$ log - bucky barnes has been filing debrief reports on your shared missions since day one. thorough ones. he thinks he’d been private; instead you've been receiving every single one!
$ warn --sfw --fluff --cutie-jealous!bucky --bucky-has-a-crush
$ wc -w 2.1k
$ cd masterlist
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger
The SHIELD debrief portal had a lot of options Bucky didn't care about.
CC, BCC, Priority flag. Read receipts, etc. He'd clicked through all of them once when Fury made the whole team migrate to the new system. He'd retained exactly what he needed: Subject line. Body. Attach file. Send.
BCC he'd figured out on his own. Blind carbon copy, so his copy. B for Bucky, obviously, the logic was airtight — you hit BCC, put your own address in, and you got a private duplicate that nobody else could see or trace. His personal record, similar to a filing cabinet that lived in his email.
What the portal's onboarding documentation would have explained, had he read it, was that BCC worked the other way. You put other addresses in BCC. Addresses you wanted to receive the email invisibly, without the main recipient knowing.
What the portal's backend had also done, automatically and without asking anyone, was flag your email address to receive copies of any SHIELD documentation in which your name appeared more than four times.
Bucky's reports averaged twelve.
He didn't know any of this. He hit send, opened his own BCC copy, read it over once with a quiet satisfaction of reviewing something he was privately proud of, and closed his laptop.
The first one arrived on a Tuesday.
You were in the common room with your phone, half-watching something on the TV and not really tracking it, when the notification came through. SHIELD internal. Debrief document, your name in the subject line, sender ID: AGT-J.B.BARNES-2245.
You read it once, then you read it again.
Asset demonstrated exceptional situational awareness during the extraction sequence. Threat neutralisation was efficient and tactically sound.
Of additional note: asset's decision to reroute through the east corridor rather than the designated path resulted in the successful retrieval of secondary intelligence that would otherwise have been lost. This was not a lucky call. This was good instinct. Recommend continued field partnership.
This was not a lucky call. This was good instinct. You put your phone face-down on your knee, then picked it up to read it again.
Nobody had ever put that in writing before.
You were smiling before you'd fully registered. It was the kind you had to press your lips together to keep reasonable, and you looked up at the TV without seeing it and thought, huh.
Across the room, Bucky watched your face do something he didn't have a word for and felt a pull in his chest he chose not to examine.
You were on your phone a lot. He'd noticed. But, he wasn't keeping track or anything. So, he looked back at his coffee.
The second report went out three weeks later, after the Rotterdam job.
Bucky wrote it the same night, still in the post-mission quiet when everything felt slower and more honest. You'd been good in Rotterdam. Better than good. You'd held a position under pressure that most people would have abandoned and you'd done it without being asked.
You hadn't mentioned it in the debrief at all, just moved on like it was nothing, and it was very much not nothing.
He wrote the report, and he did so carefully. He added a line he took out, then put back in, then reworded three times:
Asset shows consistent pattern of underreporting her own contributions in verbal debrief settings. For accuracy of record, this document reflects observed field performance rather than asset's own account, which trends toward omission.
He looked at that for a while. Then he hit send, BCC'd himself, and closed the laptop.
You got it during breakfast.
Sam watched you pick up your phone mid-bite, watched your expression shift into something soft and private and a little delighted. He watched you put the phone screen-down with the careful precision of someone protecting something.
"Good news?" Sam said.
"Mm." You picked your fork back up. "Just — yeah. Good news."
Sam looked at you. He then looked across the kitchen at Bucky, who was reading the newspaper with the focus of totally not listening into the conversation.
Sam looked back at you, but he said nothing. He was mentally storing all these signs.
Bucky noticed you were doing it more.
The phone thing and the quiet smile. The way you'd look up from whatever you were reading with this expression like something had settled right in you. Then you'd put it away carefully, like you were folding something you wanted to keep.
He'd assumed it was texts. Someone's texts. Someone who made you look like that on a random Thursday morning over coffee, and he sat with that for approximately forty-five seconds before deciding he didn't want to think about it anymore.
He opened his laptop that evening and pulled up the debrief for the Lisbon job. Standard stuff, you know, like routine retrieval.
Except you'd done this thing mid-mission where you'd talked down a civilian who was about to make everyone's life significantly harder, just calm and steady and completely unbothered. It had taken maybe ninety seconds and saved the whole operation two hours minimum. Nobody had commented on it. It was the kind of thing that disappeared into the noise.
He started typing.
He wrote the standard sections firstL objectives, timeline, outcome. Then he got to the additional notes field, which SHIELD technically used for anomalies and escalations, and which Bucky had been using for other things.
Asset's interpersonal management under pressure warrants specific notation. The civilian stabilisation in the market was executed without backup, without prior briefing, and without any apparent increase in the asset's stress response.
It is the opinion of this agent that this represents a skill set that is both rare and consistently undervalued.
He was adding a final line — something about recommended commendation, which he'd never put in a report before, and which he also chose not to examine — when the chair next to him scraped back and Steve sat down.
Bucky tilted the laptop slightly away, reflex.
"Working late?" Steve said.
"Report."
"Which one?"
"Lisbon."
Steve glanced at the screen anyway, as he had no sense of boundaries that Bucky hadn't explicitly built a wall around. He read exactly enough to go very still in the way that meant he was trying not to have a reaction.
"That's very thorough," Steve said.
"I'm a thorough person."
"You recommended a commendation."
"They earned it."
Steve opened his mouth, and Bucky closed the laptop.
"The report," Bucky said, "is classified."
"It's an internal debrief document —"
"Goodnight, Steve."
Steve stood up. He walked out of the room at a completely normal pace.
Steve found Sam in the gym the next morning. He looked up from the bench press, while Steve held out his phone. Sam read the screenshot — received at 11:43pm, the text reading just you need to see this with no other context — and set the bar back in the rack.
They looked at each other.
"Do they know?" Sam said.
"They don’t know."
"Does he know?"
Steve's expression answered that. Sam picked the bar back up. "We're not telling either of them."
"Absolutely not."
"This is the most entertaining thing that's happened in six months."
"I know."
"Your best friend is writing this person love letters and filing them with SHIELD."
"I know, Sam."
You'd started saving them.
Not in a folder or anything organised. Just — you hadn't deleted them. You'd read the Lisbon one four times. On the fourth read you'd hit the consistently undervalued line and had to put your phone in your pocket and go do something with your hands for a while.
Someone on the team was writing these. Had to be. The mission details were too specific, the access too internal. Someone who'd been in Rotterdam, in Lisbon, on the extraction job in February.
You were running the list in your head while you made coffee, not really tracking the room, when you said out loud: "Do you think it could be an analyst? Like someone in the documentation department who just — sees the same names a lot and —"
"No," said Bucky, from the table.
You turned around. He was eating cereal and looking at his phone. He didn't look up.
"I mean, it's possible though, right?" you said. "They review everything. They'd have context."
"Analysts don't do field commendations. That's agent-level sign-off." He turned his phone over. "Whoever it is has been in the field with you."
You stared at him. Nonchalantly, he ate his cereal.
"That," you said slowly, "is actually really helpful, thank you."
"It's a logical deduction."
You turned back to the coffee maker. You were smiling again. You could feel it.
Behind you, Bucky looked at the back of your head with the expression of a man who had just realised he might have a problem.
The fourth report was the one that got away from him.
It was after the Geneva job, which had gone sideways in three different directions and then come back together.
It was entirely because of a call you'd made that Bucky was still thinking about four days later. It wasn't even a dramatic call. That was the thing. It was quiet and fast and so precisely right that he'd had trouble focusing for the rest of the op.
He sat down to write the report and he wrote the standard sections and then he got to additional notes and he just — kept going.
He wrote about the Geneva call. He wrote about Rotterdam again, because he'd been thinking about it. He wrote:
This agent has now worked alongside asset in eleven field operations. Pattern of observation across this period leads to the following assessment: asset is the kind of person who makes every operation better by being in it.
This is the conclusion of eleven data points and one agent who has been paying attention.
Then, because Geneva had also produced something worth noting — genuinely, this part was professional — he added:
Of additional commendation: asset developed a partner communication system mid-mission, Geneva operation. Implemented in under thirty seconds, zero errors.
Examples: "wrong floor" for abort, "you owe me coffee" for stand down. Effective. Recommend standard adoption.
For the record, the coffee was never collected.
He read that back. He sent it before he could think about it differently. BCC: himself. B For Bucky. Private and safe.
You got it during movie night.
You felt your phone buzz, glanced at it, saw the sender ID, and made a decision in real time to read it right now that you would later question.
Asset is the kind of person who makes every operation better by being in it.
You made a very small sound that you hoped nobody heard. Sam definitely heard it.
This is the conclusion of eleven data points and one agent who has been paying attention.
You were smiling so hard your face hurt and you were staring at your phone like it had personally done something kind to you. You were going to need a moment, you were going to need just a —
You kept reading.
"Wrong floor" for abort. "You owe me coffee" for stand down.
You stopped smiling. You read that back.
Those were yours. The system you'd built in a Geneva stairwell in thirty seconds because you'd looked at Bucky and done the math on how the next hour was going to go.
You'd whispered the whole thing to him while checking the corridor and he'd said got it and that had been that. You hadn't written it down. You hadn't told debrief. Nor, had you mentioned it to anyone because it had felt like — it had just felt like a thing between the two of you.
For the record, the coffee was never collected.
He'd put that in a SHIELD report. You looked up.
Bucky was looking at the TV with his arms crossed, jaw slightly set. The specific stillness of someone who had decided in advance that they were going to look at the TV and they were going to keep looking no matter what.
You looked at him for a long moment, realisation configuring in your head. He didn't look back. You looked down at your phone, then back up at Bucky.
Sam looked at Steve, who just looked at the ceiling, avoiding any stray gazes. Nobody said a word.
You locked your phone, very carefully, and put it face-down on your knee. On screen, something exploded.
froggi yaps -> i bombed my interview so badly today i really needed this comfort ;-; i feel like these kinda suck but this piece was kicking my butt so badly i just needed to get it out :p enjoy
Dick Grayson:
Dick’s sleeping when you text him, the incessant buzzing on his nightstand cutting into the sleep he desperately needs. It had been a long night last night and he didn’t make it home until seven in the morning, going to bed even later than that.
Still, he forces his eyes open and rolls over, grabbing the phone in his hand. He blinks away sleep when he sees the messages are from you, one after the other, each increasingly more panicked.
He’s on his feet in minutes when he reads them, tugging on the nearest clothes he can find and collecting his keys off his nightstand. Opening his phone to track your location, Dick’s on the road in minutes.
You’re sitting under a tree when he finds you, alone and overheating in the middle of a desolate trail just outside of Bludhaven. He calls your name before he approaches, shuffling carefully towards so as not to scare you.
“Dick?” You blink, exhausted from the heat.
He crouches at your side, pressing a hand to your forehead like you’re sick. He sighs, shaking his head and fighting the urge to hunt down your shitty boyfriend and give him a piece of his mind.
“Fuck, he just left you here like this? Do you even have water?”
You shake your head. “He had the backpack,” you explain. “Said I was too slow…”
Fuck, what an asshole. He never deserved you.
Dick helps you to your feet, keeping an arm around your waist to support you. Your steps are shaky, your breathing uneven—clear signs of dehydration.
It’s a long trip back to the car, ending with Dick carrying you on his back. You’re relieved when he finally sets you in the passenger seat, cranking the air conditioning for you.
He passes you a water bottle from his cupholder. “Here, have this.”
You drink half of it in one go, the water helping the dryness that has your throat swelling.
“How are you feeling?” He asks.
“Tired, sad.” You frown, “I feel dizzy.”
Dick puts the car in drive, peeling away from the parking lot and driving back to the city. “You probably will for a while, with how long you were in the heat.”
It’s silent for a while, the exhaustion setting into your bones and a new sort of tiredness weighing over you. You rest your head against the door of the car, letting your eyes flutter closed.
“Come hang out with me, yeah?” Dick finally breaks the silence. “Need to make sure you’re okay.”
You catch the undertone of it, the part that says: physically and emotionally.
You hum in agreement, letting yourself fall back asleep on the door of his car. Dick waits until he’s sure you’re out cold before leaning over and rubbing a thumb across your cheek.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he mumbles more to himself than anything, “I’ll take good care of you.”
Jason Todd:
Jason’s busy when you call, knee deep in a group of goons in the way of your boss. Still, it’s you calling him, and he doesn’t dare leave you waiting.
“Hello?”
You sniffle into the phone, the distant sounds of gunfire making you raise a brow. “Jay?”
He frowns, fighting his way through the men while talking to you like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Are you crying?”
It’s a jumble of words that comes next, each one bleeding into the next and filled with sniffles. Jason strains to hear you through the comms piece in his helmet, the gunfire and sounds of violence almost enough to drown you out.
Still, he gets the gist of it. Fuck, he’s going to lose the target. But he can’t just leave you there.
He sighs, “I’ll be there in five.”
You’re pacing when Jason pulls up, soaking wet with the cold rain hiding the hot tears on your cheeks. If only the rain could hide the redness in your eyes and the way your lips have pulled into a pout.
It’s more than a twenty minute drive from where Jason was to the shitty, dingy bar your boyfriend abandoned you at. Jason made the drive in five, in the rain, on his motorcycle.
“T-thanks for coming,” you sniffle out.
Jason looks around, forcing himself to take deep breaths despite the anger surging in his chest. “You sure that ass—he’s not coming back?”
You shake your head. “He said we’re done.”
Jason shakes his head, showing off the fresh red mark under his chin. You frown, reaching up to run your thumb across the bruised skin beneath his stubble. He’s ditched his Red Hood getup, dressed only in his usual cargo pants and a t-shirt. Raindrops slick over his exposed biceps.
“Let me take you home, alright?”
You nod and then he’s ushering you towards his bike, thrusting his spare helmet into your arms. You buckle it over your head, Jason turning around and tugging the strap to make sure it’s tight.
You look at him through the open visor, blinking away the raindrops that cling to your skin. “Jay?”
“Hm?”
“Do you think you could…stay with me for a bit?”
And he knows he shouldn’t, that he has other things to do tonight, an obligation to himself and this city. “Yeah,” he says, “I can stay a while.”
It’s hours later that you’re asleep on Jason’s lap, head resting on the meat of his thighs. He should’ve left a while ago and yet, he can’t bring himself to go.
Still, watching you lay like this in his arms, warm and dry from the rain your boyfriend left you in, anger still swirls in his stomach. How dare he leave you like that? You could've gotten mugged or hurt or worse, and the very thought has Jason clenching his jaw.
Yeah, he’ll have to pay him a visit later.
Wally West:
Wally’s smile dies the minute he picks up the phone and hears you sniffling on the other end of the line. “Hey, what’s going on?”
It’s an unintelligible mess of words that follows, filled with choked sobs and occasional moments of silence. Somehow through it all, Wally manages to get the gist of it: you and your shitty boyfriend got into a fight on the way home, and he abandoned you at some gas station.
Alone. In the middle of the night. With nothing but your phone.
Hot rage sweeps through Wally and before he knows it, he’s running.
One minute, you’re staring at the screen of your phone, sobbing hysterically. The next, Wally West is at your side, looking just as outraged as he is concerned.
“He did what?”
Seeing your teary eyes and the pouty look on your face only makes him angrier. He clenches and unclenches his hands, forcing himself to breathe.
The anger melts away when you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest, sobbing harder. “I don’t—I don’t know what I did wrong.”
Wally is careful to wrap his arms around you, pulling you flush with his body and kissing the top of your head. It’s been so long since he’s gotten to hold you like this, since he’s gotten to care for you, he selfishly drinks it in.
“Let’s get you home, hm?”
You sniffle, peeling your face back just enough to look at him. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”
“My place, then,” he flashes his best reassuring smile, “don’t worry, doll, I’ll take care of you.”
-
Two hours later and you’re settled on the couch at Wally’s, dressed in his sweatpants and one of his t-shirts. After an hour, he’d finally gotten you to stop crying and instead cuddle up with him on the couch.
Your boyfriend is yet to say anything, to even check in and make sure you didn’t get murdered. It leaves a bitter taste in Wally’s mouth but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little hopeful, too.
It’s when you fall asleep that Wally snaps a picture of the two of you, your head nuzzled into the crook of his arm. He grins as he types, trying his best not to laugh while he drafts the message to your boyfriend.
He reads it over once before hitting send, nodding in satisfaction.
Don’t worry, I’ll clean up your mess.
Roy Harper:
It’s late and Roy wishes he was asleep, and instead, he’s driving an hour away to some random highway where your boyfriend—hopefully soon to be ex—abandoned you on the side of the road.
His hands are clenched tight on the wheel, thoughts racing a mile a minute. His foot is pressed harshly into the gas, each minute that passes only increases his anxiety. He’d asked you to stay on the phone with him but that was before your phone died and your location stopped updating.
He can only hope you listened to him and stayed put, and that no one else comes across you before he does.
Luck is on his side when he spots you pacing back and forth on the side of the road. His foot is on the brake immediately, slowing the car down to a stop just a few meters ahead of you.
You make a break for the car, settling into his passenger seat like it’s somewhere you belong. And to Roy, it is.
He frowns when he sees the tears in your eyes and the way you’re shaking from the cold night. “You alright?”
You sniffle, “barely. I’m freezing my ass off.”
He nods, flicking on your heated seat. He moreso meant the whole being abandoned in the middle of the night thing, but given your closed off demeanour, decides not to push it.
“I don’t understand what I did wrong,” you say quietly.
Roy drops a hand from the wheel, gently squeezing your knee. “You did nothing wrong, that asshole just never deserved you.” Not like I do.
You blink. Maybe he has a point.
And now that he’s started, Roy’s not sure he can stop. “What kind of man just abandons you, alone, in the middle of the night? Don’t you think you deserve more than that?”
“Roy…”
“Seriously, babe,” the pet name slips out so easily that neither of you notice it, “don’t you want to be with someone who loves you properly?”
“Roy,” you say again, more warning than anything.
“God, I take much better care of you than he ever has.”
“Roy!”
He breathes heavily, the gravity of what he just said sinking in. The silence in the car is hot and tense, broken only by the crackling of the heat coming through his vents. Roy slows the car, pulling over to the side of the road.
For a moment, you’re worried he might leave you, too. But then he’s grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him, touch equally scorching as it is delicate. He’s not even sure what he’s doing until he’s leaning in and brushing his lips over yours, the taste of your chapstick like an old friend.
“All I’m saying,” he says quietly, “is that you deserve someone who takes care of you. Okay?”
“O-okay.”
dc masterlist | navigation
thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
Summary: Jason keeps the receipt from your first date and you find out on a quiet, soft evening.
Disclosure: jason is a cutie, fluffy, jason is described to be taller than reader, could be read as gn!reader, no mentions of skin color and/or description of size/figure, they call each other baby, reader calls him jaylove, jason is a little self conscious of his actions
a/n: i haven’t written in so long but this flowed so easily, although i’m not that happy with my writing. let me know if you have some suggestion on what i could change. english is not my first language and this is not proofread. please don’t be afraid to like, reblog and/or comment!! 🫶
“I love this scene.” you murmur quietly, watching as a movie plays on the tv while you’re laying on the couch in your and Jason’s shared apartment.
Jason is sat next to you, one arm carefully laid across your shoulders as he twirls a piece of your hair between his fingers.
He hums softly in agreement to your previous statement, continuing to get lost in the scene that is playing.
Both of you are ripped out of your cozy atmosphere by the ringing of your doorbell.
“I’ll get it.” you exclaim energetically, wiggling out from under his arm as you get up. Him and you both know that it must be the food you ordered almost an hour ago. Burgers. Jason’s choice, of course.
As you make your way to the door, you can feel Jason’s gaze following your steps. You know that he’s always as careful as he can be, especially when it comes to you. You never know what kind of people may be showing up at your doorstep, even if it’s just to deliver food.
“Jaylove? Do you have cash for a tip?” you question, turning to face where he’s now sitting facing the door, his shoulders squared broad and his legs spread. You know he would look menacing to whoever would stand at the door and see him behind you, glaring.
“My wallet‘s in my jacket pocket.” he answers, his voice soft in comparison to the way he holds his body.
You huff quietly, rolling your eyes at his antics while your turn to where his jacket is hung up next to the door, reaching into his pocket. Even if you think he’s being dramatic, you love him for it. That’s why you can’t help the smile creeping across your face as you turn back around, now with his wallet clutched in your hand.
Before you can make a teasing remark, the whole interaction is cut off with a knock at the door, and you quickly open it to find your delivery driver holding out the bag of food to you.
You exchange a quick greeting as you take the bag and press a five dollar bill in his hand, and he thank you quietly before he’s already on his way again.
With the bag of food in one hand, and Jason’s wallet in the other, you gently nudge the door closed with your hip, turning to make your way into the kitchen, when a small piece of paper catches your eyes.
Maneuvering his wallet into the same hand holding the bag, you quickly bend down and pick it up.
Now that you can see it up close, you recognize that it’s a receipt. Specificity, the receipt of the first time the two of you went out together.
You still remember how nervous you were, finally crossing the line from friends to something more.
You still remember how nervous Jason was, trying not to let it show but failing miserably as he stumbled over his words and almost knocked over his drink.
You still remember insisting that you could split the bill, but he insisted on paying for you the both of you.
And you still remember how the two of you doodled together on the back of the receipt while waiting for the waiter to come back.
Meanwhile in the kitchen, Jason is now getting plates out of the both of you. When he notices you not moving, he looks up, softly calling out to you. “Baby? You coming?”
You’re snapped out of your memories by his voice, and you look up to find him watching you already. Then his eyes drift down to what you’re holding.
He raises a brow. “What‘d you got there?”
Eyes crinkling, a cheesy smile lights up your face as your mouth forms a subtle pout.
Moving towards him, you set the bag and his wallet down on the counter across from him.
“You kept the receipt from our first date?” you question softly, even though you know the answer already. In a split second, you see his face going from confusion, to embarrassment, finally ending up in a sheepish expression.
“That’s so fucking cute, Jason.” you tell him straight up, already knowing he’s searching for the right way to explain himself. But you don’t need him to.
His eyes widen slightly in surprise. “It is? I thought you’d think it would be… weird.” He confesses.
“What?” you exclaim. “No way! Why would that be weird?”
He just shrugs, shyly avoiding your gaze. You round the counter, now taking his face inbetween the palms of your hands, tilting his head so he’s forced to meet your eyes.
Your smile brightens when you notice the flush on his cheeks. God, he looks so cute you just want to squeeze him.
“That’s really sweet of you, baby. I mean it.“ you express.
Jason mirrors your smile, if somewhat smaller. “I‘m glad.” he admits. “I’ve kept it in my wallet since that night. Right next to the picture of you.”
He swallows before he continues. “Sometimes I take it out and just look at it, and I’m reminded of our first date. That was arguably the best day of my life back then, and it always reminds me what I’m coming home to.” he shrugs sheepishly, like he didn’t just made your eyes well up only with words.
You could melt right there and then at his confession. Instead, you move your hands away from his face and place them around his waist, pressing yourself against him in a hug. You squeeze your eyes shut as you nuzzle your face into his chest.
Jason is a little taken aback, but when he realized what you’re doing, he sees no other option but to wrap his arms around you, too.
The two of you stay like this for a while, before Jason hears a small sniff coming from you. He pulls his head back, trying to catch a glimpse of your face. “Are you crying?”
The only response he gets is silence, that’s then interrupted by another small sniff and a quiet “No.” from you.
He chuckles, shaking his head as he presses a long kiss on top of your head. “Come on, let’s eat.”
You pull back, quickly wiping under your eyes. Then you place on hand in the side of his face as you lean up, placing a quick peck on the opposite cheek. “I love you, Jason.” you smile, before turning to finally unbox the food from the bag.
Jason feels the blood rushing to his cheeks again as he mumbles a quiet. “Love you too.”
summary: everyone adores you. always checking on everyone else, but never yourself. jack notices the pattern long before anyone else does. when a brutal shift ends in your fainting, the roles reverse. and jack refuses to let you keep putting yourself last.
pairing: jack abbot + reader
word count: 2.5k
warnings/tags: hinted established relationship, not explicitly stated between jack and reader, night shift cameos, shen mentioned to have a wife, more crus appreciation !!!
notes: based on the ask from anon, tysm for requesting!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
"You're kidding me. You actually packed him a lunch?"
Jack leaned against the nurses' station, arms crossed, watching as you rummaged through your bag like a magician pulling endless scarves from a hat.
"Not just a lunch," you corrected, emerging with a bento box wrapped in a chequered cloth. "
"Three lunches. One for Crus, he forgot his again. One for the new intern who looks like she's running on caffiend and terror." You tapped the lid of the third box, "And this one's for Shen. He's been on his feet for so long."
Jack blinked. "And yours?"
"Ah." You waved a hand dismissively, already halfway down the hall toward the breakroom. "I'll grab something later. The cafeteria's open till three."
By noon, you'd checked on Crus twice ("Eat the damn sandwich, I saw your hands shaking earlier"), coaxed the intern into taking a ten-minute nap in the supply closet ("Hand me your pager, I'll cover it."), and discreetly swapped Shen's watered-down coffee with a fresh one.
At 2:47 AM, Jack found you in the middle of explaining discharge instructions to an elderly patient, your voice patient as you repeated the same sentence for the third time.
Your pen hovered over the paperwork, but your fingers had started trembling. You didn't seem to notice.
By 3:15 PM, you managed to sneak a granola bar into the pocket of Crus' scrubs, reassured the new intern that no, she hadn't killed anyone by mislabelng a vial, and somehow talked Shen into sitting down for five minutes.
You were mid-sentence, something about ibruprofen dosing, when the world tilted sideways.
Not metaphorically.
Your vision narrowed to a pinhole, the edges fuzzing like static on an old TV. The papers slipped from your fingers, fluttering to the floor. You reached for the counter to steady yourself, but your hand missed entirely, swiping at empty air.
The last thing you registered was the sharp scent of expensive cologne, the distant sound of someone calling your name. Your name, not "Doc" or "Hey," and then the cool unforgiving floor rushing to meet you.
Jack saw it happen. One second, you were talking, hands moving in that animated way you had, like you were physically shaping the words between your fingers.
The next, you were folding at the knees. He moved before he thought, his body reacting faster than his brain could catch up. He caught your before your head could hit the floor, one arm hooking under your knees, the other cradling your shoulders.
The first thing you registered was the smell. Then the texture beneath your fingertips, the kind that came standard on hospital-issued blankets.
You blinked, and the ceiling tiles swam into focus.
"Back with us, sleeping beauty?"
Jack sat perched on the edge of the gurney, his usual smirk replaced by something sharper, tighter. He held a juice box with a straw already punched through the foil.
When you didn't immediately reach for it, he shook the box pointedly, the liquid sloshing inside. "Drink," he said, and it wasn't a question.
You tried to sit up, but the room spun violently. Jack's free hand shot out, pressing gently against your sternum to keep you horizontal. His palm was warm through the think fabric of your scrubs.
"Nope. Try that again and I'm cuffing you to the rails." The jokes fell flat when his fingers twitched against your collarbone.
Across the room, Shen hovered near the door, his arms crossed. "She's fired," he announced, too loud, like he'd been rehearsing the line.
The juice box straw brushed your lips, and you took a reflexive sip, the flavor bursting across your tongue. Jack's gaze didn't waver, tracking the bob of your throat as you swallowed.
Behind him, Shen snorted. "Even I can't fire her for fainting," Jack said, still staring at you like you'd personally offended him. "Half the department's running on caffeine and spite."
You managed to lift a hand. Weak, but enough to take the juice box from him. His fingers lingered a half-second too long before releasing it.
"Statistically," Shen drawled, "she's also the only one dumb enough to forget to eat for hours while force-feeding the rest of us like we're her kids."
Jack leaned in, voice dropping so only you could hear. "When was the last time you ate?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it. The granola bar you'd given to Ellis flashed in your memory. Your last one, plucked from your locker this morning.
"Thought so," Jack muttered. He reached into his scrub pocket and pulled out a crumpled protein bar, the kind stocked in vending machines. The wrapper was already torn open, one corning missing.
"I bit it," he admitted, handing it to you. "Just to make sure it wasn't expired."
The bar tasted like sawdust and regret, but you chewed anyway, because Jack's stare had taken on the intensity of a laser. Shen, still hovering by the door suddenly snapped his fingers.
"Hold on. She packed my lunch today." He left for a moment and came back with a tupperware container in his hands. "Here. Eat this instead of that expired vending machine crap."
Jack looked at the container before you could react, flipping the lid open. His eyebrows climbed "You made him goddamn club sandwiches?"
You swallowed another bite of the bar, which was sticking to the roof of your mouth like glue, and shrugged weakly. "His wife's out of town. He burns toast."
Shen pointed at you triumphantly. "She gets it."
The sandwich tasted like guilt. Rich with mayonnaise and thinly sliced turkey, the kind of careful meal you'd never make for yourself. You managed two bites before you hands stalled, the weight of eyes pinning you to the gurney.
"Jesus," he muttered, plucking the container from your lap. "You're worse than the med students." He tore off a corner of bread and held it up, hovering near your mouth.
You opened your mouth, more our of shock than compliance, and Jack fed you with a precision that suggested he'd done this before, probably with Robby drunk.
Shen coughed into his fist, clearly enjoying what he was seeing. "I'll just..." He gestured vaguely toward the door. "Charting. Or whatever." He disappeared before you could protest, abandoning you to Jack's relentless stare.
"Don't look at me like that," he grumbled. "You'd do the same for any of us." The truth of it hit you square in the ribs. You had done this. Last month for Ellis when she was hypoglycemic after a double, last week for Nazely who'd forgotten her lunch.
The difference was, no one had ever noticed when you skipped meals.
The next bite came with a sip of juice, Jack tilting it toward your lips with exaggerated care. His thumb brushed your chin, catching a crumb you hadn't felt fall.
Something cracked behind his eyes. "You're allowed to be selfish, you know," he said, so low it was almost audible. "Just enough to not collapse in the middle of paperwork."
Your fingers curled into the blanket, the starchiness of it grounding. "I didn't..." you started, but Jack cut you off.
"Yeah, you didn't mean to. That's the problem. You keep giving everything to everyone and nothing for yourself. It's stupid."
The word should've stung. Instead, warmth pooled under your ribs. No one had every called you stupid with that particular edge. Like it physically pained him to say it.
"Christ. You're smiling? Now?" But his thumb was already tracing the curve of your lip where it had lifted, rough skin catching. He froze, as surpised as you were by the contact.
A knock of three sharp raps flooded the quiet room. Crus, leaned in, his scrubs rumpled. "Uh. We have a GSW incoming, ETA for minutes."
His gaze flicked between you, Jack's hovering hand, the half-eaten sandwich. "Should I... tell them you're working on something else?"
Jack didn't move. "Yes."
"No," you said at the same time, pushing upright. The room only spun a little this time. Jack's palm landed between your shoulders, steadying. "I'm fine. Just low blood sugar."
Crus hesitated. "Garcia was called downstairs. She said you--"
"Garcia," Jack interrupted, "can eat my entire--"
You elbowed him. Hard.
Crus' mouth twitched. "Right. Well. The GSW's stable, but it's Senator Reeve's nephew, so." He mimed an explosion with his hands. "Media circus incoming."
The senator's nephew could wait. Jack's hand stayed firmly planted between your shoulders, his grip telegraphing a silent, immovable no before he even spoke.
"Crus," he said, "tell them we're in a trauma consult." He didn't blink. "And if anyone asks, I'm instructing her."
Crus opened his mouth, glanced at your still-pale face, then snapped it shut with a nod. "Got it. Try not to let her die before shift change, please." He ducked out before you could protest, the door swinging shut.
"Lie back down."
"I'm fine, Jack."
"Lie back down," he repeated, softer this time.
And you did, because his voice had cracked open somewhere between exasperation and something raw. The gurney creaked under your weight as you sank back against the thin pillow.
Jack's fingers skimmed the curve of you shoulder, tentative, as if he wasn't quite sure he was allowed. "You scared the hell outta me."
You stared at him. Really looked, and noticed the faint tremor in his fingers, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing on glass.
"I didn't mean to," you said, and it came out embarrassingly small.
Jack's thumb traced idle circles against your collarbone. "That's the thing about you," he murmured. "You never mean to."
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then flicked away just as fast. "But you do it anyway. Every damn time."
The overhead lights hummed as Jack's fingers stilled against your collarbone. His thumb rested there, an anchor point in the spinning room.
"You're not going back out there today," he said in a way that wasn't negotiable.
You opened your mouth to argue, but Jack's other hand came up, pressing his fingers to your lips. "Don't even," he warned. "I will physically restrain you."
The threat should have been laughable, but the way his jaw tightened suggested he'd bench-press the gurney with you on it if it meant keeping you there.
A knock shattered the silence. The door creaked open just enough to reveal Crus' wary face.
"I know you said to tell them you're busy, but the nephew's asking for the 'hot doctor with the nice hands.'" His eyes flicked to where Jack's fingers still hovered near your mouth. "I'm assuming that's not you at all, Abbot."
Jack didn't move. "Tell him she's off-duty."
Crus hesitated. "He's--"
"Tell him," Jack interrupted, "she's indisposed."
Crus' eyebrows shot up. The door clicked shut with exaggerated care.
You stared at Jack. He stared back. His fingers were still at your mouth, close enough that you could feel the heat of them, not quite touching anymore but not pulling away either.
"You're staring," he murmured.
"So are you, you whispered back.
The overhead page crackled to life. "Dr. Abbot, STAT to Trauma Bay 3. Repeat, Dr. Abbot, STAT to Trauma Bay 3."
Jack's fingers tensed against your collarbone, his body already pivoting toward the foor before the announcement finished. But he didn't let go. His thumb pressed into the hollow of your throat like he was memorizing the shape of it.
"Don't move, okay?" The protein bar wrapper from earlier fell to the floor as he reached for the IV pole beside your gurney, yanking it closer. "I'm hanging a bag of dextrose. "
Another page, more urgent said, "Trauma team, Trauma Bay 3, now--"
You saw the exact moment duty won. His jaw locked, shoulders sagging as he stepped back. The warmth of his touch lingered.
"Crus!" Jack shouted toward the foor, never taking his eyes off you. "Get in here!"
Crus materialized instantly, as if he'd been hovering just outisde. He took one look at Jack's expression and raised both hands. "I'm on it. Go."
Jack hesitated. Just a breath, just long enough for his gaze to drop to your mouth again, then turned on his heel.
Crus let out a low whistle, nudging the abandoned juice box toward. "So. That happened."
You pressed two fingers to your pulse point, counting the slugging rhythm as Crus adjusted the IV drip with practiced ease.
Crus didn't comment on the way your gaze kept flicking to the foor. Instead, he nudged the juice box closer. "Drink," he said, echoing Jack, but gentler. "Before Abbot comes back and burn me alive."
You took a sip, the flavor cloying without Jack's glare to make it taste like a challenge. The ER's distant chaos filtered through the closed door. The raised voices, the beep of a crashing monitor, the unmistakable sound of gurney rattling past at a sprint.
Crus' pager buzzed violently against his hip. He glanced at it, grimaced, then deliberately silenced it. "There's someone else on the floor, it's okay," he muttered, though his knee had started bouncing in a restless tempo.
"You should go."
Crus shook his head, adjusting the IV flow. "Abbot said--"
"I know what he said." The words came out sharper than intended. You softened them with a weak smile. "But we both know he's elbow-deep in someone's chest right now. Go help him."
Crus hesitated, his fingers drumming against the rail. "Abbot's been pacing the nurses' station like a lost child since they wheeled you in here," he admitted, voice dropping.
"Nearly took the head off an orderly who tried to move your chart." He tilted his head, studying you with sudden intensity. "You know he canceled that thing he had with that cardiology chick last week? Said he had 'charting' to do. Pretty sure he just sat in the break room watching you force feed Nazely those sandwiches."
The juice box crumpled in your grip, the straw bending at an awkward angle. "For what it's worth," he said, "I've never seen him bite open a protein bar for anyone else before."
His pager buzzed again, more insistent this time. He ignored it. "Pretty sure that's his version of a love letter."
The door burst open before you could respond. Jack stood framed in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His chest heaved like he'd sprinted the entire way.
"You're still here."
Crus stood smoothly, pocketing his pager. "She's all yours, Romeo." He dodged Jack's half-hearted slap, pausing to turn back and look at you, "He told me he cried during Marley & Me in med school," before disappearing into the chaos beyond.
The overhead lights hummed a steady note as Jack stepped fully into the room. His fingers flexed at his sides, still damp from where he'd scrubbed hastily at the blood streaking his forearms.
Jack didn't speak. Neither did you. The silence between you stretched, elastic and charfed, as he reached for the IV bag with one hand, his fingers skimming the tubing to check the flow rate. His other hand landed on the gurney's rail.
