ā COMFORT SHOW d ĖĖ ā©
PAIRING: yandere!jason todd x gn!reader
DESCRIPTION: when jason canāt sleep, youāre the one he turns to. just⦠not in person.
WARNINGS: descriptions of violence, blood, injury, and trauma, typical yandere behaviours, stalking, swearing
The ropes bind Jasonās body to the wooden chair like a python strangling its prey. They suffocate his limbs, burning roughly onto already beaten skin. Tears in the red spandex adorning his form only reveal more red - except this red is warm, and pours onto concrete stained with splashes of crimson so dark theyāre nearly black. Jason thinks back to a few months ago, when the stains were lighter. Or was it a few years ago? He shudders as much as the ropes will allow, hunching his back and hanging his head low, as if it would shield him from the derelict, barren hellscape heās in.
He cautiously raises his head, bruised eyes scanning the warehouse and mapping the exits for the nth time. His stare bores into the main door as he pictures Batman kicking it off its hinges and running towards him with both relief and rage flooding his veins. He pictures being untied and finally being in Bruceās arms - his fatherās arms - instead of ropes. Jasonās chest relaxes in response to the mental image, a small smile forming on his bloodied face and a shaky, wistful breath escaping from his struggling lungs.
But the relief wouldnāt last long. A maniacal laugh echoes in the distance, and his imagination evaporates as the sound forces him back into reality. His cold, dark, dirty, bloody, and lonely reality. His heart sinks as the laughter grows closer, and plunges completely when the door slams open. It gives entry to a monster in human skin; a pale, green-haired monster with eyes blown wide and a smile carved from ear to ear outlined in red. One would naturally assume it was face paint but, knowing this creature, it could easily be blood from the quivering Robin before it. That, or from one of the many victims that precede him.
In its claws is a crowbar. Its smile only grows more sinister when it sees Jason glance at it in fear.
The monsterās mouth starts moving. Talking. Except, no sound is coming out. All Jason can hear is his quickening heartbeat, pulsing in his ears and his chest. Beating so hard that it feels too big for his body and is desperately trying to escape from his broken ribcage.
Maybe that was the problem, he thinks amongst his dread. I was too soft. Too forgiving. Too weak.
The monsterās grip on the crowbar tightens as it raises the weapon above Jasonās head. Jasonās vision is blurred through the tears streaming down his cheeks, seeping into the open gashes and mixing with the gore. He canāt see the monsterās face, but itās grin is stretched so wide that he doesnāt need to see the details. He knows what it means. He also doesnāt need clear vision to see that Batman isnāt here. Gothamās saviour isnāt here to save him. He shouldāve known; Gotham always comes first.
āPleaseā¦ā he splutters out in a pitiful attempt to stop the inevitable. He only gets a hysterical shrieking in response, accompanied by a grin that doesnāt fit human teeth; it better fits a starving lion thatās finally found its prey.
I never shouldāve trusted my mother, he thinks.
I never shouldāve trusted my āfatherā, either.
Family only lets you down.
The crowbar flies down towards him and-
Jason shoots up from his bed, sitting upright only for a moment before clamouring out of the sheets. The duvet became just as restrictive as those damn ropes. He tumbles to the floor with a jolt and hurriedly crawls to the corner of his bedroom, curling up with his knees to his chest and burying his head in the gap between them. He digs his elbows into his knees, reaching his arms up to shield his head and grip his hair. His hands become damp from the sweat soaking the dark strands, while the hairs on his arms stand up in terror. His breathing quickens into shallow gasps; his mind replaying the horror again, and again, and again, unaware the nightmare is over.
As he trembles in the corner, his sniffling and hyperventilating muffled by his knees, he frantically searches his mind and his surroundings for an anchor; an escape from the neverending torture. Static starts swarming his vision, flickering and dancing like the stars in the night sky outside his window. His racing heartbeat thumps in his ears and he desperately begs himself to think over the nervous drum.
He just manages to catch an unopened package next to his bookshelf despite his sight being obscured by a visual snowstorm; a medium cardboard box still sealed with tape and decorated with a large postage label. A box, he thinks. Box breathing, he realises. In your nose for four, hold for four, exhale through the mouth for four, hold for four. Like Bruce taught you.
The thought of that man still fills him with resentment, no matter how many times they heal things between them. Except, their version of healing things was more akin to putting a band-aid over a bullet wound: they know their relationship needs resuscitation, but neither of them have a defibrillator. Or the life support machines to try and keep it alive afterwards.
Jason forces himself to push down his simmering outrage and just create the goddamn boxes. He begins with a shaky inhale and uses it to trace the first side of the box, visualising the line travelling - albeit unsteadily - across his mind. He holds that breath despite the stuttering from his chest, tracing the next side of the box, and then exhales, drawing the third line. When his lungs empty, he holds that emptiness to complete the outline. The wobbly lines create a flimsy box that definitely wouldnāt be fit for purpose, but itās a box nonetheless. He assembles another one, but with steadier lines this time. The lines become smoother with every box he mentally constructs, and his breathing starts to slow.
Hell, he thinks, Iām making enough boxes to fill a delivery warehouse-
Wait, no, not a warehouse! Anything but a damn warehouse!
With that internal slip of the tongue, his progress unravels: his breathing rises once more, and the tightness in his chest returns, the familiar tension mounting all over again. The ghost of the warehouse and the crowbar sprints to the forefront, but itās now mixed with Bruce leaving him to die, his betrayal stabbing him in the back. Jason swears he can feel that metaphorical batarang becoming physical, plunging into his back and tearing into his skin. The wound still agonises him no matter how much time passes. It never fully heals; only scars until the strain splits it open again, blood flowing out as if it were freshly cut.
