocks, still completely lost in your climax.
You stay tangled together afterward, his arms wrapped tight around your back, one hand stroking slow, soothing lines down your spine. His heartbeat is frantic under your ear. After a long moment he gently rolls you onto your side so you’re facing him on the leather jacket, both of you still catching your breath. You turn your head to look at him, half-expecting regret.
“What is it?” you ask.
“I want to kill the Joker,” he says quietly, “because he killed me first.”
Pause.
“.....Like, metaphorically?”
“No”
You push yourself up slightly onto one elbow, staring at him. “I am not comprehending, Jamie.”
For a second, you thought you saw a flicker of disappointment at the new name option. Like he wants you to get it right. But he brushes it off and turns back to the ceiling.
“The Joker killed me. Like… actually. I died. And when I came back, he was still walking”
“And now we just fucked in your murderer’s old apartment. That’s karma, Ryan”
He laughed at that. Big, beautiful. You can't help but grin too.
You wince slightly as you sit up, pushing yourself off the floor and grabbing your discarded shirt. You’re halfway to the bathroom when he speaks again.
“Thought I was past it.”
You pause.
Slowly turn back.
Jason hasn’t moved.
Still staring at the ceiling.
Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
“Past what?” you ask, quieter now.
“Needing it,” he says. “Revenge.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s forcing the next part out.
“Got better,” he adds. “Or… I thought I did.”
He shifts, lifting a hand up like he’s trying to grab something that isnt there before letting it fall back against the floor.
“Then I hear his name again,” he says.
His jaw tightens.
“And everything I built to keep it down just--”
He exhales sharply.
“Gone. Since you showed up.”
You swallow, not knowing what to say.
He turns his head to look at you again. “Thank you”
Your stomach drops.
“For what?”
“Helping me get closure.”
Your heart shrivels.
You nod quickly, already turning away before he can catch the look on your face.
The water is colder than you expect. It shocks through your system the second it hits your skin, dragging you out of whatever haze you’d been floating in. You grip the edge of the sink, breathing out slowly as you splash your face again.
It doesn’t help.
When you look up, your reflection stares back at you through the grime-streaked mirror.
Your cheeks are still flushed. Your lips are swollen from where he bit them earlier. You press them together, like that might fix it. Like that might take back the lies that spilled from them all day and brought you to this moment.
You thought you could deal with it all and go back to your life when he realized there is no Joker and the entire thing was a wild goose chase.
But then he thanked you.
The audacity.
“Okay,” you say, like you can force yourself into it. “Okay. We’re fixing this.”
Your reflection nods once.
“I’m telling him.”
Right now.
No waiting. No overthinking. No making it worse.
You push away from the sink before you can talk yourself out of it, wiping your hands on your shirt as you step back into the main room.
He’s on the floor, just like before. One arm over his eyes. Breathing slow and even. He’s asleep. He looks peaceful.
His jacket is still spread out next to him like he left it there on purpose to make space for you. He trusts you enough to lie next to him and trusts you enough to not run away. You approach slowly, making sure he is still asleep as you lower yourself onto his jacket.
You take it back. You can't tell him. Not now. Maybe in a few years when you're both old and gray and on your deathbeds.
Not that you are thinking about growing old together.
---
“Hey.”
Your eyes blink open and you immediately regret it with the soft light coming in through the window.
He is crouched in front of you.
Close. Not looming, not sharp like before. Just… there. His voice is quieter than you’ve heard it, like he’s trying not to startle you. Your brain lags a second behind the moment.
“Oh,” you mumble. “Hi.”
His hand drops back slightly, like he hadn’t realized how close it was to your face until you woke up.
“I found something,” he says.
That wakes you up.
Immediately.
You sit up too fast, your stomach already dropping before you even know why. Of course he did. Of course he found something.
“What kind of something?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.
He’s already moving, grabbing the file from where he left it, flipping it open like he’s run through this a hundred times already.
“Postcards,” he says. “Recent.”
Your chest tightens.
Recent?
“They were sent here,” he continues, tapping the page. “Address matches. But they’re not from Gotham.”
A small pause.
“Iowa.”
Oh.
Oh no.
You stare at him, your mind scrambling to catch up, to understand how this is still happening, how your stupid lie is somehow still… working.
“He’s revisiting old places,” Jason says, more to himself now. “Old identity, old addresses. It’s deliberate.”
He sounds certain.
“He wants a trail,” he adds. “Breadcrumbs. He sent these postcards here on purpose so that I would find them”
Your hands feel cold.
This isn’t even your lie anymore.
This is something else. Something bigger. Something you don’t understand and definitely didn’t mean to create.
“Or,” you try, your voice weaker than you’d like, “it could just be, like… someone else? Sending stuff? By accident?”
You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. This is it. This is where you stop it. Before it gets any worse. Before he builds anything else on something that doesn’t exist.
“George–”
“What.”
Your heart starts racing.
The words are right there. You can feel them, sitting heavy in your chest, ready to come out.
“I--”
Say it.
“I think--”
Say it.
Your mouth feels dry. Your chest too tight.
“I think we should leave,” you say instead, too quickly. “Like, soon. Immediately. This place is--uh--not great.”
Jason watches you for a second.
Then he nods once, already turning away, already moving.
“Get your stuff.”
---
The sun is barely up when you get on the freeway. That grey-blue light that doesn’t feel like morning yet, just the promise of it. The roads are mostly empty. The city fades behind you faster than you expected.
You sit in the passenger seat, hands folded tight in your lap.
You haven’t said much since you left.
Jason hasn’t said anything at all.
Iowa.
You swallow.
You should say something.
You should have said something already.
But every time you open your mouth, the words get stuck somewhere between your chest and your throat and refuse to come out.
“Alex?” you say.
He hums signalling you have his attention. This is bad. You two are familiar now.
You exhale sharply. “I need to say something.”
Silence.
You grip your hands tighter. “I--okay, I lied.”
The words come out too fast.
Like if you slow down, you won’t say them at all.
“About everything. The rumor, the Joker, the P.O. box--I made it up. I just said it to get out of a situation and then you showed up and I panicked and it just kept going and I didn’t know how to stop it and--”
“…What?” he says, processing.
Then you see the physical change in him. His eyes get sharper. His jaw settles. The boy from last night is gone and the Red Hood is back.
“How long have you been lying to me.”
“All of it,” you admit. “Since the beginning, I--”
Then the car jerks as he yanks it onto the shoulder.The tires screech slightly against the pavement as the car comes to a hard stop. You jolt forward, heart slamming into your ribs.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
You freeze.
Jason turns to you fully now.
“Do you have any idea what you just did?” he shouts. “Do you have any idea what you’ve been playing with this entire time?”
Your throat tightens. “I didn’t mean to--”
“I don’t care what you meant!” he cuts you off, voice rising, sharp and vicious. “You think this is a joke? You think you can just make something like that up and it doesn’t matter?”
Your chest tightens, something sharp rising up in response.
“Do you know what that name does?” he snaps. “Do you know what it means?”
“I was trying not to die!” you fire back. “What did you want me to say? They had me cornered--”
“So you picked the Joker?” he cuts in, incredulous. “That was your genius plan?”
“It worked!” you snap. “I got out, didn’t I?”
“And then you kept going!” he shouts. “You didn’t stop!”
“Because you put a gun to my head!” you yell back. “You think I was gonna go, ‘oh hey by the way I lied’ and just hope that worked out for me?”
His jaw tightens. “I wasn’t going to kill you.”
“You literally had a gun to my head!”
A beat.
“And now we’re on a freeway to Iowa because you believed me!” you add, your voice cracking now. “That’s not on me alone!”
“Get out.”
Your stomach drops. “…What?”
“Get out of the car.”
You stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”
He gestures to the gun in the backseat. “You have ten seconds,” he says.
Your breath catches.
“You’re bluffing.”
He looks at you. You still think he is bluffing but the Gotham in you won’t let you take that chance.
You scramble for the handle, shoving the door open and stumbling out onto the shoulder, slamming it rough behind you.
The engine revs. And he whips off like he’s in a competition with the flash.
“FUCK YOU RED HOOD YOU FUCKING DIPSHIT I HOPE YOU CRASH--”
Your voice rips out of you, loud and furious and useless against the empty stretch of road as the car disappears into the distance.
The silence that follows is loud.
You stare at the road like it might undo itself. Like he might come back.
He doesn’t.
“…Okay,” you say.
You wrap your arms around yourself, glancing up and down the road like something is going to appear and solve this for you.
It doesn’t.
Right.
You exhale sharply. “I am not dying out here. Absolutely not. That’s not how this ends.”
You remember a flash of neon a few kilometers back. Hopefully its food. You turn and take off across the grass.
The diner comes into view faster than you expected. A flickering sign, half-lit, the kind of place that looks like it’s been open too long and seen too much.
Perfect.
You push the door open, the bell above it jingling softly.
Warmth hits you immediately.
And noise.
Low conversations, the hum of a coffee machine, the clatter of dishes--normal. Completely, wonderfully normal.
You almost sag in relief.
You slide into a booth near the window, still catching your breath, muttering under it.
“Unbelievable. Actually unbelievable. Who does that? ‘Get out of the car’. On a freeway. what a psycho”
You lean your head back against the booth, staring at the ceiling for a second.
Then down at your hands.
Then out the window.
Nothing feels real.
“Coffee?”
You blink.
A waitress stands beside the table, pen tucked behind her ear, expression neutral but not unkind.
She gives you a small nod, already reaching for the pot.
Then, as she pours--
“Your man abandon you?”
You choke slightly.
“--No,” you say immediately. “That jerk is not my man.”
The waitress hums like she’s heard that before.
“Mm.”
She sets the mug down in front of you anyway. You sip ignoring the burn of the hot liquid. Staring out the window isn't doing anything,, so you grab the newspaper on the bench next to you.
A retirement home ad. Smiling faces. Clean rooms. Promises of care and comfort.
Your brain lags a second.
Arthur Fleck.
The file.
His mother.
A nursing home.
Your stomach twists.
You stare at the ad.
Then down at your coffee.
Then back at the ad.
Your luck has worked so far.
Maybe it’s worth checking out.
---
Jason makes it six minutes.
Maybe less.
He doesn’t check.
The road stretches out in front of him, empty, the early morning light barely breaking through the clouds. His hands are tight on the wheel, jaw locked, eyes fixed forward like if he just keeps going, everything behind him will stay there.
It doesn’t.
The image comes back all at once: You standing on the side of the road. No car. No backup. Nothing. Jason exhales sharply.
“Fuck.”
He left you. Alone. On a highway.
The car jerks as he yanks the wheel, tires screeching slightly as he swings into a hard turn, accelerating back the way he came.
By the time he gets back to the spot where you fought, you're gone. The shoulder is empty.
No movement. No figure. Nothing.
Jason steps out of the car immediately, scanning the area like he missed something. Like you might still be there if he looks hard enough. For a second, he just stands there.
Suddenly he realizes how the Joker doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is he got mad at you for a situation he created. He wasn’t mad you lied, he’s lied worse. He is mad he let himself care. About the Joker.. And about you.
Jason slides back into the car, you can’t have gone far. He’ll find you.
---
The diner is first. It’s the closest place within walking distance.
Jason steps inside, presence alone enough to clear space around him.
The waitress freezes mid-step.
“Girl,” he says. “Came in this morning.”
She nods quickly. “Yeah--yeah, I remember. Sweet girl. Looked shaken up.”
Sweet?
Jason exhales through his nose. “Which way.”
“She didn’t stay long,” the waitress adds. “Kept looking out the window. Then she left--uh--headed that way.” She points.
Jason’s already gone.
–
It gets worse from there.
A trucker at a gas station squints at him.
“Oh--yeah. Yeah, I saw her,” he says. “Girl with the knife.”
Jason stills. “…Knife?”
“Yeah,” the guy nods. “Didn’t use it or anything, but she had it. Kinda freaked me out.”
Jason exhales slowly.
“Which way.”
–
It keeps going.
A bus driver picked her up at the edge of town. She juggled for free fare.
A cab driver dropped her off near Old Gotham. Said she talked his ear off the entire ride and, at some point, confidently informed him that the Red Hood hates women.
Some kids saw her walking. She told them she’d teach them a skateboard trick if they point her in the direction of the bridge.
By the time he finally finds you, the sun is setting again. The sky is that dull orange-gray Gotham specializes in, the light fading just enough to make everything feel heavier than it should.
Golden Years Nursing Home stands at the end of the street.
And then he sees you.
Standing just outside the entrance. Still. Facing the doors.
Relief hits first.
Sharp. Immediate. Almost enough to knock the air out of him.
You’re alive.
You’re not hurt.
Jason exhales, something in his shoulders finally loosening as he steps out of the car.
You hear him step out and turn to face him. You’re not angry and you’re not surprised. Jason wants to apologize and hug you, but the look on your face gives him pause.
“He’s in there.”
Your voice is barely above a whisper.
Jason stills.
Arthur Fleck.
The file.
The nursing home.
His gaze shifts past you, locking onto the building like it might disappear if he looks away.
Then back to you.
You’re not joking.
“Okay.”
He checks his gun, the familiar motion grounding, automatic.
“Let’s go kill us a clown”
---
The doors slide open with a soft mechanical hum.
The lobby is softly lit. A television murmurs in the corner. A few residents sit scattered in chairs, some watching, some not. A nurse walks past with a clipboard, offering a polite smile like nothing about this place is unusual.
You step forward first.
“Hi,” you say to the receptionist, your voice steady in a way it hasn’t been all day. “We’re here to see Arthur Fleck.”
The woman brightens.
“Oh! That’s lovely,” she says. “He doesn’t get visitors often.”
Jason’s confused but not deterred. These nurses are villains. This place is a secret Joker Lab. They have vats of jokerization fluid in the basement. He has one hand on his gun and eyes scanning the exits.
A nurse appears a moment later, cheerful, unaware.
“Come on,” she says. “He’ll be happy to see you.”
The hallway stretches longer than it should, each step heavier than the last. His hand brushes his gun once, just to make sure it’s there, just to ground himself in something real. This is it. This is what all of it has been leading to.
The nurse stops at a door and knocks lightly before opening it. “Arthur? You’ve got visitors.”
She steps aside.
Jason moves forward.
It takes a second for his brain to catch up with what he’s seeing.
An old man sits by the window in a wheelchair. Small. Frail. His body seems to fold into itself, hands trembling faintly in his lap. His breathing is uneven, punctuated by a weak cough that rattles through his chest.
He takes another step closer, eyes narrowing like if he looks hard enough, the truth will rearrange itself into something that makes sense.
The man turns his head slowly, like even that costs him something. His eyes are clouded, distant, unfocused.
This is the Joker?
Jason’s chest tightens. He thinks this must be a game. A last ploy. But then the man turns towards him.
He knows that face. He knows what happened. He knows what it sounds like when he laughs. He knows what his screams of joy sound like. He knows what those hands feel like when they are holding a crowbar.
You note his hands shaking. One is braced on his hip holster like he needs to be ready. The other is curled in a fist like he is trying to keep it together.
“You,” he says, sharper than he means to.
The man blinks at him.
Nothing.
No recognition. No reaction. Just confusion.
Jason steps closer, faster now, something desperate starting to claw its way up his throat. He had a whole speech prepared. He is going to start with how the Joker ruined all semblance of normalcy in his life. How he can’t sleep some nights because his ribs burn with phantom pains. How he wakes up screaming because he feels the weight of dirt on his chest. But all of that hinges on the Joker actually looking at him. Which this frail man is not.
“Look at me.”
The words come out harsher this time.
“You killed me. LOOK at me”
The old man blinks confused. “Are you the new doctor?”
Jason took a step back. Confused. Dazed. “You chased after Batman for decades”
Arthur’s eyes sharpen at the mention of Batman. Focus. Lock.
And then he smiles.
Wide. Wrong. Familiar.
“Boy WONDER” he rasps, voice cracking into something gleeful and broken all at once. “How’s Batsy, huh? Still waiting for me to make a move--HAHA--”
The laugh collapses into a violent coughing fit, tearing through his chest. “--COUGH--COUGH--”
And just like that--
It’s gone.
The light in his eyes flickers out, replaced by confusion so complete it’s like the moment never happened. His head turns away, gaze unfocused again.
“…Mama?” he mutters weakly. “Where’s. where’s my mother?”
His hands twitch in his lap. He looks around the room like he’s looking for someone. A nurse. A doctor. A mother.
He doesn’t look at Jason again.
Doesn’t see him.
Doesn’t know him.
Jason stands there, completely still.
This is him.
This is the man.
The one who killed him. The one he built everything around. The one he chased, convinced there was meaning in it, something intentional, something unfinished.
His hand doesn’t move toward the gun.
It just hangs there.
Because what would that even be now?
Killing him wouldn’t fix anything. Wouldn’t mean anything. This isn’t a final confrontation. This isn’t revenge.
This is just a man.
Old. Sick. Forgotten.
Jason exhales, and it sounds like something breaking loose in his chest.
He steps back. Once. Then again. Then he turns and walks out.
You follow without a word.
–
The gas station across the nursing home is quiet.
Quiet in that way places get when the day is ending and no one really wants to be there anymore. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A neon sign flickers faintly in the window. Across the road, the nursing home sits still, unchanged, like nothing inside it matters to the rest of the world.
You sit on the curb with a slushie in your hand. You made a frankenstein slushie with every flavour and regret it but are too proud to admit it.
Jason sits beside you, leisurely sipping a cherry one from his cup.
Neither of you says anything at first.
There’s nothing left to say.
The air feels flat. Heavy. Like everything that was loud before burned itself out and left this behind.
Apathy.
You take a sip. It tastes like sugar and chemicals.
“…I think I lost my job,” you say finally.
Jason glances at you, just slightly.
“I ghosted them for, like, two days,” you continue. “Which, in my defense, was not my fault. I was being kidnapped. And then… everything else.”
He exhales quietly through his nose.
“I’ll write you a note,” he says.
You blink. “A note?”
“Yeah,” he says. “From the Red Hood.”
That almost makes you smile.
“You think that’ll work?”
“It’ll work,” he says flatly. “Not your fault.”
You hum, taking another sip.
A pause stretches.
“What’s your name?”
Jason doesn’t answer right away.
You glance at him. “Like--your actual name. Not the whole… dramatic branding situation.”
“Jason.”
You stare at him.
Then snort.
“Is that why you came so fast?”
He turns his head slowly. “Shut up.”
You grin into your slushie.
It fades just as quickly.
Jason leans back slightly, eyes drifting toward the horizon.
“I could’ve killed him,” he says after a while.
You don’t look at him.
“I know.”
A beat.
“Didn’t,” he adds.
Another beat.
“Maybe Batman’ll be proud,” he mutters. “Maybe I’ll get a new jet out of it.”
You look at him. “No, Jason. We did kill the joker”
Jason frowns slightly. “What?”
You take another sip. Casual.
“I switched his meds.”
Jason chokes.
Hard.
The slushie goes down wrong, coughing tearing out of him as he turns away, wiping at his mouth.
“What--” he tries, still coughing. “What the fuck?”
You just sip your drink.
Unbothered.
He looks at you again, searching your face.
You don’t crack.
He snorts.
And then it turns into something else.
A laugh.
Broken. Real. Completely unguarded.
In the distance, sirens cut through the quiet.
Ambulance lights flicker faintly as they race past, heading toward the nursing home.
Neither of you turns to look.
You lift your fist.
Jason bumps it.
-------------
a/n: why is writing smut so hard. I had to enlist a friend. still.
yall lemme be fr again cause i am drunk and this is a common theme on this blog.
lowkey these days i’m fr thinking love is fake fr and i feel so unnoticed to ever finish the 36 questions series however i do have a plan on exactly how it ends so if you guys want i can tell you exactly what would happen. i just think it’s so silly and unrealistic even though that’s always been the story and now love is fake goddamn.
like i’ve been in a cynical mood and i have a cynical idea that’s lowkey i but cunty that might do but also what is life fr we are on a floating rock with weird ass awful old men making people fight. i think all wars should be the leaders in a boxing rink and THATS IT. fight to the death if you really want to just don’t make people fight for you while you sit in a bunker
summary: in which you go on a retreat for tax purposes and make mortal enemies. also adopt a robot baby
wc: 12.5k
---
Questions used:
#20. What does friendship mean to you?