The bag crinkled under his touch, nearly empty now, the last of its content slipping into your veins like a slow, sugared confession.
None of you said anything, but you're exactly where you want to be.
thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)
Just Us Two: Damian loves intruding on your and Jason's alone time.
Third time's The Charm: The two times Jason almost told you he liked you, and the one time he finally did.
Baby Came Home: After you lose your powers while trying to take down a partnership between Lex Luthor and Penguin, Jason and you confront your deepest fear — being each other's second choice. When the rest of the batboys lock you in the Batcave, though, the confession becomes inevitable.
How Can We Go Back to Being Friends: You hook up with your best friend, and now you don’t know how to act around each other.
Damian, You Are So Psyched: Damian came home from school yesterday acting off, so now it's your goal to cheer up the distant little boy.
Don’t Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket: Jason has been telling himself he's visiting the little coffee shop at the end of the block for its cheap coffee, but it's his only way to see the cute barista every day and quote "Pride and Prejudice" at her until she falls for him.
Don't Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket (sequel)
Not what you think: Jason went snooping and thinks you're cheating on him. Good luck explaining yourself!
A shear disaster: Your boyfriend is acting suspicious and won't take off his helmet.
Guilty pleasures: You cheat on your boyfriend, Jason, with the Red Hood.
Unexpected Guests: Damian finds out you're dating Jason.
Rough Night: Your secret relationship with Jason is accidentally revealed the morning after a rough night.
The Babysitter: After being hired to babysit Damian Wayne, you end up putting a masked intruder in a chokehold, only to realize you’ve just tackled his older brother, Jason Todd.
Making an Ass of U & Me: Jason didn’t mean to keep your existence secret from his family. At first, it was for his and your own protection more than anything; his double life wasn’t just for any average person after all. But, even after the whole marriage and settling down thing, he may have just forgotten to mention it.
Careless Accidents: You get hurt, and Jason’s pissed.
So This is Love: You show each other what love is supposed to be like (4 in 1)
The Gift of Truth: After figuring out that your boyfriend is Red Hood, you struggle to figure out a way to tell him you are aware of his “nightly activities.” When Jason finally introduces you to his family a week before Christmas, you are presented with the perfect opportunity to tell him
Pride & Prejudice: When you first meet Jason Todd, he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him.
Good With Kids: You never really had an opinion on your colleague Red Hood, that is until you walk into him interacting with some kids.
The Investigator: The Batfamily discovers Jason's been hiding a long-distance relationship with someone who might be even more terrifying than Batman himself.
Are You Dating My Teacher: Bruce decides to cash in a favor that Jason owed him, and now the Red Hood- the most ruthless vigilante of Gotham- is chaperoning his youngest brother’s field trip to the zoo.
Who Do You Love: You're hopelessly in love with your classmate, Jason Todd. And you just so happen to be quite good friends with Red Hood. drunk one night, you admit you have feelings for Jason to your vigilante friend, not knowing the man behind the mask is the man you're in love with.
When She Sees Me: Your best friend Dick Grayson took you to one of Bruce's galas a while ago. When Dick finds out his brother has a crush on you, he decides to play Cupid.
Blah Blah Blah: Jason is angry after watching Wuthering Heights. You are horny watching him get angry.
Cover Blown: You and Jason cannot stand one another. Unfortunately. you both go undercover as a married couple, and that should'nt change things between you two... right?
La Vie en Rose: The four times Jason wildly preferred you over everyone else.
Kiss or Miss: A quiet Saturday at the shooting range becomes anything but when Jason decides hands on help is the best kind.
Can I: It’s your last year of university and Jason Todd has been in your classes, plotting on you. You’d promised yourself you’d make the most of this year, go to more parties, finally lose your virginity, and step out of your comfort zone, while Jason steps into yours.
Glad It Was You
Prove It To You
Hit Me
The Magic Words: You’ve been urging to tell your boyfriend that you love him and you finally do.
Ice Skating With Jason: Ice skating, jealousy, and accidental confessions... what could go wrong?
Scuff Marks: Your car breaks down, and you meet your best friend's brother, Jason.
Brother's Best Friend: Sleepover at Wayne Manor with a side quest of making out with your secret boyfriend.
Wait…We're Not Dating: For the entire year you and Jason have known each other, he assumed you two were dating and had no idea you weren't.
It's Just a Crush: You have a crush on Red Hood, and your best friend stephanie brown thinks it’s so funny. Funny enough, she introduces you to her brother, Jason Todd.
Delayed Confession: Jason is trying to confess his feelings, but you already thought you were dating.
Domestic Disputes: Jason cannot handle having such an independent girlfriend.
Random blurbs
Old habits
Revealing Secrets
I'm still right though
Jason accidentally reveals he has a soon-to-be fiancée
Interrupted Dates
First Time
Shy (but experienced) Jason and his freaked-out (but inexperienced) girl
Jason Todd who makes everything in your home kiss
Random Headcanons
My pretty, pretty girl
Collar
Jason has a wet dream while you’re trying to wake him up
Jason is insecure about his scars
Jason Todd is hungry and impatient
Dick Grayson
Sweater Weather: Dick just wanted to have lunch with his best friend, but he didn't expect you to show up in some other guy's sweatshirt.
The Light Behind Your Eyes: A week spent at Dick’s apartment leads Damian to discover what unconditional love looks like.
Hard to Impress: Dick Grayson can't seem to make you swoon, no matter how hard he tries, until he finally does
The "She's With Me" Is The New Gaelic Shrug (sequel)
Easy lovers: After a series of dates, dick finds himself desperate and decides that tonight will not end until he gets to walk home with a kiss from you.
Miraculous partners: Basically, a "Miraculous Ladybug" plot between you and Dick.
Territory, Marked: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park, and when his older brother tags along one day, he takes a little too much interest.
Dinner Was Not Served: Dick had one goal: to seduce his girlfriend. He forgot the part where he should check for unwanted guests first and narrates his plans in very, vivid detail.
Stakeout at Table Nine: Dick Grayson just wanted a normal date. No suits. No masks. Definitely no Batkid stakeout at a fancy restaurant. Too bad his siblings brought disguises, drama, and a front-row seat to his love life.
Lightning Strikes Twice: Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.
Whatever You Say Teach: Damian gets in a fight at school, and his favorite teacher has to set up a meeting with a parent or guardian. Bruce Wayne is away on a mission and Alfred isn’t picking up the phone, so Damian’s eldest brother has to attend a parent teacher conference. Only to find out that he has history with his little brother’s English Lit teacher.
His Person: You and dick have been close friends for years now, and that's all it would ever be, but after he snaps and upsets you, things change.
Random blurbs
Take him back, please!
Revealing Secrets
Interrupted Dates
Sleeping in his bed turns into something more
Damian Wayne (aged up ofc!!)
Near: He hates contact, except apparently when it’s you he’s inching toward.
Nepo Vigilante: After your parents die, you inherit their legacy as vigilantes, reluctantly stepping into a life you never asked for. Bruce takes you in to honor a promise to them, pairing you with Damian, whose cruelty and perfectionism push you to your limits, until one day, fed up, you choose to train with Tim instead, sparking Damian’s outrage.
When The Spite Dies: You were expected to quit after Damian Wayne’s first vicious insult, but fueled by spite, you stayed— only to end up hopelessly attracted to the despicable man and vice versa.
When The Spite is Desire (sequel)
The Heart Remembers: Damian's short-term amnesia from a concussion causes complications when he refuses to believe the break-up ever happened—and his missing memories dissolve all defenses and unravel the true depths of his undying devotion for you.
The Only Exception: Getting a list of everything Damian hates, you feel self-conscious about ticking the boxes in that list—and try to fix that, not knowing that you’re Damian’s only exception.
Animal Interests: Damian’s father drags him along to an old acquaintance's house for intel, only to find that her teen also has an interest in animal rescues. In other words, she has a rescued panther as a pet.
Who Said The Waynes Were Cold: Damian Wayne, son of Batman, grandson of Ra's al Ghul, capable of neutralizing a threat in thirty seconds flat, is completely, irrevocably incapable of speaking to the girl he loves. The solution: an anonymous note slipped into a locker. Dick Grayson finds it hilarious. Damian doesn't.
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Damian Wayne and Reader Get Domestic
Tim Drake
If I Was Your Boyfriend: Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester. So now he’s praying for your (ex) boyfriend’s downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.
Dairy Queen Closes in 10 Minutes: You broke up with Tim a year ago. Too bad he still thinks of you as his. Too bad everything he does reminds you that you are.
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Bruce Wayne
The Wrong Man’s Wife: The Justice League members think Batman is in love with Bruce Wayne's wife.
Like Real People Do: Bruce's wife goes missing, and the media and family are both in shambles. Bruce grows colder as the family tries their best to find her. To try and cheer him up, they find old video diaries from the couple’s early dating lives and witness a new side of Bruce.
The Watchtower's Worst Kept Secret: The Justice League suspects something is happening between Batman and Bruce Wayne's wife.
Seven Smacks: Bruce Wayne was a stubborn and fiercely independent man, which meant that his children were too. Unfortunately for you, that meant that scolding one of them was practically a moment to scold both.
The Bat's Wife: Some members of the league are still surprised by the way the Dark Knight's wife looks.
Oh, It's... Gold: Bruce made a small mistake on a gift he gave you, and everyone judged him for it.
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You get kidnapped and branded by the joker on christmas. The bat-family sees Jason unravel.
word cnt. 14.6k
cw ›››› torture, branding, suicidal language, violence, blood, gore
Something is wrong.
Jason feels it like a pressure change—subtle, almost polite—but it crawls under his helmet and settles behind his eyes. It hasn’t clicked, not cleanly. Not yet. He hasn’t asked. Hasn’t said a word through the harbor sweep, through the cold iron stink of saltwater and oil and Christmas rot. A small job. The kind that should feel easy. The kind that still manages to choke the air out of his lungs anyway.
Everyone’s moving like the night might shatter if they stop.
Tim keeps choosing his words too carefully, syllables slowed and smoothed like he’s sanding down sharp edges. Dick’s doing that thing where he smiles first and speaks second—but the timing’s off, the warmth a fraction too late, like a recording lagging behind the video. Damian watches Jason more than the perimeter, eyes sharp, calculating, guarded. Stephanie hasn’t joked once. Not even a cheap jab to him, not even under her breath. That alone feels wrong enough to tilt the world sideways.
Bruce didn’t come.
That absence is loud. A hollow where a presence should be, echoing through comms and instinct alike. The Cave, he’d said. As if that explained anything. As if Bruce ever sits things out without a reason that claws.
Cassandra says nothing—but she’s closer. Close enough that Jason can feel her awareness like static along his spine. When the group splits, she falls into step beside him without discussion, without a glance. Just there. Solid. Protective in a way that feels less like trust and more like vigilance. As if she’s guarding him.
That’s when unease really sinks its teeth in.
Bruce didn’t need all of them.
Didn’t need six sets of boots scraping concrete, six heartbeats crowding the same dark. Dick alone could’ve dismantled this whole thing with half the effort. Hell, Jason himself could’ve wrapped it up fast and bloody and been home already. Instead, they’re stacked together, overlapping, slowing each other down like they’re afraid to let him out of their sight.
He agreed because no one argued about his presence. Because no one questioned whether he was needed. Because the silence around that decision felt intentional.
That should’ve been his first real warning.
Between two groups of thugs, he had ducked behind a row of shipping containers, Gotham’s lights bleeding gold across the black water. He had pulled out his phone and called you, already rehearsing the apology in his head. Late for presents. Again. You’d tease him, pretend to scold, maybe force him to wrap some gifts for your co-workers.
You didn't answer.
Probably a bath, he told himself. You’d mentioned one. Candles. The fancy bath salts you bought. Something soft to push the cold out of your bones. The thought settles him, briefly. He sends a text instead—short, careful. An apology. An I love you so much that he doesn’t overthink, because with you, he never has to.
You always know what he means.
The phone stays quiet in his pocket.
No buzz. No vibration brushing against his thigh like it usually does, grounding him, tethering him back to something warm and real. He told himself it’s nothing. That you’re relaxed, distracted, asleep. That the night is just heavy, that Gotham is doing what Gotham always does—making ghosts out of shadows and dread out of coincidence.
Still.
When he looks back at the others, he notices the way Dick avoids his eyes now. The way Tim’s gaze flicks to Jason’s pocket and away again. The way Damian’s jaw tightens when Jason shifts his weight, like he’s bracing for impact. Cassandra meets his eyes once—just once—and there’s something there that twists low and sharp in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.
Knowing. Jason doesn’t ask. He doesn’t press.
But the harbor feels too quiet, the night stretched thin and listening, and for the first time since he sent that text, a cold, irrational thought curls in his gut—
That whatever is wrong didn’t start here.
And that somewhere far from the water, far from the mission, something precious has already slipped out of reach.
“That was the last of them,” Jason says, voice rough through the helmet, as Tim finishes cinching zip-ties around the final goon and anchors him to a rust-flaked shipping container. The plastic bites down with a sharp click that echoes too loudly across the concrete. The man mumbled insanities through spit.
The harbor exhales around them—cold wind off the water, carrying brine and diesel and something rotten that’s been sitting too long. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in jaundiced gold and long, distorted shadows that stretch and tangle at their feet. The concrete is damp beneath Jason’s boots, slick with mist and old oil, the kind of surface that never really dries no matter how many ‘sunny’ days Gotham pretends to have.
“We should do another check around the harbor,” Dick says.
He’s already kneeling, already breaking the man's phone in half with practiced efficiency, grinding it into the concrete with his heel until the screen spider webs and dies. He doesn’t look up when he says it. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t even sound casual about it.
Jason lifts an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. His gaze slides to Damian automatically—because Damian is usually the first to shoot an idea like that down, sharp and impatient and blunt as a blade.
Instead, Damian just mutters, “Tim could be wrong.”
Mumbles it. Like he’s afraid the words might carry.
That alone sends a small, unpleasant chill up Jason’s spine.
Tim doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bristle. He straightens from the goon and dusts his gloves together, eyes flicking—not to Jason—but to Stephanie. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory.
“Do you want to take the gates with me?” Tim says, too smooth. Too rehearsed. “Jason and Dick could go along the—”
“What?” Jason cuts in before he can finish, blinking once. “You two were perched on the gates the entire op. What’re you talking about?”
The wind gusts harder, rattling loose chains and setting a tarp snapping somewhere down the dock. Water slaps against concrete pylons in a slow, hollow rhythm.
Jason suddenly feels like the sound is counting something down.
“It wouldn’t hurt to double-check,” Tim says, rising to his feet.
He still won’t meet Jason’s eyes.
Jason’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, the concrete cold and unforgiving through the thinning soles of his boots, and for a split second his mind drifts—unbidden—to you. To the warmth of your kitchen lights. To the way you’d probably be halfway through setting out plates by now, humming something low and off-key, waiting for him in that way that makes him want to claw his soul out and hand it over to you.
The thought lands soft, intimate, grounding—and then slips through his fingers when he remembers his phone, silent and heavy in his pocket.
“…You guys don’t need me for that,” Jason says, firmer now. There’s an edge to it, something protective and stubborn. He already has plans. A timeline. A promise he intends to keep. “Seriously. If you want to sweep again, even one person could—”
Dick finally looks up.
It’s just a glance, quick and loaded, the kind Jason’s learned to read over a lifetime of almosts and unsaids. Cassandra shifts closer at the same moment, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence steady and deliberate. Jason doesn't think she's ever willingly touched him in his life. Stephanie opens her mouth like she’s about to say something—anything—then closes it again.
The harbor feels tighter suddenly. Smaller. Like the stacks of containers have leaned in, hemming them closer, their corrugated sides looming like silent witnesses. The wind cuts sharper off the water, needling through the seams of Jason’s jacket, and somewhere deep in his chest, that pressure builds again.
Jason turns fully to Damian.
“Kid, I swear to God, tell me what—”
Damian snaps at the exact same moment Cassandra moves. Her hand closes around Jason’s shoulder, firm and sudden, fingers digging in through armor like she’s trying to anchor him to the concrete before he does something irreversible. The contact is intimate in a way that feels wrong, alarmed.
“How the hell should I know? They didn't tell me—” Damian bites back, voice sharp, flaring too fast, too hot.
“Damian!” Dick hisses, the sound cutting through the night like a blade dragged too quickly from its sheath. He’s already moving, stepping between them without quite committing to either side, hands up in a placating gesture that lands closer to panic than calm. He turns to Jason almost immediately, words tumbling over each other. “Come on, dude, let’s just go check the security towers and—”
“That’s going to take another hour,” Jason cuts in.
The words come out flat, but there’s steel underneath. He shrugs Cassandra’s hand off—not rough, but final—and reaches into his pocket. The harbor lights blur for a second as his fingers close around his phone, the familiar shape of something that connects him to you grounding him. It’s 10:20. He knows that without looking but checks anyway. He’s been counting the minutes since the mission dragged past its supposed end.
“I had plans,” he says, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “Let me at least—”
The batarang whistles through the air.
Jason barely has time to register the movement—Damian’s arm snapping forward, wrist precise, expression tight and furious—before metal slams into his hand. The impact jars up his arm, sharp and biting, and the phone slips free, spinning once before it hits the concrete.
Crack.
The screen fractures instantly, a spiderweb of dead glass blooming beneath the sodium lights before the device skids to a stop near Jason’s boot. The harbor seems to hold its breath. Even the wind falters, the water’s slap against the pylons momentarily muted, as if the night itself is listening.
Jason stares down at it.
At the dark screen. On the way his reflection breaks apart in the shattered glass.
Jason’s gaze lifts slowly from the ruin at his feet.
It settles on Dick.
“Call Bruce.”
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut anyway—clean, controlled, edged with something that’s starting to slip. Dick falters under it, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Jason’s face. The harbor lights stutter overhead, one of them buzzing like it’s about to give out, bathing Dick in a sickly gold that makes him look younger.
Guilty.
“What, you gonna tattle?” Dick says, trying for levity and missing it by miles. His laugh lands wrong, brittle against the cold. “C’mon, Damian's just in a mood. I was going to surprise you with burgers but I thought the kid would spill. I’ll buy you a new phone, okay? Just—”
“Call Bruce,” Jason repeats.
This time it’s a hiss, dragged out through clenched teeth, something feral and fraying around the edges. The wind picks up again, slicing between the containers, rattling loose metal and carrying the sharp tang of rain that never quite falls in Gotham. Jason turns his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes find Cassandra.
She hasn’t moved. She’s watching him like she’s afraid he might break.
“…He’s busy,” Cass says.
Her voice is barely there. Smaller than usual. Soft enough that Tim, standing a good ten feet away, doesn’t hear it at all. The words dissolve into the night almost as soon as they leave her mouth, swallowed by wind and water and distance—but Jason hears them. Every syllable.
Busy.
Something inside him tightens, winding down to a thin, dangerous thread.
His hand comes up to his comm without conscious thought. He adjusts it once, fingers steady despite the way his pulse thuds too hard, too fast. The harbor seems to lean in again—the stacked containers looming like watchful giants, the river below churning black and endless.
Gotham breathes around him, damp and unforgiving.
“B,” Jason says.
Sharp. Precise. A single syllable fired into the dark like a flare.
Static answers him. Wind whistling through steel corridors. The distant cry of something alive and miserable echoing off the water. No voice. No correction. No irritation crackling back through the line.
Just silence. It stretches. Pulls thin. Grows teeth.
Jason exhales through his nose, a humorless breath that fogs faintly in the cold air. He thinks of you again—too vividly now. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you always pick up, even when he thinks you shouldn’t. The way silence has never belonged between the two of you.
His jaw locks. Fuck this shit, I should be at home with her.
Jason moves before anyone can stop him—before anyone even realizes he’s decided something.
He’s across the concrete in three long strides, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirror Gotham’s jaundiced lights in broken pieces. Damian doesn’t flinch when Jason grabs his comm. Doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t protest. That, more than anything, makes Jason’s teeth grind.
He clicks the emergency signal to the Batcomputer—once, twice, a break, two clicks hard enough that it hurts his thumb—then rips the comm free. His helmet follows, clattering against the concrete with a hollow, echoing crack that ricochets between the shipping containers. The sound feels too loud, too exposed. Jason presses the comm to his bare ear, cold metal biting into skin.
No one stops him.
Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Stephanie. Cassandra watches with that same quiet intensity, hands flexing like she’s bracing for impact. They stand there and let it happen, like this is how it was always meant to go—like they’ve already accepted that Jason finding out is inevitable, but telling him would be worse. Like this is some twisted test, or penance, or family tradition he never agreed to.
The harbor hums low and restless. Wind slides through steel corridors, rattling chains, carrying the stink of oil and brine and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham feels awake in that way it only does when something bad is already in motion.
“Robin?” Bruce’s voice cuts through the static, sharp and immediate. Too immediate. There’s an edge to it Jason hasn’t heard in years—tight, almost nervous, parental. “Robin, what’s wrong?”
Jason almost laughs.
Instead, his mouth twists.
“I’m going home, old man,” he hisses, already turning away from Damian. “What was this? Ya trying to tire me out, or did you get mind-controlled again? ‘Cause everyone here apparently likes you enough to not tell me the truth.”
“Jason—”
“Red Hood,” Jason snaps, the correction coming fast and mean. He bends, scoops his helmet up by the chin guard, and starts walking toward the exit between the containers where the harbor opens up to the road. “What happened to keeping hero names on comms? Or are you the only one allowed to break rules tonight?”
“Red Hood, just give me—”
“It’s a lousy gang!” Jason shouts, voice tearing loose now, bouncing off steel and concrete and dark water. “They don’t even crack the top twenty. Damian could’ve done this shit by himself.”
He doesn’t look back, but he knows they’re following him. He can feel it—the weight of their footsteps, the way they trail just close enough to intervene if he breaks. Later, it’ll hit him why Tim made sure every single goon was double zip-tied, wrists biting white beneath plastic. Insurance.
Tim knew Jason would find out.
Knew none of them would be coming back to clean this up.
“Red Hood—”
“Merry Christmas, B,” Jason cuts in, bitter and sharp as broken glass. “Please don’t call.”
“JASON—”
Bruce’s voice snaps through the comm like a gunshot, dragging Jason straight back into another life, another night, another version of himself that answered to that tone. “She’s in danger. And if you want any chance of seeing her again, get to the Batcave—”
The line goes dead.
Not static. Not interference.
Bruce cut it himself.
Jason stops, because there's only one person he could be talking about to send all five of them with him.
The harbor seems to lurch, the world tilting just enough to make his balance feel theoretical. The wind howls between the containers, louder now, like Gotham exhaling something foul and satisfied. Water slaps hard against concrete pylons below, relentless, counting seconds Jason no longer owns.
Slowly—too slowly—he turns.
He looks at them. At Dick’s pale face. At Tim’s clenched jaw. At Damian’s rigid stillness. At Stephanie, eyes bright with unshed panic. At Cassandra, whose gaze is already on him, steady and mournful, like she’s watching something crack.
They look at him like he’s glass.
Like he’s a bomb they’re waiting to defuse—or clean up after.
Jason doesn’t give them the chance.
“Fuck all of you,” he spits, the words coming out broken and small despite his best efforts.
Then he runs.
Out of the harbor. Out of the sodium lights and rust and the weight of too many eyes. Jason runs like Gotham itself is on his heels, boots striking concrete in a brutal rhythm that drowns out thought—or tries to. The city stretches around him in jagged silhouettes and wet stone, skyscrapers looming like blackened ribs against a low, churning sky. Clouds hang heavy and swollen, bruised purple and gray, threatening rain they never quite release. Gotham loves the anticipation of pain more than the act itself.
His blood is loud in his ears. Too loud. Every heartbeat punches through his ribs, frantic and unforgiving, as if his body already knows something his mind refuses to accept.
Toward the manor. Toward answers.
Toward the awful, creeping certainty settling into his bones that whatever Gotham has taken this time, it didn’t take lightly—and it didn’t take something he can afford to replace.
He takes the shorter way.
Fire escapes. Rooftops slick with mist. Narrow alleys that smell like old rain and older sins. He vaults gaps without slowing, coat snapping behind him like a torn banner, the city blurring into streaks of shadow and light. This route cuts close to your place. Too close. He doesn’t consciously choose it; his body does, muscle memory dragging him along a path his heart has memorized better than any map.
And then—
Mid-leap, suspended between one rooftop and the next, he sees it.
Your building sits quiet against the skyline, dark in a way it never is. Your lights are off. All of them. The windows—your windows—are shattered, glass glittering weakly under the city’s glow like fallen stars. The balcony rail is smeared with something darker than shadow.
Blood.
The word doesn’t form. Not fully. His brain skids around it, refuses to give it weight. At most, he tells himself, you’re hurt. Something small. A cut. A scrape. A stupid accident that looks worse than it is. You’ll laugh it off when he gets there, scold him for worrying, tell him he’s being dramatic again.
Because you’re untouchable.
That’s the rule his mind has always clung to. Gotham can drown him in filth and violence and rot, but you—you—are clean. Untarnished. Something soft the city hasn’t learned how to bruise yet. You exist outside its reach, outside its hunger. Gotham takes things like Jason. It breaks people like him. It doesn’t get to put its hands on you.
It can’t have you.
Because if you’re hurt—if you’re really hurt—then everything Jason has built inside himself caves in at once. Every fragile structure, every careful compromise, every promise he’s made to stay standing for you. There’s no version of the world where you’re broken and he survives it intact.
He lands hard, barely absorbing the impact before he’s running again, lungs burning, throat raw. The manor rises ahead of him through the trees like a dark monument, windows glowing warm and oblivious against the night. Too slow. The gates are too slow. The doors are too slow.
Jason doesn’t bother.
He barrels straight for a ground-floor window and drives his elbow through it without hesitation. Glass explodes inward, sharp and screaming, biting into skin. He doesn’t feel it—not really—until he’s inside, boots skidding onto the polished floor, breath tearing out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.
Blood runs freely down his forearm, drips onto the pale carpet in dark, blooming stains.
It looks wrong there. Violent. Out of place, just like the blood on your balcony.
Jason stares at it for half a second too long, chest heaving, and something in him splinters quietly—because now he knows. The city has already touched you and it has never, not once, let go without breaking something in return.
Jason doesn’t slow down in the Cave.
The platform is still lowering when he’s already moving, boots striking metal too hard, too fast, the sound ricocheting off stone and steel. The Batcave yawns around them—vast and echoing, all cold water and colder rock, computer screens throwing pale blue light across jagged walls. The waterfall roars like it’s trying to drown the night itself, a constant, punishing noise that usually steadies him.
Tonight it only sharpens the edges.
Bruce turns at the last possible second. His eyes flick first to Jason’s face, then to the blood smeared down his arm, dripping steadily onto the pristine metal floor. Bruce’s mouth tightens. Not in anger. In calculation. In fear he refuses to name.
Jason shoves him.
Hard.
Bruce’s back slams into the Batcomputer console, screens rattling, data stuttering for half a heartbeat. A lesser man would’ve been airborne. Bruce Wayne could have thrown Jason across the Cave without effort—could have ended this in a clean, controlled second.
He doesn’t.
Jason knows he won’t.
“Where is she,” Jason spits, the words tearing out of him raw and shaking. His hands fist in Bruce’s cape, knuckles white, trembling despite the strength coiled beneath them. The fabric bunches beneath his grip like it might rip if he pulls any harder. “Where is she?”
Bruce lifts his hands slowly, carefully—not in surrender, but in containment. Like approaching a live wire. His voice, when he speaks, is measured to the point of pain.
“…Jason.”
The name alone is an attempt. An anchor. Bruce is already running scenarios, already gauging angles and exits and how much damage Jason could do if this slips another inch. He knows Jason’s tells. Knows the way his breathing has gone uneven, the way his eyes are too bright, too fixed. Knows this isn’t rage yet.
This is terror.
“Don’t,” Bruce says quietly. Not commanding. Pleading, buried deep beneath control. “Just—listen to me.”
Jason laughs once, short and broken, the sound scraping his throat raw. “No. You don’t get to slow this down. You don’t get to prepare me.”
Bruce swallows. “…Joker—” he begins.
And the world fractures.
The word lands heavy and obscene between them, fouling the air of the cave like poison gas. Joker. The name crawls under Jason’s armor, past muscle and bone, straight into the place where you live inside him.
Suddenly, you’re not untouchable.
You’re not the one clean thing Gotham never got its hands on. Not the soft place Jason runs to when the city claws at him too hard. Not the warmth in his bed, the light in his kitchen, the voice that says his name like it belongs to something human.
You’re not safe.
You’re not distant.
You’re not protected by the simple, impossible belief that the worst things in the world know better than to touch you.
You’re real.
You’re fragile.
You’re reachable.
Jason’s grip tightens without him meaning to, breath hitching violently in his chest. His mind fills with images he refuses to finish forming—broken glass, blood on pale surfaces, your windows shattered open to the night the same way his chest feels split open now. He thinks of your hands. Your laugh. The way you look at him like he’s something worth keeping.
And now—
Now you’re the blood he’s already wearing.
The blood he’s going to feel soaking into his gloves tonight.
Bruce sees it happen. Sees the moment Jason slips past anger and into something far more dangerous. His own heart lurches, sharp and traitorous. This—this is what he’s been afraid of since the second he knew Joker was involved. Not Jason lashing out blindly.
Jason focused.
Emotional.
Unanchored.
“Jason,” Bruce says again, softer now, steady as bedrock despite the fear tightening his chest. “I need you to stay with me. I need you here. Because if you go out there like this—”
Jason’s eyes snap back to him, glassy and feral and devastatingly alive.
“If I don’t go,” Jason says hoarsely, “she dies.”
“If you go,” Bruce says, low and sharp, the words cutting through the roar of the Cave, “you die—and you could lose her at the same time.”
The Batcave hums around them, fluorescent light washing the rock walls in cold blue, computer screens flickering with restless data. The waterfall crashes endlessly behind Bruce, mist clinging to the air, dampening everything it touches. It feels like the Cave is breathing—slow, heavy, watchful.
Bruce moves closer and grips Jason’s jacket with both hands, fingers clutching the leather like it’s the last solid thing in the world. He holds on the way a man holds a ledge he’s already slipping from, hoping friction alone might be enough to keep someone from falling.
It isn’t.
“Where is she,” Jason says.
His voice is flat. Too controlled. His eyes have already left Bruce, already slid to the Batcomputer, to the glowing map littered with red and yellow pings like open wounds across Gotham’s body. Each marker pulses faintly, alive and accusing.
He doesn’t notice his siblings closing in—Dick’s careful steps, Tim’s rigid stillness, Damian hovering sharp and coiled like a drawn blade.
“She’s alive,” Bruce says quickly, desperately. “She wasn’t the only one—at least four other children and three women—”
Jason turns his head.
The look he gives Bruce is devastating in its emptiness. Eyes glassed over, jaw set too tight, brows drawn together like the world has narrowed to a single, unbearable point.
“Do you honestly think I give a damn about them right now?”
The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. They land heavy, obscene in their honesty, and Bruce’s grip tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening against Jason’s jacket.
“I know you don’t,” Bruce snaps back, frustration bleeding through control. “Which is why I didn’t tell you she was taken. Because we need a plan that keeps everyone who was captured safe—”
“At the risk she dies in the process?” Jason cuts in.
Then—he stills.
Something shifts. His hands loosen, falling away from Bruce’s cape as if the fabric has suddenly burned him. His gaze slides, sharp and intentional, and locks onto Tim.
“How long,” Jason says.
The question is steady. Solid. Frighteningly calm.
Tim swallows and flicks a glance at Bruce—a silent check, a plea, a habit Jason has seen a thousand times. Jason shoves Bruce’s hand aside and crosses the distance in two strides, grabbing Tim by the shoulders, fingers digging in through armor.
“Don’t,” Jason hisses, thumbs pressing hard, grounding, painful. “Don’t look at him.”
The words aren’t just for Tim. They’re for Jason too.
He vaguely registers Dick saying his name, Stephanie’s voice tight with panic somewhere behind him, but it all dissolves into a dull ringing as he stares down at Tim. Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He meets Jason’s gaze head-on.
“How long,” Jason repeats. “Where.”
Tim exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when delivering bad news. “Two hours,” he says quietly. “Warehouse two blocks from Crime Alley. Behind that busted playground.”
Crime Alley.
The name echoes through the Cave like a curse, sinking into Jason’s chest and blooming outward, cold and malignant. Of course it’s there. Of course Joker chose that place—layers of history piled atop rot, a shrine built from other people’s pain.
Jason releases Tim slowly, hands trembling now, control finally beginning to crack.
Two hours.
Two hours of you alone with the man who taught Gotham how to laugh while it kills.
The Batcomputer hums on, indifferent. Gotham’s skyline glows faintly on the monitors—jagged towers under a bruised sky, rain finally starting to smear the camera feeds, streaking the city in gray. Somewhere out there, windows are broken. Somewhere out there, that cashmere scarf he wrapped and placed under your tree stays un-wrapped.
Jason understands then—with a clarity so sharp it almost feels merciful—that plans are a luxury meant for people who still believe time is something they own.
Time has never belonged to him.
Because you—you—aren’t alone. You’re trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didn’t rearrange Jason’s insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Joker’s sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.
And the last one standing is never the strongest.
It’s the smallest.
You would be dying before those kids.
Jason’s breath stutters, just once.
“Jason,” Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when he’s terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. “Don’t make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.”
For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jason’s head goes quiet.
Not peaceful—focused.
Everything narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like he’s trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jason’s heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.
“If you even try, Bruce,” Jason says.
He doesn’t look at him when he says it. He can’t. The name comes out wrong in his mouth—too raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly can’t stop seeing. He hopes—distantly, uselessly—that he isn’t glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isn’t anger.
Just pure desperation. His last attempt, his last shot.
“Ill fucking shoot myself. I’ll make sure you know it’s your fault,” Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I’ll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, I’ll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, I’ll wait a month. I’ll do it.”
He swallows.
Because that’s the only thing that’s ever worked. The only language Bruce Wayne never ignores.
Dick moves fast—too fast—grabbing Jason’s arm where it’s still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.
Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.
“Would you be this still?” Jason yells back. “If that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of her—would you have left me there for the police to find? Again?”
The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.
Again.
Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brother’s grip falter, fingers loosening like they’ve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dick’s face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knife—not because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.
“This,” Jason snaps. “This is why none of you fucking knew about her.”
He looks at all of them now—really looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt.
“If you can’t even see me beyond a mistake you made,” Jason says, voice hoarse, “there was no way you wouldn’t have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.”
The words leave him hollowed out.
Then he’s gone.
The Cave swallows the echo of his footsteps, leaving only the roar of the waterfall and the hum of machines that suddenly feel pointless. No one moves to stop him. No one even tries.
It takes Tim a full minute to cross the platform and reach the Batcomputer, fingers hovering uselessly over keys he knows by heart.
It takes Cassandra four times as long to find a part of Bruce that still moves—some small, human place in his arm or shoulder that isn’t locked rigid like a man bracing for an explosion he knows is already ticking down.
Dick follows Jason’s trail almost immediately. And Damian follows Dick.
You don’t remember the last five hours.
They’re gone—hollowed out—like someone reached into your head and scooped the time away with a careless hand. The last thing you have is small and warm and ordinary: the coffee table between the couch and the window, set for two. Plates aligned just so. The new glasses you bought with Jason on that stupidly perfect thrift-store date, thin and elegant and impractical. You’d laughed about them, about how easy they’d be to break. Jason had pretended to scold you, fingers warm around yours as he tugged you toward the bookshelves, already stacking paperbacks in his arms like treasure.
You’d bought homeware. A vintage mirror with a gold edge, slightly warped, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is.
Jason always said you needed better locks. You realize it numbly.
He always said it gently, like a suggestion instead of a warning. Like he was talking about replacing a lightbulb or buying better coffee. You brushed him off every time, smiling, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, telling him Gotham wasn’t that bad. That you were fine. That you were safe.
And you were right. You always are.
Because an extra lock wouldn’t have stopped the man with the red smile.
It wouldn’t have stopped hands tangling in your hair, fingers tight and merciless as he dragged you across your rug, skin burning where it scraped against the fibers. It wouldn’t have stopped the way your mirror shattered when he slammed you against it, glass singing as it broke, your own reflection splintering into a hundred terrified pieces that stared back at you with wide, unbelieving eyes.
It wouldn’t have stopped the way he looked at you.
He crouched in front of you like this was intimate. Like this was a secret. His smile stretched too far, paint cracked and smeared, eyes bright with something wrong and delighted and ancient.
Joker tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an insect pinned to cork.
“Here’s the other lovebird,” he murmured, voice lilting, almost fond. “Ohhh… how cute you are.”
You remember thinking—absurdly, desperately—that Jason would hate that word. That he’d bristle at it, roll his eyes, pull you closer just to prove a point. You remember the ache of missing him hitting harder than the pain at first, your mind reaching for him the way it always does when the world goes wrong.