An abrupt noise rings throughout Jasonās bedroom and cuts through his climbing panic. He flinches at the sound before identifying it as his phone buzzing, vibrating on something. The bedside table - he realises. He notices the buzzing taking on a certain ringtone and his thoughts pause. Them. That ghost of the painful nightmare begins floating away like a cloud blown by a summer breeze, his mind gaining lucidity as it evaporates.
Iām not there. Iām with them. I need them. Theyāll save me.
Jason lifts his head up, his glassy eyes peeking out from under his arms, tears still brimming. He blinks them away, despite his sore eyes being exhausted from the sobbing, and battles through the heaviness in his bones to move to towards his bed. His limbs tingle as he rises from the floor; his body shocked at the abrupt movement. Pins and needles prickle at his skin, and he places a hand on the wall to steady himself. The static begins dissipating from his eyes and his mind becomes more grounded in reality through his sheer concentration on his phone and, by extension, you. He ambles over to the bedside table and attempts to pick up his phone, but his legs had other ideas: he slumps onto the edge of the bed, his hand clumsily resting on the table to balance himself. He lets out a huff of frustration and he rubs his eyes with his palms, wiping away the leftover tears and dizziness before grabbing his phone.
The screen lights up, illuminating Jasonās face in a soft blue glow, and displays a notification: Movement detected on Bedside. Speedily inputting the passcode, he taps the hidden camera app and a menu appears upon opening, displaying a list of cameras and a preview of what each one is recording. He selects the camera labelled āBedsideā and it engulfs the screen. It shows a close-up view of you sleeping in your bed from a camera hidden in your bedside lamp. Jason installed cameras around your apartment, aside from your bathroom, when you werenāt in. He needed to make sure that youāre healthy, happy, and not in any danger from burglaries, health emergencies, dodgy electrics, kitchen fires, and anything else that could take you from him. You silence his mind - your presence putting a silencer on his synapses that insist on quick-firing like the guns he uses at night. You placate them, tame them, and protect him from his mind when he canāt manage to protect himself. So, he has to protect you in return.
His gaze stays fixated on your sleeping form as he lays down in his own bed and takes the coiled-up earphones from the table, letting them unravel on his stomach. He grabs hold of the earphone jack and plugs it in, his eyes never leaving you. He picks up each earphone individually and slots them into his ears before raising the audio volume with quick presses.
He begins to listen to your soft breaths, and he can already feel his muscles relaxing; the tension in his chest loosens its grip on his heart and his lungs are no longer being suffocated by fear squeezing his breaths out. He syncs his breathing to yours to form a calming harmony and becomes absorbed by you, lovingly admiring your peaceful state. Youāre snuggled up in your duvet with your hair sprawled across your pillow in a tangled mess thanks to your tossing and turning: the same unconscious movements that triggered the camera alarm in the first place. If you could see yourself now, youād probably be embarrassed at how disheveled you are, but Jason doesnāt care. To him, youāre the dictionary definition of a sleeping beauty.
You were already his comfort person, but the cameras have transformed your life into his comfort show: his safe space after a difficult day, or a brutal night, where he can shut off the outside world and be part of yours, even if itās from a distance. Your life is different from a tv show, of course. Each episode is slightly different every time and thereās no canned audience, theme songs, or jingles to fill any silences. Itās alright, though - his laughter at your silly moments makes up for it. Besides, he doesnāt need any of those gimmicks to help his concentration. Nothing about you is boring to him; you keep his attention even when youāre sleeping. The unpredictability of your daily life is manageable, too: heās learned your routine over time and can accurately predict your next steps. He doesnāt mind the small daily deviances you make since it means thereās more to learn about you, and he wants to learn everything there is to know. The best thing is that there are unlimited episodes, though, āepisodesā isnāt really accurate. That implies a beginning and an end to the footage, which there isnāt. The cameras run 24/7, meaning thereās no restrictions to when Jason can watch you. That especially comes in handy in times like this, when the night is tormenting him and he needs your sunlight to save him from its darkness.
Thereās still one big difference between your life and a tv show. You donāt know youāre in a tv show. You donāt know your apartment has become a studio; a set with cameras catching every angle of you. More importantly, you donāt know you have an audience. An audience of one, but that one is a superfan who watches with unwavering dedication. Who screenshots his favourite moments for his evergrowing album of you. Who knows your habits and your quirks better than you do. Who is your hidden protector, silently shielding you from the pain the world can bring; the pain he knows all too well.
Jason pulls his duvet over him, turning on his side and awkwardly propping his phone up on his pillow with the screen facing him, still showing your precious sleeping self. He sinks into his bed and pretends youāre sleeping next to him, turned towards him in your slumber. Your imagined companionship makes his eyelids heavy, and your shared breathing creates a soothing rhythm that radiates through his body as his lids close, rapidly blinking to catch as many glimpses of you as possible before fully closing. Jason finally surrenders to your calming effect and he drifts off being enveloped not only by his duvet, but by your breathing in his ears, your picture in his mind, and his love for you cradling his heart softer than any duvet or blanket ever could.
AUTHORāS NOTES: AAAAAAH MY FIRST LONG FORM FIC!! this became so much longer than I intended, I hope itās not too long! Iāve always had this headcanon about yandere Jason where he, before making himself known to darling, watches them through hidden cameras after he has a nightmare to calm himself down.
TAGS: @l0vergirls @luludeluluramblings also I got inspo from @jade-zzz for the layout! ā¤ļø