#30. When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?
---
Jason’s duffel sits on the bed like a problem he hasn’t solved yet.
He stares at it. The duffel stares back. Neither makes the first move.
Packing should be easy. Clothes. Toiletries. Normal retreat things. He’s seen people do this. A civilian activity. A human activity. He’s watched YouTube tutorials on how to fold shirts before. He could do this blindfolded.
He tosses in two black shirts. Then three. One pair of jeans. Sweats. A hoodie. Socks. Toothbrush. Knife. Backup knife. No. Retreat. Soulmate retreat. He exhales, puts the knives back. After a beat, he pulls one out again, drops it in the side pocket. Just in case.
The gun sits on the dresser.
He stares at that next. Practicality wrestles with logic. It is a soulmate retreat, not a warzone. But he is who he is. Gotham runs in his bloodstream like an infection.
He grabs the gun. Checks the safety. Slips it under folded shirts. No one needs to know about that.
When he steps outside, Gotham is still dark. The kind of gray-blue early morning that feels like the world is holding its breath. His breath ghosts in front of him as he shoulders the bag and heads downstairs.
Duke’s car idles at the curb, headlights soft in the fog. Duke looks disgustingly awake.
“Morning,” Jason grumbles, sliding into the passenger seat.
“It is,” Duke says, way too chipper. “A beautiful one.”
Jason pinches the bridge of his nose. He was on patrol until three. His bones are vibrating in that post-adrenaline way, the kind that makes sleep impossible and consciousness inconvenient.
“It sure is,” Duke says, dangerously cheerful. “Love this vibe. Early productivity.”
Jason mutters something that might legally count as a death threat.
They drive. Street after street blurring past. Jason half-dozes against the window, not fully asleep, just in that soldier’s limbo where the mind flickers like a broken lamp but refuses to turn off.
Then Duke slows in front of your building.
And there you are.
Standing on the sidewalk at five in the morning like it’s noon in July. Suitcase upright beside you. Wool hat on because of the chill. A thermos in one hand, phone in the other. You wave like you’ve been vibrating in place for twenty minutes.
Jason wakes up instantly.
Duke pulls up and you walk around the car, reaching for the passenger door automatically but Jason stops you with a quiet, low “You take the front.”
You blink. “You sure?”
He nods, already sliding into the backseat. “Yeah. Easier for me to sleep.”
You climb into the front seat beside Duke, radiant and jittery and warm, and Jason settles behind you, head leaning against the cold window. Eyes closed. Breathing slow.
He is so faking being asleep.
He lies still with his eyes closed, breathing slow, body heavy in the practiced rhythm Bruce hammered into him years ago. He could sleep. Should sleep. He spent last night on rooftops with adrenaline instead of rest. His muscles ache. His mind hums.
But your voice is soft in the dark, warm in a way caffeine could never compete with, and he chooses that instead.
And because his eyes are closed, he gets to listen.
You and Duke fall into conversation easily, low voices in the early morning quiet. You discover you like the same show, the one with terrible CGI and deeply questionable writing decisions. Duke laughs. You gasp dramatically. You start quoting scenes and complaining about the season finale and Jason feels the corners of his mouth twitch.
He knows this show only because you once ranted about it for fifteen minutes straight.
God, you’re bright. Even at 5AM. Even in this dim car with snow on the streets and Gotham still half-asleep. You fill the space like sunlight leaking through blinds.
Jason pretends to breathe deeper asleep, but listening.
The train station glows under harsh fluorescent lights; too bright for 5:30 a.m., too awake for the rest of Gotham. Duke pulls up to the curb like he’s delivering royalty, smirking as you both unclip seatbelts.
“Alright lovebirds. End of the line.”
Jason glares. “Don’t call us th—”
“You totally are,” Duke says, already popping the trunk. “Have fun. Don’t die. Send pics.”
You thank him. Jason mutters something that does not sound like gratitude. Duke just laughs and drives off with a single, obnoxious farewell honk.
Inside, the station hums with early commuters. Coffee machines hiss. Loudspeakers murmur. Your hand brushes Jason’s when you pull out your tickets, and he pretends he doesn’t notice, but he does. He notices everything.
You find your train. Jason gestures for you to go in first. He always does. You pretend not to see the way he positions himself automatically between you and the crowd.
Your seats are side by side. He nudges you toward the window without a word.
You sit. He settles next to you. The train lurches once, then starts its slow crawl out of the station.
Five minutes in, you pull out sandwiches carefully wrapped in foil like you were packing lunch for a field trip.
Jason looks at you. You look proud. He takes one.
You talk a little in low, tired morning voices, until your sentences start drifting apart, thinning out like fog. Your eyes get heavy. You try to blink through it. Fail.
Your head tips toward the window.
Jason watches it happen. Watches you sag, slow as melting snow, until your cheek bumps the glass.
Then he turns his body slightly, lifts a hand, and with a gentleness that would stun anyone who’s ever seen him throw a punch, guides your head off the cold window and onto his shoulder instead.
You exhale against him, a tiny, unconscious sound. Your hand curls loosely toward his sleeve.
Jason stares straight ahead like he’s being tested by a higher power.
He could close his eyes. He could sleep.
But your weight is warm against him, your breath soft through the fabric of his jacket, and your hair brushes his jaw every time the train sways.
So he stays awake.
Just to feel you there.
—
The retreat is tucked deep into the trees, a low wooden complex that looks equal parts cozy and bureaucratic. Snow dusts the rooflines. Smoke curls from a chimney somewhere. It feels… quieter than you expected. Softer. Like the kind of place people come to figure things out.
Jason steps off the shuttle first, duffel over one shoulder. Before you can grab your own suitcase, he’s already rolling it behind him with his free hand. You open your mouth to argue. He doesn’t even look back..
You shut your mouth.
Inside, the facility opens into a bright atrium full of windows and indoor plants that definitely should not be alive in this climate. The front desk is manned by a woman in a beige cardigan who looks aggressively enthusiastic about love.
“Welcome! Soulmate Pairing 14?” she chirps.
Jason tenses beside you. You feel it more than see it.
You nod. “That’s us.”
She hands you both identical pamphlets full of pastel pages filled with module descriptions, smiling couples, clipart hearts. Jason takes his like it’s a bomb he needs to defuse.
“Orientation is at two,” the woman continues. “For now, feel free to explore the common rooms or settle into your quarters. You’ll find your room assignment on the back.”
Jason wheels your suitcase down the hallway, moving slower than his usual patrol pace but still purposeful, still protective. You trail beside him, nerves fluttering like moth wings under your ribs.
You set your bag on the floor with a little more force than necessary, because if you don’t do something, you might combust at the sight of the one bed. The room suddenly feels smaller, warmer, filled with an expectation neither of you know how to name.
Jason steps farther inside, giving you space. Or giving himself distance. Hard to tell.
He puts his duffel down gently, like being loud might break something fragile between you.
You clap your hands once, too brightly. “Okay! Classes! Before we both spiral about the bed.”
“Pick four,” you say, hopping onto the bed and sitting cross-legged. “We compare after. No cheating.”
Jason raises a brow. “How do you cheat at picking classes?”
“You’d find a way.”
He doesn’t deny it.
You both start circling options, but it’s impossible not to sneak glances at each other, at the way he leans forward, elbows on his knees, brow furrowed like he’s selecting weapons for a mission instead of modules like ‘The Art of Apology.’
When you’re done, you swap pamphlets.
You read his.
“Oh my god. ‘Self-Defense for Pairs.’ Shocking.”
Jason shrugs. “It’s practical.”
“‘Disaster Preparedness for Two.’”
“Also practical.”
“‘Soulmates and Communication Styles.’ That’s…” You look up. He’s suddenly fascinated by the carpet. “That’s actually really sweet, Jason.”
His ears go pink. “It seemed… relevant.”
Your chest does a thing, but you soldier on until the last one.
“Parenting Simulation?” you say, blinking.
He tenses instantly. “If you hate it, we don’t have to—”
“I don’t hate it,” you interrupt, smiling. “I’m just shocked you picked it.”
He shrugs again, but it’s the awkward kind. “I thought you might like … kids.”
“I like the idea of us in a room with something that cries less than you do,” you tease.
Jason snorts. “Wow. Offended.”
You grin. “Okay, my turn.” You hand him your pamphlet.
He reads aloud. “Conflict Management. Cooking for Couples. Shared Finances. Nature Walk.” His lips twitch. “These are so… you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Structured,” he says. “Organized. Very ‘I want to run a functional household.’”
You swat him lightly with your pamphlet. “And yours are very ‘I want to survive the apocalypse.’”
“We all have goals.”
“Okay,” you say. “Overlap.”
It takes thirty seconds. Everything falls into place without negotiation.
“Self-defense,” Jason says.
“Shared finances,” you add.
“Nature walk.”
And then, at the same exact time, you both say:
“Parenting.”
Your fingers brush as you tap the same circle. Neither of you pull away.
There’s a beat, not heavy, not frightening, just… warm. Familiar. Like standing in sunlight instead of spotlight.
The moment stretches. Comfortable. Domestic in a way neither of you fully understands yet.
“Okay,” you say, placing both pamphlets side by side like matching puzzle pieces. “We’ve got our lineup.”
Jason nods, softer now. “Yeah. Looks good.”
–
Orientation is at two, which leaves you about fifteen minutes to gather yourselves, smooth your hair, pretend you are Very Normal Soulmates who totally know what they are doing. You head downstairs together, Jason carrying both pamphlets because he “just wants to” (translation: he won’t let you juggle anything, ever). You hand your forms to the smiling staff member at the front table.
“Wonderful! We’ll process these for your course credits,” she chirps, like she’s narrating a children’s show.
Jason thanks her with a stiff politeness that makes you suppress a smile.
You both step into the main room which is a wide hall with rows of chairs, warm lighting, and the unsettling energy of mandatory bonding activities. Couples filter in, most of them radiating strange vibes. One pair is wearing matching tie-dye ponchos. Another is whispering very aggressively about chakras. A third couple is making out so intensely you feel like you should avert your eyes or offer them a room.
You find two seats near the middle. Jason hesitates before sitting, like he wants to give you the aisle seat in case you need to escape, then sits only once you do. His knee bumps yours, prompting you to look over.
“Drinks?” he asks quietly.
Your face lights. “Yes.”
“Apple cider?” you ask hopefully.
He gives you a look that says please, have some faith in me, and heads toward the refreshment table.
You turn back toward the forms desk, just to double-check you didn’t miss anything. It’s there that you hear a soft, pleasant voice.
“Oh! Hi—sorry, are you in the 2pm orientation too?”
You look up.
A woman stands across the table from you with a pretty, warm smile, soft curls, and a cozy sweater. She looks… normal. Blessedly, incredibly normal. Not staring lovingly into the void. Not treating this like the Olympics of Marriage. Just… normal.
“Yeah!” you say, relieved. “Finally, someone who doesn’t look like they’ve been training for this retreat since birth.”
She laughs. “Oh my god, right? I thought I was going insane. I’m Celeste.”
You introduce yourself, and both of you lean in across the table with the exact same breath of relief.
“Great to meet you,” you say.
“You too! Seriously, I was starting to think everyone here communicates through soulmate pheromones.”
You snort. This woman is a gift.
You scan the room. “So which one’s your soulmate?”
Celeste brightens. “Guess.”
You follow her gaze. A few guys stand clustered near the fireplace. One is tall and smiling, one is adjusting his glasses, and one looks like he’s about to cry because his partner is telling him something about “the alignment of your emotional stars.”
You point to the tall, smiling one. “Him?”
Her eyes sparkle. “Yes! Wow, how’d you know?”
“He looked the most… emotionally stable.”
Celeste laughs way too hard. “That’s exactly what I said when I saw him.”
You beam. Wow. This is great. A normal friend couple. You’re going to have such a peaceful retreat.
Then Celeste tilts her head thoughtfully. “Okay, my turn. Which one is yours?”
You shrug. “Try me.”
She surveys the room. Slowly. Like she’s selecting a wine pairing.
Then she points.
At a seventy-year-old retiree in cargo shorts, nursing a cup of chamomile tea and staring at the wall like he’s communing with his ancestors.
You blink. “I—excuse me?”
Celeste grins. “Is it him?”
You stare at the man. He stares back. His aura says I own three model trains and all of them are haunted.
You finally manage, “No.”
She waves dismissively, “Eh, could’ve been. You never know with soulmates.”
You’re about to explain that yes, you do know, and your soulmate is not someone who looks like he complains to grocery store managers recreationally—
When a warm presence steps up behind you.
A hand brushes your spine.
A cup of apple cider appears at your elbow.
Jason sets it down gently. “Here,” he murmurs.
Celeste goes very still.
Her eyes travel from his boots… to the leather jacket… to his stupidly handsome face… to the way he stands slightly angled toward you like he’s ready to fight a bear on your behalf.
“So,” Jason asks, glancing between you and Celeste, “a new friend?”
Celeste’s jaw works once. Twice.
Then:
“Wow,” she says, smiling too wide. “He’s… your soulmate?”
You nod, taking your cider. “Yep.”
Celeste laughs a bright, brittle, too-sweet laugh that sounds like she’s swallowing glass.
“That’s soooooo cute,” she says.
You smile back, eyes narrowing just a little.
“Isn’t it though?”
And just like that: War has begun.
Before you can deliver a counterstrike of polite hostility, Celeste’s soulmate strolls over. He is exactly what you expected from a man named Chadwick: pastel quarter-zip, offensively perfect teeth, cologne that smells like inherited wealth.
“Hey, babe,” he says, slipping an arm around Celeste’s waist. “Everything good?”
Celeste beams. “Perfect. I was just making a new friend!”
You feel Jason shift beside you, all casual, relaxed, completely unaware of the silent battlefield forming around him.
Chadwick sticks a hand out. “What’s up, man? Chad.”
Jason nods and fist bumps him. “Jason.”
You swear the testosterone crackles like static electricity.
Celeste sighs dreamily. “Isn’t it so nice when our soulmates get along?”
You nearly choke on your cider.
Jason, smiling slightly, totally missing the tension: “So what modules are you two in?”
Celeste’s smile widens. Too wide. “Oh my gosh! What a coincidence!”
It isn’t a coincidence. It’s psychological warfare.
Jason checks the schedule pamphlet. “Looks like your self-defense slot is next door to ours. You should switch to our time.”
Your head snaps toward him so fast you nearly get whiplash.
He thinks he’s being helpful. He thinks he is building community.
You stare at him with the very specific look that says: Sweetheart. My love. My soulmate. Please stop inviting my enemies to dinner.
Celeste clasps her hands. “Oh my gosh, really? Are you sure?”
You laugh. Loud. Too loud. “Totally! Absolutely! The more the merrier!”
Jason blinks at you. You smile at him like a hostage begging in Morse code.
Meanwhile, Celeste nestles herself into Chadwick's side like she is posing for an engagement photo. “Baby,” she coos, “isn’t that so sweet of them?”
Chadwick kisses her forehead. “Anything for you, babe.”
Before Celeste can escalate, a cheerful voice booms across the atrium:
“WELCOME, SOULMATE PAIRS! Orientation is starting! Please find your seats!”
War has only begun.
–
Orientation ends with a round of applause so forced you’re surprised nobody sprains a wrist. Celeste and Chadwick turn to you with identical Stepford smiles, and you return the expression with the warmth of a malfunctioning toaster.
Jason, meanwhile, is waving at Chadwick like they are already planning a barbecue together.
You would like to go home.
But instead, you are herded, politely, by staff who definitely fear lawsuits, toward your next module: Shared Finances for Soulmate Partnerships!
The sign has a heart over the i. Deeply cursed.
You fall into step beside Celeste, because everyone else is pairing off and you cannot abandon Jason to Chadwick’s monologue about the stock market.
“So fun that we’re in the same classes,” Celeste chirps.
“So fun,” you echo brightly, smiling with all thirty-two of your fake teeth.
Behind you, Jason and Chadwick are bonding.
“…so then the coach pulled him in the seventh inning—”
“No way,” Jason says, genuinely invested. “What kind of call is that?”
You stare ahead, dead-eyed. “I’m in hell.”
Celeste hums. “What was that?”
“Nothing! Loving this journey for us.”
The four of you shuffle into a classroom that looks like an accountant’s waiting room swallowed a Pinterest board. Soft lighting, couple-themed posters, a bowl of mints shaped like dollar signs.
Chairs are arranged in pairs. You and Jason take the seats at one table; Celeste and Chad settle in directly beside you like a pair of judgmental flamingos.
The instructor is a woman in beige linen who absolutely leads mindfulness retreats in the summer. She claps her hands.
“Welcome, couples! Today we’ll explore financial transparency, asset merging, and collaborative budgeting. Please begin by listing your debts and assets.”
You glance at Jason.
He glances at you.
Oh god.
You pull out your pen. “Okay. Easy. I’ve got my job income, some savings, a retirement account, and student loans.”
Jason nods. “Cool.”
You look at him expectantly. “Your turn.”
Jason opens his banking app.
You watch the color drain from his face.
Because on the screen are approximately ten accounts, four offshore, two investment pools, one safehouse fund, one that is absolutely illegal, and one that Alfred manages because Jason is banned from touching it.
Also the numbers keep changing in real time because the stock market is apparently having a panic attack.
He scrolls. Scrolls again. Scrolls more.
“Which one do I… write?” he mutters.
“Jason,” you whisper, “maybe pick the approximate—”
The number jumps again.
He stares at it in horror. “It keeps going up.”
You gently nudge his pen toward the paper. “Then just freeze it. Pick a number and write it down before you accidentally list yourself as Jeff Bezos.”
Jason scribbles down a number that is technically true for one (1) second of that day.
He sighs, relieved. “Okay. Done.”
You pat his knee. “Great job, Jay.”
He flushes. You flush. Celeste glances over like a hawk.
The instructor claps again. “Now, pair with another couple!”
Because of course.
Celeste and Chadwick glide over like they’re about to announce their engagement on national TV.
Celeste beams, flipping her worksheet so aggressively her glitter pen almost flies out of her hand.
“So,” she purrs, “I’m a model. Which is sooo hard to put into the asset column because my brand deals vary, but, you know, I make it work.”
Chadwick nods proudly. “And I’m an investment banker. Last year I pulled… what, babe? Seven hundred thousand?”
Celeste giggles. “Seven hundred and twelve.”
You smile. The kind of smile that would get you banned from a country club.
“That’s… nice.”
(Internally: I WILL BURN YOUR PORTFOLIO TO ASHES.)
Jason is still politely nodding along, missing every single blade of tension.
And then—
He sees it.
The arrogance.
The bragging.
The way Chadwick strokes Celeste’s arm like he’s congratulating her for existing.
The faint sneer when they look at your worksheet.
Something ancient and Crime-Alley-coded awakens in him.
He leans back in his chair, casual.
Jason says, “Seven hundred K? Cool. I think that’s what DAD’S last car cost .”
You look at him in shock. Holy shit. Jason is claiming Bruce as a father to one up these bozos.
Celeste blinks. “Your… dad?”
Jason looks at his nails like the world's most dangerous housecat.
“Oh. Bruce Wayne. Yes, that Bruce Wayne. He bought the car in my name for tax reasons. I should probably list it as an asset, thanks for the reminder.”
Silence.
You stare at him like he just fed you chocolate-dipped strawberries in a thunderstorm.
Celeste’s smile twitches
Jason drapes an arm across the back of your chair, still pretending he didn’t just commit a social homicide.
And then, softly, sweetly, with the smugness of a man who has found a new sport:
“Anyway, angel,” he murmurs to you, “DAD wants you to come over again this week.”