Jason would know what to do.
Jason would make this stop.
The thought is a comfort even now, curled tight in your chest, fragile but stubborn. You cling to it as the man stands, as one of the shadows behind him passes up an old, rusted crowbar. The metal is pitted and dark, flaking with age and something older still. It smells like iron and damp and rot.
It doesn’t take a lock to stop that.
It doesn’t take a security system to stop the sound your bones make when he brings it down.
The pain comes in blinding flashes—white-hot, nauseating, wrong. Your legs scream before you do, nerves lighting up in protest, your body trying to fold in on itself, trying to protect something already broken. You taste blood, copper and thick, your teeth chattering even as your throat burns raw from crying out.
Through it all, you think of Jason.
Of his hands—gentle despite their strength. Of the way he says your name like it’s something precious, something he’s afraid to drop. You think of his laugh, low and surprised, the way he softens when it’s just the two of you and Gotham can’t see him. You think of the books still stacked on the table, waiting to be read, of the glasses that shattered just like the mirror did.
Of how he warned you.
Of how he would be here already if he knew.
The room feels wrong—tilted, smeared with shadow, the air thick and sour. Blood pools where it shouldn’t, dark against your floor, soaking into the rug you picked out together. The city hums outside your broken windows, indifferent and vast, neon bleeding into the night like nothing is wrong at all.
You breathe when you can. You hold onto Jason’s name like a prayer you’re afraid to say out loud.
Because if he comes—when he comes—you need to believe there will still be something left of you for him to find.
Your consciousness returns in fragments, drifting in and out the same way you remember nights with him. Not clean breaks. Not mercy. Just gaps.
A void of sleep.
Jason easing your window open like the city might hear him, hands raised in mock surrender, voice low and careful. I didn’t mean to wake you… shh… go back to bed. The mattress dips, familiar weight settling beside you, warmth bleeding into your back.
A void of sleep.
Jason in your bathroom, the light too bright, the mirror fogged. Gotham’s blood and grime rinsed down the drain while he rubs his hair dry with one of your soft, ridiculous pink towels. He smiles at you through the doorway, sheepish and fond, promises he’ll be there in a second. He always is.
A void of sleep.
Jason shifting beside you, breath warm against the delicate skin beneath your ear. His arm tightens in his sleep, possessive without knowing it, like even unconscious he’s afraid the world might take you if he lets go. He murmurs your name—broken, reverent.
A void of sleep.
White hands. Cracked paint. Fingers threading through your hair, slick and tangled with blood. The touch is intimate in the worst way, scalp burning as he hums—no, sings—a childish tune about robins, voice lilting and wrong, laughter bubbling beneath it like rot under sugar.
A void of sleep.
Concrete tearing at your skin as you’re dragged, knees bouncing, spine jolting with every crack in the ground. A van door yawns open, metal teeth waiting. A child sobs near your ear, small and hiccuping. A woman screams at the child to shut up—panic sharp and desperate—until a gunshot rings out like punctuation. The woman goes silent. The child doesn’t. The word mommy repeats, thin and broken, drilling into your skull.
A void of sleep.
You wake choking on pain.
Your body is bound to a chair, wrists cinched tight, ankles screaming. Barbed wire coils around you like something alive, biting deep with every involuntary twitch. The metal is rusted, flaking, cruel—tearing skin open in ragged kisses that burn and throb and never quite stop bleeding. Your legs are numb in places, screaming in others. You can feel blood soaking into fabric, sticky and cooling as it trails downward.
He’s in front of you.
Smiling.
Head cocked, eyes bright with interest, like you’re a puzzle he’s just started enjoying. He steps closer, crouches until he’s eye-level with you, hands clasped together as if in prayer.
“You do love your sleep, don’t you?” he says, voice almost gentle.
Your vision swims. The room smells like iron and oil and damp concrete. Somewhere nearby, something drips steadily—water, or blood, or both. The walls feel too close, the shadows stretching and curling like they’re listening.
“The other birdy,” he continues, grinning wider, “wouldn’t even sleep if I cracked his skull. Such a shame.” He sighs theatrically, tapping the barbed wire with one gloved finger, delighted by the way you flinch. “I suppose I’ll have to find a way to keep you awake.”
Through the haze, through the pain, one thought stays stubbornly intact.
Jason is coming.
And you cling to that like a lifeline, even as the horror closes in, even as the night tries to peel you apart—because if you let go of that belief, if you let the void take everything—There will be nothing left for him to save.
You can’t see farther than four feet in front of you.
Anything beyond that dissolves into smears of color and motion, the edges of the room bleeding into one another. When you try to focus, your vision tilts violently, the world pitching sideways as warm blood slips down from your temple, sticky and insistent. It drips into your eye, blurring everything further, each blink making it worse. The ceiling swims. The walls breathe.
He notices.
Of course he does.
He steps into what little clarity you have left, face snapping into focus like a nightmare finally deciding to be seen. His hand comes up fast, fingers prying your jaw open with impatient familiarity. Something chalky presses against your tongue.
You gag immediately.
Your throat spasms around his fingers, saliva thick and useless as panic claws up your chest. Your head jerks instinctively, barbed wire biting deeper in protest, fresh pain flaring white-hot along your wrists and ankles. He doesn’t pull away. He shoves the pill back, past your tongue, past your resistance, until your body betrays you and swallows.
You choke.
Tears spill from your eyes, hot and humiliating, streaking through the grime on your cheeks. Your lungs burn as you suck in air in sharp, broken pulls.
Jason, you think, distantly, desperately. The name is a reflex now. A prayer you don’t dare say out loud.
His hand withdraws at last.
Then—
Smack.
Your head snaps to the side, vision exploding into sparks. Before you can react—
Smack.
The second strike lands harder, ringing through your skull, teeth clacking together as pain blooms anew. The world steadies just enough to be cruel about it.
“That’ll keep you awake, birdy,” he croons, pleased.
Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and trapped. Already you can feel it—the way the haze pulls back just a little too much, the way your thoughts sharpen against your will. Your eyelids burn, heavy but refusing to close, nerves screaming as the drug seeps in and denies you even the mercy of darkness.
“Now.”
He leans back into his own chair like this is a rehearsal, like he’s bored of waiting for his cue. The legs scrape loudly against the concrete, the sound sharp enough to hurt. He reaches forward and adjusts the camera in front of you with careful precision. A small red light blinks every few seconds—steady, patient. Watching.
“We’re going to make a deal, okay?”
You don’t answer.
Your eyes refuse to cooperate, swimming uselessly as you blink through blood and tears. Every attempt to focus sends a wave of nausea through you, the room tilting, your pulse roaring in your ears louder than his voice. Your jaw trembles. Your tongue feels thick, wrong in your mouth.
“Okay?”
Nothing comes out.
The barbed wire strung cruelly across your throat digs in deeper with every breath you take, a quiet reminder that sound would cost you skin. Air hisses past your teeth in shallow pulls. You can feel your heartbeat there, fluttering and frantic against metal.
His smile thins.
He stands.
The rusty crowbar tightens in his grip as he rises from a stupid, bright orange folding chair—out of place, obscene against the filth of the warehouse. He steps into frame, then closer, until the camera, until you, are all that exist. He hooks two fingers under your chin and lifts your face, forcing your eyes up.
“Answer.”
You try.
Your mouth opens. Nothing happens.
All you can see is him—cracked white makeup creasing around his eyes, green hair greasy and limp, age showing in the lines around his mouth where smiles have lived too long. He smells like oil and metal and something sour beneath it all. The warehouse stinks of rust, damp concrete, old fuel. It crawls into your lungs.
And then—
You hear it.
A sound that doesn’t belong to him.
Crying.
Your head turns slowly, painfully, vertebrae protesting as the wire shifts against your throat. The movement costs you another sharp breath. Your vision blurs again—but this time, shapes resolve.
A cluster of bodies huddled together against a dented equipment container. Two teenage girls with their knees pulled tight to their chests, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Four little boys wedged between them, shaking, hands bound too tight, mouths open in silent sobs like they’ve already learned screaming doesn’t help.
Something in your chest caves in.
You don’t even see the crowbar move.
The impact comes out of nowhere—white-hot, brutal. The hooked end of the bar slams into your shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, metal biting deep as it pierces flesh. Pain detonates through you, ripping the air from your lungs. He yells as he does it, manic and delighted, like the violence startled even him.
Your body jerks against the restraints.
Barbed wire bites deeper. Blood spills warm and fast down your arm, soaking into your sleeve, dripping to the floor in thick, uneven drops. Your vision fractures, stars bursting behind your eyes.
You clamp your teeth down hard on your lip to keep from screaming.
You taste iron immediately—sharp and overwhelming—as skin breaks beneath your bite. Tears spill freely now, blurring everything, mixing with the blood already clinging to your lashes. It burns. It hurts. Your whole body shakes with the effort of staying quiet.
Behind you, the crying gets worse—fractured, panicked.
“Okay,” you choke out.
The word scrapes your throat raw on the way out, barely more than a breath. It tastes like blood and rust and surrender.
Immediately, the pressure is gone.
The crowbar pulls free with a wet sound that makes your vision white out, pain screaming down your arm as the hooked metal tears away from muscle and skin. You shudder hard, a broken gasp ripping out of you despite your best effort to swallow it down.
He steps back like a magician deciding on the next trick.
Then he leans in again—careful, deliberate—and pats at the wound where the bar pierced you. Not gentle. Never gentle. His palm presses just enough to make you flinch, fingers smearing warm blood across your torn clothes.
“See?” he says brightly, turning slightly so the camera gets a better angle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Your breath comes shallow and fast, chest stuttering against the wire. Every inhale sends a fresh bloom of pain through your shoulder, the edges of it pulsing in time with your heart.
His hands come up next.
Dry. Cracked. Too warm.
He grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs pressing at your jaw as he tilts your head from side to side. The movement drags the skin of your neck against the barbed wire, a searing, intimate pain that makes your eyes flood instantly.
“What a dumb dumb birdy you are,” he croons, affectionate in the way predators are. “It’s okay. Joker can teach you.”
Your body trembles uncontrollably now. Your fingers spasm uselessly against the wooden arms of the chair, nails scraping shallow grooves into the surface. You can feel blood slicking your palm and you don't even want to think about how you got hurt there too.
He releases your face.
Pats your head once.
The gesture is almost worse than the violence.
“Now,” he says softly, pleasantly, “say thank you.”
Your vision swims. The room feels too loud, too close. Somewhere behind you, one of the children sobs so hard it turns into hiccupping gasps. You swallow around the wire, throat burning.
You look up at him with shaking eyes, lashes heavy with tears and blood. Your mouth opens. Your lips quiver.
“Thank—” Your voice breaks completely. You force it back together, dragging the word out of yourself like it’s being pulled through glass. “Thank you.”
His smile spreads slow and satisfied, stretching the cracks in his makeup wider.
“Good birdy,” he coos, pleased. “So much more compliant than your love bird already!”
“Now—” Joker announces, voice lifting into a theatrical lilt, like he’s stepped beneath a spotlight instead of flickering warehouse fluorescents. He turns toward the camera, gives it a jaunty little nod, then looks back at you, grin splitting wider. “I was gonna let you go for some cash. Thought your little boy bird might get scared shitless—just a fun little bonus, really—buttt—”
He drifts away from you, footsteps light, almost playful. You can’t turn your head far enough to see what he’s doing. The wire bites when you try. Your vision pulses, dark at the edges.
Then—
A scream.
Sharp. High. A girl’s voice.
It cuts off halfway through, collapsing into a thin, broken cry that echoes far too long in the hollow space of the warehouse.
Something in you fractures.
Joker reappears at your side, breath brushing your ear, laughter bubbling out of him like it’s a private joke the two of you share. “Got lucky with a rich bitch on the road,” he cackles, delighted. “Gotham really does keep on givin’.”
Your stomach twists violently. You taste bile. The crying behind you swells again, panicked and animal, and you can feel your own body trying to fold in on itself despite the restraints, like if you curl inward hard enough you might disappear.
His hands slide to your throat and at the same time your eyes land onto his hands. Diamond earrings.
He ripped her earrings out of her ears.
Before you can flinch at the sight of pieces of skin in his open hand, he yanks.
The chain snaps free with a sharp tug, metal biting into your skin as the necklace tears away. You gasp, the wire at your neck punishing you for it, and the sudden cold where the chain used to rest feels obscene—too exposed. You feel lucky that you took off your earrings when you were doing your hair.
He dangles it in front of the camera, letting it glint under the harsh light, gemstones smeared faintly red from your blood. “This could go for a couple hundred too!” he sings. “Ohhh, how delightful!”
He leans closer, eyes alight, savoring every tremor that runs through you. “At least one of the birdies knows how to decorate their nest. Found a few rings at your place as well.”
Joker pockets the necklace with a satisfied hum.
“Well, now that I don’t need the money,” he croons, voice lilting, playful, like he’s deciding which joke to tell next, “what should I do with you?”
His fingers drag along your cheek again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to bruise. His touch leaves heat behind, a crawling sensation that makes your stomach revolt. You feel contaminated where he’s touched you, like your skin is remembering something it shouldn’t.
“…I’ll give you more,” you whisper. Your voice fractures around the word, splintering into something pitiful and thin. “However much you want—just—”
“Oh, I don’t need money.”
The change is instant. His tone drops, sharp and venomous, and when he leans in his eyes are blown wide and empty, pupils swallowing the green like oil slicks. A hawk spotting movement. A blade finding flesh.
“I was looking for some fun, love bird,” he hisses. “You can’t give me that?”
You whimper around the grip on your jaw as his fingers tighten, nails biting into your skin. The wire at your throat digs deeper when you gasp, its teeth kissing something vital. Pain blooms hot and bright, stars bursting behind your eyes.
“Jason— Jason will—”
He doesn’t even flinch at the name.
Maybe that’s mercy.
His fingers move higher, rough and invasive, smearing through the makeup you’d put on hours ago with careful hands. The eyeshadow burns as it’s ground into your skin, sweat and blood turning it into a dark, ugly paste. His thumb drags through the faint blush on your cheeks, erasing it like it was a mistake.
“How pretty you are,” he murmurs, almost tender. “I do makeup on myself too, you know.”
Then his hands leave you entirely.
He grabs his own face, fingers digging into the cracked greasepaint, stretching the red grin wider, tearing at the corners until the white creases and flakes. For a second you think you see real skin underneath—white, lined, angry. Horrid.
“Do you like mine?” he asks brightly. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
Your mind blanks.
Your eyes flick helplessly to the camera instead—the blinking red light pulsing steadily, patiently. Recording. Waiting. You try to speak, to say yes or no or anything that might stop what’s coming, but your throat locks around the wire and all that comes out is a wet, useless sound.
Then—
“Very pretty!”
The voice is behind you.
Too young.
A teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her voice trembles, thin and frantic, the words tumbling over each other. “So—so pretty—”
You feel something inside you tear open.
She’s trying to survive. You can feel that hope radiate off of her. The hope of throwing words into the dark and praying it lands somewhere safe.
Joker’s head snaps toward her.
His eyes narrow, sharp and wrong, smile freezing into something predatory. “You think so?”
There’s a frantic nod you can hear more than see—the quick intake of breath, the shuddering little sob that follows.
Joker bends down.
The crowbar scrapes loudly as he lifts it, metal screaming against concrete. You catch a glimpse of it as he moves past you—rusted, pitted, darkened in places where it’s already been used tonight.
Then he’s gone from your line of sight.
The scream that follows is immediate and unbearable.
It’s not just pain—it’s shock, terror, the sound of someone realizing too late that they were wrong. The metal wall amplifies it, throws it back at itself until it feels like the warehouse is screaming with her.
There’s a wet, sickening crack.
A sound like meat hitting concrete.
“Why don’t we match?” Joker coos from behind you, voice light and delighted. “I did one side, now the other!”
The crowbar hits again.
You hear bone give this time—feel it in your teeth, in your chest. Her scream fractures into something animal, then into choking sobs, then into a raw, bubbling sound that makes bile rush up your throat.
Your own crying breaks free, ugly and uncontrollable. Your body jerks against the restraints, fingers cramping, nails tearing uselessly into the wood of the chair. Hot tears spill down your face, mixing with blood, dripping off your chin in thick, dark drops.
The camera’s red light blinks again.
Once.
Twice.
It taunts you by matching every sound that breaks out of you.
Every gasped sob, every wet, hitching breath. The camera’s red light blinks in time with your chest, like it’s learned your rhythm, like it’s decided to breathe with you instead of for you.
And then the Joker comes back.
You smell him before you see him—iron-thick blood, old rust, sweat gone sour. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, fingers shining under the warehouse lights. The crowbar hangs loose in his grip, darker now, clotted, strands of hair caught cruelly in its curve.
He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, like he’s talking to a child.
“Well,” he hums thoughtfully. “I can’t give you her look, can I?”
Your vision swims. You can’t stop shaking. Tears slide down your face in hot, unstoppable streams, carving clean paths through blood and grime. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes out—just a broken, animal sound that folds back in on itself.
His smile twitches.
“What should I do with you?” he asks softly. “Hm?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. You just cry harder, chest stuttering against the wire, throat raw and burning.
That seems to irritate him.
He clicks his tongue, disappointed, and lifts the crowbar. The cold metal taps against your cheek once—tap—just enough to make you flinch violently. He pauses, head tilting.
“Oh—”
His eyes light up.
“Oh yes, that’s wonderful! Oh—” He erupts into laughter, sudden and explosive, clutching his stomach as if the joke is too much to bear. Spit flies from his mouth, warm and disgusting as it lands in your hair, streaking through blood-matted strands. “Oh, isn’t my brain just splendid?”
He straightens, still laughing, wiping his eyes like he’s genuinely amused. “You bats are all poetry, I say—pure poetry!”
Then he turns.
Walks away.
His footsteps fade, echoing hollowly through the warehouse, until there’s only the hum of the lights, the distant crying behind you—and the camera.
You’re alone.
One last sob claws its way out of your throat, wet and choking. Blood follows it, dribbling down your chin, splashing darkly against your chest. You force your eyes open, drag them upward, lock them onto the camera.
You don’t know who’s watching. You don’t know if anyone is.
Your voice comes out steadier than it has any right to be.
“How—”
“Shut up!” someone whisper-yells behind you, frantic and terrified. “There’s other men!”
Your mouth snaps shut.
And the red light keeps blinking.
The metal door slams open with a shriek of abused hinges, the impact shuddering through the warehouse floor and straight up your spine. Dust rains down from the rafters in a thin, dirty veil, catching in your hair and sticking to the blood already drying there.
He’s laughing before you even see him.
Not distant laughter—close. Moving. Each step accompanied by a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across concrete. His cackle ricochets off the shipping containers, off the steel beams, off the low ceiling that traps the sound and forces it back into your skull.
A little boy cries out behind you as Joker passes him. A sharp, panicked sound that fractures into a sob and then cuts off abruptly, like someone clamped a hand over his mouth.
The air grows hotter.
Through the warped reflection in the camera lens, you see it clearly now: a long metal bar burning red-hot, so bright it hurts to look at directly. Heat ripples distort the image around it, the glow painting the walls in feverish streaks of crimson. The smell hits you next—burning iron, scorched metal, something faintly organic beneath it that makes bile crawl up your throat.
Joker taps the brand against the concrete behind you.
It doesn’t clang.
It hisses.
The sound is sharp and alive, like meat on a skillet. Tiny sparks spit outward where it kisses the floor, leaving blackened scars in the cement. The red glow doesn’t dull. Doesn’t cool. It stays furious and bright, as if fed by something endless.
Whatever fragile hope you were clutching evaporates in that moment, leaving you hollowed out, lungs burning as you exhale something that feels like your last prayer.
He’s behind you in the next second.
Joker’s hand comes out of nowhere, clamping over your mouth, palm slick and hot. The copper taste floods you as his fingers press into your cheeks, nails digging in just enough to hurt—just enough to remind you that restraint is a choice he’s making. Your head is forced back, neck screaming as the wire saws deeper, the barbs biting into tender skin.
“Would you like to match your birdy?” he murmurs.
His voice is serene. Gentle. Almost affectionate.
He angles the brand around the arm of the chair so you can see it clearly. The letter is unmistakable now, its edges glowing white-hot, heat radiating off it in suffocating waves.
A ‘𝙹’.
Your body reacts before your mind can—your stomach convulses, gagging against his hand, breath stuttering uselessly through your nose. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s already shrinking away from what’s coming.
“We’re going to make the deal now,” he coos.
In the camera’s reflection, you can see his eye—wide, bright, utterly focused on the blinking red dot. Performing. Enjoying the audience if there even is one.
“You either get a matching look…” The brand drifts closer, close enough that the heat kisses your cheek, nerves screaming in anticipation, sweat instantly breaking out along your spine. “…or you tell me who you hate.”
His hand peels away from your mouth.
Air rushes in too fast. You choke on it, coughing hard enough that the wire grinds into your throat, pain blooming hot and blinding. Your voice comes out shredded. “Who… who I hate?”
“Who put you here?” he hums thoughtfully, as if the answer delights him. “It wasn’t me.”
The brand pauses, hovering inches from your skin. You can feel the heat burrowing inward, like it’s already memorizing you.
“Why do you think I found you?” he continues lightly. “Do you know how sloppy he is?”
Silence stretches, thick and oppressive.
You stare at the glowing red letter, your mind drifting somewhere distant and numb to survive. Absurdly, irrationally, you think of Jason’s helmet—the same violent red, the same defiant color. You wonder if he’s thinking of you right now. If he can feel this, somehow.
“Tell me who you hate.”
The words don’t just reach you—they enter you, heavy and cold, sinking past bone and settling somewhere deep and irreversible. They press the air flat, make the warehouse feel smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in to listen.
He stands before you in all his wrongness, and up close there is nothing theatrical left. The Joker’s makeup has melted into something corpse-like, white cracked and flaking into the grooves of his face as though his skin is trying to shed it. The red smile is no longer a grin so much as a wound, smeared unevenly, darker where blood has mixed in, the corners dragged downward by age and use. His hair hangs limp, green dulled to the color of mold, clinging to his scalp in greasy strands. His eyes are too bright—glass-bright, feverish—never still, never soft, reflecting the warehouse lights like knives.
The space around you hums with misery. The concrete beneath your feet is slick with blood and oil, cold seeping up through the chair and into your bones. Shipping containers loom like coffins, their metal sides scarred and rusted, shadows pooled so thick between them it feels like something could step out at any moment. The air reeks—burnt iron, old sweat, copper, rot—and every breath feels like inhaling something alive and hostile.
You look at the camera.
That red eye blinks steadily, rhythmically, a heart that isn’t yours. It sees the way your chest shudders, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the bindings, the way your body is already bracing for pain it knows is coming. Your thoughts drift, slow and exhausted, slipping through your hands like water you can’t quite hold.
You think of Jason.
Not the helmet. Not the blood. But his hands—warm, callused, careful when they touch you. The way he looks at you like the world might soften if you stay. The way he says your name like it’s something solid.
You could say his name now.
You could offer it up like a sacrifice and pray that this monster believes in deals, that you might walk out of here broken but breathing. You could lie and hope he lets you go.
Or you could say Jason’s name and watch Joker’s smile vanish as he switches off the camera and kills you quietly, preserving this horror to show your sweet boy later.
Or you could stay silent and take the brand—feel your skin burn, your body marked, watch the ecstasy bloom in Joker’s eyes as he claims you like an object he’s improved.
None of them feel survivable.
Something inside you twists—not courage, not bravery, but love sharpened into something desperate and ugly and defiant. You gather what spit you can in your blood-wet mouth and turn your head as far as the wire allows.
You spit in his face.
It lands wet and unmistakable, dragging a slow line through the cracked white paint, cutting through the red smile like an insult carved in flesh.
For a heartbeat, everything freezes.
The Joker goes utterly still, his expression emptying out in a way that is far more frightening than his laughter. Then his eyes widen, pupils dilating, fury flaring bright and feral—pleased.
You lean forward, neck screaming as the wire bites deeper, and you whisper because your voice will not survive being louder.
“You know,” you murmur, breath shaking despite everything you do to steady it, “he’s never mentioned you before.”
His breath stutters.
“You must not have left quite an impression.”
It’s a lie. A reckless, transparent lie.
You have lived in Gotham long enough to know exactly what he is—his name written in blood across the city’s history—but lies can still cut, and you see it land. You see the way his smile stretches wider, hungry and thrilled.
You’ve given him a reason.
A reason to prove himself.
A reason to keep you alive.
A reason to make you hurt longer.
His hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back violently. Your neck slams into the barbed wire, spikes tearing in with a wet, intimate sound that makes you sob despite yourself. Warm blood spills down your throat, choking you, slicking your chest.
Then the brand descends.
The heat is indescribable—ancient, total, a pain so vast it consumes thought itself. Your flesh screams as it burns, the smell of seared skin rising thick and sweet, smoke curling upward as the letter is carved into you slowly, deliberately. Your body arches uselessly against the restraints, every nerve on fire, and the sound that leaves you is not a scream so much as something torn out of your soul.
You hate that he hears it. And when that drug denies you the void of sleep you so desperately need, you allow yourself to think numbly as the man pulls it away that at least Jason can't dwindle his appearance anymore.
Your tears stripe down your cheeks, burning as they touch your skin.
We match. You think numbly, Atleast we match.
He strokes over the brand with more delicacy than he has ever had in this whole nightmare, mumbling, “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”
When you wake again, it’s to the weight of tears landing on your face—warm, uneven drops that pull you out of the dark in slow, reluctant pieces. For a moment you don’t know where you are. The world rocks gently, like it can’t decide whether to keep moving or stop altogether. There’s the low hum of an engine beneath you, vibration traveling through bone and bruised muscle, and the smell of old leather surrounds you—worn, familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.
Leather is good.
Leather is not acid.
Leather does not burn your lungs on the way in.
“Hurts,” you mumble, the word barely surviving the journey out of your throat. You offer it up like an apology, like a peace offering, half-expecting pain to answer you back.
Instead, the crying breaks harder.
It comes undone above you, raw and ugly, and through the haze you realize you aren’t lying flat on concrete, waiting for the Joker to press a cinder block to your stomach. Your body is stretched across someone, your legs draped over another set of knees, your weight distributed carefully, reverently, like something fragile that might shatter if shifted wrong.
An arm is braced beneath your neck, steady and strong, keeping your head from lolling, and your cheek presses into a leather jacket that smells unmistakably like gun oil, sweat, rain—
Jason.
The knowledge hits softer than it should, cushioned by exhaustion and shock, and when your eyes finally manage to open, everything swims. Light smears at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, but his face is there anyway, hovering close, carved with terror and relief and something so naked it almost scares you more than the warehouse did.
“Am I in heaven?” you mumble.
He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a sob and isn’t quite a laugh, choking on it as his chin trembles. “You don’t even believe in heaven.”
“Well,” you murmur, trying—and failing—to pull your mouth into something that resembles a smile, “what else could you be?”
Your jaw burns when you speak. Everything burns. It feels like your body has been filled with broken glass and lit from the inside, and you’re dimly aware of warm liquid slipping from your mouth, darkening the leather beneath your cheek every time you breathe wrong. You hate that you’re staining him. You hate that you can’t stop.
“I’ll kill him,” Jason whispers, like a prayer he’s been holding onto with both hands. His fingers shake as they brush your hair back, careful to avoid places he knows are hurt. “I’ll kill him. I promise.”
“Can I have hot chocolate first?” you mumble. The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else. “I bought that expensive kind… from Finland. Asshole knocked it all over my carpet…”
Jason’s breath fractures completely at that. He nods too hard, tears spilling freely now, dropping onto your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll buy you hot chocolate. I’ll buy you all of it.”
Somewhere near your feet, another voice cuts in, low and strained with concern. “Hey, Jay—breathe—”
Jason doesn’t hear them. Or maybe he does and simply can’t afford to listen. His chest is rising too fast beneath you, breaths sawing in and out like he’s drowning on dry land, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the green in them shifting with every frantic blink.
Or maybe that’s just your vision still failing you. That would make sense. The powder. The smoke. The way light hurts now.
“Stop crying,” you murmur weakly. “I can’t die with you looking like that.”
That breaks him.
His face crumples completely, grief spilling over into something fierce and desperate as he bends closer, forehead almost touching yours. “Good,” he chokes. “Fuck you. I’ll cry even more, so–so stay with me, yeah?”
“No,” you whisper, your voice scraping raw against your throat. “Wanna sleep.”
“You slept an awful lot,” he snaps, but there’s no anger in it—only terror wearing sharp edges, only love clawing its way out however it can.
“Well,” you murmur, your voice thin but soft, like you’re afraid of startling him, “You show up in my dreams an awful lot.”
That does it.
Whatever fragile control Jason had left fractures clean through. He folds over you instinctively, shoulders caving as he tries—fails—to hide the sound of it. His breath comes apart against your hair, his forehead dipping close to your temple like if he presses himself near enough, he can keep you here by force alone. You feel the tremor of him through your whole body, every hitch of his chest echoing in your ribs.
You smell blood on him then. Copper and iron, sharp beneath the leather and sweat and rain. For a distant, numb second you think it’s yours again—until the scent is too heavy, too layered.
Oh.
Was this—
“Did I interrupt family bonding?” you whisper.
Your lips barely move. The words slip out half-asleep, half-dreaming, and they earn you a startled huff from somewhere behind you. Jason doesn’t answer. He can’t. His arms tighten instead, one hand splayed carefully at your back like he’s afraid even breathing too hard might hurt you more.
A voice comes from the seat behind, dry and unimpressed, because Jason is currently incapable of speech and whoever has your legs resting in their lap is rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.
“If this is what you think family bonding is, you’ll fit right in.”
“Damian, be quiet,” another voice snaps.
“She’s the one shamelessly flirting with him in front of all of us, Tim” Damian continues anyway, undeterred. “And Father isn’t even saying anything, so—”
“Well she’s the one dying!” Tim blurts, voice cracking sharp with fear.
Jason chokes on the words that come from Tim’s mouth, breath stuttering hard, and a deeper voice cuts in from the front seat—controlled, measured, holding itself together by sheer will.
“She’s not going to die, Tim.”
“I want hoya bellas on my grave,” you interrupt softly.
Jason lets out a broken sound that might have been a laugh in another universe. He shakes his head over you, forehead brushing your hair, and through your blurry vision you think you catch a gloved hand popping up behind him in a solemn thumbs-up.
“Got it.”
Another voice joins in from the front, exasperated and strained. “Cassandra, she’s not being serious.”
“I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like something he’s trying to carve into reality. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His thumb strokes your hair away from your forehead again, impossibly gentle, avoiding the places he knows hurt, the places he doesn’t want to know at all.
“I’m gonna sleep now,” you murmur. It takes effort to shape the words. The dark is getting heavier again, tugging at you, warm and deep. “Can one of you give Jason water?”
“Hey—” Jason breathes, panic flaring sharp as his voice cracks. “Hey, no—no, no, no, stay with me, come on—”
But you’re already slipping.
Your eyes flutter closed despite him, despite the warmth of his arms, despite the way his heart is racing beneath your ear like it’s trying to outrun fate itself. His glove comes off hurriedly and you feel his bare fingers press to your pulse, grounding himself in the steady beat there, in the fact that it’s still happening.
After a few minutes, Dick leans forward and taps Jason’s shoulder gently, offering a water bottle. His uniform is torn and scorched like the rest of them, a thin cut bright against his cheek, but his voice is soft when he speaks.
“Drink.”
Jason doesn’t look up. He doesn’t let go. He just nods once, tight and shaky, eyes fixed on you like if he looks away for even a second, the world might take you again.
He forces himself to take a full gulp of water, the plastic bottle crinkling loudly in the too-quiet car, his throat working like it has to remember how swallowing goes. His hands are still shaking when he passes it off to Tim.
“Hey, I don’t need any—”
Jason looks at him.
Not sharp. Not angry. Just steady in a way that leaves no room for argument, the kind of look that says do this or I will fall apart next.
Tim takes a long swig immediately. Somewhere in the background, Damian lets out a low, satisfied cackle.
The digital clock on the Batmobile reads 4:00 a.m.
The numbers glow cold blue against the dark interior, reflected faintly in the windshield like a second set of eyes staring back at them. Gotham outside is hollow and half-dead at this hour—streetlights flickering, rain-slick asphalt stretching endlessly, buildings slumped together like they’re exhausted too.
Bruce’s voice is calm as he calls Alfred, clipped and precise, already listing supplies like this is something he can control if he names enough of it out loud.
Jason doesn’t listen.
He keeps his focus on you.
On the shallow rise and fall of your chest. The warmth is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. On the way your weight settles into him like it belongs there, like it always has. One hand stays firm at your neck, holding you upright because you need it—because you need him steady, and that knowledge anchors him harder than anything Bruce could ever say.
You need him here. You need him present. You need him not to break.
He knows that, because once—once—that was all he ever wanted too.
And that’s the cruel part of it.
Because the weight of you in his arms has only ever meant safety. Home. Sleep curling warm and heavy in his bones. His body doesn’t know the difference between holding you safe and finally being allowed to rest.
Jason Todd passes out with his forehead dipping gently toward yours, his grip loosening only by a fraction, like even unconscious he’s afraid to let you go.
The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is Tim’s voice, sharp with panic and disbelief.
“Dude—what the fuck—”
“Hold his head up—don’t let him fall on her!” Bruce barks from the front, voice cracking sharp through the Batmobile like a snapped cable.
All at once, everyone moves.
Damian fists the back of Jason’s T‑shirt, knuckles white as he yanks him upright with a strength born of panic he’d never admit to. Dick stretches impossibly from the passenger seat, arm braced awkwardly as he cups the back of Jason’s head, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid one wrong angle will shatter him. Tim presses a steadying hand to Jason’s chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm, grounding him the way he’s learned to do with bombs and brothers alike.
Jason is dead weight. Heavy. Still clinging to you even in unconsciousness, his arm slack but stubborn around your shoulders, like muscle memory alone refuses to let you go.
The Batmobile hums on, tires slicing through wet streets, Gotham blurring past in streaks of sodium light and rain-slick concrete. The city feels distant now, muffled, like it’s holding its breath with them.
“…Did someone check if the Joker was—uh—breathing?” Stephanie asks from the back, her voice small in a way it rarely ever is.
She hadn’t stayed for the end. Her job had been triage—getting the kids out, shouting orders, dragging civilians through blood and broken glass while the rest of them stayed behind in the warehouse with the laughter and the screaming. She’d smelled the aftermath on them when they regrouped. She didn’t need details then but...
Bruce doesn’t look back. His hands tighten on the wheel.
“Jason didn’t hit any vital points,” he says quietly, like he’s reciting a report he’s already memorized. “Just… ah—”
“Carved his face like a jack‑o’‑lantern,” Damian supplies, entirely too calm. “Heated up a crowbar to do it too. Very effective.”
There’s a beat of silence.
The city lights flash over Bruce’s face—old stone and deep eyes that are hollowed by relief he doesn’t let himself feel yet.
“…Yeah,” Bruce exhales, short and rough. “That.”
The Batmobile keeps moving.
Jason breathes.
You breathe.
And for now, that’s enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.
You wake up in bed.
Not the thin, borrowed kind your body has learned to tolerate at your apartment, but something deep and indulgent—clean sheets tucked tight, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle you instead of swallowing you whole. The pillow beneath your cheek feels stupidly expensive, cool and smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and something old and comforting, like cedar and money and quiet hallways that echo.
For a moment, you think you’re dreaming again.
Then you feel him.
Jason is asleep beside you, solid and unmistakable. You don’t need to move—you can’t really anyways—to know it’s him. The arm wrapped around your waist is heavy with familiar strength, protective even in unconsciousness. His hair brushes against your arm every time he breathes, soft, tickling your skin in a way that makes your chest ache.
He’s breathing.
That fact alone nearly undoes you.
God. You really need to raise your standards, you think hazily. You’re reduced to this—listening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, and already you want to curl into him and coo like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.
Then you see Bruce.
He’s standing near the bed, still as a statue, watching you with the careful intensity of someone afraid to spook a wild animal. It takes effort to focus on his face, your vision dragging itself into clarity inch by inch.
When you try to lift your head—manners resurfacing before sense—your body protests sharply.
Bruce moves instantly.
“Hey, hey—no,” he murmurs, hands gentle but firm as he presses you back into the mattress. “Relax. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Your head sinks back into the pillow, and the moment stretches. You swallow thickly before managing a small, hoarse sound of politeness.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Jason—”
“Hasn’t told you much about me,” Bruce finishes for you, a faint, tired chuckle slipping out. “That’s alright. I just need you to sleep right now.”
You glance downward as best you can, feeling something sharp dig into your side.
“…I can’t sleep if your son’s elbow is in my ribs.”
Bruce blinks.
Actually blinks—surprised enough that it breaks through the carefully assembled calm. “Ah—” he starts, then reaches for Jason, trying to rearrange him with the same precision he uses on everything else.
It doesn’t work.
Jason huffs in his sleep, a low, irritated sound, and somehow manages to make it worse—his arm tightening, his leg hooking over yours possessively, like you’re something he’s afraid the world might steal back if he lets go.
Bruce freezes.
You mumble, exhausted but soft, “It’s alright. I’m sure he hasn’t slept… I’ve gotten quite a lot, so…”
Bruce looks like he wants to argue. His jaw tightens, then loosens, the fight draining out of him. He exhales and sits back in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.
“It’s the 26th,” he says quietly.
Oh.
You missed Christmas.
What a shame.
After a moment, Bruce speaks again, and his voice is heavier now—careful, deliberate, like every word costs him something.
“I… want to apologize to you.” His fingers interlace, knuckles whitening. “I knew you’d been taken. And I didn’t tell him. Possibly… he could have been there sooner. But I needed to make sure the others would be saved as well.”
“Well,” you murmur, the word barely more than breath, “I don’t exactly blame you for that.”
It isn’t forgiveness exactly—nothing so grand—but it’s honest, and it lands heavier than anger ever could.
Bruce doesn’t relax. If anything, his shoulders pull tighter, like he’s bracing for a blow that never quite comes. He’s spent his whole life learning how to de‑escalate men with guns, gods with vendettas, cities with teeth—but you unsettle him in a quieter, more dangerous way. You’re calm. You’re lucid. You’re something Jason had threatened to shoot himself for.
He clears his throat, trying to give you something solid, something measurable. Facts are safer.
“Jason… got him,” Bruce says carefully. “Badly. I think—” He hesitates, eyes flicking once toward Jason like he’s checking for movement. “I think the Joker may be blind now. Or at least permanently impaired.”
“You let him?” you ask.
Still no accusation. Just a soft, stunned curiosity, as if you’re piecing together a story you were never meant to survive.
Bruce nods. Once. The motion costs him. “I did,” he admits. “But I—”
“Then that’s enough,” you whisper, interrupting him gently, like you’re afraid the words themselves might hurt. “Jason will realize that too.” Your lashes flutter; exhaustion tugs at you like a tide. “I mean… he probably won’t. He’ll still try to kill him.” A faint, crooked exhale. “But you did everything you could yesterday.”
Your gaze drifts—not to Bruce, but to Jason. To the way his arm is still locked around you, even in sleep. To the stubborn set of his jaw, the crease between his brows that never fully smooths out anymore.
“Thank you,” you add quietly. “For finding me.”
That’s when Bruce goes still.
Not rigid. Not defensive.
Still.
Because he’s been looking at you, yes—but now you realize he hasn't been looking you in the eye while he speaks. His eyes have been caught in one place, drawn there again and again like a bruise you can’t help but press.
Your cheek.
The skin there is angry beneath the bandage’s edge—raw, faintly swollen, discolored in a way he winced at while he bandaged it. Bruce didn't let anyone else tend to it, not even Alfred.
Because this was a wound he inflicted, one that he needed to tend to.
“It’s still fresh,” he says, softer now, stripped of the Bat and the rules and the fear. Just a man speaking carefully around something fragile. “I’ll get you better medicine. The pigment should fade.” A pause. His voice lowers. “I can’t promise about the texture.”
You don’t look away. You don’t flinch.
“That’s okay,” you say.
And Bruce doesn’t know if you mean the scar, or the pain, or the fact that you’ll carry this forever—but Jason shifts in his sleep then, brow tightening, arm drawing you closer like he sensed the weight of the moment and refused to let it settle on you alone.
Bruce watches that. Watches how Jason anchors himself to you without waking, how his breathing steadies when yours does, how it pauses even in sleep when yours hitches.
“He loves you a lot.” Bruce mumbles.
“...And you too Mr.Wayne.”
jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) :@justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree,
Here are a few fic recs in honor of this blog reaching 370+ followers and since fic recs have become somewhat of a monthly tradition. ( other fic recs)
All the fics are reblogged in my fic rec blog (@luvieryylib). Please take the time to reblog and interact with the fics you like!!
JASON TODD
scuff marks - @t1mbits
Take me for a ride, baby - @mystiquevoid
The bed's been made - @champagnesbiggestproblem
spending the night in his old room - @bloomcissa
hockey player! Jason Todd x coach's daughter!reader - @fancy-possum
you melt up my body, and all my heart - @flimsily-flimsy
everything is coming up roses - @batwngs
Baby, both arms cradle you now - @harbours-lighthouse
Mercenary! Jason Todd x runaway princess!reader - @ghxstrobins
aka jason wildly preferring you over everyone else
4 in 1 blurbs
warnings: standard batfam arguing etc.
You sit curled up embarrassingly close to Jason on the couch, head on his shoulder. The team is still in their gear as they filter into the living room, masks and helmets discarded in scattered locations between here and the cave. The mission had been fairly simple and with all of them together it only took a couple hours to finish up.
As you waited, Alfred had kept your mind busy in the kitchen while he taught you how he makes his famous ice cream from scratch.
The clamor of the heroic party’s return had made itself known sooner than later, and you think your face must have displayed your emotions nicely because Alfred nodded you away with a small smile and no second thought.
You’d walked into the living room, weaving through the mess of siblings until a hand snuck out on your left and grabbed your wrist. You barely had time to look at him before Jason pulled you down to sit next him on the sofa. He wrapped an arm over your shoulder, pulling you in and leaving virtually no space between you. His armor sits heavy against you, but a welcome weight on your shoulders.
Tim plops down on the couch across from you and you can just make out a bit of blood on the side of his head, aptly accompanied by an irritated look sprawled across his face. It’s not enough blood to be concerned about—not for them—but you can venture a guess that whatever they were up to shouldn’t have called for any injuries and his pique is likely directly related to that.
Though Dick’s goading aura might have something to do with it too, as he comes crashing down next to him a second later, partially sitting on Tim’s cape and pulling him into an awkward angle.
Nightwing doesn’t seem too perturbed by the younger vigilante’s agitation and curt manner of pushing him off.
The others are too caught up in chatter to pay much attention to you, and you can be certain that’s why Jason takes that moment to press a kiss to the side of your head. He lets his lips linger there for just a second as you lean into him.
Alfred’s own entrance is the only thing able to subside the flurry of conversations skirting around the room.
“A job well done,” he commends with a nod. “A selection of ice creams awaits you in the kitchen.”
He gives you a sly wink before retreating back through the swinging door, leaving Stephanie and Cass to practically trip over themselves trying to beat each other to the kitchen. Robin follows after unhurried, mask still on, with his hands behind his back.
Jason kneads your thigh before pushing himself up to stand. He turns back, looking down to you. “What do you want?” he asks softly.
You hum, "Just strawberry's good."
Tim sits up, "Can I—”
"No, you've got legs,” Jason grumbles, stalking off to the kitchen.
Dick barks out a laugh and you bite back a smile.
Tim looks absolutely aghast.
“That’s such bullshit. You know, he used to be nice.”
“No he didn’t,” Dick laughs, shaking his head. “Not since you’ve known him.”
Stephanie stumbles out of the kitchen then, the door hitting her back on the way, as she mutters a curse behind her. You can vaguely makeout Jason grunting something back before she rolls her eyes.
Steph looks at you, shaking her head as she returns to her seat, “You live like this?”
You shrug, “He’s nice to me.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Tim grumbles.
Jason returns after Cass a minute later with a bowl of strawberry ice cream and two spoons. He expertly ignores Tim’s unwavering glare as he resituates himself beside you.
He scoops your legs up over his lap and positions the bowl in between you, wrapping the sleeve of his jacket around it so that the cold porcelain doesn’t make contact with your skin.
The others have set themselves up so that the four of them are stuffed up against each other on the sofa adjacent to you, very obviously examining you both.
And while you’re willing to acknowledge the amused stares and singular glare, Jason only sighs heavily, rolling his eyes as he glares at the coffee table.
Only a few seconds of this are allowed to go by before he pulls over a throw pillow and sets it over your knees, so that it rests atop your heads like a mini-fort, successfully blocking out his siblings' view of the two of you.
You smile and press a light kiss to his shoulder as he simmers.
Regrettably, you miss the way Damian side-eyes the pillow above you as he re-enters the room, perching himself atop the back of the couch behind the others.
“This is so nice,” Dick preens. “He used to just leave the room when too many of us gathered in one place. Now he has to stay.”
Stephanie watches the makeshift fort with wary eyes, scooping ice cream into her mouth. “Yeah…I don’t wanna freak you guys out but, uh…”
It’s quiet for a moment and you guess Cass is speaking.
You’re proven right when Stephanie starts up again, “My thoughts exactly.” Her voice drops into a raspy whisper that isn’t really meant to go unheard, “I don’t know who the hell that is, but it is not Jason.”
“This is unprecedented,” Damian mumbles, dipping into his own chocolate cup.
“Do they always talk about you like you’re not here?” you ask Jason quietly.
“Yes,” he grumbles with a scornful look directed at the bowl.
A low hiss can be heard immediately after, “I’ve never heard him whisper before, what the fuck?”
You can’t hide your laugh as well as you mean to, but you know Jason’s light swat to your thigh is nothing more than a rib.
Mumbles continue along the other couch, mostly going unacknowledged, until Tim busts out, “He doesn’t even like strawberry!”
Jason snaps the pillow out of the way, “The fuck do you know about what I like?”
Tim resets his posture with one hell of an attitude, snarking, “Well I can name one thing you really seem to fucking—”
Jason grabs the pillow harshly and chucks it at Tims head which connects with a loud thwack.
Damian swats it away before it can knock him off balance, though his scowl is only half worth what Tim’s is.
“You’re unbelievable,” he says with a sneer. “This is why you don’t get invited to movie night anymore.”
Jason doubles back at him, “Sorry, is this not your own fucking house?”
Tim huffs, “Yes, which i—”
“Then get your own goddamn ice cream!”
Tim huffs as he stands, sending Jason a pointed look. “I’m going because I want to.”
Jason barely gives him a sardonic nod as he stomps off.
“Get me some too!” Dick calls back, only for the back of his head to be met with a sideways grimace from Tim.
As he leaves, the focus of the room seems to shift towards Damian dripping chocolate onto his cape and it fades away from there.
You turn to Jason, lowering your voice to just below a whisper, “If you don’t like strawberry—”
“I like it,” he tells you, leaving no room to argue as he takes a bite.
Voicemail.
Voicemail.
Voicemail.
Voicemail.
Declined.
Voicemail.
Declined.
Declined.
“I swear to God, he better be dead,” Stephanie mutters to herself.
She shuts her phone off and tosses it into the passenger seat with a huff. Her fingers drum against the steering wheel as she scans the sidewalk across from her car.
The night before the majority of the team had been involved in a less-than-successful plan, which some have called “a display of complete idiocy and inability to circumspect.”
Then Tim had to go and make a joke about that word choice in what was apparently a bad moment. This gave way to a harsher punishment of the team being forced to clean the batcave foot by square foot—notably, an impossible task.
So naturally, they had to retaliate.
The plan was to dismantle the batmobile piece by piece and leave it a collection of parts for Bruce to find. Problem being, the group as it stood didn’t possess the capability to do so without doing a great deal of damage to the parts. Damage, that the family was not willing to face extra retribution for.
Fortunately, they knew just the man for the job.
Unfortunately, said man has devoted his life to ignoring their messages, favoring to live peacefully and distantly from them. And because that peace and distance does come with an add-on of borderline complete secrecy from his family, no one had any idea where to look for him.
So, Stephanie decided to do the next most rational thing and track down your location. She’d hoped he would be with you like he always is, but for seemingly the first time in the last year—he’s nowhere to be found.
Now, was revenge for a minor-slight by Bruce so important that it required Stephanie to take all of these steps to get a hold of Jason? No, absolutely not. She’s pretty sure that the others have already given up on it by now and started cleaning. But it’s about the principal. And also, she does not want to clean the floors of a cave.
She jumps up in her seat when she spots you exiting a store, scurrying to unbuckle and pry the car door open.
She’s across the street in half a second, running directly into your line of sight. It actually would’ve been very difficult for her to miss your line of sight, considering she’d landed only a good six inches in front of your face. “Hey!”
“Oh, fuck—” you jump, grabbing your chest. You take a breath when you realize who it is, less surprised now by the theatrics of the introduction. “Hey Steph.”
“Hey,” she smiles casually, like she didn’t do what she just did. “So Jason’s been ignoring us and I need to get a hold of him,” she tells you.
You nod, still collecting yourself. “Oh. I don’t know where he is—”
She shakes her head, “That’s fine. Can I use your phone to call him?”
You frown, “Is something wrong?”
“With him, yeah,” she snarks. “I called him, Tim called him, Dick called him, Cass called him, Damian called him, we used Bruce’s phone to call him—that was a bit of a long shot, but still. This is our last option. Well, not our last option, if this doesn’t work I could get really invasive, but—” She shakes the thought from her head, “Nevermind.”
You nod blankly, taking in the mountain of information she’d just handed you. “How’d you know I was here?”
She scans your eyes back and forth for a second before her own widen in realization and she’s shaking her head. “No, no, don’t worry we’re not tracking you! I just hacked into the traffic cameras to find you.”
“Oh!” you exclaim, nodding some more. “Okay.”
You hand her your phone without any further questions—for your own sake—and she happily accepts.
“You know I texted him 115 times?” she tells you as she scrolls through your contacts.
You furrow your eyebrows, watching her click his name and press the phone to her ear. “Did you count?”
“Well, I had the time, di—you son of a bitch! One ring?” Stephanie scorns into the phone.
You can hear Jason groan on the other end of the line.
He says something to Stephanie that she follows up with a firm shake of her head.
“No,” she says defiantly. “She let me use it.”
Stephanie rolls her eyes, not pleased with his response. “What if it was an emergency?”
She listens for a second, skeptical look on her face.
She gasps suddenly, “I am not overstepping, we thought you were dead!”
Over the course of about ten seconds the shock on her face drops into just-been-caught guilt. “Well, I mean we considered it.”
You imagine Jason’s telling her to give you your phone back as she stands her ground, pushing, “If you promise to text me back.”
A short response on his end.
“Promise to text me back!”
There’s a brief lull before she’s giving a self-satisfied nod and jostling your phone back into your hands. “Here ya go. Thanks, babe!” She smiles wide at you before jogging back across the street, not waiting for the cars.
You smile as you watch her go, putting the phone up to your ear, “Hey Jay.”
You can hear the relief on the other end of the line. “Hey sweetheart. You know if you see Steph in public, you can just walk away?”
“I’m not going to walk away from your family.” You look again across the street, “Also I don’t think that was an option for me this time.”
“That thing is fucking scary.”
Cass smiles fondly, signing, “I think he’s cute.”
Tim eyes the way Salem traipses around his feet, yellow eyes staring up at him. “Why’s it even here?”
Jason rolls his eyes, continuing to scroll on his phone. “He’s hers. Deal with it.”
Tim scrunches up his mouth. “She knows I hate it. And she, unlike you, wouldn’t subject me to this just for the hell of it. So again I ask: why is it here?”
Jason huffs, looking up from his phone. “What do you want me to say? He wants to be.”
Tim scoffs at that, “‘It wants to be’? You’re the one who put it in the car.”
“No, I didn’t,” Jason says factually.
Tim looks at him sideways as Salem leaps onto Jason’s lap and nudges his hand up. Jason follows along as requested, petting the top of Salem’s head with an open palm.
Tim squirms to the other side of the couch with a look of disgust on his face. Salem watches him the whole time.
A smile adorns Cass’ face as she signs, “She says he can read people’s energy.”
Tim huffs, resting his head against his fist. “What does that even mean?”
The conversation is cut off by the clatter of you and Dick stumbling into the room, carrying a freshly painted headboard. Blue paint coats both of your hands and has no doubt stained your clothes.
You’re clearly struggling a bit to keep your grip on your end, the weight of the wooden frame dragging your arms down.
Jason stands and Salem flows along with his movements easily, leaping down onto the hardwood. He comes over and helps you lift your end of the frame with a stupid amount of ease, to the point that you’re not even holding any of the weight up anymore. The three of you—less so you—move the headboard and lean it up against the wall. After it's set down Jason steps back and looks over it gingerly.
“It looks good,” he murmurs to you, quiet enough to not give his brother the satisfaction of his approval.
Dick had asked you over to help him paint Damian’s bed frame as a surprise for him for not getting in any “altercations” at school this semester. You’d decided on coating it with his favorite color first and then fill it in with a collection of what Dick has “on good authority” are his favorite animals. It’s a fairly random assortment that you’re not sure adds to or disproves Dick’s credibility. You’d spent the better half of the afternoon googling animals you’d never heard of just to make sure you projected their likenesses accurately. Dick had been very clear that you had to be precise on the details because Damian would know if he was really looking at a komodo dragon painting or if it was “some common lizard.”
You sigh, “I hope he likes it. I’m worried we did it too childish for him.”
“He is a child,” Jason says plainly.
“But he is not childish,” you counter. And he sure isn’t. You’d had a hard enough time convincing Damian to watch cartoons, adding a colorful animal mural to his bedroom might be one step too far. You’re still trying to figure him out.
“He’ll like it,” he says firmly.
You smile, slipping around under his arm and tucking yourself into his side.
Not a moment later, Dick slings an arm around Jason's shoulder, grinning as he pulls his brother in close.
Jason’s immediately louring. "No, get away from me."
Dick, unfazed and still smiling, removes his arm and takes a big step to the right. You do the same, figuring he needs his space, but you get caught by the wrist before you can do more than sway to the side.
“Not you.”
He pulls you back under his arm, wrapping it around the front of your shoulders. You hook your fingers around his forearm, letting your hand hang.
You hear a double-clap from the other side of the room that has you both turning around to face Cass.
She signs something to Jason with a fond smile on her face.
You look back and forth between them as Jason waves her off. “What?”
He shakes his head, “It’s nothing. She said—she said we’re cute.”
You smile up at him and he deflects—not so subtly—and starts nudging you back towards where the group is gathered, now all standing.
Dick’s quick to start bragging off to the room about how great of a job the two of you did and how really complex and daunting it actually is painting animals for a child.
As he talks, your eyes find Jason, who’s definitely about to roll his eyes any second now. A bit subconsciously, your hand comes up to brush Jason’s white streak of hair back, away from tickling his forehead.
On the other side of Jason, Tim does the same, sweeping Jason’s hair back in a much more mocking manner.
This gives way to Jason smacking his hand away, harder than he needed to.
"Wha—You let her do it!" Tim protests, overplaying how much the slap hurt.
Jason scowls, "She can do whatever she wants."
Tim drops his shoulders, looking at Jason as if he’d been scandalized. “Oh but I can’t?”
“Not if it involves touching me,” Jason grumbles.
Tim steps closer, putting a finger to Jason’s chest. “You’re such a—”
From the floor, Salem hisses up at Tim, successfully startling the teenager. “Auahh—”
He stumbles backwards, grimacing at the cat.
“Fucking demon,” he hisses, walking away.
When Tim’s far enough away and Salem’s seemingly satisfied, he brushes up against your leg, purring.
You peer down at him with a furrowed brow.
“What’s Salem doing here?”
“I’m not doing this shit with you.”
“No, come on, 9 out of 10 times is what you said. How ‘bout just once? Beat me one time at anything, Jaybird.”
“Anything?” Jason asks like he knows damn well Dick can’t swear on that word.
Rightly so, Dick backtracks. “Something agreed upon.”
Jason throws his hands up, partially in exasperation, partially relenting.
Dick smoothly turns his back to him, announcing, “Opening up the room for ideas.”
Damian’s eye roll is almost audible from the corner armchair, where his attention is unmoved from intently sharpening a blade he’d recently come into possession of.
Bruce similarly remains unbothered in his seat, trying to read despite the distractions.
“Ooh, okay. Okay.” Stephanie wiggles up a little on the couch. “You could race!”
Dick shakes his head negatively, “I literally just busted my knee up two days ago, Steph.”
“Convenient,” Jason mumbles.
“You were there!” Dick exclaims with an open mouth.
Steph continues, “Um…”
Cass waves to the room from her position upside down on the couch, head hanging down next to Stephanie’s legs. Attention successfully acquired, she signs, “Staring contest.”
Jason grimaces, “That sounds like a nightmare.”
Dick gives him a faux-smile.
“You should play chicken,” Damian chimes in, holding up his knife.
“No,” Bruce drones monotonously as he flips a page.
“Tic tac toe?” Steph suggests.
Cass is already shaking her head as she scrunches up her mouth in thought.
Jason rolls his eyes, “What are we, five?”
Dick nods, cracking his knuckles as he thinks. “No, we need something that really proves our worth.”
Bruce looks up from his book, staring numbly through his brow, but remains silent.
“You could arm wrestle,” Steph suggests.
The elder brother twitches at that, “Uh, no.”
Cass moves past that before a joke has the chance to be made. “Handstand contest?” she suggests.
Jason shrugs, “Yeah, sure.”
The elder brother looks at him incredulously. “You’ll do a handstand contest with me?”
“That’s what I just said.”
Dick scoffs, “Jaybird, I’m an acrobat, you’re just some guy.”
Jason, not giving him the courtesy of eye contact, pulls his sweatshirt off from his back. “Well, you’re a lot of things, aren’t you?”
Dick throws his head back with a squint.
Jason fishes his phone out of his pocket and Dick follows suit, offended stare maintaining all the while.
No exchange is required as they both toss their phones across the room, landing together with a rough clatter on Damian’s lap. Damian’s resulting glare is borderline disgusted.
Dick starts them off, “Alright, go. One…two…”
Both men push up onto their hands, muscles flexing as they find their balance. Dick’s form is better, of course, but Jason looks to have a stronger foundation.
They both hold strong as several minutes go by with the brothers only maintaining the attention of some of the room, and the interest of none of it.
Stephanie huffs and tilts her head, thoroughly unentertained with the consistency they’re both managing.
“Starting to wish they’d picked something that moved along a little faster,” she murmurs to Cass.
Dick glances over at the younger brother, clearly displeased with his lack of trouble keeping up with him. He shuffles closer one hand at a time, using the decreased distance to poke at Jason with his foot, trying to knock him over.
Jason kicks him back harder, “Hey! Don’t be a dick—”
“Very funny,” Dick leers.
They both end up finding a struggle to keep balance and are forced to mind their own.
A chime rings out from the corner that has heads turning briefly in his direction before coming back to the competition.
“Whose was that?” Dick calls out.
Damian leans over and inspects the screens with disinterest. “Todd’s.”
Jason adjusts his position, “Who is it?”
Damian responds with your name.
“And?”
He picks up the phone shrugging like he couldn’t care less, “She wants to know if you want to go see some movie.”
There’s a brief silence before Jason drops out of the handstand, standing up.
Dick’s blood-flushed face peers up at him, bewildered. “Wait, what?”
The family watches with wide eyes as Jason picks his sweatshirt up off the floor and tugs it back on.
Stephanie gawks, bordering on laughing. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” he says simply.
Dick lets himself fall into a kneeling position with a huff, “You would rather go to some movie you don’t even know the name of than win a bet?”
Jason moues at him, “Uh, yeah.”
He tosses a twenty at Dick, and plucks his phone from Damian’s hand as he strolls past him, typing out a reply.
Cass sits up a bit and signs up to Stephanie, “Does he even like movies?”
Bruce, now attention now fully removed from his book, watches Jason exit with the slightest hint of a smile. Dick sits dumbly on the floor, staring after him with an open-mouth.
Damian twists the knife in his hands around contemplatively before rising to stand.
“I will go,” he announces, dropping his blade onto the seat of the chair. Jason grumbles a no but Damian follows after him just the same.
you know what happened to the last guy that didn’t reblog? … 🔪🧨💥😵⚰️🪦
Summary: You disappear during lunch, come back bruised, avoid questions, and somehow never react to Superman. Clark is completely convinced you’re secretly a superhero. The truth is far less glamorous.
Word count: 8k+
Warnings: fluff, mention of bruises and injuries
A/N:
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
Clark wouldn’t call himself an observer.
Sure, he noticed things. He had to. It came with being Superman. He listened for collapsing buildings beneath the noise of the city, watched for danger hidden in crowds, caught details other people missed because if he didn’t, people got hurt. But he never really focused on one person before. Never poured all his attention into memorizing someone’s habits, their expressions, the way they moved through a room.
Until you came along.
You were one of Perry’s newest hires, fresh blood thrown into the Daily Planet bullpen like bait into shark-infested water, except you never seemed intimidated by any of it. Most newcomers either tried too hard or shrank into themselves. You did neither. You found this impossible balance that made people gravitate toward you without realizing it.
Kind, but not overly sweet in a rehearsed way. Professional, but still willing to join after work drinks. Funny, but not enough to earn Perry’s eternal annoyance the way Jimmy did after getting warned three separate times about “inappropriate use of humor during serious editorial meetings.”
You fit too easily into their world. Beautiful without trying, smart enough to keep Lois interested in conversation, sharp enough to challenge Perry during meetings, and somehow constantly showing up to work covered in bruises with absolutely no explanation.
The first bruise Clark noticed sat just beneath your jaw.
Not because he was staring. He absolutely was not staring.
It was only there for a second when you tipped your head back laughing at one of Jimmy’s terrible jokes, the collar of your sweater slipping just enough to expose the faded purple mark against your skin. Clark’s fingers paused over his keyboard immediately. His hearing dimmed beneath the sound of your laugh.
A bruise.
Not the kind someone got from bumping into a door, either. It looked darker than that. Finger-shaped almost.
Something ugly twisted in his chest.
He wanted to ask if you were alright. Wanted to know who put their hands on you hard enough to leave marks. But there was something guarded about you too, hidden beneath the easy smiles and sarcasm, and Clark worried that asking would make you retreat entirely. So he stayed quiet, even while the image lingered in his head for the rest of the day.
Three days later there was another one.
This one wrapped around your wrist, peeking beneath your sleeve when you reached up to grab a file from the top cabinet. Clark caught sight of it from across the bullpen and looked away so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash when your eyes flickered toward him.
“Smooth,” Lois muttered without glancing away from her computer screen.
Clark blinked. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
“I am not.”
The immediate defensiveness in his voice only made Lois snort.
“Oh, you absolutely are.”
“For your information,” Clark said stiffly, “I was looking at the cabinet.”
“The cabinet wearing glasses and cardigans?”
Clark cleared his throat and suddenly became very interested in the article on his monitor. Lois leaned back in her chair with a knowing smirk.
“You know,” she said casually, “normal people ask coworkers out instead of conducting FBI investigations.”
His ears burned instantly. “I’m not investigating her.”
Except he was.
Because there were patterns.
Clark noticed patterns.
You arrived every morning carrying coffee from the tiny stand three blocks over, despite always claiming you were running late. You wore thin-framed glasses that slid down your nose whenever you got stressed, and every time you pushed them back up, Clark had to physically stop himself from staring. Some days, there were scratches along your knuckles. Other days, bruises bloomed beneath your sleeves in places too deliberate to ignore.
And then Jimmy mentioned it. You disappeared almost every lunch break and came back twenty or thirty minutes later looking flushed and disheveled, your hair windswept like you’d been sprinting across rooftops.
“She disappears for hours sometimes,” he said one afternoon while tossing gummy bears into his mouth at Clark’s desk. “Like full mystery mode. One second she’s here, next second poof.”
Clark tried to sound casual. “Maybe she just likes being alone.”
Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “You're defending her because you’re in love with her?”
Clark nearly inhaled his own saliva.
“I am not in love with her.”
Jimmy looked unconvinced.
The thing was, Clark disappeared during lunch too, so he never actually noticed you leaving. Usually, he was halfway across the city, stopping a robbery or preventing some catastrophic disaster before rushing back to the Planet pretending he hadn’t just held up a collapsing bridge. But now that he knew you were vanishing too, every weird little detail about you started clicking into place.
And the biggest thing of all?
You somehow never reacted to Superman.
Everyone reacted to Superman.
Jimmy lit up like a little kid every single time Superman came up in conversation. Lois always had opinions, whether she admitted it or not. Half the newsroom stopped working whenever he flew past the windows.
You?
You barely looked up.
Like you’d seen stranger things before. Like the flying alien in blue wasn’t remotely the most interesting thing in your life. You never pitched Superman stories. Never fought for front page exclusives about him the way every newcomer usually did trying to impress Perry. Sometimes Clark caught you listening quietly when the others talked about Superman, your expression unreadable behind your glasses, but you never joined in.
It drove him insane.
Clark leaned back slowly in his chair one evening, staring at you across the bullpen while realization settled into his chest piece by piece.
Another superhero.
It had to be.
You weren’t active in Metropolis. He would know if you were. He would have seen you during patrols or heard whispers about a vigilante operating nearby. But another city? Another state?
A hidden identity.
A superhero.
The thought should not have thrilled him as much as it did.
Yet suddenly every interaction with you felt charged with something heavier. Something electric. Because maybe you understood him in ways no one else could. Maybe you understood the exhaustion of splitting yourself into pieces for the world. The balancing act. The secrecy. The isolation. The terrible loneliness that came with carrying things no one else could know.
And once the idea rooted itself in Clark’s mind, it refused to let go.
“You’re doing it again,” Lois said without looking up from her laptop.
Clark’s head snapped upward so quickly it was almost suspicious on its own. “Doing what?”
“Staring.”
“I’m not staring,” he said immediately. “I’m observing.”
Lois finally looked at him then, one eyebrow lifting slowly toward her hairline. “That somehow sounds significantly worse.”
Across the newsroom, completely unaware of the crisis currently unfolding at Clark’s desk, you sat cross-legged in your chair flipping through interview notes with one hand while absentmindedly chewing on the end of your pen. Your glasses had slipped halfway down your nose again, and every few seconds you nudged them back up without even noticing you were doing it. The soft yellow light hanging over your desk caught against the side of your face and illuminated the faint purple bruise resting high along your collarbone just above the neckline of your sweater.
Clark swallowed hard.
It looked fresh.
Not severe enough to panic over, but enough that his stomach twisted unpleasantly anyway.
Lois followed his line of sight with painful ease, then let out one long dramatic sigh like she was exhausted by his existence.
“Okay,” she muttered, shutting her laptop halfway. “Spill it, Smallville.”
Clark immediately lowered his voice despite the fact nobody around them was paying attention. “I think she might be a vigilante.”
Lois stared at him blankly.
Clark pressed forward before she could interrupt. “Or a superhero. I’m not completely sure yet.”
For three full seconds, Lois said absolutely nothing.
Then she burst into laughter loud enough that three people looked over, including Jimmy, halfway across the bullpen.
Clark frowned immediately. “I’m serious.”
That only made her laugh harder.
“Oh my God,” she wheezed, grabbing the edge of the desk for support. “You are serious.”
Clark crossed his arms defensively. “There’s evidence.”
“The fact that she’s pretty is not evidence.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Mmhm.”
“She disappears every lunch break.”
Lois deadpanned. “So do you.”
Clark blinked once.
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Clark opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Lois smirked victoriously before continuing. “Clark, this is Metropolis. Half the city disappears during lunch because something explodes every twelve minutes.”
“She comes back injured.”
Lois snorted. “I got clipped by a taxi last month and still came into work. Last week Jimmy walked into a parking meter and got a concussion.”
“Hey,” Jimmy called from across the room. “That was one time.”
Clark ignored both of them. “These aren’t normal bruises.”
Lois glanced toward you again, her expression softening slightly as she caught sight of the mark on your collarbone. “Okay, maybe they’re not ideal, but you’re jumping from concern to full conspiracy theory pretty fast here.”
“She hides behind glasses.”
Lois stared at him slowly.
Very slowly.
“Clark.”
“Yes?”
“You also wear glasses.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
Clark opened his mouth again.
Then closed it.
Because honestly, hearing it out loud made his entire theory sound insane.
Lois rubbed both hands down her face. “You have a crush and your brain stopped functioning.”
“It’s not a crush,” Clark said immediately, far too fast to sound believable.
Like he’d been summoned by the sheer force of gossip, Jimmy suddenly appeared beside Clark’s desk holding a soda and an expression full of dangerous curiosity. “Who has a crush?”
“No one,” Clark answered at the exact same time Lois said, “You.”
Jimmy gasped dramatically loud enough to earn a glare from Perry’s office.
“On Y/N?” he whispered aggressively.
Clark nearly inhaled his own tongue.
Jimmy’s grin widened instantly. “Dude.”
“I do not have a crush on her.”
“You stared at her for like six straight minutes yesterday,” Lois said.
“I was thinking.”
“About her mouth?” Lois shot back.
Clark physically choked.
Jimmy looked delighted. “Oh my God, you’re down bad.”
“I’m not down anything.”
Jimmy leaned against Clark’s desk with all the confidence of a man who enjoyed making situations worse. “You should ask her out.”
Clark immediately shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
Because what if you really were risking your life every night somewhere? Because what if getting involved complicated things for both of you? Because what if you looked at him too closely and saw through every carefully built layer separating Clark Kent from Superman?
Because maybe a part of him desperately wanted you to.
Clark looked away instead.
Jimmy squinted at him suspiciously. “Wait.”
Clark already hated that tone.
“Are you scared of her?”
“No.”
“You totally are.”
“I’m not scared of her.”
“She is kinda intimidating,” Jimmy admitted thoughtfully. “In a hot way.”
Lois gagged.
Jimmy ignored her. “Last week I saw her come back from lunch with blood on her sleeve.”
Clark went completely still.
Every sound in the bullpen seemed to dull instantly around him.
“Blood?” he repeated carefully.
Jimmy nodded, suddenly less amused now that he had their full attention. “Yeah. Not a ton, but enough that I noticed. She was trying to hide it.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I saw her scrubbing it out in the bathroom sink afterward.”
Lois sat up straighter now too, concern flickering across her face despite herself. “Okay, that is a little weird.”
Clark’s pulse started hammering.
Jimmy continued, oblivious. “And she looked exhausted after too. Like she’d been in a fight or something.”
Clark’s stomach dropped.
A fight.
Lois pointed a finger at him before he could spiral further. “Do not start building your murder board yet, Kent. There are normal explanations for this.”
Clark looked unconvinced.
“She could’ve gotten a nosebleed,” Lois argued. “Or spilled ketchup on herself. Or helped somebody who got hurt.”
Jimmy made a face. “Who spills ketchup directly on their sleeve?”
Lois ignored him. “My point is you are going from zero to one hundred.”
But Clark barely heard her anymore.
Because across the newsroom you laughed softly at something another reporter said, completely relaxed, completely normal, while absentmindedly tugging your sleeve lower over your bruised wrist like you didn’t want anyone noticing.
Like you were hiding something.
Clark narrowed his eyes slightly.
Definitely a vigilante, he thought to himself.
If only Clark knew how catastrophically far he was from the truth.
You were not a vigilante. Not a superhero. Not a masked protector operating out of another city with a tragic backstory and secret double life.
You were just unbelievably unlucky.
That was genuinely the entire story.
Your apartment building elevator broke so often you were convinced it had developed personal hatred toward you specifically. Twice a month it jerked violently enough to send you crashing into the wall, and once it trapped you between floors for nearly an hour while you sat on the ground eating stale crackers from your purse and contemplating every bad decision that led you to Metropolis. You bruised absurdly easily too. The smallest things left marks on your skin for days. You once woke up with a bruise on your thigh so dark and dramatic that you genuinely convinced yourself you had some terrifying hidden illness before remembering you’d walked into the kitchen counter half asleep at two in the morning looking for water.
Another time?
A pillow.
An actual pillow.
You had dropped face first onto your bed after a sixteen hour day and somehow managed to bruise your shoulder against the wooden headboard in the process.
Your body simply refused to cooperate with you.
It became such a normal part of your life that eventually you stopped noticing the bruises entirely until other people pointed them out. You were always distracted, always thinking too fast, always halfway somewhere else mentally, which meant you regularly walked into doors, clipped corners, slammed your hips against desks, tripped down stairs, or forgot objects existed directly in front of you. Half the bruises on your legs appeared without explanation because apparently your body just enjoyed creating mysteries.
The rest of your “suspicious behavior” was equally uninteresting.
Your disappearances during lunch breaks were usually spent crying in your car from stress, scarfing down vending machine snacks while answering calls from insurance companies, or sprinting halfway across Metropolis trying not to miss your younger brother’s physical therapy appointments. Since your parents passed, taking care of him became your responsibility, and balancing that with the Daily Planet nearly killed you some days. There were mornings you barely made it to work because you’d spent hours arguing with doctors or trying to convince your brother not to give up on recovery entirely.
The blood on your sleeve?
Your brother dropped an entire cherry slushie directly onto you after laughing too hard at one of your jokes.
You spent twenty minutes in the Planet bathroom trying to scrub fluorescent red sugar syrup out of your cardigan while wondering if adulthood was punishment for something you did in a past life.
That was it.
No secret missions.
No hidden enemies.
No rooftop fights.
Just terrible luck and a rapidly deteriorating mental state.