Celeste’s eye twitches.
You sip your cider.
Score: You & Jason - 1Celeste & Chadwick - 0
-
Lunch should be neutral territory.
Neutral, peaceful, restorative.
A place where couples can nourish their bodies and practice mindful appreciation of shared resources.
Instead, it feels like the cafeteria in Mean Girls but everyone is legally bonded by fate.
You and Jason weave into the buffet line, trays in hand, whispering like fugitives.
You lean in first. “They’re awful, right?”
Jason’s eyes widen slightly, as if he just realized this is a shared enemy. “Okay, yeah. They’re the worst.”
You lower your voice even further. “They’re not just rich. They’re annoying rich.”
Jason pauses mid-reach for a bread roll. “Annoying rich is the worst kind.”
“Yes! They brag.”
“They preen.”
“They accessorize with condescension.”
Jason pockets two packets of butter like he’s preparing for war. “We should avoid them for the rest of the retreat.”
“Agreed.”
And of course that’s when you hear it.
“HI, BESTIES!”
You both freeze.
Slowly, painfully, you turn your heads.
Celeste and Chadwick are four people behind you in line, smiling like toothpaste commercial models.
There is a long, terrible moment of mutual eye contact.
Celeste wiggles her fingers in a wave.
Chadwick does a head nod that is somehow both flirtatious and deeply unearned.
You and Jason plaster polite smiles onto your faces and wave back, synchronized like two hostages in a ransom video.
The second you turn forward again, both of you make the exact same noise:
“Ughhhhh.”
You reach the end of the buffet, practically tasting the freedom—
And then you hear rustling. Whispering. A soft chorus of “Oh my gosh, thank you!” from behind.
You turn.
And your stomach plummets.
Celeste and Chadwick are handing out gifts.
Small pastel gift bags, tied up neatly with ribbon, like they’re hosting a baby shower for their personalities.
One couple squeals over matching mugs.
Another gasps at monogrammed luggage tags.
Celeste beams, radiant with weaponized generosity.
Chadwick carries the gift bags like Santa Claus with a trust fund.
You stare in horror.
Jason whispers, “What… is happening.”
“It’s a flex,” you murmur, voice grave. “They’re buying goodwill.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re unhinged competitors in the sport of being liked.”
Jason’s face contorts. “Do we… do we need gifts?”
“NO,” you say too fast, too loud. “We are NOT competing in philanthropy. That’s a losing game. She probably bought those in bulk before we even arrived.”
You both rush to a table in the corner like two squirrels fleeing a hawk. You sit. You inhale your soup. You pretend everything is fine.
But your mind is churning.
This wasn’t even a module.
This was LUNCH.
Lunch wasn’t supposed to COUNT.
And yet:
Celeste: 1
You: 1
Jason leans closer. “Should we—like—share our food with people? Is that a thing?”
“No,” you sigh. “Unless you have a spare Rolex in your pocket, we’ve already lost this round.”
Jason checks his pockets as if he might actually have one.
“Jason,” you warn.
“…okay.”
Across the dining hall, Celeste hands a tote bag to an elderly couple, who applaud her like she invented kindness.
You slump into your seat. “Okay. It’s fine. She won the lunch round. I’ll recover.”
Jason raises a brow. “Lunch was a round?”
“EVERYTHING is a round.”
He considers you for a moment.
Then, solemnly, he nods. “Okay. Then we’re not losing another one.”
You blink. “Jason… you understand this rivalry now?”
He cracks his neck like he’s preparing for a street fight.
“Oh,” he says, deadly calm.
“I understand perfectly.”
–
The nature walk is advertised as a grounding experience to help soulmates reconnect with the earth and each other.
Translation: forty couples trudging through the woods while a retreat facilitator named Marla points at leaves.
Honestly?
It’s kind of nice.
The air is crisp. The snow muffles sound. There’s something peaceful about watching your breath cloud in front of you while Jason walks beside you with hands in his pockets, shoulders brushing yours occasionally like he’s orbiting you without noticing.
Marla cheerfully gestures at a patch of moss. “This particular species is several hundred years old! It thrives in damp, shaded environments—”
You walk a little slower, letting the group pull ahead so you have a bubble of privacy. It feels… cozy. Like an accidental date wedged between classes.
Marla points at a cluster of winter berries. “These are poisonous, so avoid ingesting or touching them without gloves.”
Jason leans down slightly. “Don’t eat those.”
You stare at him. “What part of me has EVER given ‘will eat unknown berries in the woods’ energy?”
He gives you a look. “You once left cookies in an alley box for me to eat.”
“That was the start of our love story!” You swat his arm, but you’re grinning.
For the first time all day, the tension from the Celeste–Chadwick saga melts off your shoulders. The snow sparkles. Jason looks calm, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders loose, breathing steady. A rare sight.
You inhale deeply. “This is actually really nice.”
He glances down at you. His voice softens. “Yeah. It is.”
For a moment, it’s just you two, crunching softly through the snow.
Then—
A rustle.
A giggle.
A very dramatic moan.
Marla pauses mid-sentence. “Hm?”
Half the group turns.
You don’t see anything at first.
Then you do.
Behind a tree, barely hidden, are Celeste and Chadwick, kissing like they’re auditioning for a 90s shampoo commercial. Hands everywhere. Lips everywhere. Chad’s leg is inexplicably lifted like he’s being dipped.
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.
“No,” you whisper. “No. NO.”
Jason follows your gaze.
He blinks once. Twice.
“Oh my god,” you mutter, horrified. “They’re… winning nature.”
Jason tilts his head. “How do you win nature?”
“LIKE THAT!”
Celeste flips her hair mid-kiss, spotting you over Chadwick’s shoulder. Her eyes meet yours.
She smirks.
The audacity.
The sheer sportsmanship violation.
The unsportsmanlike conduct.
Somehow, Celeste won the nature walk.
Celeste: 2
You: 1
—
You enter your hotel room first, still burning from the nature walk betrayal. The door closes behind you, and Jason barely sets his bag down before you exhale sharply.
“They were making out behind a tree,” you say, pacing once. “In the middle of a supervised activity.”
Jason leans against the wall, watching you with quiet caution. “They weren’t exactly subtle.”
“She looked at me,” you insist. “While doing that. I don’t even care that she kissed him. I care that she made it a statement.”
Jason doesn’t deny it. He just nods, slow, absorbing your frustration like he’s used to being the quiet part of your storms.
You kneel by your suitcase, hands decisive. “Self-defense is next. She’s absolutely going to show up in some coordinated pastel outfit, and I refuse to stand next to her looking unprepared.”
Jason raises an eyebrow. “Do we need to… match her?”
“It’s not matching,” you say, pulling out navy leggings. “It’s refusing to be outdone.”
He considers that with surprising seriousness. “Fair.”
You lay the leggings on the bed, then sift for a top, the tension in your shoulders refusing to loosen. “I should look comfortable. Neutral. Nothing that screams ‘I’m trying.’ But not something that makes it look like I gave up.”
Jason watches you for a moment. Then he pushes off the wall, opens his own duffel, and pulls out a black hoodie.
He holds it out to you without ceremony. “Wear this.”
You pause. “…Why?”
“Because,” he says simply, “you’ll feel better in it.”
And it’s true. You know it’s true before you even touch it.
Warm, soft, heavy. Jason.
You take it from his hands, your fingers brushing his knuckles. The contact is brief, but his eyes soften just a little.
“Jason Todd.” you grin “Are you offering me your hoodie so I can look better than Celeste”
Jason nods once. “I think you’d win either way, but this will help.”
You look down at the hoodie, then at your outfit laid out on the bed. The combination is perfect in a way you didn’t expect. Understated. Confident. Impossible for Celeste to interpret incorrectly. Which is exactly what you want.
Your shoulders finally relax.
“Thank you,” you say.
Jason shrugs, but he’s watching you carefully, like he’s checking if he made the right call. “Self-defense is your class to win. I’m just making sure you walk in feeling like yourself.”
You fold the hoodie over your arm, the fabric warm against your skin.
“We’re not losing this one,” you murmur.
Jason’s mouth curves, not quite a smile, but close.
“No,” he agrees. “We’re not.”
—
You walk into the self-defense studio expecting pastel pink.
You do not expect powder pink.
Celeste stands near the front like she’s posing for a catalog spread in matching set, matching scrunchie, and matching smug expression. You inhale through your nose.
Jason glances at you. “…That’s not baby pink?”
“No,” you say darkly. “It’s worse.”
Jason’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile, but you ignore it, adjusting the sleeves of the hoodie he gave you. You feel grounded in it. Steady. Not losing this one.
The instructor claps for everyone to pair up.
Jason, traitor to your peace, lifts a hand and waves Celeste and Chad over.
You whip your head toward him. Really?
He just gives you a quiet, steady look that says trust me.
You exhale through your teeth. Fine.
Celeste practically skips to your side. “Oh my gosh, this is perfect,” she beams. “We can practice together! I always say, it’s so important to surround yourself with couples who inspire you.”
“…Right,” you say politely, already wishing for the sweet release of unconsciousness.
Chad stands behind her, tall and stiff and wearing a shirt that says NO PAIN NO GAIN like it’s still 2010.
Jason shakes his hand. “Hey.”
“Bro,” Chad says, giving him a solid nod. “Let’s crush this.”
Jason glances at you again. You can practically hear him thinking: I’m sorry in advance.
The lesson starts simple: basic stances, balance, leverage. The instructor demonstrates a wrist escape, then gestures for everyone to try with their partner.
You turn to Jason.
He’s already looking at you.
Not intimidating. Not smug. Just… there. Steady. Present. Like he’s already in “protective but pretending not to be” mode.
“Okay,” you murmur, lifting your hand for him to grab.
Jason hesitates. “You sure?”
You snort. “What, afraid you’ll break me?”
His eyes flicker, half offended, half amused. “I’m afraid if I sneeze too hard you’ll go flying.”
“Jason.”
He gives in, fingers wrapping gently (too gently) around your wrist.
“You can actually hold me,” you say. “I won’t shatter.”
He exhales, adjusts his grip with just enough pressure to feel secure.
“Better?”
“…Yes,” you lie, because your pulse has skyrocketed and you’re definitely not normal about it.
The instructor calls, “Escape on my count: three, two, one!”
You twist your wrist the way you were shown.
Except Jason lets go the instant you move, stepping back like the goal is not to win but to avoid risking you taking a single ounce of force.
“Jason.”
“What? You escaped. Great job,” he deadpans.
You squint up at him. “You’re supposed to resist.”
“I did.”
“You let go like I’m defusing a bomb.”
“You kind of are.”
Next: defensive hold reversal.
This one requires you to pin him.
You place your hands on his arm, bracing your stance. “Okay. Now resist.”
He raises a brow. “If I resist, this won’t work.”
“Are you calling me weak?”
“I’m calling me heavy.”
“Jason.”
Jason just shrugs, all innocent and compliant, and lowers himself to the mat on one knee.
You place your hands on his shoulders.
He is solid. Like the ground. Or a bank vault. Or a mythological creature sculpted entirely of warm granite.
You apply pressure.
Jason goes down instantly.
He’s flat on his back before you even finish the motion.
You blink. “Jason.”
He looks up, dead serious. “Yeah?”
“That wasn’t resisting.”
Jason sits up, sputtering. “I was giving you room to practice!”
“That wasn’t practice! that was you becoming the world’s largest decorative pillow.”
He stares at you like he can’t decide whether to laugh or die. “Fine. I’ll actually resist. A little.”
“Thank you.”
You reposition yourself. Hands on his shoulders again. Steady. Determined.
“Ready?” you say.
“Yep.”
“Resist.”
He does.
Instantly, you discover that Jason Todd’s definition of “a little” is God-tier nightmare strength.
He doesn’t move. Not an inch.
He becomes one with the earth. A man-shaped monument. A cryptid carved from immovable stone.
You push harder. Nothing.
You try a different angle. Nothing.
You dig your heels into the mat and put your whole back into it.
JASON TODD. DOES. NOT. BUDGE.
“Jason,” you whisper, “you can move a little.”
“You said not to.”
“Jason.”
“I respect your instructions.”
“JASON.”
He stares at the ceiling, completely stiff, like he’s auditioning to be a cadaver in a medical textbook.
You sigh, push harder, your hands slide down his arm, trying for leverage, and Jason gasps dramatically.
“Ah—oh no—I’m going down—”
You freeze. “Are you mocking me?”
He keeps going, monotone, like the world’s worst actor.
“You are so strong. I cannot resist your might. I am overwhelmed.”
You drop your forehead onto his head in despair. “Jason. Be serious.”
“I am serious,” he insists, still utterly limp on the floor. “Look, you’re pinning me.”
“Jason, PLEASE—”
He lifts one eyebrow. “Do I increase or decrease?”
“Decrease! DECREASE!”
He immediately swoons backward in the most exaggerated, dramatic, limp collapse imaginable.
“Oh no,” he says, monotone. “I have fallen. My strong, powerful soulmate has bested me.”
You slap a hand over your face. “You are doing this on purpose.”
Meanwhile, Celeste narrates her own existence.
“Chad just picks things up so naturally,” she says as he fumbles through a grip. “He’s like, gifted, you know?”
Chad responds by nearly elbowing himself in the face.
Jason stays perfectly polite. You do not know how.
Then the instructor claps his hands. “Alright! We need two volunteers to demonstrate controlled sparring.”
Before you can blink, Celeste pushes Chad forward with both hands. “Baby, go! Show them what you’ve learned!”
Chad stumbles, then flashes a grin like he’s entering the Olympics.
Jason shifts next to you, expression neutral.
No, you think instantly. Do not. Don’t you dare—
He raises his hand.
“Yeah,” he says. “I can go.”
Celeste squeals and bounces toward you. “This is sooooo exciting!! Chad is soooo strong. Like, soooo strong. Did you know he took three weeks of jiu jitsu?”
You stare at her, blank. “Fascinating.”
Jason steps into the center mat opposite Chad.
You exhale, bracing. Yes, Jason can win. Jason can win in his sleep. Jason could win while eating a sandwich. Jason could win while reading the sandwich its rights. But Jason also has control, and he knows it.
You fold your arms tight, heart pounding.
The instructor gives the signal.
Chad lunges first, loud and messy.
Jason moves like water.
A sidestep. A shift of weight. A subtle redirection that lets Chad’s own momentum betray him. Then—
A single precise jab to a pressure point.
Cass taught him that one. The move that doesn’t hurt but turns a man’s knees into warm pudding.
Chad’s face does a brief, confused contortion.
And then he collapses.
Not gracefully. Not even with dignity.
He drops like a marionette whose strings were cut, sprawled on the mat in complete bafflement, blinking at the ceiling like it personally attacked him.
The class gasps.
The instructor raises his brows, impressed. “Effective technique, Jason. Controlled. Clean.”
Jason nods respectfully and steps back.
You try to stay composed.
You fail.
Spectacularly.
You swallow hard, your pulse embarrassingly loud in your ears. He looks over at you, checking your reaction, a hint of uncertainty flickering across his face like he’s worried he went too far.
But you’re not horrified.
Unfortunately, you’re extremely into it.
Celeste runs past you to help Chad sit up. “Oh my god, baby! Are you okay?? That was soooo unlucky!”
Jason winces a little, softening his stance. “He’ll be fine. Just needs a minute.”
Chad gives a weak thumbs-up from the floor.
The instructor dismisses the sparring demo, and the class breaks into applause. Actual applause.
Jason rubs the back of his neck, trying to disappear again. He can’t. Everyone saw.
You step toward him, voice low. “That was… controlled,” you say, because you can’t say unfairly attractive in public.
He huffs a tiny laugh, eyes dropping. “Didn’t want to hurt him.”
And that’s the moment you decide:
Jason Todd has never been hotter.
The scoreboard in your mind updates.
Celeste: 2
You: 2
–
By the time class ends, the sun is dipping low enough to stain the windows gold. Everyone is sweaty, slightly bruised, and riding the strange high of mandatory couple-building exercises. The scoreboard in your head reads: you 2, Celeste 2, which is frankly unacceptable. Jason, on the other hand, looks like he just completed a serene yoga retreat instead of a sparring session.
He slings his bag over one shoulder and nudges you gently.
“Ready for the next thing?”
“Parenting?” you say. “Sure. How hard can it—”
You stop.
Because the classroom you step into looks like someone crossbred a hospital nursery with a consumer electronics store. The overhead lights flicker across rows and rows and rows of robot babies. Dozens of them. Plastic skin, blinking eyes, each tucked into a little cot with a serial number.
Jason goes still beside you.
“…No,” he says.
“Yes,” the instructor says cheerfully.
“No,” Jason repeats, louder this time.
“Yes,” the instructor says again, handing you a clipboard. “Welcome to Module 4: Applied Bonding and Cooperative Care. Each pair will be responsible for maintaining the wellbeing of one Unit-Infant for the duration of the night cycle.”
A robot baby beside you stares right into your soul.
Jason flinches like it pulled a knife.
Celeste materializes at your elbow, glowing with delight. “Oh my god, this is so cute! Chadwick, look, we got a boy!”
Chad holds up their robot like it’s a football trophy. “Little guy looks like he could bench press.”
Your turn at the distribution table comes. The instructor presents a pink-capped baby unit with an unsettlingly realistic face.
“A girl, for you two.”
You and Jason both nod politely, but your soul leaves your body the moment she is placed in his arms.
“You’ll turn the unit on at 9pm to activate monitoring,” the instructor continues. “The software tracks feeding, changing, soothing, sleep cycles, and environmental conditions. Any mishandling will register as damage.”
You glance sideways.
Jason is holding the robot like it’s live ammunition and emotional kryptonite at the same time. His biceps are locked, shoulders tense, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting for it to detonate.
“She copies real-baby patterns,” the instructor adds. “Some cry a lot. Some barely sleep. Good luck.”
Celeste beams. “We are so ready for this.”
You smile sweetly back at her while imagining yourself shoving their robot into a compost bin.
The instructor hands out the final sheet. “Units will activate at 2100 hours. Bring them back tomorrow at 0930. Scores will be posted after evaluation.”
Celeste waves her perfect manicure. “See you two bright and early!”
Chad salutes Jason like they’re in a military drama.
Jason just stares at the robot girl in his arms and murmurs, horrified, “She blinked.”
You place a hand on his sleeve, trying not to laugh.
“It’s fine. How bad can one little robot baby be?”
—
Your door clicks shut behind you as Jason shoulders it closed, wheeling the absurdly fancy bassinet the retreat gave you. For a government program, they really splurged on the accessories. Probably to distract from the fact that the actual baby is a blinking piece of Bluetooth-enabled chaos.
You’ve got her bundled against in your arms, tiny plastic head wobbling like she’s learning gravity for the first time.
“She’s… heavy,” you say, adjusting her.
“That’s because she’s glaring at me,” Jason mutters as he locks the door. “I can feel it.”
“She does not glare. She doesn’t even have emotions.”
“…Okay,” you concede, “maybe she has vibes.”
Jason sighs and flips open the monitor unit. “Nine o’clock activation window, right?”
“Yep. Just press—”
The baby makes a small booting-up chime.
“—that,” you finish weakly.
Instantly, she opens her eyes and lifts her little plastic arms toward you like she’s demanding tribute.
Jason’s eyes widen. “Nope. No. That’s too realistic. I didn’t sign up for—”
“She’s cute!”
“She’s haunting.”
You carry her to the couch and Jason drops onto it beside you, shoulders stiff. He looks like a man facing judgment.
“Okay,” you say brightly, “name time.”
“Oh god.”
“Clementine!” you announce. “We can call her Clemmie.”
Jason blinks. “That feels like naming a landmine something precious so you don’t fear it.”
“…Thank you?”
“Hows Glockina.”
You stare at him.
He shrugs. “Just brainstorming.”
“Valentine?” You say
“AK-47,” he counters.
You shove his shoulder. “You can’t name a baby AK-47.”