The only thing Clark had accidentally gotten right was the Superman part.
Because the reason you barely reacted to him anymore was simple.
You had already met him once.
Technically, though, he definitely didn’t know that.
It happened three years ago during what remained, to this day, the worst night of your life.
You’d been visiting Metropolis for a college journalism conference when the bridge collapsed.
Even now the memory felt sharp enough to cut.
You remembered screaming. Metal twisting like paper. The deafening sound of concrete splitting apart beneath hundreds of terrified people. Cars tipping sideways. Smoke everywhere thick enough to choke on. One second you were sitting in the backseat of a taxi answering emails on your phone, the next the entire world tilted violently and disappeared beneath you.
The impact shattered something in your leg instantly.
You still remembered the pain.
White hot and nauseating.
You had been trapped beneath mangled steel and broken concrete while people screamed around you in complete panic. Somewhere nearby a child was crying for their mother. Someone else was praying loud enough for you to hear every word. Smoke burned your lungs every time you inhaled and your vision blurred from the pain until honestly, truly, you thought you were going to die there.
Then suddenly everything changed.
There had been blue.
Bright against all the gray dust and smoke.
Then warmth.
Strong hands lifting impossible weight like it meant nothing.
And a voice.
God, that voice.
Gentle. Calm. Steady in a way that made the panic inside your chest loosen instantly despite the destruction surrounding you.
“I’ve got you.”
You remembered staring through tears as Superman crouched beside you in the wreckage, one hand braced against collapsing concrete while the other carefully untangled twisted metal from around your leg like he was terrified of hurting you further.
You remembered his cape moving in the wind behind him.
You remembered the symbol on his chest.
But mostly?
You remembered his eyes.
Kind.
Not performative kindness either. Not the polished, public version the world saw during interviews and press conferences.
Real kindness.
The kind that reached all the way down into a person.
You had looked at him while shaking from pain and fear, and somehow he made you feel safe immediately.
Like nothing terrible could happen while he was there.
He stayed with you until paramedics arrived even though half the bridge was still collapsing around him. You remembered him brushing dust from your forehead carefully, asking if you could breathe alright, speaking softly enough that only you could hear him over the chaos.
Then he smiled at you.
A small thing.
Quick.
But warm enough that your chest hurt afterward every time you remembered it.
For months after that, every man you met felt disappointing in comparison.
Not because they couldn’t fly or lift buildings or stop disasters.
But because none of them looked at people the way Superman did.
None of them carried gentleness so naturally.
Then you started working at the Daily Planet and met Clark Kent.
Clark Kent, who smiled exactly the same way Superman did.
Clark Kent, who tilted his head while listening exactly the same way Superman did.
Clark Kent, whose voice dropped softer whenever someone was upset.
Clark Kent, who had the exact same eyes as Superman did.
You figured it out in less than a week.
Honestly, it was almost concerning nobody else had.
The glasses helped more than they should have, but still.
Sometimes Clark would disappear for suspiciously long stretches of time right before Superman appeared downtown. Sometimes he came back looking exhausted with his tie crooked and his hair windblown while pretending nothing happened. Once you watched him return to the bullpen with ash smeared along his sleeve less than fifteen minutes after a chemical plant explosion Superman had supposedly been rescuing people from across the city.
You nearly laughed out loud.
But you never said anything.
Because it wasn’t your place.
The secret clearly mattered to him. Deeply. You could see it in the careful way he carried himself, always slightly restrained, always holding pieces of himself back. If Clark ever trusted you enough to tell you the truth himself, then he would. Until then, you would protect it too.
Besides, there was something strangely endearing about watching him maintain the act.
Clark tried so hard sometimes.
Too hard.
He’d intentionally stumble over absolutely nothing whenever people looked too closely at him. He lowered his voice around the office compared to Superman’s. Occasionally he pretended not to understand basic sarcasm because apparently Clark Kent was supposed to be awkward and harmless and incapable of throwing someone through a wall.
It was adorable.
Especially because underneath all of it, he was still just Clark.
Thoughtful. Sweet. Quietly protective.
You noticed the way he always carried extra snacks in his bag because he knew you forgot to eat during deadlines. The way he stayed late helping interns finish assignments without asking for credit. The way he checked if you got home safe after rough weather warnings.
That was the thing. Even as Clark Kent, he was still Superman.
“Hey.”
The sound of Clark’s voice pulled you out of your concentration immediately.
You looked up from your desk to find him standing there awkwardly between the rows of cluttered cubicles, broad shoulders slightly tense beneath his blue button up, two coffee cups clutched carefully in his hands like he was afraid he might spill them if he moved too quickly. His glasses had slipped lower on his nose again, and there was something almost unbearably nervous about the way he hovered there waiting for your attention.
Your stomach betrayed you instantly with a ridiculous little flip.
Which was honestly unfair.
A man should not be allowed to look like that while also being sweet.
“Hi,” you said, trying to sound significantly calmer than you felt.
“Hi.” Clark cleared his throat softly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I got your order.”
Your eyebrows lifted in surprise as he handed one of the cups toward you. “You remembered my order?”
Immediately, his entire expression changed.
Clark looked flustered so fast it was almost painful to witness.
A faint flush crawled up the back of his neck, his grip tightening slightly around the remaining coffee cup while his eyes darted away from yours for half a second before returning.
“Well,” he started carefully, “you order the same thing every morning, and I just happened to notice, and I was already there anyway, so I thought maybe…” He trailed off awkwardly before adding quieter, “You looked tired today.”
Something warm unfolded in your chest so suddenly it nearly hurt.
Because of course he noticed that too.
You smiled softly as you accepted the coffee from him, your fingers brushing briefly against his. The contact only lasted a second, but Clark went strangely still afterward, like he felt it too.
“Thank you,” you murmured. “That’s very sweet of you.”
The tension in his shoulders loosened almost immediately at your reaction. Just slightly, but enough that you noticed. Clark always looked like he carried invisible weight around with him, something heavy tucked behind his eyes even during lighter moments, but right now he looked quietly pleased in a way that made your chest ache.
Then his gaze dropped downward.
Your wrist.
Ah.
You had forgotten about the bruise.
It wrapped faintly around the inside of your arm, darker today than it had been this morning, peeking beneath the sleeve of your sweater where it had ridden upward while you worked. You followed Clark’s line of sight automatically and watched concern settle over his features almost instantly.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
The sincerity in his voice caught you completely off guard.
Clark wasn’t asking carelessly. He wasn’t fishing for gossip or trying to satisfy curiosity. There was genuine worry in his expression, in the slight furrow between his brows, in the way his body leaned toward you unconsciously like he was already prepared to help if you needed it.
And suddenly your heart felt painfully full.
You glanced down at the bruise before offering him a small reassuring smile. “Yeah,” you said gently. “Just clumsy.”
Clark looked profoundly unconvinced.
Honestly, insultingly unconvinced.
His eyes lingered on your wrist another second too long, jaw tightening slightly like he was debating whether or not to push further. You could practically see the thoughts moving behind his eyes, all that concern tangling together with whatever conclusions he’d already convinced himself of.
“You can tell me if something’s wrong,” he said quietly. “You know that, right?”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly hard.
Because he meant it.
God.
He really meant it.
Clark looked at you like helping people was as natural as breathing. Like caring was instinctive for him. And maybe it was. You had seen Superman pull strangers from burning buildings with that same expression on his face, gentle and determined all at once.
Now, Clark was looking at you exactly the same way.
The realization sent something dangerous curling low in your stomach.
For one reckless second, you wanted to reach up and touch his face.
Wanted to smooth out the worry between his brows with your thumb. Wanted to tell him he didn’t have to look at you like you were breakable. Wanted to know if his skin felt as warm as you imagined.
Dangerous. Extremely dangerous.
Especially because Clark already occupied far too much space in your thoughts.
You looked away first before the feeling could settle too deeply inside you.
“I’m okay, Clark,” you said softly.
The newsroom buzzed around you both, phones ringing somewhere in the distance while keyboards clicked endlessly across the bullpen, but for a second the noise felt strangely muted beneath the weight of his attention.
Clark studied your face carefully like he was trying to determine whether you were lying.
And maybe you were, just not in the way he thought.
Because no, nobody was hurting you.
But there were things exhausting you. Things wearing you down piece by piece until you barely recognized yourself some mornings. Bills piling up. Hospital visits. Sleepless nights. Fear. Responsibility. The constant pressure of trying to hold your life together with shaking hands.
You wondered briefly what would happen if you told him all of it.
Something in Clark’s expression softened further, his concern melting into quiet helplessness when you held his gaze again. Like he wanted to fix whatever burden you carried even without understanding it.
Finally, after a long moment, he nodded slowly.
“Okay,” he murmured.
But he still looked worried.
And somehow that affected you more than it should have.
Two nights later, Clark followed you.
The decision sat horribly in his chest from the moment he made it.
It felt invasive. Hypocritical. Wrong in ways he couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried justifying it to himself. Clark spent half his life protecting his own secrets, carefully balancing two identities and guarding every vulnerable part of himself from public scrutiny, and now he was trailing you through the city because he couldn’t let go of a theory.
But then he remembered the split across your knuckles that morning.
The bruise beneath your eye.
The way you smiled through it anyway like pain was something you’d learned to carry quietly.
And suddenly the guilt became easier to ignore.
That morning had nearly driven him insane.
You walked into the bullpen ten minutes late with your glasses slightly crooked and exhaustion written across every inch of your face. There was a bruise shadowed beneath your eye, dark enough that even makeup couldn’t fully hide it, and when you reached for your bag Clark saw the raw split across two of your knuckles.
His stomach dropped immediately.
“Come on,” Lois had said the second she noticed. Her voice softened with genuine concern as she leaned against your desk. “This is not nothing. What happened?”
You barely looked up from your laptop while setting your coffee down carefully. “I walked into a shelf.”
Jimmy stared at you. “With your face?”
You laughed quietly. “It was a very aggressive shelf.”
Nobody laughed with you.
Clark sat frozen at his desk watching you too closely, chest tight with something ugly and helpless. The bruise beneath your eye looked painful. Angry. Fresh.
And the worst part?
You looked tired. Not just physically, soul-deep tired.
The kind of exhaustion Clark recognized immediately because he saw it in the mirror some mornings after nights spent saving people until sunrise.
“Yeah, you can tell us,” Clark added carefully, trying to keep his voice light despite the tension in his chest. “I’m friends with Superman. I can make sure nobody’s hurting you.”
The second Superman left his mouth, you laughed.
Actually laughed.
Not mockingly, just this surprised little breath of amusement that made your shoulders shake slightly.
Clark blinked.
That was odd.
You rubbed at your forehead afterward and smiled tiredly. “I’m fine, seriously. Like I said, I’m just very clumsy.”
Clark did not buy that for one second.
Not remotely.
So yes.
He followed you after work.
Metropolis blurred gold and gray around him as the sun dipped lower between buildings. Clark kept enough distance that you wouldn’t notice him, perched silently atop rooftops while watching you move through crowded sidewalks below.
You looked painfully ordinary.
That somehow made him more suspicious.
You stopped at a pharmacy first. Then a bookstore. Then, finally headed toward your neighborhood, disappearing farther into the rougher parts of the city where streetlights flickered weakly, and buildings leaned tiredly into one another.
Clark’s confusion only grew.
No secret headquarters, no underground base, no suspicious contacts waiting in alleyways.
Just a rundown apartment building with cracked windows and buzzing hallway lights that barely worked.
You disappeared inside.
Clark perched silently on the rooftop across the street, cape tucked close as he frowned down at the building below.
Maybe this wasn’t where you operated from, maybe the real entrance was hidden somewhere else. Maybe you were intentionally throwing off anyone following you.
Twenty minutes later you emerged again wearing loose sweatpants and carrying two grocery bags.
Clark stared.
That was somehow even more confusing.
You adjusted the bags against your hip while locking the apartment door behind you, expression distracted like you were mentally planning tomorrow already.
Then suddenly you froze.
Clark heard it at the same moment you did.
Shouting.
It was sharp, aggressive, coming from the alley beside the building.
Clark straightened immediately.
Two men crowded near the dumpsters, one of them gripping the arm of a terrified teenage boy clutching a backpack against his chest. The kid looked maybe fifteen at most, eyes wide with panic while one of the men shoved him hard against the brick wall.
Clark moved instinctively.
Ready to intervene, ready to land between them before anyone got hurt.
But then you moved first, and Clark wanted to see what you would do.
Your purse hit the nearest thug square in the chest hard enough to stagger him backward.
“Hey!” you shouted, stepping directly between them and the teenager without hesitation. “Back off, don’t hurt him!”
Clark blinked.
The men laughed immediately.
One of them looked you up and down dismissively. “Mind your business, sweetheart.”
You shoved him backward before he could touch you.
The entire alley went still for half a second.
Then chaos erupted.
One of the men lunged toward you, and you punched him directly in the throat. Not with trained precision or with impossible strength.
Just pure instinct and adrenaline.
Clark watched in stunned silence as the fight spiraled. He waited for you to use your powers.
You got hit almost immediately.
Hard enough that your head snapped sideways against the brick wall.
Clark nearly intervened right then.
But you kept moving.
Kept fighting.
You grabbed a broken broom handle off the ground and swung it wildly, breathing hard while shoving yourself between the terrified kid and the men trying to grab him. One of them caught your wrist hard enough to bruise instantly, but you twisted free and slammed the broom into his ribs with enough force to send him stumbling backward cursing.
It wasn’t graceful, it wasn’t superhuman but God, it was brave.
Eventually the men fled swearing under their breath after attracting too much attention from nearby apartments. The teenager bolted immediately afterward, clutching his backpack while mumbling a terrified thank you over his shoulder.
And you?
You just stood there breathing hard.
One hand pressed tightly against your ribs while the other wiped blood from your split lip.
Clark landed behind you before he could stop himself.
The sound made your entire body tense instantly. Slowly, cautiously, you turned around.
Your eyes widened behind your glasses.
“Superman?”
For a second genuine confusion crossed your face before suspicion followed immediately after. “What are you doing here?”
Clark stared at the blood on your mouth.
The bruise already forming along your cheek.
“You’re hurt, ma'am.”
You let out a weak laugh despite yourself. “Little late for that observation, don’t you think?”
“You could’ve been killed.”
The words came out harsher than he intended. It was not Superman speaking; it was Clark. His theory was wrong, and he hated that he doubted you for a second. Instead of asking you, he followed you like a creep and watched you get hurt.
Fear still pulsed violently through him.
You looked startled by the intensity in his voice before your expression softened slightly.
“So could that kid.”
Clark stepped closer before he could stop himself. “Why would you do that?”
Your face changed then. Not dramatically, just enough that something inside Clark’s chest tightened painfully.
“Because no one else was going to,” you answered quietly.
God.
You looked exhausted. Bruised. Completely human standing there beneath the flickering alley light.
Not invincible, not secretly powerful.
Just good.
Clark suddenly felt unbelievably stupid.
“Oh,” you said after a second, voice softer now.
“What?”
A tiny smile appeared despite the split on your lip.
“ You watched the fight. Probably heard it before it happened, yet you didn't intervene. Because you thought I could handle it, didn't you? You followed me back to my neighborhood. Clark. You thought I was a superhero, didn't you?”
Clark’s entire face burned instantly.
“No,” he lied horribly.
“Clark.”
“I just…” He groaned quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, okay? I just didn’t believe someone could actually be that clumsy.”
That made you laugh again, a real laugh this time. Warm and breathless and bright enough to completely wreck him.
Then you winced sharply halfway through it, one hand clutching your side.
Clark crossed the distance between you immediately.
“Easy, easy. I got you.”
His hands settled instinctively against your waist to steady you.
The second he touched you, both froze.
Clark became painfully aware of everything all at once.
Your breath caught softly as Clark’s hands settled against your waist. The warmth of his body this close to yours made your head spin a little, especially when your eyes slowly lifted toward his and found him already staring. Your heartbeat fluttered fast beneath his hearing, but not from fear.
His own pulse thundered in response. For a long second, neither of you moved, caught in this strange quiet tension that suddenly felt too intimate for the dark alley surrounding you.
And then it hit him.
You called him Clark. Not Superman. Clark.
Like you already knew. Like you saw through every careful layer, every disguise, every attempt to separate the two identities, and still looked at him like he was just himself.
Clark’s expression shifted instantly, something stunned and uncertain flickering across his face.
“Did you just call me Clark?” he asked softly.
Then softly, almost teasingly, you murmured, “You know, for someone hiding the biggest secret in the world, you’re surprisingly bad at recognizing them in other people.”
Clark froze completely.
Every sound around him vanished. The city disappeared, his hands tightened slightly against your waist before he caught himself.
“You…”
Your gaze met his steadily, affectionate in a way that nearly knocked the air from his lungs.
“I know, Clark.”
For one horrifying second he forgot how to breathe.
Then your hand lifted carefully, fingers brushing lightly against his arm like you were grounding him before he could panic.
“I figured it out almost immediately.”
Clark stared at you in complete disbelief. “You knew?”
“You’re not exactly subtle.”
“What? I am subtle.”
You gave him a look, and Clark immediately deflated a little. “Okay,” he admitted, “maybe not all the time.”
Your smile softened at that. “You wanted privacy. It wasn’t my place to say anything.”
Something tightened painfully in Clark’s chest. Most people reacted to Superman with awe or fear, but you were looking at him like he was just Clark, and somehow that affected him more than he could explain.
“You’re not scared of me?” he asked quietly before he could stop himself.
Your expression softened almost heartbreakingly. “Clark, I watched you hold a collapsing bridge together while comforting strangers so they wouldn’t panic.” His breath caught as you smiled faintly. “I think you’re the safest person I’ve ever met.”
The intensity in his chest became almost unbearable. Before he could overthink it, Clark reached up carefully, his thumb brushing beneath the bruise on your cheekbone with impossible gentleness.
“So all this time,” you murmured, amused now, “you thought I was fighting crime?”
A sheepish smile finally pulled at his mouth. “Cut me some slack, will you? You disappear constantly. What else was I supposed to think?”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “I have a brother with a disability. He needs constant care, so he stays in a hospital where they can help him properly.” Your voice softened. “I don’t really have other family left, so I try to spend as much time with him as I can. I don’t want him feeling alone.”
Clark stood completely still.
Every stupid theory he’d built over the past weeks collapsed instantly into embarrassment.
You kept talking quietly.
“Sometimes I come in late because we lose track of time playing Uno together,” you admitted quietly. “I think he lets me win now because his hands shake too much to hold the cards properly, but he still smiles like he used to, so I pretend not to notice.”
A faint smile crossed your face before fading slightly. “And sometimes I read stories to the kids in the pediatric wing during treatments because they get scared. It helps keep them calm, and the extra money helps me cover bills.” You looked away for a second. “I think I just… know what it feels like to be stuck in a hospital room wishing somebody would stay.”
Your laugh came softer after that, almost fragile. “Children are brutal critics, though. Apparently my dragon voices all sound the same.”
Clark honestly did not know what to say anymore.
All this time, he had built this entire version of you in his head. A masked vigilante slipping out of the Daily Planet during lunch breaks to save people somewhere across the city. Someone carrying bruises like battle scars, hiding secrets behind nervous smiles and thick framed glasses because they understood the impossible balancing act he lived every day.
Meanwhile, you were just… taking care of people.
Your brother. Sick children. Strangers in dark alleys.
You carried all of it alone without powers, without recognition, without anyone stepping in to help carry the weight with you, and somehow that affected Clark far more than the idea of you being a superhero ever had. Because there was nothing separating you from the pain of it. No invulnerability. No super strength. No ability to fly away from exhaustion or grief or fear.
Just you.
Still choosing kindness anyway.
Clark looked at you standing there beneath the flickering alley light with a split lip and bruised ribs after throwing yourself into danger for a stranger, and something deep inside his chest ached painfully.
“What about the bruises?” he asked softly after a long moment, almost like he was still trying to piece you together properly now that he finally understood.
You looked nearly offended. “Clark, I told you. I’m clumsy.”
“You had one shaped like fingerprints.”
“I sleep weird.”
Clark blinked at you slowly. “...how?”
“I genuinely don’t know.”
The seriousness in your voice nearly made him laugh again.
“And the blood Jimmy saw on your sleeve?”
This time you actually looked embarrassed, your hand lifting to rub the back of your neck awkwardly. “That would be the cherry slushie my brother accidentally launched directly at me.”
Clark stared at you for half a second before closing his eyes briefly.
“Oh my God.”
The sound of your laughter echoed softly through the alley then, bright and warm despite everything, and Clark felt something inside him loosen unexpectedly at hearing it. You looked exhausted, bruised, and emotionally wrung out, but you were still laughing.
“So this whole time,” you said between laughs, “Superman has been secretly investigating me because I walk into furniture too often?”
“When you say it out loud, it sounds bad.”
“It sounds insane.”
Clark finally laughed too then, helpless and warm and completely unable to stop himself. The sound bounced between the alley walls as he shook his head, looking down at the ground for a second in disbelief before meeting your eyes again.
And suddenly neither of you could stop smiling.
The tension that had followed both of you for weeks dissolved so naturally it almost felt unreal. The alley somehow seemed smaller now, quieter somehow despite the city noise surrounding it. Intimate in a way Clark wasn’t prepared for.
His hand was still resting gently against your face.
Your fingers still curled softly around his wrist.
Clark looked at you for a long moment before speaking softly. “You know what?”
“What?”
A small smile pulled at his mouth then, warm and almost disbelieving at the same time. “I was right.”
You blinked at him. “About what?”
“You are a superhero.”
The teasing smile on your face faded slightly into something softer as Clark stepped a little closer, his thumb brushing carefully against your cheek again despite the bruise there. The touch was impossibly gentle, and somehow that made the words hit even harder.
“You take care of your brother by yourself. You carry work and bills and hospital visits and all this weight every day, and somehow you still show up smiling like none of it hurts.” His voice lowered quietly, full of something that made your chest ache. “You throw yourself into danger for strangers even though you’re scared and human and breakable. I think that’s a lot braver than flying.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
Nobody had ever looked at your life and called it brave before. People called you responsible. Stubborn. Overworked. Occasionally a disaster. Nurses at the hospital constantly told you to sleep more, and your brother liked to joke that you were secretly a seventy year old woman trapped inside a twenty something year old body. But brave?
Never brave.
Yet Clark stood in front of you looking at you with the same certainty he probably used while telling terrified people everything was going to be alright during disasters. Like he truly meant every word.
“That’s not really the same thing,” you said softly after a moment, trying to laugh it off despite the warmth spreading painfully through your chest. “You literally stop meteors.”
Clark shook his head immediately. “That’s easy.”
You stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“For me,” he clarified quickly, his expression turning thoughtful, almost frustrated by his inability to explain himself properly. “I was born like this. Flying, strength, hearing buildings collapse from miles away, none of it feels difficult because it’s just…” He hesitated briefly. “Part of me.”
Your expression softened immediately.
“But you,” Clark continued more quietly, “you’re human.”
Something about the way he said it made your pulse flutter.
Not lesser. Never lesser.
Clark said human like it meant something sacred.
“You get scared anyway and still choose to help people,” he murmured. “You’re exhausted all the time, carrying responsibilities that would crush most people, and you still stop for strangers.” His gaze flickered briefly toward the alley where the teenager had disappeared earlier. “You don’t have powers protecting you.”
You looked down for a second, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity in his voice. “I was a little terrified back there,” you admitted quietly. “I genuinely thought that guy was going to break my nose.”
Clark’s jaw tightened instantly at that. “Don’t worry,” he said, voice low and certain. “He won’t touch you again.”
The protectiveness in his tone sent warmth straight through you, immediate and dangerous. God, you really needed him to stop doing that. Stop sounding so soft and protective while looking at you like you mattered more than anything else around him.
You tried very hard not to think about the fact that one of his hands were still resting carefully against your waist.
“Honestly,” you admitted with a quiet breath of laughter, “I mostly acted before thinking.”
Clark huffed softly. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“It’s a problem.”
“It’s also why that kid got home safe tonight.”
The sincerity in his voice nearly ruined you.
Your eyes lifted back toward him slowly, and suddenly he felt very close again. Close enough that you could see every tiny detail in his face beneath the dim alley light, the soft curl of dark hair near his forehead, the faint shadow along his jaw after a long day, the tiny crease between his brows that only appeared when he worried.
And God, Clark Kent worried about you constantly.
The realization settled warmly into your chest.
Clark looked at you like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with how much he liked you, and maybe that should have scared you more than it did. Instead, it made your entire body feel strangely light.
“You’re laughing,” he said quietly after a moment, sounding almost surprised by it.
You smiled faintly. “So?”
“You don’t do it enough.”
The softness in his voice stole the breath straight from your lungs.
Somewhere along the way your life had become schedules and hospital rooms and bills and exhaustion, and people stopped looking closely enough to notice when you were genuinely happy versus when you were only pretending to be okay.
But Clark noticed.
Of course he did.
He noticed everything about you.
“You notice a lot for someone who claims he wasn’t investigating me,” you murmured.
Clark actually looked embarrassed by that. “I can explain it.”
“You followed me across the city.”
“…in hindsight, that sounds concerning.”
You laughed softly. “In hindsight?”
“I really thought you were secretly fighting crime,” he admitted, the warmth in his voice returning.
“You thought I was Batman, huh?”
A helpless laugh escaped him then, low and unfairly attractive enough to make your stomach twist. The teasing lingered between you for another second before fading naturally into something quieter, softer, the space between you suddenly feeling charged again.
Clark didn’t move.
Neither did you.
His eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again, and your heartbeat stuttered immediately at the look on his face. Slowly, carefully, like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away, Clark stepped closer.
“You know what the worst part is?” he asked softly.
Your voice came out quieter than intended. “What?”
A faint smile touched his mouth, but there was real vulnerability underneath it now, the kind that made your chest ache. “I think I started liking you before the conspiracy theories.”
A startled laugh escaped you immediately.
“I tried not to,” Clark admitted quietly. “I thought maybe it would make things complicated.”
“You mean because you thought I was secretly fighting crime at night?”
“That was part of it.”
“And the other part?”
Clark looked at you for a long moment before answering, his expression softening into something painfully honest. “Because when I care about people,” he said quietly, “they get hurt.”
Your heart cracked a little at that.
You could hear it then beneath all the teasing and softness. The fear. The loneliness he carried around hidden beneath careful smiles and gentle hands. Clark said it so simply, but it sounded like something he had convinced himself of a very long time ago.
Before you could overthink it, your hand lifted carefully to his face.
Clark went completely still beneath your touch.
“You don’t get to decide other people’s choices for them,” you whispered.
His eyes searched yours carefully.
“I know what you are,” you continued softly, your thumb brushing lightly against his cheek. “And I still…”
The words caught in your throat suddenly.
Still what?
Still wanted him?
Still trusted him?
Still felt your entire chest tighten every time he looked at you?
Clark’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips before lifting back to your eyes again, his voice turning almost unbearably soft. “Still what?”
Your fingers curled slightly against his cheek. “Still think you’re worth knowing.”
Something in Clark’s expression changed after that.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
Like he had spent so long expecting fear or rejection that simple acceptance hit him harder than anything else could have.
Then, slowly, almost cautiously, his hand slid upward from your waist to rest against your jaw. Warm. Gentle. Careful enough that your breath caught immediately.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly.
And God.
Nobody had ever sounded like that asking before.
Like it mattered.
Like you mattered.
You nodded once, barely managing the movement before Clark kissed you carefully at first, tentative like he was afraid pushing too hard might shatter the moment completely. Then your hand slid into his hair and something in him gave way.
The kiss deepened instantly, warm and aching and full of weeks worth of tension neither of you had known what to do with. Clark kissed like he cared too much already, one hand cradling your face while the other tightened carefully at your waist like grounding himself against you.
And maybe the craziest part was that for the first time in a very long while, you didn’t feel exhausted anymore.
You just felt safe.
Safe.
That was the only word your brain could hold onto as Clark kissed you beneath the flickering alley light, one hand cradling your face like something precious while the rest of the world carried on around you unnoticed. You had blood on your lip, bruises already forming beneath your skin, your ribs aching every time you breathed too deeply, and somehow none of it mattered when he touched you like that.
For a few dangerous seconds, you forgot about everything else completely.
The hospital bills waiting on your kitchen counter disappeared. The exhaustion clawing constantly at your bones vanished. The pressure sitting heavy on your chest every waking moment, the schedules and responsibility and fear, all of it faded beneath the warmth of Clark’s mouth against yours.
Maybe that was what made the kiss feel so overwhelming.
Not just because it was Clark.
But because nobody had held you this gently in a very long time.
Your fingers tightened slightly in his hair without thinking, and the soft sound that escaped him nearly ruined you completely. Clark kissed you slower after that, deeper, his thumb brushing carefully along your jaw like he was still trying to convince himself this was real. There was something almost unbearably restrained about him, like he wanted far more than he was allowing himself to take.
Then suddenly he pulled back.
Not far.
Just enough for both of you to breathe.
His forehead rested lightly against yours while you stood there dazed beneath the dim alley light, your glasses crooked from his hands in your hair and your lipstick probably smeared all over his mouth by now. Clark blinked at you once, still looking slightly stunned, and for one quiet second neither of you said anything.
Then you both started laughing.
Soft at first.
Then harder.
Not because anything was particularly funny, but because the entire situation felt completely absurd now that the tension finally snapped. Clark Kent had followed you across Metropolis because he genuinely believed you were secretly a vigilante, accidentally discovered you already knew he was Superman, watched you nearly lose a fight with a broom handle, then kissed you in the middle of an alleyway like this was somehow a normal Tuesday night.
Clark rubbed a hand over his face with a breathless laugh. “Okay,” he murmured. “Wow.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Wow?”
“Sorry,” he admitted, still laughing softly. “I had a much better sentence in my head five seconds ago.”
“I’m sure it was very impressive.”
“It really was.”
You laughed again, but the movement pulled sharply at your ribs this time. The wince escaped before you could hide it, and Clark’s entire expression changed immediately.
The softness melted into concern so quickly it almost startled you.
His eyes scanned over your face again, lingering on the split in your lip, the bruise darkening beneath your cheekbone, the way your arm instinctively wrapped tighter around your side now that the adrenaline was fading.
“You’re hurt,” he said quietly.
You waved him off automatically. “I’m fine.”
Clark gave you a look so deeply unconvinced it almost made you laugh again. His hands slid carefully from your waist to your arms instead, gentler now, almost hesitant like he was afraid of hurting you further.
“We should go to the hospital.”
The immediate groan that left you made him blink.
“Why do I feel like that’s the exact opposite reaction people usually have to hearing that?”
“Because hospitals hate me.”
“I seriously doubt hospitals hate you.”
“You’ve never seen me filling out paperwork.”
Normally that would have made him smile, but Clark’s expression stayed stubbornly concerned. His eyes never left your face.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” you argued. “They’re just going to tell me I bruised a rib and charge me eight hundred dollars for breathing near a doctor.”
“You could have a concussion.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I feel fine.”
Clark stared at you in disbelief. “You fought two grown men with a broom.”
“One and a half grown men,” you corrected immediately. “One of them was kinda skinny.”
“You’re joking right now?”
“I cope through humor.”
“That explains a lot actually.”
A faint smile pulled at your mouth, but Clark’s concern only deepened as he watched the exhaustion settle back into your body now that everything was over. Your shoulders had started slumping slightly, your breathing slower now, careful. You leaned subtly against the brick wall behind you for support without even realizing it.
Clark noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
Without thinking, he lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles lightly beneath your eye again, so gentle it made your chest ache.
“So stubborn,” he murmured.
“You literally fly into burning buildings,” you pointed out softly. “I don’t think you get to call other people stubborn.”
“That’s different.”
“That’s exactly what you said about the glasses thing.”
Clark sighed dramatically. “I hate when you use my own arguments against me.”
“You’re going to have a terrible time dating a journalist.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Both of you froze.
Clark’s expression changed slowly, beautifully, the realization settling across his face while warmth spread through your entire body in immediate humiliation.
“Dating?” he repeated carefully.
Heat crawled instantly into your face. “I mean hypothetically.”
“Hm.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Don’t make that sound.”
“What sound?”
“That smug sound.”
Clark laughed softly then, low and warm enough to make your stomach flip all over again. But the amusement faded quickly back into concern as his eyes searched your face.
“Seriously, though,” he said more quietly. “Let me take you to get checked out.”
The sincerity in his voice made it impossible to joke your way around it completely.
Because Clark cared in this overwhelming wholehearted way that made refusal feel almost cruel.
You looked away with a sigh. “I really am okay.”
Clark stayed quiet.
Reluctantly, you glanced back at him. “Probably.”
“Probably.”
“It’s a very optimistic probably.”
“Y/N.”
The way he said your name should genuinely be illegal.
Soft. Patient. Concerned enough that guilt twisted faintly in your chest.
You exhaled slowly. “Fine. Maybe urgent care tomorrow if I still feel awful.”
Clark frowned immediately. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
“Tonight.”
“Clark.”
“What if you cracked something?”
“Then I’ll simply suffer dramatically.”
“That’s not a real plan.”
“It’s been my plan for years.”
He stared at you for another long moment before something softer crossed his face suddenly, realization settling quietly into his expression.
“You really don’t take care of yourself enough, do you?”
The disappointment in his voice hit harder than you expected because he wasn’t judging you.
He just sounded sad about it.
Your gaze dropped briefly toward the ground. “There’s not always time.”
Clark’s expression softened instantly, and God, you hated how quickly he understood things you never actually said out loud.
He stepped closer again, one hand settling carefully against your cheek despite the bruise there, his touch impossibly gentle.
“There should be,” he said quietly.
The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest.
For a moment neither of you moved. The city hummed faintly around the alley, distant sirens echoing somewhere far away while Clark looked at you with that same impossible tenderness that made it hard to breathe properly.
Then he sighed softly through his nose like he was losing an argument internally.
“At least let me walk you upstairs.”
You blinked at him. “You want to walk me home?”
Clark looked genuinely baffled by the question. “I followed you across the city and watched you fight people with a broom,” he said. “At this point it feels irresponsible not to.”
thinking about jason coming back from the gym all sweaty wearing a tank top and reader going absolutely feral because LOOK AT THOSE TREE TRUNKS HE CALLS ARMS
what about... watching him work out + sweaty arms 👀 jason x afab!reader (no pronouns). mildly nsfw but no smut. you're (i'm) lustful for this man! estab relationship. all fics rb'd to @sanguinelibrary
****
The gym isn't too crowded for a Friday. You don't usually meet Jason here, but you got off work early and you wanted to surprise him. You ordered pizza to pick up on the way home as a treat. Jason's been stressed over a case, and he does his best to not let it interfere with his life with you, but you're sympathetic all the same. Hopefully a night in with pizza will cheer him up.
It now occurs to you that you've never actually seen Jason exercise. You know he does. Even if you didn't know he's Red Hood, you'd assume he must do some kind of strength training just based on his physicality. A very nice physicality.
But you don't see Jason in action. He's not Red Hood or a vigilante or anything else besides himself around you. He's just Jason, your sweet boyfriend, who cooks for you and brings home trinkets he thinks you'll like. He's wildly funny, clever, a movie buff. He leaves his reading glasses everywhere, and he much prefers to sleep facing you, your limbs entangled.
So sue you if you forget, sometimes, just how deadly competent your boyfriend is. And the maintenance that's required to upkeep such skill.
He's got headphones in, and you hold off on sending him a text. Jason always seems to sense when you're around, finding you before you find him. So you wait, if only to boast your own stealth later.
What Jason's doing, however, makes your face immediately hot. You've never seen him lift weights, and maybe that's for the best because it all looks obscene to you. Jason's exercising his legs, thrusting his hips up to lift the weights. You can't see how much weight it is, but it looks like a lot. His thighs plump up with each rep, the muscle gaining shape, then returning to rest.
If you were closer, you'd get to hear the sounds Jason makes: quiet grunts, sighs, hums. You know he isn't loud—ever, even when you encourage him to be. The gym would be no exception because Jason would never want to be rude or make people uncomfortable.
But oh, you're teetering into dangerous territory now, watching Jason lift, because you wish you could hear his sounds and feel his breath. You'd like to press down on his stomach and hear him whine, the muscles tender from exertion.
"Hi, sorry, are you needing help?" the woman at the front desk asks. She snaps you out of your trance of grossly ogling your boyfriend. Jesus, you must look like a creep.
"Oh! No, sorry, thanks. I'm waiting for my boyfriend. Over there." You weakly point at Jason.
"Oh, okay," she says brightly, letting you be. Maybe you don't look as creepy as you feel. That's good.
Jason finishes his reps. When he gets up from the machine, his loose tank top rides up, showing you his sweaty backside. Oh Lord. You turn around and take out your phone, sending a quick text.