“It’s aspirational.”
You clutch the robot like she’s shielding you from his nonsense. “We are not naming her after a firearm.”
Jason leans back, arms folded, pretending to think deeply. “Bowie. Like the knife.”
“No.”
He snaps his fingers. “Claymore.”
“JASON.”
You take a breath, patting the robot’s soft synthetic hair.
“…Grenadine.”
Jason pauses.
Slowly, a grin spreads across his face. “Grenadine.”
“It’s cute!”
“That’s adorable,” he says, picking up the baby and holding her up like Simba. “Grenade for short.”
Before you can scold him, his thumb shifts to a button and the robot coos, then her internal speaker chirps: NAME REGISTERED: GRENADE.
You freeze.
Jason freezes.
The robot baby wiggles happily, like she’s thrilled to join a paramilitary unit.
“…Did you push the confirm button?” you whisper.
Jason turns the baby around, frowns. “No. I didn’t even touch—”
Grenade squeals again. The name is locked in. Irreversible.
You bury your face in your hands. “She’s going to be traumatized.”
“She’s a robot.”
“She deserves better!”
“She’s named after an explosive. Honestly, she’s thriving in her identity.”
Grenade coos again.
Jason beams proudly at her, which is deeply concerning.
“I can’t believe our baby is named Grenade,” you groan.
“I can.”
You lean back on the couch, exhausted already, and Jason nudges a shoulder against yours gently. Grenade sits in your lap between you both, blinking up at you with robotic innocence and the soul of a tiny war criminal.
Jason sighs contentedly.
“Yeah,” he says. “This is going to go great.”
—
For the first hour, Grenade is… perfect.
Suspiciously perfect.
She blinks her little animatronic lashes. She coos. She wiggles. She raises her arms whenever one of you walks by, like a tiny plastic empress demanding immediate elevation.
And somehow you and Jason fall into a rhythm like you’ve been doing this for years.
“Bottle?” Jason asks, checking the schedule.
“Already warming,” you say, shaking the little silicone container under the tap until the water hits the exact temperature listed in the manual. “She likes it slightly warm, not hot.”
He lifts a brow. “She likes things?”
“I can tell.”
Grenade burbles.
Jason narrows his eyes. “…Okay, maybe she does.”
Feeding goes shockingly well. Grenade’s little mouth latches with a soft clicking noise; her eyes flutter; her internal circuits emit a gentle hum. Jason watches her like he’s witnessing a miracle unfold.
The first time she squeaks and her diaper icon flashes on the monitor, you both freeze.
Then Jason grabs the kit with military efficiency while you carry Grenade to the changing table like she’s a live explosive.
You open the diaper.
There is goop.
Unidentified. Brown-ish. Textured.
Jason recoils. “That is a war crime.”
“She’s a BABY, Jason.”
“That’s NOT baby output. That’s biohazard. That’s.. why is it steaming?!”
“It’s not steaming!”
Grenade giggles.
You both stare at her.
Jason points accusingly. “She knows exactly what she’s doing.”
Still, together, you manage it. Wipes. New diaper. Swaddle. A little pat on the back. Jason, who insisted he would never be good at this, folds the blanket with surgeon-level precision until Grenade looks like a burrito at peace with the universe.
You put her on your chest. She sighs against your shoulder.
Jason’s entire face softens like butter under a heat lamp.
“…She likes you,” he says quietly.
“She likes you too,” you answer.
He looks down at Grenade. She wiggles her little aluminum fingers at him.
Jason melts.
After your shower, Jason takes his. You switch off without needing to speak, one of you bouncing Grenade up and down while the other disappears behind the bathroom door, steam trailing out when they return. By the time Jason comes back, hair damp and jaw shadowed, he finds you on the couch with Grenade resting on your knees, legs pedaling lazily through the air.
Jason stops in his tracks.
You look up.
Something goes warm and still between you.
“…Movie time?” you ask softly.
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Movie time.”
You put on something simple, light, background noise, familiar enough to be comforting. The volume stays low because every time Grenade hears a sudden noise she flinches like a startled squirrel.
The baby bag sits open at your feet. Bottles ready. Diapers stacked. Swaddles folded. The two of you operate like a tiny, drowsy, shockingly competent unit.
Grenade becomes fussy halfway through the movie, so Jason scoops her up and starts doing a slow, rhythmic bounce. The kind that looks instinctive. Natural. The kind you didn’t know he had in him, but he does effortlessly.
Her head rests against his chest.
Her wiggling slows.
Her little animatronic chest rises and falls with quiet whirrs.
Jason glances down at her, then at you.
“She’s falling asleep,” he whispers.
“Because you’re good at this.”
He chuckles under his breath. “I doubt that.”
Grenade finally powers down into sleep mode.
Her eyelids flutter shut, a soft whirr leaving her chest, and the little green indicator light on her swaddle shifts to a steady glow. Jason lowers her into the bassinet like he’s handling a live bomb that happens to coo.
You both stand there for a moment.
Silent.
Traumatized.
Victorious.
Then you exhale and whisper, “Bed?”
Jason glances at the single mattress like it personally offends his moral code. “Yeah. Uh. Bed.”
You circle around opposite sides, trying not to look as awkward as you feel. He clicks off the bathroom light. You turn on the fan. You set a glass of water for him on the nightstand.
You slide under the covers first, trying to look normal about it, failing miserably. Jason hesitates before lifting the blanket and easing in next to you. The mattress dips under his weight. Heat rolls off him immediately, warm and steady, and he lies on his back like a soldier at attention.
You stare at the ceiling.
He stares at the ceiling.
“Comfortable?” you ask.
“Very,” he lies.
A beat.
Then, softly, “You can relax, Jason. I promise I don’t bite.”
“My mistake,” he murmurs, turning his head just enough to look at you, “I thought I was the one you were afraid of.”
The air shifts, slow, electric, aware.
You turn toward him without meaning to. He mirrors you. Your knees bump under the covers. Neither of you move away.
This is fine. This is normal. Soulmates sharing a bed. Totally fine.
You say, “Thanks for today.”
He says, low, “Thanks for letting me beat the shit out of Chad.”
Your cheeks heat.
You bite your lip.
Jason watches the motion like he’s memorizing it.
Slowly you slip your calf forward until it brushes against his leg. Just a light touch, a test, a question.
Jason inhales.
Not sharply.
Not startled.
More like he’s been waiting for that contact without knowing it.
His hand lifts.
Hovers.
Then, with reverence, he brings his fingers to the side of your cheek, brushing lightly, barely there, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches too much.
Your breath catches.
His thumb grazes your cheekbone. Your forehead almost bumps his. Your noses are close your lips a hesitant inch apart.
There’s no rush.
No panic.
Just a quiet, inevitable gravity pulling you toward him.
You tilt your chin.
Your lips brush.
The universe chooses violence.
Grenade lets out a shriek that could wake the dead.
You both jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.
Jason’s hand flies off your face. Your calf yanks back. The mattress trembles as you bolt upright, hair skewed, heart pounding.
“Why now,” Jason groans under his breath, rubbing his eyes like a man betrayed. “What did I do to deserve this.”
You’re already scrambling out of bed, fumbling for the bassinet. “She was asleep. She was literally asleep. She was in REM, Jason.”
Grenade wails louder, thrashing her arms.
Jason swings his legs out of bed too fast, stubbing his toe on the nightstand. “Look alive, soldier. We’re back in the trenches.”
You scoop Grenade up. She screams in your ear. “She hates us,” you gasp. “She hates love.”
The next three hours are… hell.
No poetic metaphor. No exaggeration.
Just HELL.
Grenade screams like someone poured battery acid into her tiny animatronic soul. Nothing helps. Not feeding. Not changing. Not rocking. Not pleading with the gods.
Jason is pacing the room like a soldier in a war documentary, bouncing the robot against his chest in a steady rhythm that absolutely should work and absolutely does not.
“Please,” he mutters into her plastic scalp, “please, small demon, I am begging you. I will give you anything. I will buy you a pony. A jet. An actual grendade. Just stop.”
Grenade shrieks harder.
You are in the bathroom heating a bottle like it’s a bomb you need to defuse, yelling over the noise: “IS SHE OVERHEATING?? IS SHE HUNGRY?? IS SHE TESTING US??”
“She’s possessed,” Jason yells back. “She’s possessed by Satan.”
At one point, you both try singing lullabies.
She screams louder.
“Listen,” Jason whispers, forehead pressed to her round plastic head, “you don’t even need real food. You run on Wi-Fi.”
You try to change her diaper again. It’s clean.
You try feeding her again. She pushes the bottle away and wails harder.
You try burping her again. Nothing.
Jason stops moving. “She’s doing this on purpose.”
“She’s a robot, Jason.”
“She’s doing this on purpose.”
Then, disaster part two.
Jason is playing soft music for Grenade when his phone buzzes with a low-battery warning. He grimaces.
“Shit. I need my charger. It’s in the bag.”
“Okay, I’ll get it.”
You unzip the duffel and freeze.
“…Jason.”
“Yeah?”
“There is a gun in here.”
Jason doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I know.”
“WHY IS THERE A GUN IN HERE.”
“ I’m the Red Hood.”
“You’re not the Red Hood here.”
“Well, I brought the helmet too, if that helps.”
“It does NOT help!”
Jason shrugs helplessly while jostling Grenade, who is screaming directly into his aorta. “I told you I pack for every scenario.”
You stare at the bag. “Did you bring… anything normal?”
“…My toothbrush?”
“Oh my god.”
But eventually after hours of misery, Grenade’s cries taper off. Her little silicone cheeks stop moving. Her limbs settle. She makes a tiny, contented coo.
Jason stops moving like he’s afraid one breath will restart the apocalypse.
“Don’t… don’t even look at her,” he whispers.
You place the bottle down like it's nitroglycerin. “Don’t breathe on her.”
Then, a miracle, she enters “content play mode,” which is just her sitting in your lap and waving her hands while emitting tiny chimes.
You and Jason collapse onto the couch like corpses.
You lean your head back. Jason sits beside you, legs sprawled, looking like he’s aged twelve years in one night.
“I can’t believe this is our lives now,” you croak.
Jason laughs a broken, exhausted, incredulous sound. “We’re not even real parents. We’re— we’re beta testers.”
Grenade reaches for Jason’s hoodie string.
He hands it to her automatically, like a dad too tired to resist.
“Sleep,” he murmurs, nudging your knee with his. “I’ve got her. Just… close your eyes for a bit.”
“You sure?”
He nods, leaning back, adjusting Grenade onto his chest. “Yeah. Go ahead. She likes the music. I’ll keep it playing. Just… sleep.”
And for once, for the first time since the robot descended into madness, Grenade does not scream.
Jason exhales.
You’re out within minutes.
Not gracefully, either, you slump sideways, cheek smushed against the couch cushion, mouth parted in an exhausted little “mmf.” Jason glances over, makes sure you’re truly gone, then lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for years.
Grenade is still lying on him, tiny mechanical fingers curled in the fabric of his hoodie. Her little animatronic head wobbles once… twice… then nestles in, right over his heart.
Jason freezes.
He has been shot. Stabbed. Blown up. Thrown off buildings.
None of that hits him as hard as a robot baby nuzzling into him like he’s the safest place in the world.
“…oh no,” he whispers.
Grenade lets out a tiny coo.
Jason looks down at her like she’s rewriting his entire personality.
Against all logic, instinct takes over and his hand moves to support her back, thumb brushing the soft plastic. She responds with a happy chirp.
And Jason Todd: Crime Alley menace, resurrected vigilante, certified emotionally constipated adult, melts.
Like butter.
“Oh, I’m losing my mind,” he murmurs, head tipping back against the couch. “This isn’t even real. You’re not even real.”
Grenade wiggles.
He sighs. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You’re still cute.”
He’s quiet for a moment, just breathing, letting the exhaustion settle into his bones. The room is dim. Soft. Warm. You’re asleep beside him. Grenade is snoozing on his chest like the world's tiniest weighted blanket.
And without meaning to he whispers:
“I’ve never wanted this before.”
Grenade’s LED irises glow faintly in the dark.
Jason swallows hard, voice barely audible.
“Not kids. Not a family. Not… anything like this. It always felt too far away. Too dangerous. Too much like a life I couldn’t have.”
His hand rests lightly on Grenade’s back.
“But now?” His voice cracks in the smallest way. “Now I’m scared that I do.”
Grenade makes a tiny hiccupping sound.
Jason huffs a quiet laugh and taps her nose. “You have her nose, you know that?”
He immediately stiffens.
Oh my god.
He just said that.
Out loud.
To the robot.
He covers his eyes with one hand. “Okay. Nope. Completely gone. I’ve fully lost it.”
Grenade beeps cheerfully, unaware she has just witnessed a man’s entire emotional arc.
Suddenly she lets out a louder chirp, not a cry, just a loud enough noise to startle.
You shoot upright instantly, hair wild, eyes half-closed. “Huh?? Is she— is she crying?? Is she hungry?? Did she explode??”
Jason barks out a laugh before he can stop himself. “No, no. She’s fine. Just… keeping us on our toes.”
You blink at him, still half asleep, then slump sideways until your head lands on his shoulder.
You peer down at Grenade, who looks back with blank animatronic serenity.
“Yeah,” you mumble, “okay…”
Jason adjusts his arm so you can lean comfortably and murmurs, “Go back to sleep, angel. I’ve got her.”
Your eyes flutter. “Promise?”
He looks down at you then at the robot bundled on his chest.
Something inside him settles.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I promise.”
–
Somewhere between four and five in the morning, the two of you stop fighting sleep and gravity altogether. You end up half-curled against Jason on the couch, legs tangled under a blanket, Grenade cradled between you like the world’s most demanding therapy pet.
Jason is the first to stir when Grenade gives a soft, hungry beep.
He groans but sits up anyway. “Alright, alright. Daddy’s coming.”
You blink awake, face squished against his bicep. “You just called yourself Daddy.”
“I’m delirious,” he mutters, already grabbing the bottle. “Don’t speak to me.”
But he’s gentle as he lifts Grenade, settling her in the crook of one arm while he feeds her with the other. He even tilts the bottle the exact way the instructor demonstrated. He even checks the temperature on his wrist first.
You shift up against his shoulder, cheek pressing close to his jaw. “You’re really good at that.”
“Don’t say things that make my brain emotional,” he grumbles, but his voice betrays him.
Grenade slurps at the bottle like a champ.
You giggle. “She eats like you.”
Jason gives you a look that is 80% judgment, 20% fondness. “She’s a robot.”
“She still inherited your death stare.”
“Oh my god.”
You lean closer anyway, head dropping onto his shoulder again, and together you watch Grenade’s little plastic mouth work as if she’s drinking the holy nectar of life instead of lukewarm sink water.
Somewhere in the timeline of the universe, you became parents.
Sleep-deprived. Delirious. Possibly hallucinating from exhaustion.
But parents.
Jason glances at you. You’re blinking slowly, trying to stay awake, cheek warm against his shoulder.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod, eyes half-lidded. “We’re really good at this.”
And Jason, who once swore he’d never want this, who once couldn’t picture the future long enough to imagine a family, lets out a small, helpless laugh.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, we are.”
Grenade finishes her bottle with a triumphant click.
Jason pats her back like a veteran father. “Good job, kiddo.”
She emits a pleasant chime.
You coo. “She’s so cute.”
“We’re insane,” Jason replies.
“Whatever. She’s adorable.”
Grenade cuddles into Jason’s chest again. You both melt like two idiots.
Just as you’re settling back into the couch, drifting in and out of consciousness…
A beep.
A faint mechanical rising hum.
Jason tenses. “Uh—”
Grenade’s LED eyes flash bright white.
Then her head snaps upright.
Then, in the deepest, most unsettling robot-man voice known to science, she announces:
“SIMULATION COMPLETED. RETURN TO CHECKPOINT BY ZERO NINE THREE ZERO HOURS.”
You scream.
Jason flinches so hard he nearly launches her across the room.
“What the—WHY DOES SHE SOUND LIKE A NAVY SEAL—”
Grenade repeats, louder:
“ZERO NINE THREE ZERO HOURS. ZERO NINE THREE ZERO HOURS.”
You grip Jason’s arm. “TURN HER OFF.”
“I CAN’T FIND THE BUTTON—”
“SHE’S POSSESSED—”
“THIS IS WHY WE DON’T HAVE NICE THINGS—”
Finally Jason locates the toggle and flips it. Grenade goes limp instantly, arms dangling like she’s been exorcised.
Silence.
You and Jason stare at her corpse-like robot form.
Then at each other.
Then burst into laughter so exhausted and deranged it borders on medical emergency.
Jason drops back onto the couch, running a hand down his face. “We survived the night.”
You flop against his shoulder. “We survived… her.”
He tilts his head toward you, voice low and warm. “Teamwork.”
Grenade lies there in the bassinet.
Limp. Silent. LED eyes dark.
The room is quiet for the first time in ten hours.
Jason leans back against the couch, staring at her motionless plastic body with an expression halfway between trauma and mourning.
You sniff.
Once.
Jason side-eyes you. “…Are you crying?”
“No,” you lie immediately, wiping your cheek. “My allergies are just emotional.”
Jason looks back at the bassinet.
He blinks rapidly.
You gasp. “ARE YOU crying?”
“No,” he snaps, voice cracking like a dropped plate. “Shut up.”
You both stare at her.
You both stare at her.
The tiniest whirr still echoes in the room from her shutdown sequence, like the ghost of your child haunting you.
“She was… really cute,” you mumble, wiping another not-tear away.
Jason’s jaw flexes. “She was annoying as hell.”
“But cute.”
“…Yeah,” he admits softly. “She was cute.”
Silence.
Heavy, reflective, unreasonable silence.
You sniff again. “I miss her.”
Jason stares at the floor, shoulders sinking. “Don’t say it.”
“What?”
“I—” He breathes out slowly, defeated. “I miss her too.”
Your eyes widen.
His ears go pink.
You whisper, horrified at yourselves, “…We are SICK in the head.”
Jason puts his face in his hands. “We’re unwell. We’re actually unwell.”
“She was a good baby.”
Jason nods, equally solemn. “The best. She fought… so hard.”
You choke on a laugh-sob combo. “Jason, she literally tried to kill us.”
“She had spirit,” he murmurs.
You lean into him just a little.
He doesn’t pull away.
Together, you stare at your deactivated fake child with the reverence of two war veterans remembering fallen comrades.
Jason whispers, “Rest easy, grenade.”
—
Celeste and Chad look immaculate.
Of course they do.
Celeste waves at you with a perfectly manicured hand. “Hi, sweetie!” she coos. “Omigod, we slept so well. Our little guy didn’t cry at all.”
Chad drapes an arm around her like an overconfident realtor. “We actually feel refreshed,” he says. “Probably because we’re just naturally good with kids.”
You smile back cause otherwise you’d stab them. Jason, behind you, adjusts Grenade in his arms like he’s shielding her from bad vibes.
“Good for you,” he says, voice perfectly flat.
Everyone hands their robots over. Grenade is packed away in a little box, and you swear Jason glances back once, like he’s leaving a beloved pet at the vet.
The instructors disappear to examine the recordings.
The room buzzes.
Celeste keeps going. “Honestly,” she says to no one, but loud enough for everyone, “I don’t know why people complain about these things. Ours slept straight through. I guess some couples just aren’t fit for parenthood.”
You inhale sharply.
Jason inhales sharply too, except his inhale sounds like prepping to commit a misdemeanor.
“Hey,” you whisper, elbowing him. “Not here.”
He mutters, “She drowned their baby, I’m sure of it.”
“You can’t drown a robot.”
Jason gives you a look like watch her.
Before you can respond, the instructors re-enter the room carrying clipboards.
“Results are ready!”
Everyone turns. The leaderboard is projected on the wall.
Your eyes shoot straight to the names.
You and Jason: HIGH PASS
Jason exhales in relief. He turns toward you with this tiny, lopsided smile you’re both pretending means nothing.