Hi baby! I'm here at the gym :) take ur time <3
Jason pauses and looks at his phone. It's not long before he scans the gym and his eyes land on you. He lights up, waving. You wave back, your throat dry. He types on his phone. The notification pops up.
Just got one more exercise, then I'll be out okay? I love you
You give him a thumbs up. Jason returns it and wipes down the machine. Then he moves to the dumbbells. This shouldn't be so bad, right? Jason's arms are delicious, but—oh, he's squatting. With the weights. Mother of Pearl.
It's a good thing Jason's facing the side, so he can't see how you're laser-focused on his ass. You have a rounded appreciation for Jason's body, but maybe you've been neglecting his glutes. Wow.
Reel it in! Christ. What's up with you? It's not like you and Jason are going through a dry spell. Jason always pleases you, as sweet as pie. Right now, you'd like to chew on him.
He finishes up and you go to sit by the door, so it doesn't look like you've been lurking. Jason comes out a minute later, face shiny with sweat. He has a hoodie on, unfortunately hiding his body, but that's okay. You're patient.
"Hey, sweetheart," he says, cheeks flushed. "'M all sweaty, so if y'don't wanna hug, I totally g—"
You cut him off with a hug, and he nearly lifts you off the ground, your toes dragging. His pulse pounds against your hand. It's clear that the adrenaline from the workout makes Jason eager and excitable. He's usually not so open with affection in public, but you're not complaining.
Jason is indeed sweaty, but it's a clean sweat mixed with his deodorant. His hair is spiky with moisture. He smells so much like a boy, like a really cute, jacked boy who likes you and can toss you onto a bed if you wanted him to. And do you ever.
You'd grope his ass if you didn't think it would get both of you banned for life. So you keep it PG, pretending like you haven't been wet for the last fifteen minutes.
"Hi, Jay," you say, your soft voice masking how dizzy with lust you are. Who needs pizza? You can eat Jason for dinner.
"Hey, honey," he says, brushing your cheek with his knuckle. God. Jason's tender and you want to jump his bones. "This is such a surprise. Thought you were working late."
"It ended early, so I came by. Wanted to see you. And I ordered pizza for us to pick up."
Jason melts even more, if that’s possible, leaning in to kiss you. "So nice of ya. Didn't have to."
"Wanted to," you say, eyeing his massive shoulder. Don't bite! "Should we go?"
The pizzeria is a few blocks down, and Jason's apartment is a few blocks from there, so you two take your time walking. Jason holds your hand. He's so warm from the gym. His skin sears yours.
"I actually saw ya before you texted," he says. "Couldn't say hi while I was doing my reps though."
"Oh," you say, swallowing. "That's fine. Those reps looked, um, intense."
Jason shrugs. "They get a little easier the more you do 'em, but yeah."
"You didn't seem to struggle." Your voice is totally giving away how much you liked it. It's no surprise how Jason looks at you now.
"I guess 'm just practiced," he says slowly. You know he's scrutinizing you, watching for your tells. "Did you... like watching me?"
"I wasn't watching you."
Jason laughs, low and sure. "Baby, I saw you. You were glued to that spot. Thought you were just bein' sweet and attentive until..."
"Until?" you ask, voice pitched up. You stop walking. He stops with you.
He grins. "'Til now." He leans in, hands going to your waist, mouth near your ear. "How much did y'like it?" He's begging. Jason loves when you tell him how much you want him, how good he is to you. It gets him hotter faster than anything else.
You carefully fit your knee between Jason's legs and press. He whines, a broken sound, not hushed enough for being in public. You have to be mindful, even if the sidewalk is empty. But the sounds Jason makes are tempting. You quite like how eager he is after the gym.
"Be good, and I'll show you when we get home," you say.
Jason draws back and looks at you, half-lidded. He nods. "Y-yeah. Okay."
Hm. Maybe you've cracked the code to make Jason get loud.
Summary: One year after you crashed your Christmas work party with the Red Hood, you seem to be caught up with yet another evil CEO: Tim Drake. You and Hood are on the case. But why does it feel like you're missing something?
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader
Word count: 11.6k
Warnings/tags: christmas/holiday special! anxious reader (but she's in therapy! huzzah!), sweet jason who acts like a crow with a crush, more silly vigilante antics, a healthy suspicion of tim drake, romance, fluff, galas.
happy new year!! first fic of 2026 :)
the divider
“Do you know how to make salt dough?”
You look up from your computer. Jessie is in front of your desk, somehow in a chair even though you have no spares. She has Pinterest pulled up on her phone.
“Huh?” is all you can say.
She’s scrolling through what looks like Christmas crafts. “My nephew Ben is three and I want to do crafts with him but I have to make sure they’re toddler-safe. He puts everything in his mouth.”
“Why don’t you make cookies?” You type some code and test it. Fail. You curse and delete the section, then retype.
“That’s what I said! But apparently her MIL is a total bitch.” She says MIL like ‘mill.’ “She’s making gingerbread with him, so if I also make cookies with Ben, she will somehow know and give my sister shit for it. How crazy is that?”
You nod, eyes glued to the screen. “Pretty crazy.”
Jessie sighs. “I told her to marry an orphan. In-laws are almost never worth it. Now look where we are.”
Jessie Bromlin is a marketing analyst who works on your floor. She’s the second friend you made at Wayne Enterprises since you started working here almost a year ago. She’s pleasant, chatty, and has been here long enough to show you the ropes.
She also is almost never at her desk. You have no idea how she gets her own work done.
Fail! says your computer. You frown. “That should’ve worked.”
“What should’ve?” Jessie asks.
“Just some code. I don’t know why it’s not working.”
“You should take a break. Let’s go to Penny’s. They’re doing special roast sandwiches for Christmas. Ooh! Are you going to the gala in two weeks?”
“There’s a gala?”
“Of course! It’s Bruce Wayne. All the WE employees get in free. It’s a lot of fun. Good food and music. And alcohol.”
You grimace. “I don’t really do Christmas work parties.”
“No, trust me, this one rocks. You’ll have fun. Oh my God! We need a Santa. I have to go find one. You wouldn’t happen to know a Santa, would you?”
You smile, glancing up from your screen for a second to look at Jessie. “No, sorry.”
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“Nothing. I’ll catch up with you at Penny’s.”
“‘Kay. Peace.”
You try the code again. This time, there’s an error message you’ve never seen before and the monitor flickers. Weird. You google the error message, but there’s no results. You send it to the IT group chat.
You: hey, anyone know what this means?
[img_5.png]
Sasha: doesn’t look familiar
Toby: did you google?
Mikey: idk. run it again with a different input and see if you get the same msg
You ignore Toby, because Toby never has anything helpful to contribute, only the glaring obvious. You’re new to back-end work; at Emerson Corp, you mostly did front-end design stuff concerning the user interface. But this position at WE has given you a chance to practice more back-end work, and you work extra long and hard on projects as a result, trying to prove yourself. You do Mikey’s suggestion and run the test again with a different input. This time, the program automatically quits, the window closing. You smack your desk in frustration.
Maybe Jessie’s right. You need a break. So you turn off your screen and grab your wallet and coat, heading to the elevator. You pull out your phone.
Unknown Number
You: hi. can you meet tonight? after work
?: What’s up?
You hesitate. This is probably just your paranoia from last year’s situation with Emerson. Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You scroll; the last message you sent is from five months ago, when there was a news report about a fire by the docks, caused by Black Mask.
[August 24th, 2025]
You: oh my god I just saw the news are you okay??
[August 25th, 2025]
?: Hey. I’m okay.
You start to type I think there’s something weird happening with the work computers when you see shoes in your peripheral vision. You freeze and barely avoid colliding with a security guard. He turns around and smiles. You smile back.
“Hi, Peter,” you say, pocketing your phone.
“Hey,” he says. “Y’okay? Did I swipe ya?”
You shake your head. “All good. I haven’t seen you in so long!”
Peter adjusts his shades, grimacing. You’ve never seen him without his nondescript, red baseball cap or his shades. They’re black. You can’t even see if his eyes are light or dark.
“Yeah, been on the late night shift more often than not,” he says. “How’s it goin’?”
Peter is tall, and big. You’ve only seen him a few times with his sleeves rolled up, but you can tell he’s muscular. Which makes sense, considering he’s a security guard, but you’ve never seen one who looks like they bench press cars on their lunch break. Peter was your first friend—first anything, really—at Wayne Enterprises, when you started in January. He’d carried your box of stuff to your new desk and had shown you where the restrooms and vending machines were, all without you asking. It’s like he’d sensed your anxiety. When he first approached you, you feared the worst, wondering if maybe you’d brought in a gun without knowing. But he’d merely introduced himself, and asked if he could help you get to the floor you needed to go.
Peter’s not always around, because the security assignment changes, according to him. But somehow you bump into each other when he’s on your floor.
“It’s okay.” You sound mopey to your ears. You know Peter will pick up on it.
“Rough day?”
You shrug. “Just some code I was fiddling with. It’s been giving me a hard time. Almost like it’s—”
You stop, catching yourself. You like Peter, but this isn’t a conversation for him. You don’t trust him like that.
“Like…?” he prompts.
“Nothing. Anyway, do you know about some Christmas gala? Jessie was telling me about it, but I haven’t heard anything about it.”
Peter leans against the wall, sending a waft of his cologne in your direction. You can’t place where you’ve smelled it before, but it’s nice. Spicy and woody. He smells like a man, and if you weren’t such a nailbiter, you’d probably shoot your shot. As it is, you don’t want the reason you leave this job to be because you had a falling out with a security guard.
“Sure. Pretty spectacular, if you’re into that. The big boss and his kids attend. There’s food, drink, dancing. He doesn’t spare any expense.” Peter snorts. “Not when it comes to work, anyway.”
Your eyes widen. Peter has, for the most part, never had a bad thing to say about the company, or Bruce Wayne, who you’ve only seen once at work.
“Is that derision I hear?” you ask.
Peter smiles a little. “Maybe. I just hate parties. Bruce makes such a to-do out of ‘em.”
You nod. “I hear you. Jessie said it would be fun, but I’m not so sure. I think I’d rather stay home. Too much excitement for me.”
“Well, no one would fault y’for it, if you did. This isn’t that kinda company.”
You blink, surprised. “Oh. Good to know.”
He looks at his watch. “You should eat something. ‘S way past lunchtime.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re worse than Jessie. I’m going, alright? She said there’s Christmas special roast sandwiches at Penny’s. Want me to bring you one?”
He smiles. “Nah, that’s okay. I ate. Thanks, though.”
“We should eat lunch together sometime,” you say, pulling out your phone and opening your messages. You start to type again. I think someone is hacking the… but you delete it. You have no idea if any hacking is going on. You can hear his voice in your head. Gotta ease those nerves.
You look up, realizing how rude you’re being. “Sorry. Did you say something?”
“I said sure,” Peter says. “Y’seem glued to your phone today. Got a hot date?”
You make a face. “Not at all. Sorry. Work is distracting me. I’ll catch up with you later?”
He nods. “Count on it.”
You continue your trek to Penny’s, stepping onto the elevator. Employees get a monthly lunch allowance, which can be used at the company cafeteria or at neighboring restaurants. You’ve never worked for a company that cares so much for its workers. Wayne Enterprises provides full healthcare coverage, including mental health services that you don’t have to pay a dime for. Emerson barely provided healthcare and dental. He couldn’t have cared less about his employees.
Why he’s in jail, you think, putting your coat on and bracing yourself against the cold air as you sweep through the revolving doors and onto the pavement. Gray slushy snow is clustered around the curb, and you sidestep it neatly as you cross the street to Penny’s, a local cafe. You open the door, the bell overhead ringing. Penny’s has been around for decades, according to the locals. It mostly attracts nearby workers at lunchtime, and plenty of WE employees can be found here throughout the day. You wait on line, scanning the cafe for Jessie. She’s sitting with some people from her department. You still aren’t keen on sitting with people you don’t know at work. It’s part of every job, but at Emerson Corp, you would alternate between eating at your desk or on a bench across the street when it was warm.
The little sign that says Christmas Sandwich Special has an empty row behind it. The woman in front of you asks about the sandwiches.
“Sorry, no more today,” the chef says. “We’ll have more tomorrow. We didn’t know there’d be such a high demand.”
So you order a tuna fish sandwich instead and a cinnamon roll. Sweet treats are an important part of your work day. You wonder if Peter likes cinnamon rolls. You purchase another, on impulse, to bring him.
“Hey!” Jessie waves at you, calling your name. “Come sit with us!”
Well. Here you go.
You sit next to Jessie, who scoots over to make room for you. She goes around the table and introduces you to the five other people. Three work in Marketing, one works in Finance, and one works in PR for the company, Marisol. You say hi and keep your coat on due to how often the door opens and heat rushes out.
“Marisol was just telling us about the conference she covered with Tim Drake last week,” Jessie says.
You raise your eyebrows. “Wow. Tim Drake. How’s he?”
“Not bad, actually,” Marisol says. “And I’ve worked with a lot of CEOs. You’d think he’d be unbearable because he grew up with Jack Drake and then immediately was invited to the Wayne fortune, but he’s actually decent. He never misses a Xanax dose, which helps.”
Dennis, one of the Marketing people, nods soberly. “Sometimes my anti-depressants are the only thing that gets me through the day.”
“Marisol soft-launched Tim and his boyfriend last year,” Jessie says proudly. “Best press I’ve ever seen.”
“We were worried about that one,” Marisol admits. “Not everyone’s as forward thinking, even in Gotham. But, um…” She leans in, and gestures for you all to do the same. “Okay, you obviously can’t tell anyone. It’ll probably come out soon, but I don’t want it to come from here. I… I think Tim might be cheating.”
Jessie, a great lover of theatrics, gasps. “No!”
“I’m not surprised,” says Bianca, the finance worker. “He’s lived with Bruce Wayne since he was fifteen. What do you suppose a boy learns being around him all the time? No morals, that’s for sure. I’m sure all of his kids are screwed up in some way or another.”
Marisol rolls her eyes. “Bruce Wayne would have to be in a relationship longer than a day to get a chance to cheat.”
“I still think all his flings are a cover for his long-term relationship with Batman,” says Dennis.
“No one wants to hear your crackpot theories, Denny,” Bianca says. “Anyone with eyes can see that Batman’s with Catwoman.”
“My throuple theory! Batman, the cold, stern lover. Bruce, the—”
Bianca holds up a hand. “Please, spare me.”
“Anyway,” Marisol says, and delicately sips her ginger ale. “Back to my gossip. Tim Drake disappeared from his hotel like five times. He wouldn’t tell anyone where he went. In my experience, that’s classic affair behavior. And he’s been doing this for about three months, you know, dipping from meetings, working later, having long lunches and not putting them on the company credit card so no one can see what restaurant he was at. It’s definitely suspicious.”
“I hope he’s not cheating,” Jessie says. “They’re such a cute couple. And when they settle down and have kids? Adorable! Although, I don’t agree with nepotism. I support class consciousness.”
“If you caught him, are you sworn to secrecy?” you ask.
Marisol shrugs. “Probably. I mean, he wouldn’t want an Instagram post about it, that’s for sure. My own morals aside, this is the job, you know? It sucks but it is what it is.”
You shiver, biting your sandwich. You wouldn’t want to be on either side of that. Secrets stress you out. Doubly so if you’re keeping them for someone else.
A glob of tuna suddenly plops onto your coat collar. Another lands on a button. A third on a pocket.
“Shit,” you say, putting the sandwich down with too much force. Jessie instantly passes you a wad of napkins, and you try to dab the mess up as best as you can. But you can already tell your coat will smell like tuna, onions, and pickles for the rest of the day.
“Poorly constructed sandwich if you ask me,” Marisol says.
“Well, at least tomorrow’s laundry day.” You shrug off your coat. You abandon your sandwich for the cinnamon roll. Jessie pats your shoulder consolingly.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m sure no one on the train will notice the smell. It already smells so bad!”
You snort. “Thanks, Jessie.”
****
There’s no way the train will mask the smell.
You stare at your coat, debating. It was a mistake to keep it under your desk; you’re pretty sure the heat from the computer has made the smell a hundred times worse. A janitor was kind enough to give you a recycling bag for it so no one rioted over the smell. But still. You’re hesitant to take it out of the bag now. You don’t know if you can handle dirty looks for a forty-minute train ride. And you don’t want your other clothes to smell.
What’s worse? Peter left early, so you can’t give him his cinnamon roll.
You go outside. It’s cold, especially now that it gets dark at practically noon. But if you walk fast, it’ll be fine, right? You pull your scarf tighter around your neck.
“What are you wearing?”
You spin around, clutching your chest. Red Hood is leaning against a streetlamp, arms crossed. Half of him is shrouded in shadows, which would freak you the fuck out if you weren’t more irritated than anything.
“Don’t do that!” you say. “Jesus Christ.”
“What did I say about that Lexapro, huh?”
You roll your eyes. “You said Xanax. And I’m in therapy, okay? She wants me to try this before committing to meds. Have a little faith in me.”
“Oh, I’ve always had faith in ya. Except now, ‘cause you’re not wearing a coat when it’s fuckin’ thirty-three degrees out.”
“I spilled tuna on it. Tuna, onions, pickles… the tuna essence has seeped in.”
“Tuna essence is better than pneumonia.”
“Nag,” you mumble.
“What was that?”
You look up wearily. “Nothing. I didn't know you were coming. I never texted you back.”
Hood takes off his brown bomber jacket and takes your coat bag and purse. He puts his jacket on you, holding it steady while you dazedly stick your arms through the sleeves. Then he zips it up to your chin. What the fuck.
“Tell me now,” he says.
“Hood, you’re cold!”
“Talk fast.”
“Dude.”
“Oh, you don’t have anything to tell me? Alright, then I’ll just head out.”
“Wait!” You shimmy your hands through his ginormous sleeves. “Okay. I think something shady’s happening at work.”
Hood crosses his arms. You’d think that he’d look less intimidating with your yellow purse over his shoulder and a recycling bag with your coat in his opposite hand but, unsurprisingly, he doesn’t. His gray tac suit is skin-tight, outlining every curve of muscle and fat. His pecs look obscene.
Oh no. No, don’t look at that. Think of something else. Toby’s hyena laugh. Tuna juice smell. Santa Claus… Hood as Santa Cl—no! Nope.
Hood seems to take your silence as anxiety. “Okay, I know we’re gettin’ close to when the stuff happened with Emerson last year, but—”
“Come on,” you say exasperatedly. “Do you think I’d want to ruin such a great job?”
“No, but I think the mind’s a funny thing and you get nervy sometimes.”
“This isn’t that. Can I tell you my evidence?”
He holds a hand out. “Go ‘head.”
“Okay, so I’ve been working on this piece of code for, like, months, and it won’t let me finish this program. And I’ve worked on difficult code before, so that’s not the problem, but it’s like now there’s a firewall installed that’s preventing me from accessing stuff. And it only happens when I work on the security part of it, but no one else is experiencing this problem. Today, I tried again and it closed me out of the program! Just shut off! That’s not normal.”
Hood sighs. “Look—”
“Wait! Another thing is that when I returned to my computer after lunch and tried to work on the program again, I saw that Tim Drake had edited some of my code. The CEO, Hood! That’s totally weird. And…” You take a deep breath. “This woman from PR told me about how Tim keeps disappearing from meetings and stuff and how she thinks he’s cheating, but what if it’s something more nefarious? What if he’s messing with the company’s security system?”
“If Tim Drake was doing some shit like that, there’s no way Bruce wouldn’t know about it,” Hood says.
“How do you know? Bruce Wayne doesn’t really seem all there.” You point to your head.
Hood snorts. “Looks can be really deceiving, trust me. I checked him out. He’d know.”
“But—”
“Hey,” he says softly. “I think it’s fantastic you’re so alert about this stuff, but everything’s fine. I wouldn’t have suggested you work here if it was dirty.”
“You aren’t listening to me!” you say, balling your fists. “Hood, I really think there’s something happening. Why don’t you trust me?”
“I do trust you.”
“Then why won’t you even poke around? You love to poke.” And shoot, but you hope he won’t go there.
“I’m not gonna break into Wayne’s company just ‘cause of some weird code. That’s not enough. And maybe Timbo really is cheating. That’s a moral failing but it’s not a crime.” He rubs the chin of his helmet. “‘Course, his boyfriend would kick his ass if he knew…”
You scowl. “It isn’t a coincidence. There’s no such thing as coincidences.”
“You sound like me.”
“Someone has to!” you say, throwing your hands up. “Apparently, Red Hood no longer operates on a reasonable amount of suspicion and paranoia.”
“Alright, alright. How ‘bout this: we’ll do a stakeout tomorrow night. I’ll set up cameras and everything. But if nothing’s out of the ordinary, you drop it. Capisce?”
“Yes,” you say, spirits lifting. “Yes, that's very good. Thank you.”
“Yeah, sure. How’s work, besides that?”
“It’s good.” You smile, thinking of Peter. “Security’s nice.”
“Oh, yeah?”
You look up, remembering yourself. You and Hood do not have that kind of relationship. You’re not sure what relationship you have, but it’s not that.
“Yeah. A-anyway… do you like cinnamon rolls?”
If you could see Hood’s face, you imagine he’d be raising an eyebrow. “Huh?”
“Cinnamon rolls,” you repeat, going to your purse, which is still over Hood’s shoulder. He obediently holds it while you take out the box from Penny’s. You hold it out to him.
“What’re you—”
“It was for my friend, Peter,” you say. “But he left early, I guess. He didn’t tell me he would, I don’t know why he wouldn’t but…” You shake your head. “Anyway. Do you want it?”
“You have it,” Hood says gently.
“I already had one. It was my reward for enduring tuna essence. Please take it, Hood, I want you to have it.”
So he takes it. You smile.
“They’re best warm. You have an oven, right?”
He snorts. “What, y’think I’m some miscreant who squats in abandoned warehouses?”
“No! No, I just… I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know if you cook. Most guys your age don’t.”
“I cook,” Hood says. “Quite a bit, actually. I make a mean lasagna.”
You grin. “Really?”
“Sure. Peer-reviewed. I’ll make ya one sometime.”
That flusters you, and you clear your throat, fidgeting to take your purse from Hood. He takes it off and puts it over your shoulder.
“I should go,” you say. “Um… oh! Your jacket—”
“‘S a long walk to the train,” he says, backing up, holding your coat. “Just keep it. You can give it to me when we meet for the stakeout.”
“Hood, I’m not gonna take your jacket,” you say, beginning to take it off.
“Seriously. ‘M fine. I got Pit water in me. Helps insulate.”
You try to hand it back, but Hood’s faster. He dodges you, darting away before you can throw his jacket at him.
“See ya tomorrow!” he says, and disappears around the corner. With your coat.
“You have my coat, man!”
Nothing. You huff, shoving your arms back through the sleeves. Vigilantes. There’s no reasoning with them.
…His jacket really is warm. You wonder what the lining is made of. It’s so soft.
****
“Where’d you get that jacket?”
Jessie is already at your desk when you walk in. You look up, frightened. Your heartbeat slows as you realize Jessie’s genuinely curious. She slides around your cubicle and touches your sleeve. The leather is taken care of. You don’t know much about clothing that’s not made of cotton or polyester blend, but from what you understand, real leather jackets require upkeep. It’s clear that Hood does that. It’s obviously worn—aside from the fact that it smells like man cologne, there are scratches and patches from God knows what. Probably bullets and knives. But it’s soft, warm. Well-loved.
“I think this is real leather!” Jessie says, impressed. “What’s it lined with? Wow. I didn’t know you wore that. Pri-cey.”
“I don’t,” you say quickly. “It’s from my—” What? It belongs to a crime lord you’re sort of friends with? You grimace. “Uh, I found it thrifting.”
“Oh, I love thrifting!” Jessie gushes. “Do you think Ben would like thrifting?”
You unravel your scarf. “I don’t think three-year-olds care much about clothes. Like, at all.”
“True. Ugh! I have no ideas on what to do with him. They’re coming this weekend.” She rubs her temples. “And her husband has, like, very high expectations. High expectations? Fuck him! Did he push Ben out of his fucking va—”
“Jessie,” you say, widening your eyes. “Why don’t you take Ben to the community theater’s showing of A Charlie Brown Christmas?”
She claps her hands, pointing at you. “You’re a genius. That’s why they pay you the big bucks!”
You watch her sprint away, presumably to do anything but her work. You glance behind you, where Toby and another coworker is trying to see how much balled up paper they can land in the wastebasket. You roll your eyes.
Well. You can do your job.
You type your login and wait for it to load. You take off your—Hood’s—jacket. This is terrible. Where could he have possibly taken your coat?
You pull out your phone. You’ve considered changing his contact name, but it feels weird having Red Hood as a contact. My close, personal friend Red Hood. You don’t want to call him Todd, because that’s probably not his name. And anyway, it’s too normie for a guy who wears a helmet and shoots people on the daily.
Maybe not on the daily. Weekly, at most.
You: can i have my coat back today?
?: I would never hold your coat hostage. :)
You: could’ve fooled me. don’t be surprised if yours has tuna juice on it.
?: Ho-ho, ha-ha, comedy! Your coat isn’t warm enough for this weather anyway. Be grateful.
You won’t win that argument, so you don’t try.
You: sooo grateful. are we watching pineapple tonight?
?: Tf is pineapple?
You: that’s you know who’s code name… aren’t u supposed to be a super experienced vigilante?
?: Pineapple is a terrible code word. You’re supposed to replace the whole action, like “I’m taking out the trash.”
You: okay man whatever. are we taking out the TRASH tonight?
?: Yes. 7pm. Parking garage across the street. I’ll call you.
You put your phone in your bag, exhaling. This isn’t even that good of a jacket. Yes, it’s warm, and soft, and smells good but… your coat has character! And not the ballistics kind. You’re pretty sure that the mended hole on Hood’s jacket sleeve isn’t because he snagged it on a fence.
You open the program you’ve been working on for months. The screen freezes, the code glitching. The cursor moves on its own, flicking around the screen. Your eyes bug out of your head. You perform an emergency override, something you were taught when you first started working for Emerson. When you work with sensitive information, being able to pull the plug is crucial.
You force-quit the program. The screen goes dark.
Well. Shit.
****
“Have a good weekend!” Jessie calls after you. You flinch, not realizing anyone was behind you.
You tuck your scarf tighter, smiling. “You too.”
“I got the tickets for Charlie Brown,” she says happily. “I dare that prickly mother-in-law to top that!”
“You’ll be his favorite aunt for sure.”
Jessie reaches to give you a half-hug. “Thanks. Have you given any more thought to the gala? You can bring a plus-one for free!”
Like you have anyone to bring. “Well…”
“We can go together. The party favors are so good, too.”
“Maybe,” you say. “I… I’ll think about it.”
Jessie shrugs. “Okay. See you Monday!”
She heads off in the direction of the company parking lot. You wait until she’s out of sight before you cross the street. Your phone rings. You answer.
“Fourth floor,” comes Hood’s voice. “Left side. Black Jeep.”
“Isn’t a black Jeep kind of an obvious stakeout car?” you ask, following his directions. You step onto the elevator and press four. “Isn’t that what the FBI drive?”
“You watch a couple of cop movies and suddenly you’re an expert, huh?”
The elevator doors open. You walk down the parking lot. You’d be terrified if you weren’t on the phone with Hood. “There must be some truth to those, right?”
“Ha, not really. ‘Cept the fact that they make cops a lot smarter in the movies than they really are.”
“The police are stupid in Die Hard,” you say, opening the passenger-side door of the black Jeep. There are no other cars on this floor.
Hood hangs up, watching you as you get in and close the door. He’s wearing a black leather jacket. “Die Hard is unrealistic for other reasons. Who could take out twelve guys barefoot?”
You could, you don’t say. You decide not to mention that John McClane was also shirtless and barefoot for the last third of the movie, making his kill count extra impressive. Hood could probably take out thirty men barefoot and shirtless. Hmm…
“Your coat’s back there,” he says, pointing to the backseat. “Had it dry-cleaned.”
“Oh.” You blink. “It doesn’t need to be.”
“Helps it last longer,” Hood says. “Preserves the insulation.” He tilts his head, presumably eyeing his jacket on you. “Y’don’t have another coat? Yours is wearin’ thin.”
“What’s next? Eating steak five times a week? I don’t have money for two coats, Mr. Moneybags.”
He hums, resting one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the back of your seat. He lifts his hips to sit more comfortably. You look straight, focusing on a lit window across the street. Your cheeks are hot.
“I’ll getcha another coat for Christmas,” he says casually, and it wouldn’t fluster you so much if you didn’t think he actually meant it.
“You don’t have t—”
He holds up his hand on the steering wheel. “Can’t let my best informant freeze.”
“I’m your informant?”
Hood looks at you, helmet eyes glowing. “No.” He pauses. “You’re my… I dunno what.” He clears his throat. “The cinnamon roll was good.”
You smile. “Yeah? It was from Penny’s.”
He hums. “Never been. I’ll have to try. You cold?”
You shake your head. “I’m fine.”
“Sure?”
“I’m sure. Your jacket is really warm. My friend Jessie asked what it was lined with.”
“Alpaca. I got it on a job in the Andes.”
“With Roy?”
“Wow, you remember that. Yeah, actually, with Roy. He was the friend I had to break out of prison.”
“Does he also do…” You gesture. “This?”
“He does more international jobs these days, but yeah. Great guy. Better than me.”
“I think you’re good,” you say quietly.
“Mm. Most people wouldn’t agree.”
“Then most people would be wrong.”
Hood doesn’t say anything. He reaches behind him and pulls out a set of binoculars. He gives them to you.
“You’re in charge of those, ‘kay?”
“Okay.” You put them to your eyes, finding the WE building. Some of the windows are lit, which isn’t weird. Some floors work later than you. “When I was working on the program today, I couldn’t even get on. It crashed and logged me out.”
Hood’s quiet. You pull the binoculars away and look at him.
“What?” you ask.
“That’s strange, I gotta admit.”
You perk up. “So something could be going on?”
“Don’t get excited. Let’s just see.”
You wiggle in your seat. “Vindication!”
“‘F I didn’t know better, I’d think you want a corrupt CEO.”
“It’s our Christmas tradition,” you say, grinning.
Hood laughs. “Jesus, I hope not.”
You put the binoculars back to your eyes. You pan up, up to the thirtieth floor, and…
“Hood!” You put down the binoculars. “The light is on in Tim Drake’s office. I saw him leave! And I asked his receptionist if he was available to make sure, and he said Tim had a business dinner.” You unlock your door.
“You did all that?” Hood asks. “Hey, hang on!”
“It’s smart, right?” you say excitedly, happy that your suspicions seem to be confirmed. “I’m terrible at lying, though. When his receptionist asked me why I wanted to speak to Tim, I got so flustered I blurted out that I had a personal surgery for him to green-light.” You thump your head. “Stupid.”
“Takes practice, lyin’ on your feet,” says Hood. “Try exhaling as you say the lie. Your voice levels, your breathing regulates.”
You smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. Sometimes I think, ‘what would Hood do?’ And I knew you would’ve questioned the receptionist first.”
“I dunno if I should be flattered or worried that you’re thinkin’ ‘bout what I’d do.”
“What do you mean? You have good advice sometimes.”
You wait for him to get out. Hood closes his door and locks it.
“Just sometimes?” he asks.
“Other times, your advice is scary. And illegal.”
He shrugs. “Fair enough.”
You start to walk to the exit.
“Hey, slow your roll,” Hood says, catching up to you. “What exactly are you gonna do?”
“If Tim’s up there after hours and he lied about leaving, then surely he’s doing sketchy stuff, right?”
He sighs, glancing at the WE building, then at you. “I want you t’be careful. I mean it.”
“I’m always careful, Hood. More than you, remember?”
“Well, lately, you’re like a fuckin’ Black Widow, so I feel like y’need a reminder.”
“Have you met a Black Widow?”
Hood nods. “Once. Nice lady. Scary as hell. And she was careful.”
You preen at the comparison. If she scared Hood, she must be one hell of a woman.
Reluctantly, Hood leads you out of the garage. He makes you stay three steps behind him the whole time. You enter Wayne Enterprises through the back entrance with your key card. Hood promises that he’ll erase the log, at your insistence. You take the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor, then walk up the extra flight to the thirtieth, so that the elevator sound won’t alert Tim Drake. That’s your idea. Hood is impressed.
You sneak to the hallway of offices. Sure enough, light peeks out underneath the door. But what can you do? It’s not like you can just kick the door down.
“Let’s get closer,” you whisper.
“Let’s not,” Hood says, holding you back by the collar of his jacket. “Stakeouts take patience. You gotta wait for an opportunity.”
The door opens, light spilling out into the hallway. Tim walks out, away from you and Hood. You run. You don’t think about it. If you did, you’d probably better digest what a fantastically dumb idea it is to run into Tim Drake’s office alone.
“Wait!” Hood hisses. “Stop! Son of a—”
You quietly open desk drawers, flick through files, anything you can. Nothing. Tim’s desk is unusually clean. And then it hits you. Duh. A CEO in their twenties is going to be digital. So you move the mouse and override Tim’s login. You go straight to the program you’ve been struggling with for months, and sure enough, you’re able to get on. The edit history shows that Tim was indeed the one who removed your and others’ access to the program.
Your phone buzzes.
?: Hide.
Your fingers fly over the keyboard as you log out and turn off the screen. Frantically, you search for a place to hide. There’s only the tiny closet. You run in, pulling the door shut. A coat in a plastic dry cleaning cover hangs on the end, and you have to bend your head to stand without bumping your head. The door has Venetian blinds cut into the wood, and you peer through the slats. Tim walks in, followed by two men. One you recognize as state senator Brian Osborne, who’s trying to run for governor this year. His face is plastered all over the conservative towns in New Jersey. He’s in his thirties, and housewives of right-wing voters adore him. You don’t trust anyone with perfectly white teeth. Or someone who’s too orange. The other man seems to be a bodyguard, which is smart. Why doesn’t Tim Drake have a bodyguard?
“Please sit,” Tim says. He looks perfect even though it’s nearly nine o’clock at night. You’ve never seen him not look perfect and put-together. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear.
Your chest hurts.
“I have to say, I didn’t expect your call,” Osborne says, sitting across Tim’s desk. “Considering who your father is.”
“Bruce doesn’t represent me,” Tim says coolly. “Anyway, I know a good deal when I see one.”
“Fantastic. So where will the exchange happen?”
“Wayne Enterprises is having a Christmas gala next week, at the Gotham Gallery. I have a private collection room where no one will bother us.”
You shift, your shoulders stiff with pain from how you’re hunched over. Your movement causes the coat on the hanger to rattle. Shit.
Osborne turns his head, looking at the doorway. “Is someone else here on the floor?”
Tim Drake looks in your direction, and you swear he locks eyes with you through the slats in the door. Your heart stops.
Something clatters down the hallway, much louder than you were. Tim gets up, following Osborne out the door. “There shouldn’t be anyone else. I checked.”
They leave his office and you listen for their fading footsteps before you slip out of the closet. Your hands are clammy with adrenaline. Blindly, you go the same way you came, eyes peeled for Hood’s helmet. Someone grabs your wrist and you open your mouth to yell. It’s quickly covered by a gloved hand. You thrash, but another hand pats your waist, and you relax, relief nearly making your knees buckle.
“Un-fuckin’-believable,” Hood hisses in your ear. “Was I speakin’ in tongues when I told you to wait?”
He drags you backwards, pushing the stairwell door open. He lets go of you when the door clicks behind you, and you turn around.
“That was so scary,” you say, breathless.
“Oh, yeah? I couldn’t tell with the way you charged in like a bull! What the hell has gotten into you?”
“I knew you’d cover me,” you say.
“Don’t ever do that again. I’m so fuckin’ serious. That could’ve gone so wrong and—”
“He’s working with Brian Osborne!” you blurt.
That blessedly makes Hood stop ranting about your safety.
“Are you sure?”
You scoff. “No, Hood, it was some other orange conservative freak with sink porcelain teeth. I thought you said you trusted me!”
“I do, I do, ‘s just…” He groans. “Shit. What else did ya find out?”
“They’re going to meet and do the final exchange at the Wayne gala next week. Something about security technology, I’m not really sure. That must be why I couldn’t log on today!” Your mouth forms an O, gears in your mind turning. “Hood! You have to come to the gala. Then you can take down Tim Drake and Osborne in one go. It’s perfect!”
“Oh, is it? I’m so glad you got my Friday night plans all set. Wayne’s gala is extremely high-profile. ‘S not like Emerson’s Christmas party. I can’t sneak in as Santa this time.”
“I can be your eyes,” you say. “And you’ll just stay in the shadows until you can catch them in the act.”
He puts his hands on his hips. “I don’t like the idea of you gettin’ so close to them. Tonight almost went to shit. Osborne’s no joke. His PR is so good ‘cause he’s so damn bad. He’s been on my list for a long time.”
“Well, this is your chance to get him,” you say. “And it’s not like I’d gun him down. As soon as I find out when he and Tim are meeting, I'll text you, and you’ll do the rest.”