But then—
Something’s off.
Celeste and Chad are not listed.
Nowhere.
You hear Celeste’s saccharine voice behind you. “Um, excuse me? I think there’s been a mistake?”
The lead instructor clears her throat. “Actually… no. We found one robot with significant water damage.”
The room goes silent.
“Upon reviewing the internal recordings,” the instructor continues, “we confirmed the robot had been placed, multiple times, under running water in a bathtub.”
Every head slowly swivels toward Celeste.
Celeste’s smile twitches. “It WOULD NOT STOP CRYING,” she screeches suddenly, composure obliterated. “WHAT DID YOU WANT ME TO DO?”
Chad puts a hand on her shoulder. She shrugs it off like a feral cat.
You cover your mouth to keep from laughing. Jason doesn’t even try. He lets out a low, viciously satisfied snort.
The instructor continues reading from the clipboard. “Given the severity of the infraction, the couple responsible will not receive credit and will need to retake the course. Additionally, they will be scheduled for a psychological screening before resubmission.”
Celeste’s jaw drops.
Chad says, “Babe… you drowned it?”
She whirls on him. “YOU SAID A LITTLE WATER WOULDN’T HURT—”
“I said WARM A BOTTLE, CELESTE—”
The instructor claps her hands. “Congratulations to all passing couples!”
Jason leans down and murmurs near your ear, “We won.”
You turn to him. His eyes are shining, exhausted but bright.
“Of course we did,” you whisper back. “Grenade believed in us.”
He bites down a smile.
Breakfast happens in a haze of victory and sleepless delirium.
You’re both leaning into each other unconsciously with shoulders brushing, knees bumping under the table. Every time you tilt your mug toward Jason and he takes a sip absentmindedly, both of you freeze for a microsecond before flushing and carrying on.
Your hands brush reaching for the same fruit bowl.
Neither of you move away.
It’s peaceful. Warm. Easy.
The hostility of yesterday dissolves into laughter and shared sighs.
For once, nobody feels like a test.
After breakfast, the retreat leaders announce a few optional activities for couples who earned their credit early.
With a few hours before the train back, You and Jason choose to walk into the tiny town nearby.
It’s absurdly picturesque, cobblestones, brick shops, the kind of place where every storefront looks like it sells very seasonal jams.
Jason holds your hand halfway down the street before either of you notice.
When you do notice… neither of you let go.
At the bookstore, Jason wanders between shelves like a kid in a candy shop, grabbing a stack of classics with reverent fingers and then, shyly, a couple of self-development books.
He nudges your shoulder lightly. “Grenade changed me.”
You burst out laughing.
A little later, you pass a jewelry vendor with bracelets laid out in neat rows. You pick one with soft lilac beads, simple and clean.
Jason watches you fasten it around your wrist with an expression you can’t quite read, warm and quiet and a little undone.
“Looks good on you,” he murmurs.
You don’t answer because your heart is doing something embarrassing.
–
Packing feels different this time.
Jason tosses you your charger; you catch it. You hand him his hoodie; he shrugs into it. The bracelet on your wrist glints in the late morning light, and every time Jason’s eyes flick to it with something soft and private.
Grenade’s bassinet is gone, but her absence lingers like a third presence in the room.
“We should write her a eulogy,” you say, stuffing your toiletries into your bag.
Jason zips his duffel. “She’s not dead.”
You lift a brow. “Emotionally, she is.”
He pauses, thinking. “Yeah, okay. Fair.”
You turn to grab your coat and nearly bump into him. He steadies you with a hand on your waist—easy, natural, warm—and neither of you jump or freeze or pretend it didn’t happen. His thumb brushes lightly where the fabric dips, just a fraction, just enough to make your heart hiccup.
“You ready?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah. You?”
He looks around the room like he’s checking for threats, or memories, or both. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Let’s go.”
He walks beside you down the hall, his knuckles brushing yours every few steps like an unconscious Morse code. You swear he does it more once he notices you’re not pulling away.
By the time you reach the shuttle stop, his hand finds yours completely. No hesitation. No awkwardness.
The bus ride to the station is quiet, peaceful, almost meditative. Snow melts in streaks along the window. Your bracelet catches the sunlight again, lilac beads glowing. Jason nudges it gently with his thumb, pretending he’s adjusting your sleeve. You pretend not to notice the way he looks at it like it’s a secret he isn’t ready to say out loud.
At the station, the crowd is the usual blur of commuters and weekend travelers. Jason stays close, subtly boxing you in from elbows, backpacks, and rushing strangers. By now you’re used to it. You don’t even tease him about it.
The train boards. Jason lifts your bag onto the overhead rack even though you absolutely could have done it. When he sits next to you, his arm brushes yours, and he doesn’t bother pretending it was accidental.
Once the train pulls out of the station, you expect him to settle into faux-sleep again, that soldier-still posture he defaults to, but he doesn’t. His eyes stay open. His body stays angled toward you.
You talk about everything and nothing—the terrible chili from the cafeteria, the nature walk fiasco, Grenade’s tiny war crimes, how Celeste is probably on a government watchlist now. Jason laughs more than he talks, but when he does talk, it’s honest, thoughtful, unguarded in a way that feels like a privilege.
Sometimes his knee bumps yours. Sometimes your shoulder leans into his. Sometimes the bracelet catches his eye and he goes quiet for half a second like the sight of it short-circuits him.
Halfway through the ride, you fall silent, watching the snow blur past the window.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You nod, then tilt your head at him. “You?”
Jason studies you for a long moment—your expression, the way you’re curled slightly toward him, the bracelet he hasn’t stopped looking at.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Better than okay.”
Your chest warms. Slowly, deliberately, you rest your head against his shoulder. Not pretending to sleep. Not pretending to be tired. Just… leaning. The snow keeps falling. The train hums beneath you. The bracelet at your wrist glints once more in the winter light, and Jason’s thumb brushes it gently, like a quiet promise he hasn’t found the words for yet.
You lift your hand and lace your fingers through his.
This time, he doesn’t hesitate at all.
---
a/n: holy shit she (me) lives!! life update. I survived the holidays. I have started school again. I need a job handed to me in 6 business weeks or else i am going to be a danger to this world because i am so not graduating without a full time offer. I am also going to be an aunt this week yay. hopefully i will be that cool hot aunt the kid wants to be like in the future.
---
taglist: THE TAGLIST IS NOW CLOSED (cause i am bad at it and its not working). to stay updated with the story follow: #goblin-writes
summary: in which you and jason realize you have nothing in common and decide that sounds like a great date
wc: 7.1k
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Questions used:
#11: What would constitute a “perfect” day for you?
#18: Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.
---
The door swings open without warning and Jason steps inside with a groan that sounds like it came from somewhere below the earth’s crust.
He looks wrecked in the way only post-patrol exhaustion can wreck him. Hair rumpled. Slight limp. A duffel slung over one shoulder like he wrestled it in an alley (which, knowing him, he did). And in his hands is a cardboard box taped by someone who clearly hates tape.
You blink once. “Hi?”
He doesn’t answer. Not verbally, anyway. He pushes the door shut with his boot and moves through your entryway on muscle memory alone.
It hits you, weirdly warm, how practiced it is.
Jacket: off, one-handed, hung neatly on the hook beside yours.
Boots: toe-flicked, then nudged into the rack until they line up with embarrassing precision.
Keys: dropped into your ceramic bowl without even looking.
Like this is his place.
Like he belongs here.
He probably doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.
You do.
The box thumps onto your coffee table. Jason follows it, collapsing face-down into the couch cushions with a noise that might be English in another lifetime.
“Hi to you too,” you tease.
He makes a noise into the pillow that might be “hello,” might be “kill me,” or might be his soul leaving his body. Hard to say with him sometimes.
You hover over the box, curious. “What’s this?”
“Your stuff,” he mutters into the pillow. “From your old place. Insurance delivered it to the lobby. I grabbed it.”
Your chest does that stupid warm flutter again. “You didn’t have to—”
“Too late,” he grumbles. “Return policy on my good deeds expired.”
You grin, already peeling open the flaps. Inside is a small archaeological dig of your former life, mugs you forgot you owned, a chipped candle holder, a tangled charger, a photo strip from some event you left early because Gotham.
“Oh my god.”
Jason doesn’t lift his head. “What now.”
“LOOK.” You yank out the battered, aggressively pink teen magazine like it’s contraband.
He squints. “…Why does that look familiar?”
“Because,” you say, already laughing, “this is the exact Seventeen magazine with the ‘36 Questions to Fall In Love’ quiz. The one I used on our first date.”
Jason drops his face back into the pillow like he’s being punished by fate. “Burn it.”
“Absolutely not.” You plop onto the couch beside him. “This is history.”
“Tragedy,” he corrects, reaching blindly for a throw pillow to put over his face.
You ignore him and flip the magazine open. “Oh my god, we’ve actually answered some of these. Like this one: question thirty-four.”
You clear your throat dramatically. “Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be?”
Jason groans louder. “Why would you run back into a burning building—”
“Fatson Todd,” you announce.
Jason burrows deeper into the cushions with a hum that lets you know he’s listening but not processing. “Doesn’t he count as family already?”
You gasp. Loud. Dramatic. Victorious. “SO YOU ADMIT IT. He IS your son.”
Jason jerks upright like he’s been tased. “WHAT— no. No, you— you tricked me. You caught me off guard.”
“You literally just said he counts as family,” you say, savoring every syllable like it’s dessert.
“I’m tired,” he snaps, pointing accusingly at the magazine. “This is entrapment.”
“And emotional,” you add sweetly. “And fatherly.”
He snatches the magazine out of your hands with the desperation of a man fleeing custody. “New question.”
“Coward.”
He ignores that, flipping pages until he finds something less incriminating. “Here. What would constitute a perfect day for you?”
You answer without thinking. “Easy. No work. Perfect weather. Hot pot for dinner. Then watching Love, Rosie for the nineteenth time because it’s a masterpiece.”
Jason’s mouth twitches but you see it. “Of course.”
“Well?” you ask. “Your turn.”
Jason rubs a thumb along the edge of the page. “Mm. I dunno. Something quiet.”
He shifts onto his back, staring up at your ceiling like the answer might be carved there.
“A cozy day in,” he says finally. “Maybe take the bike out for a bit. Then…”
His voice softens, almost unconsciously. “…just… end the day somewhere warm.”
You look at him.
He doesn’t look at you.
He’s careful with the way he says it, casual on the surface, but there’s something underneath it, something unspoken, something you both hear anyway.
Warm could mean anything.
Warm could mean here.
Warm could mean with someone.
Warm could mean with you.
You swallow. “That’s… nice.”
“Mm.” He flips the magazine again like he didn’t just reveal more of himself than intended. “Next question.”
“Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.”
You both go still.
Three things.
Three.
You exchange a look like two students caught cheating on a test neither of you actually studied for.
“Okay,” you breathe, trying to sound optimistic. “Easy. Um. We are… soulmates?”
Jason nods slowly into the pillow. “Yeah. Counts.”
“And we’re the same age,” you add quickly.
Another nod.
Silence.
You both stare at the magazine.
“…Do we have a third one?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
Jason tilts his head back, eyes closed, expression pained. “We have… absolutely nothing in common.”
“That cannot be true,” you protest, even though it absolutely feels true.
He lifts one finger. “You like those… feelings movies.”
“They’re called romance films.”
“They’re weaponized.”
You squint at him. “Okay, well you like violence recreationally.”
“It’s not recreational,” he argues. “It’s cardio.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “This is not helping.”
Another long silence. The kind that feels vaguely like drowning.
Most people panic at this part. Most couples in your soulmate class probably had spreadsheets on compatibility or matching hobbies or mutual interests. And here you are, sitting beside a man who reads classic literature for fun and sharpens knives when he’s bored, while you just spent your weekend buying a bag which looks like mittens.
There’s a split second where you feel the old instinct rising, panic, doubt, the quiet frantic need to fix something before it breaks.
But you catch it.
You breathe.
You let it go.
Because… you’re better now. You’ve learned things. Soulmates don’t have to be mirrors.
“Okay,” you say lightly, tapping the magazine. “New plan.”
Jason cracks an eye open, suspicious. “Which is?”
“Instead of trying to find things we have in common,” you say, “why don’t we… try each other’s interests?”
He blinks. “What?”
“My perfect day isn’t possible right now,” you explain. “It’s winter. It’s freezing. There is no breezy sunshine. But we can still do parts of it.”
He watches you, that subtle focus he gets when you’ve surprised him.
“We can get hotpot,” you say. “Then watch Love, Rosie. You know, the usual emotional devastation.”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Uh-huh.”
“And…” You inhale because this is the insane part. “I’ll get on your bike.”
Jason sits up so fast the pillow falls off his back.
“You will?” His voice sounds like someone just handed him a winning lottery ticket and a grenade at the same time.
“Yeah,” you say, trying to play it cool even as your stomach flips. “If we’re trying each other’s perfect days and all.”
Something bright flares in his eyes, quick, sharp, and hopeful. “Alright”
“Okay,” you say, heart thrumming, “then let’s… go do it. Your thing, my thing. A perfect-day hybrid.”
Jason pushes himself off the couch, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking something loose. “Wind gets kinda insane on the bike,” he says casually, like this isn’t the most loaded sentence you’ve heard all night. “You got a windbreaker?”
You blink.
A beat.
Then, lightbulb.
“Oh my god,” you say, already backing toward the hallway. “I have just the thing.”
He squints after you. “That confidence worries me.”
You disappear into your bedroom, heart racing like you’re being chased.
Okay.
Okay.
What do you wear on a motorcycle date???
You stare into your closet like it personally owes you answers. This is only your second official date. The first one involved a café, a teen magazine, and both of you nearly short-circuiting over eye contact. This one involves wind velocity.
And then you see it.
Hanging proudly. Untouched. Still crisp.
Your raincoat.
Bright pastel. Ridiculously cheerful. Purchased on a Black Friday sale with the vague intention of “one day I’ll be a raincoat person.” Worn exactly zero times because Gotham rain does not care about your aesthetic dreams.
You grin.
Perfect.
When you step back into the living room, Jason looks up and immediately laughs.
Not loud. Just surprised. Warm. The kind that slips out before he can stop it.
“Wow,” he says. “You look like a limited-edition highlighter.”
You hold the raincoat up, triumphant. “It’s brand new. I’ve been waiting for its moment.”
“It’s definitely… having one.”
He pushes off the counter, grabbing the coat from your hands. “This is a raincoat.”
“Yes.”
“Windbreakers and raincoats are… not the same thing.”
You frown. “They both break things. Wind. Rain.”
He tilts his head. “One keeps you dry. The other keeps you from becoming airborne.”
You open your mouth to argue, then close it. Because he’s already reaching for the zipper of his jacket.
Your brain flatlines.
“Jason, you don’t—”
“It’s fine,” he says easily, shrugging it off. He steps closer, drapes it over your shoulders before you can react.
The jacket is warm. Immediately. Like it was waiting for you.
He zips it up without asking. Slow. Careful. All the way to your chin.
Your breath catches.
It smells like leather, cold air, something faintly smoky. Familiar in a way that makes your chest do something dangerous.
“There,” he murmurs. “That’ll actually block the wind.”
You stare up at him, heart doing somersaults. “You’ll be cold.”
He shrugs, unfazed. “I’ve got another.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” He steps back, “Brought a spare.”
Of course he did.
You try very hard not to die as he turns and heads for the closet, tugging out a second jacket from his duffel, this one colder, less lived-in, clearly the backup.
Meanwhile, you are standing in the middle of your apartment wearing the jacket he was in seconds ago.
Warm. Heavy. His.
Your hands curl instinctively into the sleeves.
Jason pulls his spare on, rolls his shoulders again, then looks back at you. His gaze lingers for half a second too long.
Your face feels hot. Your mouth opens. Closes. You nod.
“Okay,” you manage. “So. Bike.”
“You can keep the scarf and mittens,” Jason says, already reaching for the door. “Wind’ll still bite.”
You nod, fingers fumbling with the scarf as you follow him out into the hall, heart thudding like it’s trying to escape first. The jacket is warm. His jacket. You keep having to remind yourself to breathe normally.
The elevator ride down is quiet in that way that feels louder than conversation. Jason stands close, not touching, but aware of you in that hyper-attentive way he has like he’s cataloguing every possible variable. You catch him glancing at the zipper he pulled up to your chin. He looks… pleased. Subtly. Like he did something right.
His bike is waiting in the parking garage. It looks fast even when it’s still. You swallow.
Jason opens the compartment of the bike, pulling out a helmet. Not red. Not intimidating. Just a plain, civilian black.
“For you,” he says, holding it out.
You take it carefully, like it might bite. “You have two?”
“Yeah.” He grabs the second one. “Not putting you in the Red Hood special.”
“Very thoughtful.”
“I try.”
You fumble the helmet on, adjusting the strap with hands that suddenly feel like they don’t belong to you. Jason watches, then steps closer, fingers brushing yours as he tightens it properly.
“There,” he murmurs. “Snug, but not tight.”
You nod, acutely aware of how close he is. Of how easily he could stay there.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he swings onto the bike in one smooth, practiced motion and settles into place like he was built for it.
“Okay,” he says, glancing back at you. “Hop on.”
You step closer, suddenly very aware of the height difference, the seat, the very real possibility of embarrassing yourself beyond recovery.
You climb on carefully. Politely. Like you’re afraid to inconvenience him.
Jason glances back again. “Scoot up a bit.”
You do, inching forward until you’re seated behind him, still leaving a very respectable amount of space. Your knees hover awkwardly at his sides.
“Alright,” he considers after a beat. “Hold on.”
You wrap your arms around him lightly, fingertips resting against his jacket like you’re testing the temperature of bathwater. Your grip is… delicate.
Jason pauses.
“That’s not gonna cut it,” he says mildly.
“I am holding on.”
“You’re hovering.”
You tighten your arms just a little.
He huffs a short laugh. “You’re gonna want to hold tighter than that.”
You do. Barely. There’s still space between you, enough to be polite, enough to be safe, enough to drive him insane.
Jason waits a beat.
Then another.
Then he does exactly what you should have expected.
“Alright,” he says casually. “If that’s what you want.”
“What—”
The bike roars to life.
He revs the engine and launches forward just enough to jolt you.
You yelp, panic flaring, and instinct takes over.
Your arms snap tight around him, chest pressed flush to his back, mittens gripping fabric like your life depends on it.
“JASON—”
He laughs.
Actually laughs.
The sound vibrates through him, through the bike, straight into you. “There it is.”
You glare at the back of his helmet, heart hammering. “You did that on purpose!”
“Had to,” he says, unapologetic. “Safety issue.”
“I’m going home”
“You’re welcome.”
He eases the bike forward now, smooth and controlled, but he doesn’t miss the way you stay close. The way you don’t loosen your grip. The way your helmet rests between his shoulder blades.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yes,” you mutter. “I hate you.”
He hums, amused. “You’re real close now”
“That’s because you tricked me!”
“You were gonna figure it out eventually.”
You huff, but you don’t move away. Your arms stay wrapped around him, fingers curled into the jacket. You can feel the heat of him through the layers. Solid. Steady.
Jason eases the bike onto the street at first, smooth and controlled, letting you get your bearings. The city opens up around you in streaks of light and shadow, cold air slipping around the edges of his jacket and sneaking straight down your spine.
You tighten your grip automatically.
“Okay,” you say loudly into his back. “I want it on record that I am not enjoying this.”
His voice carries back to you, maddeningly calm. “Didn’t catch that.”
“I SAID—”
He accelerates.
Not dangerously. Not irresponsibly. Just enough that the engine growls and the wind snaps sharper against your cheeks.
You squeak.
Your arms clamp tighter around him, mittens gripping leather like it’s a lifeline.
Jason laughs. Low. Right through his chest.
“Oh, now you’re holding on.”
“You’re doing this on purpose!” you shout.
“What?” He tilts his helmet slightly, like he’s genuinely confused. “Can’t hear you over the engine.”