“You get a new job and all of a sudden you’re Butch Cassidy,” Hood mutters.
“Isn’t this the best way to take down Osborne? Catching him in the act?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “Yeah, it is, but…”
“But what?”
Hood shakes his head. “Nothin’. You’re right. If you’re really sure about this, then fine, we’ll do it. Or… I could go alone.”
“I can do it, Hood, honestly. My anxiety is a lot better.”
He hums. “‘S not what I meant, sweet. I know y’can do it, I just… this stuff is dangerous. Seriously.”
“I helped you last year,” you say.
“Yeah, and y’did a great job. But that was under dire circumstances, y’know? I pretty much peer-pressured you into it.”
“I wanted you to dress up as Santa.” And be my fake-boyfriend, you don’t add.
He groans. “I remember. That beard shed everywhere.”
You laugh, then turn, suddenly remembering where you are. “Shit. Will they find us?”
“Nah, they left. I saw ‘em get on the elevator before I found you.”
You sag in relief, then tense again. “What about the cameras?”
“I put ‘em on a loop. What kinda operation you think I’m runnin’ here?”
You smile. “A good one. Obviously.”
He lightly taps your shoulder with two fingers. “C’mon. Think that’s enough spycraft for one night, yeah?”
You go to the elevators and go out the side exit this time, on the opposite corner. As you wait for the light, you point at a billboard advertising The Mighty Crabjoys.
“I love them!” you say.
Hood follows your finger. “Yeah?”
You nod. “I tried to get tickets for their concert next month but they sold out in, like, fifteen seconds. Same thing happened to me with Hozier.”
“Hozier’s cool. I like him.”
You cross the street to the garage. “You do?”
“Well, sure. It’s Hozier. I dunno much about Mighty Crabjoys, though.”
“Their music is fun.”
“I’ll have to try it.”
You ride the elevator up in silence. Tonight was scary, but not nearly as much as last year’s events. You’re getting good at this!
“My therapist suggested doing things that scare me, to help with my therapy,” you say as you get into Hood’s car. “She said she thinks exposure will help me the most.”
“Doubt she meant this stuff.”
You shrug. “I dunno. I think I’m getting better at facing my fears.”
Hood turns the key in the ignition. “‘M such a bad influence.”
“You’re not,” you say, but you don’t expand. You don’t point out that before last year, you were terrified of Red Hood, of what he stood for, but now you understand that he’s more on your side than any grubby-handed politician who swears to stand for you. For all of his hard violence, Hood is fair, and kind, and really fills out those pants. You’ve had the occasional dream since last year’s party, where Hood is still your Santa boyfriend, but not because you’re chasing a criminal. And all you see are those blue-green eyes, boring into you like he knows your heart races when you’re around him, and it’s not because of any anxiety attack.
The drive home is quiet. You gave Hood the address and it’s been silent for minutes. No music. You wonder what kind of music Hood listens to. You wonder all sorts of things about him.
“Thanks for believing in me,” you say, while you wait at a light.
Hood nods. “Yeah, well, you called it ‘bout Drake, so—”
“No, I mean…” You flatten your palms over your pants. “For helping me with WE.”
“You helped yourself.”
You shake your head. “You helped me and you didn’t have to. You were really nice, Hood. No one’s ever been so nice to me before. I think… I think meeting you was the best part of my year.”
“Yikes,” he says, maybe trying to release some of the tension. It’s not a bad tension, but it’s heavy nonetheless. Like Hood doesn’t know what to do with your honesty.
You laugh, watching downtown Gotham pass you by. “I guess getting my new job was pretty good too.”
“Well, I’d hope so.”
You fold your hands in your lap. This feels like a moment you’re going to replay over and over in your head tonight. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks.”
“Thank you too,” he says. “Not just for helpin’ me take down one dirty CEO at a time. But thanks for, uh, bein’ a friend.”
You look at him. He keeps his eyes on the road.
“We’re friends?”
He shrugs. “‘F y’don’t mind bein’ friends with the bastard Red Hood.”
You smile and think of your coat in the backseat. “No. I don’t mind at all.”
****
Friday, gala night, comes sooner than you expect. Miraculously, the program at work doesn’t give you any more trouble. But you worry about working on it, conscious that it might be part of a dirty deal and Brian Osborne’s campaign for election. So you twiddle your thumbs and call out sick once, which you never do. You let Jessie distract you with pictures of her nephew. And above all, you do not contact Hood.
Not that he told you not to, or anything. It’s just a personal rule you’ve set for yourself. You felt jittery when you got out of his car last week, your dry-cleaned coat in your arms. You thought about it all the way up to your apartment, and then you stared at it while you made dinner and watched Die Hard.
Maybe this will be the last time you meet up with Hood. At least for a year. A part of you is sad that soon, you won’t see or speak to him regularly, after he nabs Tim Drake and Brian Osborne, and the fact that you’re disappointed terrifies you.
“Hey.”
Peter’s standing in front of your desk. He has a bag with Penny’s logo on it. He sets it on your desk. You look up at him.
“Hi,” you say, staring at those black, black shades. “Happy holidays!”
“Happy holidays,” he says. “D’you like cinnamon rolls? They had a special this morning. Two for one.”
You laugh. “Oh my God. I actually was gonna bring you a cinnamon roll last week.”
He grins. “Yeah? We must be psychically linked.”
“Definitely. Are you sure you don’t want it?”
“‘M sure.” He watches you pull out the cinnamon roll. There’s a plastic fork and knife in the bag too. How nice.
“You got a fork,” you say, opening the container. “How’d you know I hate getting icing on my fingers?”
He shrugs. “Intuition. Psychic connection. Take your pick.”
“Thanks,” you say. “Seriously. I needed this.”
He nods. “I figured. I saw your name on the list for tonight. Changed your mind?”
“Oh.” You lick icing off your lip and swallow hard, pretending to chew for longer than you need to. “Yes, actually. Jessie wore me down. And I thought, why not? You’re working security, right?”
“Yeah, probably, but you might not see me. I’m s’posed to stick close to the Wayne heirs all night. Timmy and Dickie.”
“Dick Grayson will be there?”
Peter nods. “Yeah. Pretty much the whole family. Bruce takes his galas very seriously. This one is the biggest one of the year.”
Maybe you should text Hood that he’ll need to be wary of all those Wayne kids. You don’t need Hood’s involvement—or yours—splashed across page one on the Gotham Gazette next week.
“Do you have any plans for the holidays?” you ask.
Peter shakes his head. “Not really. I’m not a believer or celebrator of much.”
You blink, pursing your lips. Peter tilts his head.
“What?” he asks.
“No, nothing, just…” You laugh. “I don’t know, I feel like someone’s said that to me before. Deja vu.”
“Huh. Maybe I got that from a movie or somethin’.”
You smile. “Like Die Hard.”
“They say that in Die Hard?”
“No. Sorry. I was thinking of something a friend said. So, no plans? Are you working?”
“Pretty much all break,” says Peter. “Actually, ‘s kinda unfortunate. I got tickets to see The Mighty Crabjoys next month, but I can’t go ‘cause of work. Been tryna unload ‘em so they don’t go to waste, but no luck.”
“Really?” You sit up in your desk chair. “I love them, actually. I wanted to see them.”
“Did ya? Shit, that’s perfect. I’ll email ‘em to ya.”
“Are you sure you don’t want them?” you ask. “You could make a crazy resale profit.”
“Oh, don’t cha know? They pay me the big bucks to protect Wayne’s secrets.” Peter grins. “‘M retirin’ in a month.”
You laugh. “Did you find out you’re a secret Wayne heir, or something?”
Peter runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth. “Mm. Somethin’ like that. Nah, don’t worry ‘bout the money. Think of it as a one-year celebration of your survival at WE.”
“Ah, well.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly bashful. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Peter.”
He clicks his tongue. “Now that’s not true. You made your own way.”
You smile, small and proud. “Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
Chatter from the hallway draws your attention. Tim Drake walks onto the floor, flanked by three people you don’t know, and Dick Grayson. Peter clears his throat.
“I’ll see ya ‘round,” he says, gently tapping your shoulder. “Break’s over.”
“Oh, okay. Happy new year if I don’t see you.”
“Happy new year,” he says. “Y’deserve a good one.”
Peter leaves through the stairwell door on the opposite side. You stand when Tim walks to Toby’s desk, which is three desks down from yours. You don’t know why you stand, but you feel like you should. You notice he’s wearing the coat you bumped into last night in his closet. Your heartbeat ratchets.
Tim says something to Toby, who looks terrified. Good. You hope he said something along the lines of do your fucking job.
But then Tim looks at you. And so does Dick Grayson. You nearly swallow your tongue.
They walk to you. Tim shoos everyone but his brother away, instructing them to “find something constructive to do.” They scatter.
“Who was that you were talking to?” Tim asks.
“W-what? You mean Peter?”
“Peter,” Dick echoes. He’s smiling, but it makes you nervous. He’s studying your face like he’s trying to pick you out of a lineup. “Do you know Peter very well?”
“He’s—I mean, we’re friends. He’s a security guard.”
Dick nods, no longer looking so intense. “Hmm. Okay.” He sticks out his hand. “Dick Grayson.”
You wipe your hand in what you hope is a discreet fashion so you don’t rub sweat on Dick Grayson’s palm. “Nice to meet you.” You say your name.
“You too,” Dick says. “Finally.”
When they don’t say anything else, you start to fidget. Your gaze darts between them. “I’m sorry, am I in trouble or something?”
“No trouble,” Tim says. His eyes narrow at you. Shit. Shit! “Everything’s fine. There were some bugs in the program your team’s been working on, but Toby figured it out.”
You highly doubt Toby has ever figured out anything of importance: code, the female body, normal responses to a funeral announcement. And the way Tim and Dick are staring at you feels like an interrogation.
“Oh, great,” you say, taking a deep breath and exhaling as you speak, like Hood taught you. “I hadn’t noticed anything amiss, but if there’s anything I can do, please let me know. I’ve been working on the program for months. Mostly front-end work.”
Tim’s smile is polite but frosty. “I appreciate it. I know you all work extremely hard.”
“A company would be nothing without I.T.,” Dick chirps.
You laugh nervously. “Thank you, that’s kind.”
He smiles knowingly. Dick Grayson is reported to be wholly pleasant and friendly. Right now, you feel like you’re being hunted for sport.
Tim checks his watch and nods crisply. “I have a meeting.” He sweeps a glance across the office. “Keep up the good work!”
They leave. Air fills your lungs once more. You sink into your chair. Then you pull out your phone.
You: oh my god oh my god
You: hood
You: hood
You: please
?: What’s up? I’m working.
You: TIM DRAKE IS ONTO ME
You: are you SURE he can’t tell i was taking out the trash?
?: Excellent use of code. Yeah, I’m sure. Take a breath. What do you mean he’s onto you?
You: okay well he fucking came to my floor and he asked if i knew this security guard which isn’t part of it but he had this LOOK hood. and dick grayson was there too and his smile was so freaky, it’s like he knew exactly what i was thinking
? is typing…
You watch the speech bubble pop up, then disappear, then pop up again.
?: He asked if you knew a security guard? Who?
You: peter. he’s my friend. hood i think my cover’s been blown
?: You don’t have a cover. Your identity is literally a programmer at Wayne Enterprises.
You: oh my god even worse!!!!
?: Please try to relax. None of that means anything. I’ll check on Drake when I finish what I’m doing.
You: THIS COULD BE LIFE OR DEATH
?: Warhead
You’ve been gnawing on a fingernail this whole time. The text annoys the shit out of you, but you obediently open your drawer and take out a Warhead from a party-size bag and pop it into your mouth. You’ve been on the hunt for a candy that’s even more sour for the bigger panic attacks, but the Warhead works today.
You: maybe i shouldn’t go to the gala
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. Wait. If you don’t go, you’ll be home. You’ll be unaccounted for. That’s exactly how people go missing. No, it’s better to be at the gala, close to Hood. Tim Drake can’t assassinate you if you’re at the same event as him on the night of his exchange with Osborne.
You: nvm that’s how ppl die. i’ll go
?: Are you eating the Warhead?
You: yeah
?: Eat another one.
You do.
****
You: does this look okay?
You: [img._6]
Jessie: you look great!! I love that color :) dark red is perf for xmas
You look at your reflection, smoothing down your dress. You wanted something glamorous, and you sifted through three different discount sections at three different Macy’s. You lucked out with this dress: dark red, long-sleeved, long skirt but not too long that you’ll be tripping all night. And you can run, if need be. Not that you think you will. But still.
You: i’ll be in a red dress btw
?: Okay. How do you feel?
You: fine. Are u already there?
?: Almost. Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.
You pocket your phone and grab your purse, heading out the door. It’s luckily not snowing, or you’d take a taxi. But the walk to the train isn’t too bad. You’re back to wearing your coat, which is good, because it goes better with your dress than Hood’s would. But you kind of wish you could’ve worn his. It’s admittedly warmer.
The gala is held at the Gotham Art Gallery this year. Bruce Wayne had made a statement that all of the proceeds from tonight’s event would be donated to the local orphanage. He’s Gotham’s biggest philanthropist. You don’t have any particularly strong opinions on him. He seems decent enough, for a billionaire. His son, however…
Well, whatever. That’ll be over soon enough. You have the utmost faith in Hood tonight.
The gallery is hosting the party in its main hall. The roof is made entirely of class, so clear it looks like the night sky is bearing down on you all. The moon is an inky dot of cream above you, almost but not quite full. Waiters circulate with appetizers and alcohol. You take a flute of champagne when it’s offered, but you only take a few sips. You need to be sharp to help Hood.
Bruce and Dick go on stage to talk about the gala, but you’re not listening. You look around. You don’t expect to see Hood, of course, but your eyes are peeled for Peter. He said he’d stick close to Dick, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
…Then again, neither is Tim. Huh.
You take out your phone.
You: have you found the trash?
?: Lol. Not yet. Stay put. Relax. I’ll let you know when I take care of it.
You take a deep breath and try to do as Hood says. It feels weird to not be directly involved. Your phone buzzes.
?: Pretty dress.
Your face immediately goes aflame. What do you say? If you were being honest, you’d say that you didn’t wear red just because it’s Christmas. But you feel that that’s too bold. Bolder than you’re willing to be.
You pocket your phone, too alarmed to say anything. You gulp more champagne, forgoing your rule. Hood told you to relax, right?
The night goes on. Jessie lures you to the dance floor. She introduces you to more people at the company.
And then you spill champagne on your dress.
You sigh. “Great.”
Jessie is sympathetic. “No! Oh no, not again. Want any help cleaning up?”
“No, it’s fine.” You wave her away, a little uncoordinated from the alcohol. “Be right back.”
You start your hunt for the bathroom. It’s only a little champagne, but it’s right on your neckline, and it’s uncomfortable. At least you won’t smell like tuna.
You pull out your phone.
You: spilled champagne :P
You finally find the bathroom and carefully dab the champagne with a wet paper towel. Then you check your phone again. Your message remains unread and unreplied to.
A cold, sinking feeling pools in your stomach. You tap Hood’s contact, about to call. You pause. What if he can’t answer the phone?
This is just your anxiety talking. That’s why you avoid drinking; your anxiety always gets worse. But maybe you have a right to be worried now. Hood always responds quickly. If not in depth, then a simple yes. Why wouldn’t he respond now?
You throw away the paper towels and leave the bathroom. What did Tim say? His private collection room.
There are some staff, but they clearly don’t give a shit about wandering guests, too busy catering to demanding one percenters. You’re not the next 007, but it’s easy enough to find the private collection room. The door has been left slightly ajar, and you carefully pull it open. There are wooden crates piled everywhere, so you duck behind the nearest stack.
There’s a pause. You cringe. Did you make too much noise?
“I didn’t hear anything,” Tim says.
You crawl on your hands and knees, shuffling so you can peer around the crates. Osborne has his bodyguard from last night, as well as three other men. Tim is alone except for—
Oh God. Peter?
Your lips part in shock as you take in the sight of your formerly favorite security guard. Your mind races. Is this why he was so evasive about his schedule? Why he didn’t care about selling the tickets? Yes, you’re sure that being a massive jerk-off and helping billionaires commit crimes is very lucrative.
You scowl. He can’t see you from this angle, but you sort of wish he would, even though you can very clearly see his holstered gun. Would he even care, seeing you? Or would you be another body to dispose of?
You lean back against the crates. Your reaction time is a little slow from the champagne. You pull out your phone and text Hood again.
You: security guards suck ASS
You put it away and watch Tim take out a briefcase. He opens it for Osborne. You can’t see what’s inside. Osborne opens his own briefcase, and those contents you can see. Stacks of cash.
“Committing election fraud has never been easier,” Tim says airily.
Osborne laughs. “Fantastic. You’re my inspiration, Mr. Drake.”
Maybe you should be recording this. You open the camera app and press record, trying to be steady as you zoom in. Peter is on his phone.
Ding!
?: Where are you?
“Shit,” you whisper, trying to mute your phone.
Peter looks up and sees you. You shoot him what you hope is your meanest face.
“What the fuck is this?” Osborne asks, snapping his fingers. One of his goons wastes no time in going and hauling you up by your arm.
“Let go of me!” you shout, swatting at him. He holds you firmly.
Tim looks at you icily, blue eyes wide. You fear he’s going to order Peter to kill you right then.
“Who are you working for?” Osborne asks you.
You lift your chin, feeling more confident than you feel. Damn champagne. “The Red Hood. And he’s gonna kick your ass.”
Tim glances at Peter, chewing his lip. He nods at you. “Take care of her.”
“No,” Osborne says. “Let’s see if this Red Hood character does show. He’ll be looking for his partner, no doubt.”
His confidence makes you queasy. Did Osborne already get to Hood?
You find it hard to believe. Hood can handle himself, no doubt. But he had to sneak around tonight, didn’t he? If he is somewhere, like a basement or shoved into a dusty sarcophagus, no one will be looking for him.
“I can handle her, sir, honestly,” Peter says, and you hiss at him.
“Traitor,” you snap. He ignores you.
But Osborne doesn’t. He squints at you, then Tim, then Peter.
“Do you know her?” he asks.
“Of course not,” Tim says. “Let him take her into a back room so we can get on with this.”
Osborne shakes his head, closing his own briefcase. "No, this is fishy. Red Hood’s partner happens to stumble onto our deal? …You almost got me that night at the office, explaining away the noise. Well, not tonight. I smell a rat. And I take care of rats immediately. Finish it."
The guard pulls out a gun and cocks it against your temple. But you’ve barely felt the press of cold metal before it’s gone, your arms free. He's on the ground, blood gushing from both legs. Peter’s gun smokes.
Gunfire erupts. Peter dives for you, dragging you behind crates. You fight him all the way.
"You asshole," you snap. “You fucking asshole! How can you do this? Tim Drake is—”
"Stay here," he says, angrier than you've ever seen him. "Un-fuckin’-believable."
You peer around the crates. Tim is wrestling with one of Osborne’s goons who has a gun. Peter goes for the other two. They fire and you duck back behind the crates.
“Should’ve known not to trust a Wayne!” Osborne shouts. “Especially one who beds men! Just like your filthy father!”
“You fuck men too, Brian,” Tim says, heaving the guard over his shoulder in a very impressive takedown. Since when does Tim Drake know MMA? “Does your fanbase know that?”
Peter fires and Tim snaps, “Don’t shoot, dumbass! The art is on loan!”
“I’m the dumbass? Meeting here was your bright idea!” Peter snarls, and that voice sounds very familiar…
Osborne’s bodyguard punches Peter and cracks his shades, which fly off his face. Peter instantly knocks him out cold. Seafoam eyes, such an unusual col—holy shit. Holy shit.
“Hood?” you blurt, so surprised, you forget to hide.
This time, Osborne fires at you. Hood shoots at Osborne, who flees. He wastes no time in grabbing you, swinging you back behind the crates. You peek over and see Tim follow Osborne out, with the remaining two goons at his heels.
You whip your head to look at Hood. Peter. “What the f—”
“Shush.” He scoops you up, hoisting you over his shoulders like you're a sack of potatoes. You writhe in protest.
"What the hell! Put me down, Neanderthal!"
“You’re unbelievable, y’know that?” he says, carrying you out of the collection room and down the hallway.
“I’m unbelievable? Exactly how many identities do you have, Peter Todd Red Hood?”
Hood sighs and sets you down. You’re in the main part of the gallery, which is currently closed to guests, but you doubt Hood gives a shit about that. It’s empty, and that’s what matters. He holsters his gun and rests his hands on his head, like he just ran a marathon.
“Guess you want an explanation,” he says.
You put your hands on your hips. “That would be nice, yes.”
Hood smiles a little. You frown.
“What?” you ask, aggravated.
“I dunno. You used to be so skittish ‘round me. Now you’re, like, hm. My friend, I guess.”
You drop your arms, startled. “I…” You look away. “You’re working for Tim Drake. You’re no better than Osborne.”
Hood scoffs. “Even if I was dirty, you wouldn’t catch me dead working for Timbelina. No, sweet, ‘m not. I’m the same Red Hood you’ve always known. Still after the bad guys. But Tim Drake…” He pauses. You look at him. “Is Red Robin.”
“What?”
He raises his right hand. “Swear it. And, uh, my name is Jason. Jason Todd.”
Your mouth falls open. “You’re Bruce Wayne’s s—”
“Ward,” Jason cuts you off. “Yeah. But trust me, I wouldn’t be here willingly. See, uh, you’re actually a spectacular spy. Like, better than the FBI.”
“I am?”
“Sure. Tim’s not really a corrupt CEO. He was just playin’ the part to lure Osborne. We’ve been after him for a while. No one was supposed to detect anything ‘cause nothing’s public, to protect Tim’s image, but…”
“I’m really good at my job,” you say breathlessly.
Jason grins. “Y’sure are. I couldn’t deter you, and I couldn’t tell you the truth. Didn’t wanna endanger you. I tried to make y’drop it, but you wouldn’t quit. Could go into the detective business, honest.”
“Wow.” You lean against a pillar. “Sorry.”
Jason shrugs. “‘S okay. Was fun.”
He edges a little closer. He probably thinks you won’t notice but you’re a detective.
“So you were Peter this whole time. You were… watching over me?”
Jason licks his lip, mouth forming shapes. “I mean, officially, I was makin’ my identity legit so Osborne wouldn’t get suspicious. I saw you when you came in, and I guess I couldn’t help but say hi. I thought you’d recognize me, but those shades were worth their money.”
“I remember those eyes,” you say quietly.
He clears his throat. “Right. So, um, I guess I just… wanted to make sure you were okay. And then we kept talkin’ and, I dunno. Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For everything, I guess. For enterin’ your life and stayin’ in it. I get it if y’want me to leave you alone.”
“No.” You take Jason’s hands, so his fingers rest on the insides of your wrists. “Hood—sorry, Jason. You make me less nervous. And I’m relieved that your alter ego isn’t a bootlicker.”
Jason’s face is disgusted. “No way in hell.”
“Can I make a confession?”
“Oh, well, I’ve already made about three, so evening it up would be great, yeah.”
You swallow. "Okay. Well, last year when you pretended to be my Santa boyfriend, I kept thinking about what if it had been real."
Jason's pupils are enormous. "Yeah?" he whispers. "Was it a good thought?"
You nod. "I felt so conflicted, thinking about you and also thinking about Peter. And now…"
“Mmhm?”
You look at Jason’s lips. He has a scar that cuts through his Cupid’s bow, but it’s quite pretty. The Red Hood has a pretty mouth. Huh.
“Is my pulse steady?” you ask, looking at him through your lashes. You lift your wrists slightly.
Jason’s eyebrows lift in realization. “Yeah. Not one lie told.”
“I wish you’d kiss me.”
He leans in, and you meet him halfway. He’s taken off his gloves, so when he cups your neck, hot, rough skin sears you. Oh, you like him. Lightning shoots down your chest and back. He’s a shy kisser, and that pleases you even more. There’s something thrilling about the fact that you can make him moan first. Just from a kiss.
Footsteps echo on the marble, and you pull back, fearing Osborne and his men. But it’s much worse: Tim Drake is ten feet away, holding a bo staff.
"Really?" he asks, annoyed. "This is why you couldn't follow us?" He nods at you. "Hey."
"Hi," you say, utterly mortified. "I am so sorry. Please don't fire me."
Tim raises an eyebrow. "What, for sucking face? Please. Bruce will be thrilled to know that Jason isn't nearly as maladjusted as he thought."
"Fuck off," Jason says, pulling you closer by your waist, almost subconsciously.
"Crowbar victim."
Jason’s gaze is steely. "Ninety-nine. Failed. Clone attempts."
Tim looks impressed. "Wow. Dug deep for that one."
"I've been reading B's files to fill the gaps."
"There’s some fucked-up shit in there."
"Seriously." He looks at you, and it’s like his entire expression changes. You wonder if he’s been looking at you like that the whole time. He turns to Tim. “Gimme a minute.”
"Fine, whatever. I'm gonna track down his bodyguard. I think one of them hacked my computer last week.”
“Actually, that was me,” you say. “I overrode your firewall.”
Tim's eyes widen slightly as he looks at you. "For real?"
"Yeah, I was looking for your edit history on the project. When I, you know, thought you were on Osborne’s side.”
Tim doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that you thought he was evil for several months. "Wow. Wanna come work for me privately?"
Jason grunts. "Back off."
Tim grins with all of his teeth. "Okay, I'll spare you. Hurry up.”
Jason flips him off. You turn to him after Tim's gone. "So he’s your brother?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“But… legally?”
He sighs. “Unfortunately. And the one you met a few days ago, Dick? That one’s mine too. Legally. He’s on different meds, though.”
“Oh.” Your eyebrows rise. “Oh. So when Dick asked today if I knew Peter very well…”
“He did not mean in the coworker way, no. They all think we’ve been secretly dating for a year.”
You frown. “But we haven’t.”
Jason throws his arms up. “Tell me ‘bout it! World’s greatest fuckin’ detectives. Psh. I told them to butt out, for the record. Told them they didn’t know what was goin’ on. And do they listen? Does anyone listen to me in this godforsaken family? Nope!”
“I listen,” you say.
Jason immediately softens. “Yeah, you do.”
“I think you should probably go help Tim, though.”
He waves a hand lazily. “In a minute. He’s fine. Tryin’ to figure something out first.”
“What?”
“Whether I believe in Christmas miracles or not.” Jason pushes his tongue under his lip, smiling. He leans in to kiss you again. You meet him in earnest.
hey girl ily. IF reqs are still open… i am requesting pope who always buys shit for his gf, but finds out she bought something pricey with her own money. he’s pissed and she’s trying to figure out why, jokingly goes “it’s almost like u get off on me spending ur money lol” and he immediately gets super quiet and blushy cuz he DOES
hi hi baby i love you more and sorry if this is not as long as you hoped but i thought it was a good blurb/thought!! thank you for requesting, my love <3. wc: 1.8k
this is soooooo good. i will DIE on the hill that pope has felt so used all of his life that all he wants to do is feel useful in a more positive way!!!!! so when he gets a girl?? yeah that’s HIS girl. his everything. his responsibility. he’ll do anything to take care of her. that means his money isn’t even HIS money, it’s yours.
you find it so silly how he asks you if he can buy himself something. it’s never for anything minor, mostly the bigger things. “i think our family room needs a new TV. that okay?”
your eyebrows furrow at this, looking up at him from your textbook. “what?”
“the family room. the television is outdated. can i get a new one?”
“uhm… yeah?” you’re confused but you don’t voice it. you shrug it off like it’s no big deal.
until he asks something else a few days later. “been looking at new trucks, think i can get one?”
you’re in the middle of watching a movie, his rough fingers are massaging your calves after you complained about running back and forth on campus. your eyebrows furrow, looking up at him from your spot. “why are you asking me that?”
he shrugs. “cause i want to know what you want.”
you snort, lying your head back down on your pillow. “and if i said you can’t get one?”
“then i won’t get one.”
your eyes are wide, sitting up fully, pulling your legs from him. “what? you grabbing from my financial aid for the truck or something? cause i only get my year covered and that seems like a lot, sure, but i can’t just waste that all—“
“why would i grab your money? that’s yours.”
“okay… so…” you’re so fucking confused. you shake your head, waving your arms between the two of you. “okay. am i being slow or something? did i miss an entire part of our conversation? was i focused too much on the movie?”
and he has the audacity to look confused as he speaks, “my money is yours too.”
“and… my money is yours?” you ask.
he scoffs, offended. “why would your money be mine?”
“i mean… wouldn’t your words mean the—“
“no.” he interrupts.
“but—“
“no. my money is yours, your money is yours. not mine.”
“your money is mine… and it’s not yours?”
“yes.”
“you’re an idiot.” but you don’t argue.
you have lots of nice things. nice bags and shoes and makeup, all thanks to the money from pope’s wallet. it’s not like you can’t buy yourself anything. you very much can. you’re good at saving, especially with the job you have, the one he hates. so, when you graduate? oh, he’s spoiling you like crazy. he gets you everything you’ve so much as glanced at.
but… you decide to get yourself your own big gift! you’ve never bought yourself something truly pricey. you’ve got your big girl job AND a degree. yeah, that bag you’ve wanted for ages? it’s officially yours.
the funny thing is, he doesn’t even notice it for a while. you opened it while he was off doing his work with his family. you took pictures with the bag, posted it all over your story. had everyone sliding up and congratulating you. but he doesn’t have any form of social media so there’s no way he could’ve seen it.
it’s maybe about a week later when you two are getting ready for a date night, that he notices it.
“when did i get you that?”
“huh?” you’re too busy focused on putting your earrings on at your mirror.
he nods to the bag on the bed with charms hanging off the strap. “that one. i don’t remember buying you that.”
you finally turn, still struggling with your earring. “ah, you didn’t get that one for me.”
his eyebrows furrow. “what do you mean?”
“girl, what do you mean?” you’re frustrated now, finger still fidgeting on your earlobe.
“you bought it?”
you nod, turning back to your mirror. “yeah.”
“okay… so you used my card?”
you huff, “no, i bought it.”
“with my card.”
“no, not with your card.” you groan, tossing your annoying earring onto your vanity in his room. because of course he set up a vanity for you in his bedroom.
“okay… with my cash?”
“no, baby, im overstimulated enough as it is. my card. my money. i bought myself that bag with my money.”
he’s quiet. you’re grabbing another pair of earrings, tugging those on easily. you finally turn back to see pope sitting on the edge of his bed, slumped over, face in his hands.
this completely stuns you. “pope?” you rush to him. “oh my god. i didn’t mean to snap at you. you know how i get when im overstimulated. it’s not fair of me, i know that, but you—“
he pulls his hands from his face, looking at you as you’re on your knees for him. “did my card decline?”
“Uhm… what?” you’re confused, eyes flickering across his hurt expression.
“my card. when you tried to pay for the bag, did it decline?”
“what—“
“i should have the money. maybe the price flagged the cars and shut it down for a bit—“
“pope—“
“did you make any big purchases prior to that?”
you sigh, “pope. i did not use your card. i didn’t try using your card. i bought it with my own money.”
his eyebrows furrow, “your own money being my money.”
you forget for a second that he truly believes the money he makes is yours. you take his hands and hold them in yours. “pope. my card. my bank. my money.”
silence for a few moments. he gets up off the bed, helping you up as well. “okay. let’s go to dinner.”
he’s quiet and distant the entire time. he keeps his manners, of course. he pulls your chair out for you, he listens to you as you speak, holds your bag for you when you get too overwhelmed with it. but he’s clearly upset.
the car ride back to his place is silent, only a soft tune being played on the radio.
you’re the first to break the silence. “did I hurt your feelings?”
“no.” nothing else.
“okay… did i disrespect you in some sort of way?”
“no.”
you shake your head, feeling that frustration bubbling up in your chest. “okay do you want to tell me what’s wrong or are you going to keep pouting about it?”
the drive is completely silent until he parks in front of his home. he decides to tell the truth then, “you didn’t use my card.”
you still for a second before turning to look at him. “wait… you’re upset because i bought this bag with my own money?”
“i wish you would stop saying that. your own money? my money is yours.”
“that’s a really nice sentiment but it’s not—“
“it is true.” he insists.
you roll your eyes. you truly didn’t think that was the reason he was being so pissy. you thought your sometimes bad attitude got to him. “geez, pope. do you have a kink for me spending your money?” you fully expect him retort back with a snarky little comment, which is usually how your petty little arguments go.
silence.
you turn to him again. he’s looking away. his eyes are stuck on a bush outside the window. you move forward, trying to get a better look of his face. and when you catch the way his cheeks are a tinge of pink, you let out a laugh.
“oh my god! you do have a kink for it!” you can’t stop laughing.
he huffs, his blush deepening. “shut up. you’re kink-shaming right now.”
“dude, this is too good.” you’re cackling. doubling over in laughter.
he mumbles, embarrassed. “not your dude…” he gets out of the car, opening your car door for you and helping you out, despite being pouty.
once inside, he sits at the table, arms crossed over his chest and still pouting. you get ready for bed and come out to him in the same spot. you feel the guilt gnawing at you.
you easily slide on over to him, plopping down on his lap, arms around his neck and pressing kisses to his cheek. “give me your credit card.”
“what?” his hands instantly move to your waist, securing you.
“watch me online shop.” you hum, now pressing kisses to the corner of his lips. “that’ll turn you on, right?” he’s quiet. and then, he’s lifting you, “pope!” you laugh as he walks you to his bedroom, smacking your ass.
he gently puts you down, “say you’re sorry.”
you try to contain your laughter because he’s turned on. the tent in his jeans is tight, straining to pop out. “im sorry, my baby. should’ve used your money to buy the bag. gonna use all your money up from now on.”
he groans, shoving his face in the crook of his neck as he slides his jeans down, letting himself spring free. he strokes himself a few times before slipping your nightgown up. “fuck, keep going.”
your legs instantly latch around him, “didn’t spoil me enough for graduating.” a lie, he spoiled you plenty. “gonna need more from you. more bags. more shoes. a new laptop for work…”
the moan he releases as he slides into you is filthy and whiney. “anything!” he ruts into you, desperate for his release. “anything for you, fuck, baby, anything for my smart girl…”
and he meant it, because he does take you shopping the next day, and you do give him head when you’re back in the filled up car.
you will NOT catch reader being one of those “sitting in the car while my bf is at his big boy job🥺🥺”😭😭😭 she’s either WORKING or STUDYING in my works idc
i think we should discuss more soft jason, more lovey-dovey jason, more obsessed with his girlfriend jason, cutesy only soft in front of his girlfriend, adorable, kicking my feet against my bed jason, ... basically i need more jason todd....
do you understand how im feeling?
-🍨
i'm picking up what you're putting down alright! jason todd x gn!reader. short fluffy established relationship blurb. reader paints their nails and uses a vanity.
****
"This one is for rejuvenation," you say, sliding the sheet mask out of its packaging. "It has aloe vera and sea minerals."
"What the hell are sea minerals?" Jason asks as you smooth the mask onto his face.
"Dunno, but they're good for you. Stop moving your mouth."
You're atop him, legs straddling his thighs. Jason drums a silent pattern on your hip. You smooth the nose flap and his nose twitches. The flap curls out of place. You sigh.
"Dude."
"Tickles," he says, the word muffled from trying not to move the mask.
"Okay, I'm done. You can talk now."
"I feel rejuvenated already," Jason says, pink lips even pinker in contrast to the ghostly mask.
"You look rejuvenated to me," you say happily.
He grins. Jason always seems to smile more around you.
"So what're we doin' tonight? Besides putting sea minerals on my face."
"Um?" You point to your face, with its own mask. "Not just you. Soon, we'll both be rejuvenated."
"Sorry, sweetheart," Jason says, looking at you like you're the best thing on earth. "After we both get sea-mineralized, are we ordering in?"
"Yeah. I have a coupon for Vinnie's. Can I paint your nails?"
"Sure, baby."
"Yippee!" You leap off the couch and sprint to your and Jason's shared room. You dig through the vanity Jason hand-built and painted for your birthday last year. It's Robin's egg blue, with white accents. He admitted shyly, later, that he'd built it in the hopes that it'd make you want to move in permanently with him.
So a bribe? you'd asked, grinning.
I like to think of it as motivation.
And, well, it worked. You've been living together for almost a year now.
You take out the dark red, almost black polish and return, jumping on the couch. Jason's on the phone, ordering pizza. He gives you his left hand and you tuck yourself against him, opening the polish and starting to paint his nails with the focus of a brain surgeon.
"Uh-huh, yeah, for delivery. Twenty minutes? Alright, thanks." He hangs up. "Ooh, my favorite."
"You better believe it, handsome. Only the best for my favorite boyfriend."
"Favorite?"
You shrug. "Yeah. Don't tell the others."
Jason gently takes the polish and sets it on the coffee table. You're confused—you've only painted two fingers.