“You are SUCH a—”
He speeds up again.
Your protest turns into a half-scream, half-laugh as you press fully into his back, helmet wedged between his shoulder blades. The world blurs at the edges, streetlights smearing into gold and white streaks as Gotham rushes past.
Jason takes a sharp turn, just enough to make your stomach flip.
You gasp. “JASON—”
“Relax,” he calls back. “I’ve got you.”
And you hate that your body believes him.
The bike straightens out, speed settling into something fast but steady. Wind roars past your ears, stealing your breath, tugging at your scarf. You tuck your chin instinctively, pressing closer, arms wrapped tight around his middle.
You can feel him now. The solid line of his spine. The flex of muscle under your hands. The heat of him through layers of leather and fabric.
You try to loosen your grip.
You fail immediately.
“You good?” he asks, quieter this time.
“Yes,” you lie. “I’m perfectly calm.”
He hums. “Your hands are shaking.”
“That’s the cold.”
“Uh-huh.”
He takes another stretch of road just a little faster than necessary. The city opens up into wider streets, traffic thinning, the night stretching out ahead of you. Snowflakes swirl lazily in the glow of passing lamps, catching in your lashes before melting.
Despite yourself, the fear eases.
Your heartbeat slows.
The bike hums beneath you, steady and powerful. Jason rides like he knows exactly where every crack in the pavement is. Like the city is mapped into his bones.
Then you reach the hotpot place parking lot and you peel yourself off the bike like someone who has just survived a natural disaster.
“I hated that,” you announce immediately, ripping the helmet off and shaking your hair loose. “I hated it. I will never do it again.”
Jason cuts the engine, swings off the bike, and looks at you with a face that is doing a terrible job of hiding his satisfaction.
“Uh-huh,” he says. “You screamed exactly once.”
“That’s not a metric!”
“It kinda is.”
You glare at him. “You sped up.”
He doesn’t deny it.
He grins, small, sharp, absolutely unrepentant, and holds the door of the restaurant open for you before you can continue the argument.
The place is warm the second you step inside. Steam fogs the windows, carrying the smell of broth and spice and something deeply comforting. You visibly relax, shoulders dropping like you’ve been holding them up all night.
You’re seated quickly, tucked into a corner booth with a built-in burner in the center of the table. The menu is laminated and overwhelming and absolutely perfect.
Jason scans it once, then looks at you. “So. Explain.”
You light up.
“Oh my god, okay. So. You pick the broth first—no, wait, there are two broths, see, you can do a split pot—this one’s spicy, this one’s mild—then you order the ingredients raw and cook them yourself.”
He stares at the burner. Then the empty pot.
“…So it’s soup,” he says slowly, “but you do homework first.”
“It is an experience.”
“It’s flavored hot water.”
You clutch your chest. “That’s hurtful.”
He grins, small and smug. “I’m a batburger guy. Simple. Meat. Bun. Done.”
“You’re missing out,” you say, already flipping the menu around to show him pictures. “Look. Spicy miso. Tomato. Mushroom.”
“Mushroom broth is just forest tea.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet,” he says, leaning back, “you brought me.”
You order without him in the end, half spicy, half mild, because you’re not cruel, and when the broth starts to bubble, your whole face lights up.
Jason watches it like it might explode.
“It’s supposed to do that,” you assure him.
“I’ve seen too many things ‘supposed to do that,’” he mutters.
When the ingredients arrive, your excitement spikes again.
Thin slices of meat. Tofu. Dumplings. Greens. Noodles.
Jason stares. “Why is the meat… transparent.”
“Because it cooks fast!”
“It looks like it could pass through walls.”
You’re already rolling up your sleeves. “Okay. Watch and learn.”
You demonstrate, carefully swishing a slice of meat through the broth until it changes color. Jason leans forward without realizing it, elbows on the table, eyes following your hands.
“Like this,” you say. “Not too long or it gets tough.”
You hand him the chopsticks. “Your turn.”
He takes them like a challenge. “I know how to use these.”
“Mm-hmm.”
He drops the meat in. Immediately loses it. Fish it out. Drops it again.
You bite your lip, trying not to laugh.
“I can feel you judging me,” he says.
“I would never.”
“That’s a lie.”
Eventually, he manages it. Takes a cautious bite.
His face does… something.
“Okay,” he admits, reluctantly. “That’s not terrible.”
“High praise.”
“Don’t push it.”
You grin and abandon him to his bowl because it’s time.
The sauce station.
You stand, cracking your knuckles. “This is where the magic happens.”
Jason watches you go like he’s about to witness a ritual.
You return with a bowl that looks like controlled chaos with soy sauce, sesame oil, garlic, chili crisp, green onions, a mysterious scoop of something brown.
He squints. “That’s too much.”
“It’s layered.”
“That’s a war crime.”
You dip a bite and hum happily. “Perfect.”
He watches you eat, amused despite himself. The way you lean forward, animated, explaining what goes with what. The way your eyes light up when something tastes especially good. The way you keep offering him bites.
He doesn’t say no.
By the time the pot is nearly empty, Jason is relaxed in a way he didn’t realize he needed. Jacket off. Sleeves pushed up. A faint smile tugging at his mouth like it snuck there without permission.
You watch him for a second, then clear your throat. “So,” you say carefully. “What’d you think?”
He considers it. Too long. You know that look now.
“…It was good,” he says.
You narrow your eyes. “You’re lying.”
He shrugs, unapologetic. “I still don’t really get the appeal of flavored hot water.”
You gasp. “Rude.”
“I’m just saying,” he adds quickly, “I’ll take you to Batburger one day. Jokerized fries. Those’ll change your life.”
You snort. “You’ll grow to like hotpot.”
He smirks. “Just like you’ll learn to love the bike.”
Your color drains instantly. “Oh no.”
He laughs as realization hits you. “You forgot you gotta get back on.”
“I might throw up,” you warn. “I’m so serious.”
He stands, grabbing his jacket. “I’ll try not to traumatize you.”
You do not believe him for a second.
–--
The ride back out is quieter.
You brace yourself automatically when Jason swings onto the bike again, muscles tensing, hands ready, but this time it’s different. The streets have thinned out. The worst of the traffic has retreated indoors, leaving Gotham hushed beneath a fresh layer of snow. Streetlights glow soft and golden, flakes drifting through them like something staged just for you.
Jason doesn’t gun it this time.
He rides smoother. Slower. Like he knows you’re listening now.
You still don’t love the bike. You probably never will. But when you wrap your arms around him again, tuck yourself close, it doesn’t feel like panic. It feels… intentional. Like choosing the least scary part of something scary and holding onto that instead.
The city blurs past. Cold air sneaks into the edges of your helmet. Snow gathers on Jason’s shoulders, on the back of his helmet, dusting him in white.
He takes a turn you don’t recognize. Then another. The road starts to climb.
When he finally slows and pulls over, you don’t even realize you’ve stopped until the engine cuts.
“Oh thank god,” you breathe, swinging your leg off and planting both feet firmly on the ground. Solid. Blessed. Immobile.
Jason laughs quietly behind you. “You did good.”
“I survived,” you correct. “Barely.”
He locks the bike and joins you, standing close enough that you can feel the heat from him even through layers. You hadn’t realized how much you liked holding on until you weren’t anymore.
You turn,,, and then stop.
The lookout opens up in front of you like a held breath finally released.
Gotham sprawls below, endless and glowing. Snow softens everything, turning sharp edges gentle, muting the city’s usual menace into something almost… beautiful. The river cuts through the lights like a ribbon. Somewhere far below, traffic moves slow and quiet, like it knows better than to interrupt.
You step closer to the railing, awed. “Oh.”
Jason leans beside you, forearms resting against the cold metal. “Yeah.”
Snow drifts down lazily, catching in your hair, melting against your lashes. You tilt your face up for a second, letting it land wherever it wants.
Jason starts pointing things out, almost absentmindedly.
“See that rooftop there?” he says, nodding toward a cluster of dark shapes. “That’s where I learned how to grapple. Fell off twice.”
You glance at him. “Twice?”
“Okay, three times,” he admits. “Bruce was not impressed.”
You smile.
“And over there,” he continues, pointing farther east, “that park? Catherine used to take me sledding there. She’d swear she wasn’t scared, then scream the whole way down.”
Your chest tightens a little at the fondness in his voice. You imagine it easily. Younger. Lighter. Snow days instead of sirens.
“And that alley,” he says, gesturing to a narrow slice of darkness between buildings, “that’s where Bruce and I solved our first case together. After I became Robin.”
You look where he’s pointing, then back at him. He’s not smiling now, but he doesn’t look guarded either. Just… open. Sharing without flinching.
“That’s a lot of firsts,” you say softly.
He shrugs, like it’s nothing, like it’s everything. “City’s full of them.”
Then Jason turns his head and really looks at you this time. Not scanning rooftops. Not cataloguing exits. Just you, framed by falling snow and Gotham lights bleeding gold below.
A single snowflake drifts between you. Slow. Stubborn. It catches on your lip.
Jason sees it.
And he doesn’t think.
His hand lifts on instinct, bare thumb brushing forward to flick it away. But instead of pulling back, he presses. Warm skin against cold.
The snowflake melts instantly.
His thumb doesn’t move.
It lingers there, at the corner of your mouth, like he’s forgotten how to let go. Like the world has narrowed down to the softest point of contact imaginable.
Jason realizes what he’s done all at once.
You see it in his eyes when they widen. When his breath catches, sharp and quiet. His thumb stills. His hand hovers, suspended between apology and something far more dangerous.
“I—” he starts, barely audible.
You don’t let him finish.
You lean in.
Not rushing. Not hesitant. Just close enough that he can close the rest of the distance if he wants to.
He does.
The first kiss is barely there. A press more than a meeting. Tentative. Testing. Cold air and warmth colliding as his mouth brushes yours, unsure, like he’s waiting for the world to correct him.
Then he exhales.
The breath leaves him slow and shaky, like he’s been holding it for years.
And the second kiss is softer.
Not deeper. Just certain.
His hand slides to your cheek, steadying, grounding, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t hold on. The cold fades. The city disappears. There’s only this: the gentle press of his mouth, the quiet acceptance of it.
You expected fireworks.
Heat. Spark. Something overwhelming.
Instead, it feels like letting go of a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
Like exhaling.
Like settling.
The world doesn’t explode. It quiets.
Your chest loosens. Your shoulders drop. For half a heartbeat, you feel like you could fall asleep standing up, right here, pressed close to him with snow drifting down around you.
And then it’s over.
Too fast. Too slow. Both of you blushing like you’ve been caught doing something scandalous in public even though no one is around for blocks.
Jason clears his throat again, shifts his weight, very deliberately turns back to the view. You do the same, gripping his arm like it’s the only solid thing left in the universe.
Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire.
Neither of you says anything. The city stretches out below, patient, pretending nothing just happened. Snow keeps falling, soft and lazy, catching in Jason’s hair, dusting his shoulders.
You sneak a glance at him.
He’s staring straight ahead, jaw tight, like the skyline has personally challenged him. You can tell he’s not actually seeing any of it. His ears are pink. That feels important.
The wind shifts.
It picks up suddenly, colder now, the snow falling wetter, heavier. It soaks into your scarf, seeps into the edges of the moment like a reminder that the night is still moving.
Jason notices immediately. “We should head back,” he says, gentle but firm, already turning.
You nod, a little dazed, and follow him back toward the bike.
The ride home is quieter.
Not awkward. Just… hushed. Like neither of you wants to jostle whatever settled between you at the lookout.
You climb on behind him without hesitation this time, arms sliding around him easily, naturally. Your helmet rests between his shoulder blades, familiar now. Comfortable.
Jason doesn’t speed. He doesn’t show off. He rides smooth and steady, like he’s carrying something fragile.
You hold on tighter.
The city slips past in muted color and shadow, streetlights glowing through the snow. Under your helmet, your face is still warm, still buzzing.
Halfway through the ride, the cold finally creeps in. Not sharp, just persistent. You hesitate for half a second, then unzip his jacket a little and slip your hands inside.
“I’m cold,” you say, like it’s an excuse and not a confession.
Jason doesn’t comment.
He doesn’t stiffen. He doesn’t slow down. He just adjusts his posture slightly, making space for you, like this is obvious.
Your palms press against his chest.
You expect his heartbeat to be racing.
Yours is. It’s loud in your ears, frantic and fluttering, still catching up to what just happened.
But his is steady.
Slow. Deep.
A beat… then another. Maybe a second off. Maybe just enough to notice if you’re really paying attention.
Thump.
Pause.
Thump.
Not weak. Not faltering. Just… deliberate. Like each beat is choosing to be there.
It doesn’t spike when you press closer. It doesn’t stumble.
It just keeps going.
Alive.
You sink into the rhythm without meaning to.
The city fades. The wind dulls. Even the cold becomes background noise as you focus on the steady thump beneath your palms. Jason’s heartbeat grounds you in a way nothing else has all night.
Thump.
Pause.
Thump.
It’s slow. Certain. Like it isn’t in any hurry to prove anything.
Your eyes drift closed.
You rest your helmet more firmly against his back, cheek pressing into the hard curve of it, and let yourself just be. The road hums beneath the tires. The snow brushes past. Your breath fogs in slow, even puffs.
For a moment, the world is very small.
It’s just you.
And him.
And the sound of a heart that refuses to rush.
You don’t notice when the bike slows.
You don’t notice when it stops.
You only notice when his hands gently close around your wrists, carefully guiding them away from his chest.
You blink, disoriented.
“We’re home,” Jason says softly.
Oh.
Right.
You straighten, embarrassed, heat flaring in your cheeks as you swing off the bike. Your legs feel boneless, like you’ve been woken up too quickly from a good nap.
“Sorry,” you mumble.
He shakes his head, helmet tucked under his arm. “You’re fine.”
Snow clings to both of you now, dampening your clothes, darkening his jacket. Your scarf is heavy with it. The air smells cold and clean.
Inside, the building lobby is quiet, the fluorescent lights too bright after the night outside. You catch your reflection in the glass, flushed, hair a mess, eyes shining.
Jason looks the same.
The elevator ride up is slow, humming softly as it climbs. You stand close, shoulders brushing, neither of you moving away. Every so often, one of you glances at the other, then quickly looks anywhere else.
You’re both smiling.
Not big. Not obvious.
But it’s there.
When the doors finally open on your floor, the moment breaks just enough to breathe again. Jason steps out first, holding the door, letting you pass.
Back home.
The warmth hits you the second you step inside.
Your apartment is quiet, cozy in that end-of-the-night way, lights low and gentle, the heater humming like it’s proud of itself. Snow melts off your scarf, off Jason’s jacket, dripping onto the mat by the door. You kick your boots off and sigh, the sound slipping out of you before you can stop it.
You remember it as you peel off damp layers in the foyer, fingers numb, cheeks still warm. There’s one more thing left. One last box to check on the imaginary list you didn’t know you were making.
“Movie,” you say, mostly to yourself. “We still have to watch the movie.”
Jason looks up from setting his helmet down, eyebrows lifting. “Right. The… what was it?”
“Love, Rosie,” you say reverently. “The best movie of all time.”
He squints. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a promise,” you counter. “I’m gonna shower first, or I’ll freeze to death on your couch.”
He nods, already shrugging out of his jacket. “Go. I’ll, uh—” He gestures vaguely at the living room. “Set things up.”
You disappear into the bathroom before he can see your grin.
The shower is hot enough to make your knees weak. Steam fogs the mirror, melts the cold out of your bones. You let the water run over you longer than necessary, replaying the night in pieces you don’t quite trust yet: the snow, the city, his thumb at your mouth, the steady beat under your hands.
By the time you change into pajamas you feel loose and floaty and a little unreal.
You pad back into the living room and stop short.
The lights are low, warm instead of harsh. The overhead lamp is off, a small side light glowing softly instead. Blankets are folded on the couch, pillows fluffed like he’s trying to impress someone who knows better. The coffee table has been cleared, remote placed dead center like it might try to escape.
You blink.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “You made it cozy.”
He looks up from adjusting the throw blanket, suddenly self-conscious. “Is it too much?”
“No,” you say immediately. “It’s perfect.”
His shoulders relax at that.
You curl into the couch without ceremony, tucking your feet under you, pulling one of the blankets over your lap. It smells clean. Familiar. Jason-coded in that subtle way things get when he’s around long enough.
“Okay,” you say, curling into the cushion beside you. “I’ll test the couch. You go shower.”
He hesitates for half a second, then nods. “Don’t start without me.”
“I would never.”
The bathroom door closes. The sound of running water follows.
You queue up the movie, skipping through the credits and pausing it on the opening scene, waiting for Jason to join you. The couch cradles your spine. The blanket is heavy in the best way.
You wait.
You blink.
You blink again.
Jason comes back ten minutes later, hair damp, T-shirt soft and dark, smelling faintly like your soap.
He stops in the doorway.
Because you’re asleep.
Curled into the corner of the couch. Blanket pulled up to your chin. One hand still clutching the remote like you meant to hold on.
Jason exhales something that might be a laugh.
He crosses the room quietly, careful not to wake you, and watches for a moment longer than necessary. The rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face has softened completely, unguarded.
He straightens, glancing at the clock. It’s late. Later than he meant it to be.
He should go.
He stands there for another second anyway, conflicted, before making the decision for both of you.
Carefully, he slides one arm under your knees and the other around your back.
You stir, just slightly, but don’t wake. Your head tips forward, resting against his chest like it belongs there.
Jason freezes for a split second.
Then he adjusts his grip and carries you down the hallway.
Your bedroom is dim, quiet, untouched. He eases you onto the bed like you’re made of glass, pulls the blanket up, tucks it around you.
He straightens,, and then panics.
Oh no.
Fan on or off?
Door open or closed?
Bathroom light? Nightstand light? Nothing?
Water? People need water, right?
Fuck.
He stands there, hands on his hips, staring at the room like it’s a bomb he has to disarm blindfolded.
Okay. Think.
He sets a glass of water on the nightstand. Better safe than sorry.
He leaves the bathroom light on to make it dim, but enough to see if something goes wrong.
He leaves the door open. Quick exit. Always.
He turns the fan off. Silence is safer.
He steps back, surveying his work, heart thudding with the weight of getting it right.
It looks… fine. Reasonable. Logical.
He hesitates, then reaches out and brushes a stray piece of hair from your face. Gentle. Barely there.
“Night,” he whispers.
Then he slips out, closing the door behind him as quietly as he can, already replaying the night in his head.
Great day, he thinks.
Even though they have nothing in common.
You hate the bike.
He hates broth.
Doesn’t matter.
You liked being there.
So did he.
And that is enough for Jason to leave with a smile on his face and warmth up to his ears.
---
Morning arrives gently.
Not the violent kind with alarms and blaring light and Gotham reminding you it exists, but the soft version, muted, gray-blue, filtered through clouds and curtains. You surface slowly, wrapped in warmth, limbs heavy in that pleasant way that says you slept well.
Then you notice things.
The bathroom light is on.
Your eyes squint immediately. Too bright. Why is it on.
The door is open.
You groan quietly and roll onto your side, reaching out instinctively for—
No fan.
Nothing.
Just silence. Loud, ringing silence.
You blink, confused, then sit up a little more. There’s a glass of water on your nightstand, perfectly placed. Thoughtful. Earnest. Completely wrong.
You stare at the setup.
And then it clicks.
Jason.
Your chest softens all at once.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, pressing your hand to your face. “He tried.”
You picture it easily: him standing here last night, stiff and unsure, weighing every decision like it might explode. Fan on or off. Door open or closed. Light or dark. You can practically see the furrow in his brow, the way he would have stood there for too long trying to get it right.
You swing your legs out of bed and pad around fixing everything: fan on, lights off, door shut, water moved back to the kitchen sink where it belongs. With each correction, your fondness only grows.
He got every single thing wrong.
And somehow, it feels perfect.
You smile to yourself all morning.
He comes back later, like it’s normal now. Like this is just something he does. You’re cleaning, music blasting through your headphones, fully in your own world, when your mop bumps into something solid.
You look down.
Legs.
You shriek.
Jason jerks up from the chair in your little library nook, hands already half-raised. “Jesus—”
“You gotta stop letting yourself in,” you gasp, ripping the headphones off. “I almost killed you with cleaning supplies.”
“I knocked,” he says, baffled. “Like. Three times.”
You stare at him, then burst out laughing.
Before he can react, you climb up onto the arm of the chair, half-perching, half-collapsing against him, arms around his shoulders in a hug that’s too tight and too sudden and completely sincere.
He freezes for half a second.
Then his arms come up around you, solid and careful. “You okay?”
“I am now,” you mumble into his shoulder. “You tried so hard last night.”
His eyebrows knit together. “Tried…?”
“You tucked me in,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him. “And you made choices.”
His face goes pink immediately. “I panicked.”
“I noticed.”
You slide down to sit properly, still close, your feet tucked into the space between him and the armrest. “Okay. So. For the record. I need the door closed. Lights off. Fan on. No water on the nightstand cause I like it fresh if I need it.”
He nods seriously, committing this to memory like it’s mission-critical intel.
“Got it,” he says. “For me it’s… small light on. Door open. Fan off. Water nearby.”
You grin. “Of course it is.”
There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just… weighted.
“In the future,” you say carefully, “when we share a room—”
He stills.
You barrel on, cheeks warm. “—we can compromise. I’ll do door open. But I need the fan on and the lights off.”
Jason considers it. “I can do fan on. But,, I usually sleep with a small light on.”
You smile, teasing. “You won’t need it when we share.”
He tilts his head. “Why not?”
“Because,” you say, “the light of your life will be sleeping next to you.”
You expect him to laugh.
He doesn’t.
He looks at you, open and earnest, and says, “I think you’re right.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
You both clear your throats at the same time.
“Anyway!” you blurt.
“Yeah,” he agrees quickly. “So.”
You take a breath. “I booked our soulmate retreat.”
He blinks. “You what.”
“This weekend,” you add. “It’s credit two of three. To register officially.”
He stares at you for a long moment. Then his mouth curves into something soft and real and a little stunned.
“Okay,” he says.
Just okay. But his hand finds yours anyway.
There’s a pause.
Not uncomfortable. Just… suspended.
You tuck your feet deeper into the leather of the chair, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Jason looks anywhere but at you. The bookshelf. The window. The floor. You take a breath.
“So,” you say.
He hums. “So.”
You gesture vaguely between you. “We… kissed.”
He finally looks at you. “We did.”
Your heart kicks up. “That was… good.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. Quiet. Certain.
Another beat passes.
You glance at him, then immediately look away again. “Do you—uh. Wanna try again?”
His eyebrows lift. Not startled. Just… surprised. Thoughtful.
“Okay,” he says.
You both lean in.
And immediately start laughing.
You pull back, still smiling, cheeks warm. “Yeah. Not yet.”
He laughs too, rubbing the back of his neck. “Another time
You nod, still smiling, and lean closer instead of away, peeking down at the book in his hands like nothing monumental just almost happened.
“What are you reading anyways?” you ask.
He turns it slightly so you can see the cover. Some classic. Old. Dense. The kind of book with opinions about human nature.
You squint.
Then, without thinking, you yawn.
Jason looks personally offended. “Hey.”
“What?” you say innocently. “I just—”
“That is a masterpiece.”
You grin. “I’m sure it is.”
“It is,” he insists. “You just don’t have taste.”
“You literally eat batburgers.”
He snorts. “And you drink flavoured water for dinner.”
“soup,” you correct.
He shakes his head, amused, and goes back to his page. You settle in beside him anyway, shoulder brushing his, close enough that you can feel the warmth through the leather.
You still don’t have much in common.
Somehow, that feels like the point.
--
--
--
taglist:
THE TAGLIST IS NOW CLOSED (cause i am bad at it and its not working)
to stay updated with the story follow: #goblin-writes
summary: in which you do not know your soulmate's family are all vigilantes and instead think you're in a soap opera
wc: 6.2k
---
Questions used:
23. How close and warm is your family? Do you feel your childhood was happier than most other people’s?
---
You are going to die.
Not right now, but definitely sometime in the next six hours, because that is how long you have until lunch at Wayne Manor, and your closet currently contains:
A pair of jeans that smell faintly like drywall
A sweater with a water stain shaped like a bowling pin
Trauma
Everything else drowned in the Freeze Attack.
So, naturally, in a moment of pure rational decision-making, you marched into Gotham’s designer district at 9 in the morning with what was left of your insurance cheque and panic-bought half the spring collection.
You don’t even like designer clothes. You don’t understand why a dress needs to cost more than your hydro bill. But you are meeting the richest family in Gotham. The Wayne Manor. The billionaire dynasty. Your soulmate’s family.
You cannot show up in bowling alley couture.
Now your bedroom looks like a fabric tornado. Six hangers on the floor. Three dresses slung over your mirror. A mountain of tissue paper. Your robe is slipping off one shoulder, there’s a makeup brush in your hair for reasons unknown, and the music is blasting loud enough to scare ghosts.
You are contouring like your life depends on it.
Because it does.
Jason Todd is Red Hood. Local menace, rooftop cryptid, vigilante heartthrob. In your mind, that means he probably defied his rich family, rejected their cold, posh lifestyle, and now broods dramatically on fire escapes like the hot rebel he is.
You assume the Waynes expect their children to eat pearls and breathe money. You assume you, a girl with drywall jeans and a stress-baking addiction, are about to be grilled like a salmon.
So yes. You bought dress options.
All of them.
You’ll return whatever he doesn’t pick, unless you sweat onto it and ruin the resale value, which is looking increasingly likely.
In the kitchen, six trays of tarts cool on the counter because you also decided that bringing “a little something” would soften the blow of your existence. It was supposed to be one tray. It became thirty tarts at 3 a.m., because you were nervous and there was butter in the fridge.
Everything is going fine-ish.
Until someone breaks into your apartment.
You hear footsteps over your music. Heavy ones.
You whirl around, grab the nearest object, your plush son, Fatson Todd and sprint toward your bedroom doorway.
A shadow appears.
You swing.
The plush slaps a face with surprising force.
“OW—what the—?!”
You freeze.
Jason Todd stands in your doorway, hair mussed, one hand raised defensively, and the saddest betrayed look in his eyes.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, clutching the plush to your chest, “why didn’t you TEXT me?!”
He stares. Blinks. Points to the phone vibrating on your vanity.
“I did.”
You check.
Oh. He did. Three times.
“Right,” you cough, dignity in shambles. “Well. Next time… text louder?”
Then shrugs in that guilty, not-actually-guilty way he does. “You gave me a fob. Your music is always loud. I knock, you never hear. And I come over a lot lately so—” He gestures vaguely toward the apartment. “It was practical.”
You squint at him. “Practical is bringing an extra charger. Not… having unrestricted keycard access to my home.”
He smiles small. sweet. “You like when I’m here.”
Okay, fine.
You do love when he’s over. He’s been here almost every evening, reading, fixing things around your apartment, stealing your good tea, napping on your couch like he pays rent.
“…that’s not the point,” you mutter.
He steps closer, grabbing the plush from your hands and placing it gently on the bed. “Big day, huh?”
Your throat tightens.
His voice is soft. Sincere. No teasing layered beneath it.
That’s what kills you.
You nod. “It’s just—it’s your family. They’re all rich and elegant and emotionally constipated. I don’t know how to dress for that!”
His brows rise, amused. “Elegant?”
“Yes. Wealth-induced elegance.”
Jason coughs a laugh into his fist.
You turn to the array of dresses on your bed: silk, chiffon, lace, your bank account crying softly in the background.
“Okay,” you say, clapping your hands. “You grew up there. You should know. What do I wear?”
Jason looks at the dresses.
Then at you.
Then at the dresses again.
It is the expression of a man deeply overwhelmed by both silk and feelings.
He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, watching you with that soft, quiet awe he tries very, very hard to hide.
“Alright,” he says. “Show me.”
You grab Dress #1: a sleek navy wrap that makes you feel like a senator’s secret mistress.
You change behind the closet door, step out, and spin.
Jason blinks slowly.
“You look… good.”
“Jason, you can’t just say ‘good.’ Good is the default. I need nuance.”
He clears his throat. “You look really good?”
“Nuance, Jason.”
He gestures vaguely. “It’s… blue?”
You enter the closet again with a groan and put on the next option. Emerald satin that falls just above your ankles.
Jason sucks in a breath when you come out. “That’s really good”
You squint. “Any other comments? Useful ones?”
Jason nods earnestly.
“Yeah. Alfred uses emerald napkins. You’ll match the table.”
You stare at him.
He stares back, completely sincere.
Then you bolt back into the closet.
“NOPE—absolutely NOT—Jason Todd, I am not walking into a billionaire mansion dressed like coordinated tableware!”
Behind you, Jason calls out, genuinely confused:
“Isn’t matching… fancy?!”
Dress #3 is magenta silk, printed with sweeping white flowers, soft and dramatic and completely outside your normal wardrobe.
You put it on.
You step out.
Jason stops moving.
Like, full statue mode. The only sign of life is the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“…oh,” he says.
You fidget. “Is that a good ‘oh’? Or a ‘you look like a floral couch’ oh?”
He shakes his head slowly. “That’s a ‘wow’ oh.”
Your heart does a somersault.
You lift your arms slightly. “Too much? Too bright? Too floral?”
“No.”
He stands without realizing he’s doing it.
Eyes warm and uncertain all at once.
“It’s… you look great in them all,” he says quietly.
It is the softest you’ve ever heard him speak.
You’re about to melt into the carpet when—
RRRRRIP.
Your eyes widen.
Jason winces. “Was that…?”
You look behind you.
The price tag lies on the floor like the corpse of your financial stability.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “I can’t return it. I can’t return it.”
Jason presses his lips together to hide a smile. “Guess we found your dress.”
You deadpan at him. “Financially coerced by fate.”
“Looks good on you.”
You snort. “The debt?”
He huffs a laugh. “The dress, angel”
You take one final look in the mirror, smoothing the magenta silk over your hips. Jason watches, arms folded loosely, soft in a way he only ever is around you. He looks at you like you’re something delicate and important, like if he blinks he’ll miss a moment he wants to memorize.
You clear your throat, flustered. “Okay. Magenta dress. Shockingly expensive. Irreparably owned. Done.”
You turn away before you short-circuit in front of him. Time to finish getting ready.
Perfume. Earrings. Lipstick. One last swipe of blush. Jason sits on the bed the whole time, trying not to look like he’s staring directly at the sun but failing miserably.
When you’re done, you step into the kitchen…. and Jason stops dead.
You gesture vaguely toward the counter. “I made a little something to take so I don’t show up empty-handed.”
You’re pretty sure you hear his brain reboot.
“Angel,” he says slowly. “This is… not a little something.”
Pristine pastry boxes are stacked neatly on the counter. Each tied with twine. Each labeled. Each smelling suspiciously delicious.
You wave a hand. “Stress baking.”
He opens the nearest box.
Inside are rows of perfectly identical miniature tarts, each one glossy and delicate like it came out of a Parisian bakery. He picks up a lemon one, squints at it, then takes a bite like a man bracing for emotional consequences.
Jason picks one up like it’s an artifact.
Then he takes a bite.
You turn around to grab your purse.
When you turn back, Jason’s eyes are wide.
He is chewing frantically. He realizes he’s been caught and stuffs the entire tart into his mouth in one panicked motion.
Your jaw drops. “JASON!”
“Mfhm?” he says, cheeks full like a guilty chipmunk.
“No! No no no, they’re UNEVEN now! I packed six per box! Now it’s five in that one! That RUINS the symmetry!”
He freezes.
You can see the moment his brain identifies: she is spiraling. hard. must fix immediately.
He swallows loudly. “Okay. Okay I can fix that.”
“How?!” you demand.
He grabs another tart. “I’ll eat another one.”
You slap his hand. “That does NOT fix it!
“Oh.”
He thinks. Hard.
“Okay. I’ll eat one from each box.”
“Jason!!”
He gently takes your shoulders, trying not to laugh and also trying not to panic because clearly you are panicking enough for both of you.
“Angel,” he says softly, “they’re perfect. They’re insane. And my family is going to lose their minds over them.”
You freeze mid-spiral.
“You think? Really?”
“Really,” he assures. “Trust me. They will devour these.”
You look at him, chewing your lip. “But what if they think it’s too much? What if they think I’m overdoing it? What if they think I’m trying too hard?”
“You are trying too hard,” he says gently, fixing a bit of smudged eyeliner from your cheek. “But that’s why they’ll love you. Because you care. And because you didn’t show up empty-handed.”
“And because these tarts might actually be better than Alfred’s.”
Your eyes widen. “Is that,, blasphemy?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “Don’t repeat it.”
You finally smile.
He relaxes a little too, relieved to have pulled you out of your spiral.
“Okay,” you say. “Fine. Presentation matters. Help me rebalance them.”
He cracks his knuckles like he is preparing for a high-stakes mission.
“Yes, ma’am.”
You both lean over the counter. Transfer the box of five into a slightly smaller one. The fifth tart looks out of place so you sigh and let Jason have at it. He thanks you and gives you half to share.
When you’re finally done, he ties each bow neatly, stacking the boxes in his arms.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No,” you say honestly.
He bumps your shoulder gently.
“Too bad. Let’s go impress the emotionally constipated billionaires.”
–
Jason’s car hums beneath you as he pulls out of the lot, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the centre console as though he wants to reach for something but is stopping himself.
You stare at his jeans.
His JEANS.
Meanwhile, you are in heels sharper than moral judgment.
“This is unfair,” you announce.
“What is?”
“You get to wear jeans. JEANS, Jason. I am dressed like a Spring Gala centerpiece.”
He shrugs. “You can change if you want.”
“No,” you groan dramatically. “YOU get a pass because you’re the son. I am auditioning.”
Jason glances at you, confused and a little troubled.
“You’re not auditioning for anything.”
“Yes, I am. I need to prove I can blend with rich people. I’ve never even BEEN to a country club unless you count that one time I accidentally wandered into a golf course trying to find a bathroom.”
Jason snorts.
“Angel,” he murmurs, and his tone is so gentle you nearly combust, “you don’t have to impress them.”
You inhale like you’re preparing to recite a thesis. “Yes, I do.”
“Alright,” you say, steadying your breath. “Give me the rundown. Who am I about to meet?”
He exhales like he’s bracing for impact.
“Okay… Bruce first.”
You nod. “The billionaire.”
Jason huffs a small laugh. “Yeah. But also… he took me in when I was twelve. Adopted me. He’s—” He hesitates, searching for a word that doesn’t hurt. “My dad,” he finishes quietly.
“He likes baseball,” Jason adds. “Gotham Knights. If you need a safe topic, that’s one.”
You file that away like it’s crucial survival information.
“Next is Dick,” Jason continues. “Eldest. He’s… nice. Easy to talk to. He’ll probably make you laugh. Or annoy you. Or both.”
You grin. “I like him already. Why’s he named that though”
“Yeah,” Jason mutters. “Nobody knows why he goes by that. His full name is Richard.”
“Then Tim. Smart. Stupid smart. He’ll ask a million questions but not in a bad way. He just likes… understanding people.”
He pauses. “He’s steady. One of the good ones.”
You smile. “Okay. Smart boy. I can handle that.”
Jason gives you a skeptical side-eye, like he is not convinced in the slightest.
“And Damian,” he says.
“The nine-year-old?” you ask brightly.
Jason winces. “Yes and no.”
You stare. “How is that a yes and no answer, Jason?”
“Just, don’t treat him like a kid,” he warns. “He moved here about a year ago. He’s… intense. Loves animals. Don’t ask about his mom.”
“…should I fear him?”
Jason considers. “Not fear. Respect. Like a small, armed CEO.”
“Oh my god.”
“He’ll warm up to you. Eventually. Maybe. I think.”
This is not reassuring. At all.
“And then,” Jason continues, “there’s Steph. She’s loud. In a fun way. You’ll like her. She’ll definitely like you.”
You exhale. “Finally, somebody safe.”
Jason snorts. “Wait for Cass.”
“Cass?”
“Quiet. Observant. Scary-good at reading people. But she’s the kindest person in the room. She’ll adore you.”
You smile, relieved.
“And Duke,” he adds. “Good guy. Easygoing. Makes jokes. Don’t let him convince you to join a group chat. You’ll never know peace again.”
You laugh nervously. “This isn’t so bad.”
“Last one,” Jason says softly.
“Alfred.”
Your shoulders drop. “The butler?”
“The heart of the house,” Jason corrects immediately. “He—”
He swallows.
“He saved me. More than once. Not physically. Just… as a person.”
Your heart tugs painfully.
“He’ll be the one you want to impress,” Jason adds quietly. “Not Bruce. Not Dick. Alfred.”
You nod slowly. “Okay. Good. I can do that.”
He keeps his eyes on the road, guilt tightening his jaw.
He wishes he could give you the real introductions, the masks, the missions, the way they move at night, but he’s not allowed to tell you any of that yet. So this version will have to do.
As Wayne Manor grows closer, he gets quieter. Fidgety. His fingers tap the steering wheel with intensity
“You okay?” you whisper.
He nods.
But his jaw tightens.
“Yeah,” he says. “Just… I promised you some truths today.”
You grab his hand,, squeezing once. “Thank you for giving me that”
You want to say more,, but then look out the window as the wrought-iron gates swing open.
Slowly.
Smoothly.
Silently.
Like they were oiled by money and the tears of middle-class citizens.
Your breath hitches. “Oh,” you whisper. “Oh, that’s… a gate.”
Jason glances over. “You okay?”
“Totally,” you lie. “Very calm. Very normal. Definitely not about to hyperventilate into my expensive non-refundable dress.”
The car continues up a winding driveway lined with lantern posts, manicured hedges, and a fountain so large it could host its own Olympics.
You grip the door handle.
“This place,” you mutter, “has architecture.”
Jason parks near the front steps and hops out like it’s nothing. Like this is not a billionaire’s ancestral castle or the setting of every Victorian novel where women faint on couches.
He opens your door, giving you a hand to hold on to as you step out.
He studies your face. “You okay?”
“No.”
You grab his jacket and pull him into a hug before you can think too hard about it.
You didn’t plan it. Your body just goes, hug now, panic later.
Jason stiffens in surprise, then melts into it, arms wrapping around your waist, warm and steady. His heartbeat thumps against your ear.
Yours? Hammering.
His? Also hammering.
You both pretend not to notice.
When you pull back, he clears his throat and reaches into the back seat, hauling out the absurd stack of pastry boxes.
“You made… a lot,” he says.
“Yes,” you say, clearing your throat. “Now grab those before I black out.”
You do not see the audience.
He does.
Inside Wayne Manor, the entire family has crowded around the tall arched windows in the foyer like a pack of nosy meerkats.
Dick has both hands pressed to the glass.
Tim is leaning so far forward he might phase through it.
Stephanie is recording.
Duke is watching like it’s a nature documentary.
Damian is standing on a step stool, arms crossed, pretending he isn’t invested while absolutely being invested.
Bruce is behind all of them, sipping coffee, watching with intensity
Cass, watching with even more intensity.
And then they all freeze.
Because there you are.
Stepping out of the car like a sunbeam.
Looking normal. Sweet. Soft.
Not a single visible weapon.
Not even one criminal vibe.
No tattoos of knives.
No glaring.
No leather.
No "I have emotionally complex beef with the city" energy.
Dick whispers, horrified, “She looks… nice.”
Tim nods solemnly. “Like she has a retirement plan.”
Duke: “She looks like she says good morning to her neighbors.”
Steph: “I thought his soulmate would at least have a gun. Maybe a DUI.”
Damian squints. “I do not understand. How did Todd acquire a functional human—”
And then you hug Jason.
A full, warm, soft hug.
The manor collectively gasps.
Dick: “OH MY GOD SHE LIKES HIM.”
Steph: “SHE INITIATED PHYSICAL AFFECTION???”
Bruce, slightly panicked: “Did… did Jason hug back?”
Chaos spreads like wildfire.
Meanwhile,, Jason makes direct eye contact with them as you make your way towards the door. He gives them a look which says BE NORMAL. PLEASE. WHAT ARE YOU DOING.
You don’t see it.
Bruce sighs into his coffee. “Ah. He’s in a mood today.”
You take a deep breath and step up to the doors.
Jason bumps your shoulder gently.
“Ready?” he asks.
You absolutely are not.
But you nod anyway.
“Let’s go meet your terrifying billionaire family.”
The front door swings open with a soft click.
Alfred stands there like a silver-haired angel of judgment and hospitality. “Master Jason. Miss.”
You almost drop the pastry box. “Hi! Thank you for having me, Mr. Alfred—sir—uh—hello.”
Alfred smiles, serene and terrifyingly perceptive. “Alfred will do nicely.”
Jason mutters, “Hey, Alfie,” and steps inside like he doesn’t feel twelve years old again.
You follow, immediately overwhelmed by how the foyer alone is larger than your entire apartment. Everything is polished. Warm. Echoing. Expensive enough that you feel like breathing too hard will lower the property value.
The family trickles in.
Bruce appears first, looking exactly like his Forbes billionaire headshot except somehow… bigger. You immediately straighten your posture like you’re meeting the CEO of oxygen.
“Welcome,” he says, voice deep and calm.
You grab a pastry box from Jason’s pile and thrust it at him like an offering to a deity. “I made tarts! From scratch. Multiple flavors. In case of allergies or… textural preferences.”
Bruce blinks at the box. “…Thank you.”
Everyone stands around you. Everyone is staring at you.
Everyone.
Wide-eyed. Studying you like you’re a rare museum artifact.
Inside your head:
Oh my god oh my god oh my god they hate me.They think I’m not good enough.They think Jason should be with someone richer or hotter or five inches taller.OH GOD THIS IS A K-DRAMA.
Meanwhile, inside their heads:
Dick: How did he pull someone this normal??
Tim: She has moisturized skin. Does he know what to do with that level of stability?
Steph: I love her. I want her to adopt me.
Duke: She looks… emotionally balanced? Should we tell her to run?
Jason, noticing the staring, steps slightly in front of you like a human shield. “Can we… go to lunch now?”
Bruce clears his throat. “Yes. Of course.”
—
Lunch is… painful.
As in: you would rather be mugged again painful.
The dining table is long enough to host a UN summit, but somehow every person at it is within intense staring range. You try to chew politely. Sip water politely. Breathe politely.
You try.
God, you try.
First, you turn to Bruce. The Bruce Wayne, who looks exactly like if a marble statue learned how to dad-sigh.
“So! Jason said you like the Gotham Knights?” you offer cheerfully.
Bruce nods once. “Yes.”
You wait for more.
More never comes.
“That’s… great!” you say, voice climbing an octave.
Sitting next to you, Jason pinches the bridge of his nose. Internally, Bruce is chanting do not emotionally ruin this, you promised Alfred while sweating through sheer force of stoicism.
You pivot.
Safest option: the child. Children love you
You turn to Damian with your friendliest, cool older person smile.
“Dami! Jason told me you’re in the fourth grade! You’re so tall for your age!”
Silence.
Damian looks at you the way a hawk looks at a mouse with delusions of grandeur.
“My intellect rivals those at the graduate level,” he says coolly. “Do not speak to me like that again.”
You blink.
Jason mutters under his breath, “Tried to warn you.”
Conversation dies a violent, dramatic death. After 15 minutes of silence, you glance around the table. Every Wayne is staring at you.
“I—uh.” You touch your cheek. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No!” Dick blurts out. “It’s not that! It’s just—”
He gestures vaguely at you, like you’re an abstract painting he doesn’t know how to critique.
“You’re so… normal.”
Your stomach drops.
Normal?? Like not good enough normal??
Jason’s fork screeches against his plate. “Grayson.”
Dick panics. “NO I meant it as a compliment!”
But you have already spiraled.
Oh God. You knew this would happen.
Rich family. Legacy family. Gotham’s elite.
Jason’s soulmate was supposed to be some ethereal heiress who summers in Monaco.
Not… you.
You straighten your spine, push your napkin aside, and fold your hands with the dignity of someone about to give a K-drama monologue.
“I understand,” you say bravely.
Everyone freezes.
Jason whispers, “No. No no no—don’t—”
You keep going, because you are committed to misunderstanding.
“I know I’m not what you expected. I know Jason probably deserves someone more… fitting. But we can be good together. I promise. If you give me a chance.”
Tim actually drops his fork.
Steph gasps.
Cass covers her mouth like she’s watching a telenovela.
Bruce looks deeply, existentially alarmed.
Dick is waving his hands. “NO—that’s not—we LOVE you—well, not love, not yet—you’re great—oh god Jason say something—”
Jason looks like he is about to spontaneously combust.
“Angel,” he says tightly, “nobody thinks that—”
But you barrel forward, desperate to show them you’re supportive.
“It’s okay!” you insist brightly. “Every family has hopes for their kids! I know everyone is probably disappointed you have a normal soulmate!”
Jason stands so fast the chair screeches back.
“Damian,” he orders, voice razor-sharp, “take her to see the cow so I can yell at Dick properly.”
Damian blinks. “I do not think Batcow will like her.”
You wilt. “Oh. Even the cow can tell I’m poor.”
Jason’s eye twitches so hard it could break glass.
He turns to Damian with a look that says I swear to God child, move.
Damian sighs like a weary prince accepting his tragic fate.
“Fine. Come, civilian. Do not pet her without permission.”
You get up, mortified..
The dining room explodes the second you leave it.
Jason lunges.
“JASON—NO—PUT THE FORK DOWN—”
Dick yelps and dives under the table, narrowly avoiding being skewered by a very antique, very expensive piece of silverware.
“I SAID IT WRONG,” Dick shouts from the floor. “LITTLE WING IT JUST CAME OUT WRONG—”
Tim grabs Jason around the torso. Steph grabs Jason’s arm. Duke grabs Jason’s other arm. Cass appears behind him like a ghost and applies pressure in places that immediately make him freeze.
Bruce stands up too fast, chair scraping. “Jason. Breathe.”
“I AM BREATHING,” Jason snarls. “I JUST WANT FIVE MINUTES.”
Alfred sighs, already reaching for the tea tray like this is a normal Saturday.
—
Meanwhile.
You follow Damian out into the manor grounds, your embarrassment still buzzing in your ears.
“This way,” he says curtly, pushing open a heavy door.
You step inside.
“Oh.”
A cow looks back at you.
She is large. Calm. Magnificent. Chewing hay like she achieved nirvana.
You stare.
She stares.
“…Hi,” you say faintly.
You take a cautious step forward. “She’s… beautiful.”
Batcow ambles closer, sniffs you once, then nudges your hand with her nose.
“Oh!” you laugh, instinctively petting her. “Hi, sweetheart.”
Batcow leans into you, content. A low, pleased huff leaves her nose.
Damian watches closely.
“She likes you,” he admits.
You beam. “I’m honored.”
He relaxes a fraction, just enough to talk.
“She was rescued from an illegal transport ring,” Damian explains. “Malnourished. Injured. She fought back anyway. Would not yield.”
You pause mid-pet. “What’s her name?”
Damian gestures with pride. “Batcow.”
You smile at the cow again.
Then—
Your brain catches up to your mouth.
“…Wait.”
You straighten slowly.
“Bat,” you say carefully.
“…Cow.”
Your hand drops.
Your eyes widen.
“Oh my god,” you whisper.
Damian stiffens. “What.”
You turn to him, stunned. “BAT. Cow. Seriously?”
He frowns. “It is an efficient name.”
You stare at him.
Then the room.
Then back at him.
“…You’re Robin.”
Damian blinks.
Once.
Then lifts his chin. “You recognized me because of my superior stature and authority."
You squint. “No. It’s because you’re the shortest.”
“…Rude,” he snaps automatically.
Then, quieter: “…But correct.”
He crosses his arms. “You are not to tell anyone that I was the reason you realized.”
You nod solemnly. “Of course.”
Then add, honestly: “It was mostly the cow.”
“…Acceptable,” he mutters.
You exhale, shaky laughter bubbling up. “Wow. I really just… had lunch with Batman.”
“Yes,” Damian says. “And you insulted his fork usage.”
“Fantastic.”
You lean against the wall, letting it sink in.
Something in Damian’s posture shifts. His shoulders relax a fraction.
“You misunderstood my brother,” he says suddenly.
You glance at him. “Which one?”
“Grayson,” he clarifies. “When he said you were normal.”
You wince. “It’s okay. I get it. I don’t exactly scream ‘Wayne-adjacent.’”
Damian scowls. “That is not what he meant.”
“Oh?”
“He meant,” Damian says, stiff but earnest, “that you are… well-adjusted. Kind. Soft.”
You blink at him.
“He meant,” Damian continues, grudging each word, “that you are better than what Todd usually allows near him, better than what any of us let near.”
Your chest tightens.
“I think Jason is great,” you say quietly.
Damian nods once. “He is. Do not tell him I said that.”
You laugh, relief bubbling up. “Deal.”
Batcow moos lightly, like she’s in on the secret.
—
You and Damian return to the dining room to absolute chaos.
Jason is halfway onto the table.
“I DID NOT IMPLY ANYTHING—”
“You SAID NORMAL,” Jason snarls.
Dick is fully under a chair now. “YOU KNOW WHAT I MEANT, LITTLE WING—”
Tim is yelling about phrasing. Steph is crying laughing. Duke is filming. Bruce has his hands up. Alfred is calm in a way that suggests this has happened before.
You clear your throat.
Every head snaps toward you.
Jason freezes instantly. “Angel—”
“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “Really.”
You smile, a little sheepish. “I just didn’t realize you were all… like this.”
“…Like what,” Tim asks carefully.
You gesture broadly. “A family of deeply traumatized, emotionally repressed, violently affectionate vigilantes.”
Silence.
Then Steph laughs.
Duke snorts.
Bruce exhales like someone finally named the problem.
Jason stares at you, stunned. “You’re… not mad?”
You shrug. “I thought you were rich and distant. Turns out you’re rich and unhinged. That’s easier to work with.”
Tim squints. “Wait—how do you know?”
All eyes turn to you.
You blink. “Oh. Uh.”
You gesture vaguely over your shoulder. “You named the cow Batcow.”
Dead silence.
“…The cow?” Dick says carefully.
“Yes,” you confirm. “The very brave cow. With the extremely on-the-nose name.”
Duke presses a hand to his chest. “That’s on us.”
Steph nods. “That’s fair.”
Bruce closes his eyes for half a second, like he’s mentally adding this to a list.
Jason rubs his face. “I told you that name would be a problem.”
Dick finally crawls out from under the table. “We like her.”
Jason glares. “You already liked her. You just couldn’t shut up.”
You meet Jason’s eyes. “I’m okay. Promise.”
Something in him finally unclenches.
And for the first time since you arrived, no one is staring at you like you don’t belong.
You do.
–
Lunch resumes like nothing ever exploded.
Which feels… miraculous.
Conversation starts up again, tentative at first, then warmer. Someone asks you about work. Steph compliments your baking with genuine awe. Alfred cuts the tarts with ceremonial care, and Bruce actually smiles when he tastes one.
“These are excellent,” he says.
You light up. “Thank you! I stress-bake.”
Jason murmurs, “She made thirty.”
Bruce blinks. “Thirty.”
You nod solemnly. “There were flavor profiles.”
Dessert disappears quickly. Plates are cleared. The tension drains from the room, replaced by something softer. Familiar. Loud in the way families get when they feel safe again.
Jason leans toward you. “Want to see the house?”
You smile. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
He stands, offering his hand. You take it without thinking.
The manor is quieter upstairs. Less echo, more memory. Jason walks slowly, pointing out rooms in passing, stories half-told and half-kept. He stops in front of one door at the end of the hall.
He hesitates.
“This is… mine,” he says.
Your chest tightens. “We don’t have to—”
“I said I’d show you,” he replies gently. “It’s okay.”
He opens the door.
The room is frozen in time.
Posters still line the walls. Books stacked unevenly on a desk. A sock on the floor. The bed neatly made, like someone is still expected to come home and mess it up again.
Your breath catches.
Jason stays by the door. “They… kept it like this.”
You don’t step inside. You just stand beside him.
“I used to be Robin,” he says quietly.
You nod, like you already knew somehow.
“Most of them were,” he adds. “Dick. Tim. Steph. Now Damian. Bruce took us in. Gave us a home. Gave us a mission.”
His jaw tightens.
“But there are some things he couldn’t save us from.”
His voice falters. He swallows hard, eyes fixed on a spot above the bed.
“I don’t—” He exhales. “I’m not ready to talk about how I died.”
You don’t push. You just rest your hand lightly against his arm.
“You don’t have to. Not yet.”
Relief flashes across his face.
“So,” he continues, choosing safer ground, “I came back. Angry. Confused. I thought Bruce should’ve avenged me. Thought he chose his rules over me.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “I did a lot of things because of that. Things I’m still paying for.”
You think of the Red Hood. The edges he wears like armor.
“There were… bridges burned,” he admits. “With Bruce. With everyone. We’re… rebuilding. Slowly.”
He glances at you. “That’s why I’ve been closed off. Why I don’t always know how to explain myself.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m doing a shit job explaining this, aren’t I?”
You shake your head immediately. “No. I get it.”
He searches your face, uncertain. “You do?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “More than ever.”
He exhales, shoulders loosening like he’s been holding himself together with wire.
“You know,” he says, attempting a crooked smile, “if this is too much… you can apply for a soulmate refund. Return me. No questions asked.”
You snort. “Absolutely not.”
“No?”
You gesture vaguely at the house around you. “Jason. Look at this place. I am not losing my shot at generational wealth.”
He laughs at that. Real, startled, full.
“You’re impossible,” he says, fond and disbelieving.
“And I don’t deserve how easy you make this,” he adds quietly.
You turn to face him fully. “I think that’s the point.”
“The point of what?”
“Soulmates,” you say. “Maybe the universe just… pairs people with exactly what they need.”
He considers that.
“You needed someone who listens,” you continue. “And I needed someone with a very, very, very rich dad.”
He laughs again, softer this time. “So we both won.”
“Obviously.”
You lean your head against his shoulder. He doesn’t move away.
For a split second, he goes still.
Then slowly, carefully he leans into you.
Not much. Just enough that his temple rests against the top of your head. Just enough that his breath evens out. Just enough that you can feel the weight he usually keeps locked behind his ribs finally settle somewhere safe.
You don’t move.
Neither does he.
When you glance up, his expression is open in a way you don’t see often. Vulnerable. Unarmored. Like if you said one wrong thing, he might fold. But if you said the right one, he’d stay right here forever.
His eyes flick to your mouth.
Your breath catches.
The space between you tightens. Narrows. Hums.
He tilts his head, just a fraction.
“JASON TODD IF YOU ARE MAKING OUT IN YOUR DEAD KID BEDROOM I SWEAR TO GOD—”
Jason jerks back like he’s been shot.
“Oh my GOD,” he yelps. “TIM!”
“EW!” comes Steph’s voice from the hall. “SICK! WRONG ROOM FOR THAT!”
Duke adds, “I’m begging you to have shame.”
Jason’s ears tinge red. “We were NOT making out.”
You cover your mouth, half-laughing, half-mortified.
“Sorry,” he says quietly.
You smile. “Worth it.”
He huffs a breath, then reaches for your hand.
“Come on,” he says. “Before they get worse.”
—
Back downstairs, the sitting room is already alive with noise.
Everyone is sprawled across couches and chairs like gravity has stopped applying to them properly. Alfred pours tea. Bruce sits in a high-backed chair pretending he isn’t watching you and Jason with laser focus.
Jason guides you to a loveseat.
You sit.
Politely.
Six full inches apart.
The room immediately goes quiet.
Steph squints. “Have they held hands yet?”
Jason groans. “We have held hands.”
“Yes,” you add quickly. “Several times.”
Dick leans forward. “Then why are you sitting like strangers at a dentist’s office?”
“We are being respectful,” you insist.
Jason nods. “It’s early.”
“Gosh,” you both say at the same time.
Conversation drifts. Someone turns on music. Alfred passes around tea and the last of your tarts, which are demolished with alarming efficiency.
At some point, Dick groans dramatically and drops his head back against the couch.
“I just want to say,” he announces, “I am deeply traumatized by soulmate nonsense.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Dick—”
“No,” Dick interrupts. “No, we’re not doing this. I was Robin when you met Catwoman face-to-face.”
Jason perks up. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”
“You were connected to comms,” Dick continues miserably. “I heard everything. The flirting. The banter. The moment their timers disappeared.”
Steph gasps. “NO.”
“Yes,” Dick says, voice cracking. “And then the debauchery. I crushed my comm and went home.”
Alfred nods politely. “Master Dick was discovered later, kicking a pillow in the cave.”
Tim wheezes. “That’s incredible.”
Bruce clears his throat. “That was… an unfortunate oversight.”
Dick glares. “I was nine.”
Jason snickers. “You deserved it.”
“Oh, shut up,” Dick mutters.
Tim, who has been quiet, suddenly stiffens as several sets of eyes turn toward him.
Steph grins. “So, Tim. No timer, huh?”
Tim’s jaw tightens. “That’s because Kryptonians don’t have timers, dipshits.”
The room freezes.
Duke’s mouth falls open. “Yo.”
Jason leans forward. “Are you admitting something right now?”
Tim stands abruptly, cheeks suddenly very red. “I am going to leave this room.”
“Oh my god,” Steph cackles. “He said it out loud!”
Tim flees.
You glance at Alfred, curious. “What about you?”
Alfred smiles serenely. “My soulmate is a private matter.”
Jason narrows his eyes. “Alfred—”
“No.”
Bruce sighs. “We’ve tried for years.”
“It remains life’s greatest mystery,” Dick adds dramatically.
Leaning back into the cushions, you watch them laugh, bicker, and collide with one another in this strange, stitched-together way, and something in your chest finally settles.
Just two days ago, you were spiraling over how little Jason opened up. Wondering what he was afraid of. Afraid of what he was hiding from you.
But watching him here, snapping back at Dick, rolling his eyes at Tim, softening around Alfred, you see it clearly.
The bridges he thinks he burned are still standing.
Singed, maybe. Cracked. Rebuilt in odd places. But held together by something stubborn and unbreakable.
Love.
And suddenly, you understand him more than you ever could through words alone.
You’re still watching Jason when you notice it, the glint in his eye. The one he gets right before chaos. A small, dangerous smirk he absolutely fails to hide.
Jason’s grin turns wicked as he addresses the room. “You all ever hear of Mao?”
—-
taglist:
THE TAGLIST IS NOW CLOSED (cause i am bad at it and its not working)
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You are my favorite Jason Todd author!!! My fave is the character study fic and i have cried every single time i read it (approx. 4-5x)
ANYWAYSSSSSS have a great day!!!!!
genuinely thats my favourite fic ive written too. its not the most revolutionary storyline wise but so much work and love went into it and i cant believe you read it so many times.
Ohmygosh I’m currently on chapter 7 of ur welcome to the pod series and ahhhhh it’s so good!!!!! Like ur literally magical or something. I love the way it’s not just like romance but you get to see like the batfam family dynamic I literally love it
stop chapter 7 was never going to even happen but there was a mishap in my student house which caused a maintenance guy to bring a ladder in at 4:30 am in the morning which gave just enough sleep deprived hallucinating time that i could think about jason todd moving furniture
im so glad you enjoyed it! welcome to the pod was always more of a batfam centered fic,, with the main themes being damian and jason becoming better brothers,, however i upped the romance cause whats the point of x reader if not