"What're you—"
He cuts you off by grabbing your waist with his unpainted hand, pulling you against him and kissing your neck. You squeal in laughter, grasping at his shoulders.
"Jason!"
"I'll show you favorite," he says, pressing ticklish kisses down your throat. He has his painted hand in the air, away from his antics, because he knows you'll pout if the polish gets messed up.
"Uncle, uncle! Please." You pant, delighted, as Jason lets up. You're lying on his lap, and he pulls you in for a real kiss. You pull away from his mouth enough to say, "You know you're the only one for me, Jay."
He hums and kisses you again, rubbing your shoulder. You slacken in his grip, running your fingers through his hair. You twirl one of the silver curls around your finger.
"Much better," Jason says when you break for air.
"I'd never upset my meal ticket," you say, gleeful when he rolls his eyes.
"You're on thin ice, baby."
You lean in for another kiss, ready to make it up to him.
hi, i just wanted to say i'm loving the prince!james au and so so excited to see how you end it! much love <3
Thank you angel <3
cw: muggle au, arranged marriage, discussion of war
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
poly!marauders x princess!reader ♡ 1.6k words
You wonder if you should be packing. It wouldn’t take long; you didn’t come to Gryffindor with much. Maybe the prospect of how simple it would be to leave is what keeps you still, sat stiffly on your bed while James paces the room from end to end.
You feel half frantic, twitchy, like you really should be doing something but you’re afraid to do anything at all. To move seems dangerous, which you know is a silly thought. The danger has passed, now. The war is ending. You wish your feelings about all that entails weren’t so complicated as they are.
“Have you eaten?” Remus asks Sirius quietly. The other boy is leant on the wall across from your bed with his jaw deadbolted shut, and what is perhaps meant to be a private conversation carries through the too-quiet room.
“Not yet,” says Sirius.
“We can go see what they have in the kitchen…”
“I’m good.”
That’s it. Where James is wearing a trench into the floor and Remus is in the unusual position of doing most of the talking, Sirius seems to have shut down. The mood has changed from their joy at telling you the news about Riddle, but you can’t fully make out its new direction.
“James?” Remus tries.
James stops. “Hm?”
Remus looks slightly pained, but it doesn’t wear away his fondness. “Lunch?”
“Oh.” James blinks. “Right, yeah. Maybe in a bit? You both ate, didn’t you? Sirius, you didn’t have breakfast, are you—”
“I’m good,” Sirius says again.
You feel your eyes darting about like a tennis match, trying to understand what they’re each thinking. It reminds you of how most interactions went when you first came to Gryffindor, and you don’t like it. You thought you were done with feeling on the outside.
When your analysis returns to Remus, sitting next to you on the bed, he’s waiting for you. “What are you thinking?” he asks, gently.
You swallow, shrugging helplessly. There’s less than a meter between you, but Remus feels so much farther away than he did at your picnic an hour ago. “I guess…I should talk to my family’s courtiers.” You look at James. “Have your parents heard anything?”
James shakes his head. “Not that they’ve told me.”
“What do they want me to do?”
“I…” James looks distraught, and also like he’s trying to hide it (James is not a very good actor). “I think it matters more what you want to do. They only want us to be happy.”
It’s the sort of thing you wouldn’t have believed a few months ago; anyone involved in politics always has an opinion, a directive, a motive, no matter how they try to soften it with diplomacy. If individual happiness was prioritized over the good of the people, things would fall apart. But you know Monty and Effie mean it as more than a platitude. They really will go along with whatever you choose to do.
“Would breaking off the engagement now have any repercussions for Gryffindor or Peleria?” Remus asks.
James frowns, tilting his head from side to side. “Some, yeah. But without the war, they wouldn’t be anything terrible.”
You nod along. “Things could go back to the way they were.”
You watch them each carefully as you say it. You don’t know what you’re looking for—agreement, displeasure, relief.
“Do you think you might visit?” asks James.
You press your lips into a smile. “If you’ll have me.”
His eyes go melty soft. Your heart mushes similarly. “Of course, lovely. We’ll have you as often as we can get you.”
“Is that what you want?” Remus asks tentatively. “For things to go back to how they were?”
You ignore a twinge of revolt in your gut. “What do you want?” you counter.
“I think that this should be your decision.”
“Why?” you ask. “It affects all of us.”
Your tone reveals more frustration than you mean for it to. Since your rather ungraceful fainting incident and the subsequent monumental shift in how each of the boys act around you, they haven’t let you feel alone in this for a second. You’re not going to let them abandon you now.
After everything, all the chaos and uncertainty of the last few months, you finally feel this quiet, steady warmth between you, an ember that might grow into something new if you let it. As grateful as you are that the war is over—because you are, that part isn’t complicated at all—you’re a bit disappointed that it means this new warmth you were only beginning to acquaint yourself with will likely fizzle out.
“But it affects you and James the most,” Remus reasons. He casts a look to the side. “James, what are you thinking?”
James, pacing again, puffs out his cheeks with a big breath. “It just feels like everything has happened so quickly,” he confesses.
“It was always going to.” Remus sounds almost solemn. “Even with the long engagement, you’d need to get married soon.”
“That was too fast, too.” James weaves around your vanity chair like slowing for even a moment is out of the question. Sirius tracks him silently with his eyes. “It was always a tactical marriage. We didn’t have time to really—you know.”
You nod, drawing your knees close. “Better to end it quickly than go through with something that was always going to be premature,” you say.
James is nodding, nodding, nodding, but his expression is still all pinched tight.
You turn to Sirius. He’s already watching you, and his gaze seems to catch and hold yours in that way that he does, like a challenge.
“Sirius,” you say.
He makes a short humming sound.
“You’re being so quiet,” you say, rather quietly yourself. Insecurity weaves itself through the fibers of your voice.
Sirius sighs and drops his head, fingers pressing into his browbone. “I’m trying not to be selfish.”
You brace yourself. “What would you say if you were?”
He shakes his head. “Like Remus said. This is your choice.”
“It’s not just mine,” you say stubbornly. “I want to know what you all think.” You hesitate. There are some things you might feel better not knowing, but you’ve never truly thought ignorance was bliss. If you did, things might have gone very differently for you here. “Would it make things easier for you if I wasn’t here?”
Sirius’ hand falls away, his brows hooking. “No.” The word sounds dragged out of him, rough and fast. “I want you to stay here.”
It shouldn’t surprise you. Sirius has been possibly the most plain about his feelings of all of you—though that may be partly because the contrast after he admitted them has been so stark. You keep expecting him to go back on it. For all of them to, honestly. Now would be the opportunity to admit that they only pitied you, that they’ve been spending time with you out of kindness and a sense of obligation, that your presence here causes more turmoil than anything else.
But Remus and James don’t disagree with him. James looks relieved; Remus watchful. Neither of them argue.
That new warmth flares between you.
“I think we all like having you nearby,” Remus says after a while, “but we know how much you’ve missed home.”
Your throat contracts. “If I went back, I think I’d miss you more.”
James’ whole face lights with hope. “You don’t have to go,” he says. “You could stay here, and just visit home when you want. We could go with you.”
“Would that even be possible?” you ask.
“Anything’s possible,” James says easily. A true child of Gryffindor, all confidence and determination. “We could split our time, if we wanted to. Obviously, I have to be here some of the time, and so does Sirius, but—”
“Alright,” Remus quiets him, a sweet curve at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
James holds his hands up. You feel your own mouth tug. When your eyes wander, Sirius finds them.
“You still haven’t said what you want,” he says.
You feel yourself shrink under three curious stares. In truth, there hasn’t been a question of what you want for a long time. Only whether you can have it. “I don’t want to get married,” you say. Your gaze goes to James, holding back the apology on your tongue. “It’s too fast, and it would never not be political. And we wouldn’t be able to…it couldn’t be all of us.”
“I’m not ready either,” James agrees. “I could do it, if we had to—and I—I didn’t mind that it was you, you know.” Heat rises to your face, and his cheeks darken too. “But if we don’t have to, I’d like to slow things down.”
“Could we do that?” you ask. “If I stayed here?”
“You always seem to forget that you’re royalty,” says Sirius, apparently feeling well enough to tease now. “We can do whatever we want, gorgeous. Is that what you want?”
You do. You want to explore Gryffindor on your own terms, knowing Peleria is safe and open to you when you want it. You want to get to know James, and Sirius, and Remus, without the need to solidify an alliance like a noose tightening around you. You want to see summer in this place, and to develop an earnest friendship with Lily and Marlene, and to let the warmth between you grow and grow and grow.
“I want to stay,” you say.
Remus’ eyes are flickering with warmth, too. “Then you should stay.”
Your first beginning in Gryffindor was forced. A stiff dress, a foreign home, a myriad of strangers who seemed to both pity and distrust you. A rough tumble into love, with a prince with a nice smile and a guard with a quick tongue and a seneschal who spoke gentleness into every breath. An engagement you didn’t know you weren't allowed to want. A war. A cruelly good kiss.
Summary: When someone tries breaking into your apartment in the middle of the night, you call your brother to send one of his friends for help. What you don’t expect is to slowly fall for the vigilante who came to your aid.
Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem(West)!Reader
Word Count: 9.7k
Content Warning: Insomniac reader, Reader is Wally West’s sister (not a speedster), mutual pining, Reader gets robbed, tension, angst with happy ending?, talks about Frankenstein, typical gothatm violence, maybe ooc, second person, no use of y/n
A/N: This is for this Request by @jlfswallflower i'm so so so sorry it took me so long to get to. thank you for letting me make some changes last minute as well, you are such a sweetheart!!! Fun fact this is my longest Jason fic yet i hope you enjoy my lovelies
•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•
“It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my to-”
The shake of your doorknob sobers you completely. No longer immersed in the book, but staring doom in the face. You weren’t expecting anyone. No one was supposed to be here, not at this time anyway. It was a little after one in the morning, which only meant one thing in Gotham.
Trouble.
The handle on your front door kept jangling, and you could hear the lot of them outside messing with the lock. Practically shooting off the sage couch, you dart toward your bedroom. The door shuts behind you as quickly and quietly as possible. Flipping the silver notch to lock you inside, adrenaline starts pumping through your veins. Your eyes are frantically examining all your furniture to fins the most feasible piece to block the door. In a desperate attempt at survival, you muster all the strength you can manage at 1 a.m. to push your dresser.
The dresser was ancient and colored with a faded spruce stain. Your brother had gifted it to you as one of his legendary Facebook marketplace finds.
He loved to play this game to see how much he could lowball the sellers and get away with it. After each buy, he would call you to tell you how much he managed to get discounted off. You could always hear the smirk in his voice, proud of himself and his bargaining skills. As you reminisce on the memory while pathetically shoving the dresser, you think of him.
This is exactly why he didn’t want you to get your masters at GothamU.
There was a whispering voice in your head that wanted to put off telling him about this as long as you could. You knew exactly what the phone call would sound like. The first thing he would do would be to tell you “I told you so” and the next would be him packing your bags to move you back to Central City.
The ricochet of your front door off the wall halts you in your tracks. The vibrations of the insane force are felt through the foundations of your shitty apartment. You say a silent prayer to any deity listening when you finally manage to get your dresser to block some of the door. Your lamp next to the couch was still on and you hope their stupid enough to think that you didn’t really acre about your electric bill.
It’s only a matter of time until they realize that someone was in fact home.
Your phone lights up from your nightstand with a notification from your brother highlighting the lockscreen. That development springs you into action, finally making an attempt to ask for help. From what you could hear, there were about three of them out there. The drawers in your kitchen were being pulled off the rails, cabinets were being thrown open, books were being fanned out for extra cash.
It was a lost cause really, you were a broke master’s student who worked at the campus bookstore. They weren’t going to find much except frozen meals and too many annotations in between pages.
Tip-toeing to your phone, you hear them outside talking to themselves. What saves you is that you have a million little containers and trinkets that they’ll busy themselves with. It’ll take them at least ten minutes to rifle through and guess how valuable each of them are.
“Of course” you can’t help but mumble with shaking hands when you see the notification from him. Only Wally West would be up at 12:14 a.m. (Central City time) sending you an Instagram reel of Zuko in the leaked Avatar movie with a message that says “I can take him.”
I’ll take him in between the legs, you think to yourself as the edit plays.
Your guardian angel must have been tired of working overtime because something shatters in your kitchen, which catalyzes your self-preservation to kick in again. In spite of the fact you’re about to drop the phone with how much you’re shaking, your fingers manage to type out a message.
As much as I’d love to discuss how you cannot in fact “take him” I need your help
I totally can thank you very much
But what’s up?
Someone broke into my apartment and I’m hiding out in my room
WHAT!?!?!?!
He instantly starts calling you. In any other circumstance an Instagram call would make you laugh, but right now you hit the decline button as fast as you can. The second it ends, another call comes through and you decline that one too.
Pick up the phone right now.
I can’t
They’ll hear me talking
Can you call 911 for me?
I mean I would love too but they’re not going to do anything
You’re in GOTHAM.
They’re probably dealing with a psychotic lion or something.
Your head falls back after reading the text. He’s not exactly wrong, but a very small part of you is trying to overpower the stressed one and stay calm. Tears are threatening your water line from terror, you’re positive that your heart is about to beat out of your chest. One of them keeps walking past the door as they tear apart your bookshelf and entertainment center, each footstep feels like a countdown.
You stare at your door with your heart in your throat when another text form Wally comes through.
I just texted Dick, someone’s going to be there soon
For now go to your bathroom and barricade yourself inside
This time when I call, you ARE going to PICK UP and sit with me in silence until someone gets there okay?
You barely finish reading the text when the green and red buttons appear on the screen again.
Instantly, your fingers go to the side of the phone to lower the volume. The only sound coming from either of you are heavy anxious breaths.
If it wasn’t for the no meta rule, you know he would already be halfway here. He’d threatened to break it multiple times on the grounds of you just having a bad day. You knew him not being here right now with this absolute disaster happening was killing him.
The quiet padding of your feet on the way to your bathroom sounded like bombs dropping to your ears.
Realistically, you knew they couldn’t hear it, but all your senses were at 110%. Every noise that came from outside of your bedroom felt like a crescendo to the climax of your worst nightmare. In a really strange and fucked up way, you were lucky. You’d been living in Gotham for a year and a half without having any real problems. It was about time to pay the piper.
Entering the bathroom, you delicately place your phone on the counter and shut the door behind you. The lights remain off while you slide down the wall. The timer of your call with Wally was the only source of light in the claustrophobic wash room. When it hits 2:07, they start trying your bedroom door. Wally hears it, the hitch in his breath obvious even on the lowest volume setting.
It’s going to be okay, I promise. They’ll be there soon.
His text only causes the tears to fall faster on your face. You just wanted tonight to be over.
Then you hear it.
The shatter of your living room window. It’s followed by a heavy set of footsteps that land on the floor. A few punches are thrown, some gunshots, and then you count three bodies falling to the floor.
The ringing in your ear is louder than you’re comfortable with and Wally speaks for the first time.
“Are you okay?”
It’s a miracle that you heard or even understood him. The broken speaker of your phone paired with his small whisper was almost impossible to make out.
“I think.” Is all you can say back.
Then there are three knock on your bedroom door that sends you flying to your feet. Phone in one hand and white-knuckling the counter with the other, every limb is shaking and your breathing hadn’t been coming out evenly for minutes. The room is spinning, and the aftershock is starting to sink in.
“Hey it’s me,” the voice comes out slightly awkward and you freeze. Recognition travels with a chill down your spine. “I took care of the them, you uh- you can come out now.”
There was like a million of the bats and bat-adjacent vigilantes in Gotham, and they sent him. Deep down when you heard the gunshots, you knew who it was. There was only one vigilante in that family that dared to go against the Batman’s gun ban. You were hoping that fate was going to give you a break, but that didn’t seem like it was in the cards tonight.
Once upon a time, this would’ve had relief washing over your body.
Wally used to bring you to some of the get togethers that the Titans held when you were younger. Then, thinking like a true older brother, Dick used to drag Jason along with him.
Safe to say, you both became fast friends.
You would talk about everything that came to your mind. Books, games, shoes, stuff going on in your lives, anything you could think of. Sometimes when you both got bored, you would sneak away to play video games in Wally’s room at the tower. Jason would always help you beat the levels you were stuck on in your latest save.
But, nothing perfect lasts forever.
Everything dampened when he died. It was awful to put it plainly. When he came back, it was almost worse. He changed so drastically, you almost didn’t believe that this was the same boy who gave you a forty five minute rant on why Jo was never meant for Laurie.
You couldn’t blame him for what he became, the experience was horrifyingly unique. Yet, you don’t think you’ll ever forget the last time you spoke.
It was a stupid argument in hindsight.
Dick had come to you one night, begging for you to try to get through to him. Apparently they all had given their best efforts into attempting to talk to him, and you were the last line of offense.
That was a year and a half ago.
A hesitant call of your name through the door takes you out of the memory flashing behind your eyes.
“Yeah,” your voice squeaks out with a cringe following. You didn’t realize how small it was going to sound. “I-I’ll be out, just give me a sec.”
Turning back to your phone, your throat bobs with a heavy swallow. “I’m all good Wall,” there’s a sound of relief coming through the speakers. It was almost as if he had been holding his breath for the entire three minutes of the phone call.
“Who’s with you?” The question was immediate. He heard the gunshots, he knew as well as you did who was here.
“Um,” your eyes dart up from his horrific contact photo to the door and then back down to the picture again, “Jason’s here.”
The silence from the other end of the phone was palpable. Wally knew how bad the last argument you and Jason had stung. He was the one who sat on the phone with you after. Blinking back the emotions, you steel yourself for what’s awaiting in your apartment.
You’re a big girl, you can handle this. You’ve handled worse than a shitty ex-best friend.
“I’m going to hang up now, okay?” Your hands are starting to shake again. “I gotta figure out how bad the damage is, I’ll text you with the updates.”
He could hear the words rushing to leave your mouth, a pathetic attempt at convincing yourself this was fine.
“Do you want me to come? I will, give me like ten minutes- fifteen tops, and I’ll be there. All you have to do is ask.”
You knew he would do it too, the reassurance was unnecessary. The gravity in his tone almost made you fall into the temptation. There was nothing you wanted more right now than for your brother to be here. He would know how to handle this. He would know how to wrangle Gotham vigilante’s and tell them to go to Hell.
Your strive for independence was going to be the death of you one day.
“I think I’m okay for now, but I’ll call if I need backup.”
“Okay,” a hint of defeat is mixed in with the sigh. “Well I doubt I’ll be sleeping much after this, so please just text me with what ends up happening.”
“I promise,” and because you know he’ll lose his mind all night you ask him for a different type of help. “If you want to make yourself useful, go back to scrolling on reels and send me some that I can watch later.”
“Aye Aye boss,” You can almost hear his smug grin when he gets a snort out of you. “I love you, I’ll talk to you later.”
“I love you too Wally.” When the line goes dead you hold the phone to your chest for a moment. Even with the levels of annoying you’re sure only Wally could reach, you truly could not have asked for a better brother. He always dropped whatever he was doing if you needed him.
Savoring the last moment of peace you had from the rest of the world, you lean against the counter and try to catch your breath. You were going to have to confront the disaster that was your apartment. The devil on your shoulder was contemplating to just leave it for tomorrow, but the angel reminded you that your book was out there.
Mustering up the final ounces of courage left in your stomach, you unlock the door to the bathroom. Thankfully the sanctuary that was your bedroom remained untouched, except for the dresser propped against your door.
The dresser was heavier than you remember it being a few minutes ago. Adrenaline strength truly unlocks a version of potential you didn’t know you had. The effort it takes to give you a clearing, leaves red imprints of the design on your palms. Your hand hovers over the doorknob, hesitation plain on your fingers. You were going to have to see him, you were going to have to confront him after seventeen months of no contact.
Left hand at your side, you crack each knuckle with your thumb before opening the door. Not letting yourself think too hard, it swings wide open. And there he is.
He was on one knee flipping the coffee table back over. His hands were filled with a bunch of the trinkets that made their home on it. When he hears the door open, his head whips in your direction. The air in the room depletes when the white slits of the mask meet your eyes. Both of you frozen, staring at each other with a decade of history lingering in a glance.
Uncomfortable with the silence, you start cracking the knuckles of your right hand.
You might as well have activated a sleeper agent with the movement. He suddenly remembers where he is, and shoots to his feet. Carefully cupping his hands, he moves to drop your belongings back on the table.
Peeling your eyes off his devastatingly gorgeous frame, you find the three robbers tied together hanging off your fire escape.
“I’m waiting on Dick.” His voice is gravelly and a bit panicked. In the back of your mind, you note that he turned off the modulator. “He’s on his way to pick them up and take them to the station.”
You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you hum in reply.
Examining your apartment, it wasn’t as bad as you expected. Despite the few broken pieces of decor, the glass littered all over your living room from where Jason made his dramatically grand entrance, and your stuff being thrown everywhere, you were pretty lucky.
Noticing the way your eyes caught on the glimmering pieces of glass off the floor, he starts anxiously adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.
“I’m sorry about the window.” He’s rolled and unrolled the cuff of his left sleeve three times by the time he manages to speal. “I was in a rush and it seemed the fastest way in, I’ll pay for someone to fix it tomorrow.”
“I would hope so.” The answer came out like a reflex. You bite back the grimace fighting your features. You hadn’t even thanked him for the help before pouring gasoline on the fire.
He doesn’t say anything, yet his shoulders tense. Somewhere deep in places his pride won’t let him admit, he knew he deserved it, and that was enough of a punishment for you. He had to live with himself at the end of the day, what more could you ask for?
A clang on your fire escape steals your attention. Next thing you know, you’re being tackled in a bone crushing hug. If the blur of blue and black spandex didn’t’ give it away, the hints of Tom Ford cologne certainly did.
The hug is merely a second long before he pulls back and holds you at your shoulders.
“Good to see that you’re doing alright kid.” A grin is pulling at his face, but you can see the tension in his build. Wally had trusted Dick with this- with his family. That wasn’t an easy thing for anyone to do. He wouldn’t have forgiven himself if something happened.
“Yeah I’m fine,” You try to laugh but it comes out weak. “I was overdue on my Gotham initiation anyway.”
The dominos mask hides it, but by the subtle shake of his head you can tell there was an eyeroll that went along with it.
He lets go of your shoulders and you look back at the dump that was now your apartment. Jason and Dick hold each other’s gazes silently. They were speaking in the silence with movements you pretended to ignore.
You’re scratching your eyebrow when Dick starts, “Hey um, where are you staying tonight?”
Hand falling from your face, you turn to him. “What do you mean?”
Confused, he looks from you to Jason, then back to you.
“You know you can’t stay here for a few days right?” His head cocks to the side. “The cops have to come, investigate, tape it off, and we need to get someone to fix your window.”
Your eyelids blink slowly. You weren’t tired by any means, but tonight just got a hell of a lot longer. None of your friends were going to be awake and you would rather sleep under the bridge than try a hotel in Gotham you could afford.
“Fuck.” The curse barely audible when it leaves falls off your tongue.
“I mean,” Dick starts with a shrug of the shoulders. “You’re more than welcome to stay at the manor. Bruce won’t mind”
Jason’s neck snaps to Dick, the white slits of the hood widen a bit before narrowing again.
“I mean this with the upmost respect.” Your hand lays flat against your heart. “I would rather chew rocks.”
You weren’t sure how long you would need to try and find somewhere to stay, but you wanted to avoid the manor at all costs. You’d had the luxury of visiting a few times, but it always felt awkward. It was too big for you, and you really didn’t want to feel like an imposition.
Dick and Jason both snort at your reply. Both of them knew how you felt about the manor. It was breath taking, but it wasn’t somewhere you wanted to sleep in, especially for multiple nights.
“I’ll figure something out,” you sound unsure even to yourself. “I’ll just find some couches to surf for a while.”
“Yeah no, try again West.” Jason finally decides to speak for the first time since his brother’s arrival.
Your neck snaps in his direction and a fire lights behind your eyes, daring him to repeat himself. He had no right to tell you what you could, and couldn’t do. His opinions meant jack shit to you.
“Sorry kiddo,” Dick’s domino mask expands a miniscule amount, but still enough to notice. He looks like he’s been tasked to negotiate the terms of a peace treaty before World War 3 breaks out. “Wally entrusted us with your safety, which means we have to know that where you’re staying is at least somewhat protected.”
Understanding dawns on you in a cruel shiver up your spine. The second option about to be presented to you was dangling like a rotten carrot on a stick.
“It’s the manor or Jason’s place.”
Your jaw drops and you meet the latter’s gaze. The damn mask betraying no emotion, you however, don’t miss the little fidget of his foot. Your eyes narrow in between the boys.
“So what? My choices are the fourth or fifth circle of Hell?”
“C’mon the manor’s not that bad.” Dick tries to reason with you.
“Jason’s place is.”
He doesn’t deny it. No one does.
You should’ve chosen the manor, every nerve in your body was telling you that was the reasonable choice. Dick would be there for a few days, there was other life there. Yet, It was just too much and it was too far. Your commute to class would double and you liked your alone time too much to give it up.
Swallowing your pride, you turn to the boy you longer knew with a deadpan. “When do we leave?”
•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•
Jason’s apartment was surprisingly clean.
His apartment was embracing the minimalist aesthetic. He had never been one for many material goods because of how he was raised. That never changed, even after all the years he lived with Bruce.
The living room, where you were currently sitting, had barely anything inhabiting the space. The couch was dark and worn with some cracks in the leather, the entertainment center was a simple stand made of oak with a glass cabinet on the bottom, the TV was rested on top of it, a floor lamp next to the couch, and the last piece was by far the liveliest- his bookshelf.
It took up about half the wall. Every shelf littered with different genres. It was almost too personal to examine. Some books you recognized and some you didn’t. An odd wave of sadness washes over you when you see some books you’d never heard him talk about. It was still strange to you on some days that you were no longer in each other’s lives.
You knew he was out and about in Gotham, but your paths never crossed. Whether that was by design or some level of mercy, you never knew.
He was on the news at least once a week. It felt like cheating no contact, but you couldn’t help yourself. It was the one indulgence you allowed yourself, to know that he was still alive and working with the bats. This way you didn’t feel guilty about holding the grudge for as long as you did.
You’d been staring at the same page for fifteen minutes. The first line of the chapter was permanently engraved in your mind because of how many times you’d read it.
“Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant did I not extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly bestowed?”
For your Women in Literature class, you chose Frankenstein as the novel you were going to be analyzing in your paper. The assignment was to find a topic from a book and write fifteen pages about it in MLA format. It was an interesting class, but fifteen pages felt like overkill, it was double-spaced at the very least.
This was your third reread of the book this semester.
The first read was to familiarize yourself with the novel, the second was to piece together the paper, and this one was to find the evidence after you’d started the rough draft. It felt fitting that you were using a green highlighter for the evidence.
Sleep never came easy to you, and you had tried essentially everything. All the medicines, the teas, a warm glass of milk, counting sheep, all of it. At one point your doctors and family members suggested reading, which was probably the worst thing they could’ve said.
The last suggestion ended up with you staying awake all night with a book in hand.
Which is exactly what you were doing now. It was around four in the morning, Jason had brought you back to his apartment and then went back on patrol. He still hadn’t returned, but you weren’t complaining.
The less you had to interact with him the better.
In a pathetic attempt to finally turn the page, you start to read again. Making it to the third sentence on the page, you start to finally get immersed in the story again when-
The window slides open.
Your hands drop the book in shock and it clatters on the floor. Alarmed, Jason turns to you already prepared for a fight, forgetting that you were staying with him.
“What’re you doing awake?” He sounds truly baffled that you hadn’t managed to fall asleep. His hands move to the back of his mask and there’s a quiet hissing sound before it unlatches. He examines it for a second, checking for damage. Then his fingers slowly uncurl from the edge and it falls to the floor.
“I couldn’t sleep.” You answer with a bite that didn’t fit your current state. You had stolen one of his mugs and warmed up some milk, bundled in a blanket on the couch, and had been reading under the lamp. “What the hell is it with you and the damn window?”
“It’s my place, I can use whatever entrance I want.” He turns to you with an annoyed look now. Your attitude seemed to finally start pricking at him. “I also didn’t think you’d be waiting up on me.”
“I wasn’t waiting up on you.” The answer comes out way too defensive for your liking.
“Whatever you wanna tell yourself sweetheart,” he mumbles and you scoff at him. You were starting to miss the quiet Jason that found you in your apartment.
He bends down to pick up your copy of Frankenstein and flips it around in his hands a few times. Looking back up at you, he raises a brow and you cross your arms.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs and tosses the book back in your lap.
“You obviously got something you wanna say Todd.” Rolling your eyes, you flick your left hand at him. “Go on, spit it out.”
It’s his turn to roll his eyes at you and you want to pluck them out of their eye sockets. “It’s nothing, I’m just surprised you’re reading Frankenstein.”
“Why? Because I’m ordinary, because I’m not one of you?”
The words land right where you wanted them too, right in the center of his chest. His lips thin and you can see the flex of his jaw as it tightens. It was a terrible echo of the fight you’d had all those months ago. It was petty, but you’d been waiting to throw it back in his face one day.
“No,” his voice comes out softer than you were expecting, and his throat bobs while he tries to swallow his guilt. “I was just surprised because you didn’t read classics before. You used to ask me about them because you didn’t like the writing style.”
“Yeah, well things change Jason.” Your gaze doesn’t waver from his, even when he momentarily breaks away to look at his boots in shame. “People change.”
He knew that better than anyone.
With that, he glances back up to you. All the tension, all the anger, it was bleeding into the few feet between you.
“I’m going to go shower.” The sentence sounds distant from his body, as if he was just speaking into a void instead of ending the conversation.
You nod and purse your lips before picking up your phone. He stays there for a moment watching you as you attempt to look busy with swiping through the weather and notes app.
When he finally steps away into his room to head to the bathroom, you throw your head back on the armrest of the couch.
This was going to be a long week.
Dread takes over you, when the shower shuts off. You’d been trying to watch the five million Instagram reels that Wally sent you, but there was no hope in being able to focus enough to really watch them. Your brain was hyper focused on where Jason was in the apartment. He left the door to his bedroom open, so you see him pass from the bathroom to his dresser in nothing but a towel.
Your eyes may have been on your phone, but your concentration was on him.
There’s some shuffling in his room, movement of blankets you think, before he appears in the doorframe. You refused to look up until he cleared his throat awkwardly.
By some miracle you were able to hide the way your breath caught in your throat. It was unfair how he could be such an asshole and still look like that. His hair was damp, curling at the ends in a beautiful frame of his face. He had thin rimmed glasses that hung on the bridge of his nose, highlighting the piercing green of his eyes. He was in plaid pajama pants that were a smidge too tight around his thighs and ass. There was a cotton white t-shirt on that left little room for imagination as it clung to his arms and torso from where he hadn’t dried himself off completely.
The crush you had on him at fourteen was slowly becoming more valid in this light, but you would rather die than admit that out loud.
The most damning part about the whole scene was what he was holding. Tucked under his left arm was a pillow and a blanket under the right one.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other before finally admitting. “The bed’s been made.”
Your eyebrows furrow together. What the hell was he on about? Did he think you were going to sleep in the bed with him.
“Um- okay? Do you want me to congratulate you for making your bed at the ripe age of- what 22? 23?” Your phone drops face down onto the blanket you were covering yourself with. “I mean I know Alfred used to make it for you. I’m not sure how big of a feat this is.”
“I’m 23.” His expression falls to an unimpressed expression. He licks his lips slowly for a moment as if he’s using it to ground himself, and you hate that you catch it. You were learning things you didn’t want to know about yourself tonight. When his eyes shut in that annoyed manner and his tongue swept across his lower lip, the way your stomach coiled terrified you.
“I’ve made my bed before West,” The heat in your stomach only intensified at him calling you by your last name, leading your heart to sink a second later. “I was telling you, so you could get in it.”
“And why would I do that?”
His eyebrow is mirroring yours now, raised with confusion at a lack of communication. “Because I’m sleeping on the couch.”
“Why are you sleeping on the couch?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
You blink once, twice, then, “this is your place, you remember that right?”
Frustrated with the fact you would do anything just to fight him, he tosses the blanket and pillow to the unoccupied side of the couch.
“Oh my god-” He runs a hand through his hair and your eyes linger on every line of every muscle in his bicep. Thankfully, you manage to break away from the distraction before he realizes. “I’m trying to be nice and give you the bed. Did you think I was going to offer you a place to stay and make you sleep on this shitty couch?”
“The couch isn’t shitty.”
His hand drops from his hair, and while he doesn’t say it, you can hear the deadpanned “really?” that he was defiantly thinking.
The couch was old and thoroughly used. You could feel every spring in it on the bone of your ass, the cushion was flat, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the type of sofa that would be at your grandparent house because they refused to throw it out. You’d been subjected to worse sleeping arrangements than Jason’s thrift find.
“It’s not that bad Jason.”
“I wouldn’t even subject Tim to sleeping on this couch.”
That earns him a snort. He seems to celebrate the small win as something like a bridge between you two. Noticing the crease disappearing in his eyebrows and his shoulder relaxing, you catch yourself. It was always too easy for Jason to undo you, he knew the exact weak points to hit in order to break down your walls.
It flipped a switch in you, immediately tensing up again, and he noticed. He always did. He gives up trying to fight you on getting to the bed and takes his place on the other end of the couch.
“What’re you doing…?” The sentence is dragged out of you, exhaustion from the day slowly overtaking the anxiety that was keeping you up.
“Putting on the TV.” He said it so simply while picking up the remote from the coffee table, it was as if this was normal for the both of you.
“Why?” The question escapes you before you can swallow it. A flush creeps over your face, suddenly self-aware of all the questions you’d been asking.
He doesn’t seem to notice the pink now dusting the tips of your ears- well, if he does he doesn’t comment on it. He only shrugs and logs into Dick’s streaming services that he has a profile on. “It helps me unwind after the night. Having something on in the background distracts me enough that it makes it easier to fall asleep.”
He starts scrolling through his account while you nod at his response.
“Jason?”
“Mhm.”
“Why is Sex and the City in your recently watched?”
His cheeks deepen to a color dangerously similar to the hood he dons every night, his freckles disappearing under the blush. He coughs to hide the fluster and pushes his glasses back up his nose.
“It was part of a deal I made with Steph,” he mumbles, skipping right over it. “When I started talking to them all again, she made me start watching it with her. Every Friday night I would come over after patrol and watch two episodes together. It was nicknamed as my “anger management” work for me to try and survive two episodes without getting frustrated with one of them.”
“Uh huh,” every thing you learned about his new life was more shocking than the last. “And how’d that go?”
“About as well as you’d expect.”
Who was this and what did they do with Jason Todd.
“That doesn’t explain why it’s still in your recently watched, though. You said you watched this with Steph, why are you on season three on your profile?”
He grumbles something unintelligible while looking through the other show options he has.
“Objectively… it’s an okay show.”
It takes all your strength not to break out in a laugh. “Just okay?”
He hears you smothering the giggle and meets your gaze. Despite his face drowning in pink, he still puts on a brave face. “I put it on after patrol sometimes. Is that what you wanted to hear? It doesn’t matter what fucked shit is happening to me, Carrie somehow always manages to take the cake in the shit show competition.”
“Well then, don’t let me stop you from your routine.”
His lips press together when the words leave your mouth. “I’ll pass thanks.”
“Why?” Your response came out more lighthearted than you’d planned on. This situation felt like an old normal you were no longer familiar with.
“You’re laughing at me that’s why.”
“I’m going to laugh either way.” You tease. “Might as well commit to the bit now.”
He stares at you for a few seconds. You don’t think anything of it, but he’s drinking in this version of you. A version that he thought no longer existed anymore. The version of you that trusted him.
He knows it’s not completely there, but this brought him hope. He didn’t think you were going to be doing much speaking through the week. Just this interaction was more than he could’ve dreamed for. He knew now that there was something he could work toward, that maybe there could be a light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe the sun would shine on you both again.
So, not taking advantage of the smile pulling at your lips, he turns on the show. He’d turn himself into the biggest idiot if it meant you would look at him like that again. He would embarrass himself in every lifetime, every universe, every dimension if it meant he got to witness your smile one more time.
And with Carrie talking about how Big is leaving his wife, your eye lids begin to flutter. Jason, acting as a protective presence opposite of you, allows you the comfort you’d been looking for. Finally, you’re able to drift into a world that wasn’t so haunted.
Once your breathing evened out, Jason acted quickly. He picked you up bridal style and carried you to the bed you seemed determined to not sleep in. He tucks you in with the blankets cascading around you. Standing up to his full height, he takes one last look at you and makes a promise.
A promise that he’ll work every day to become someone worth trusting again.
•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•
Most nights were like the first one.
You would come home from class or work and then make a home on the squeaky couch. Jason would be out and about running on errands or at the auto shop he picked shifts up at. Neither of you spoke much through the day, he left you to have your much needed alone time.
Then at night, after patrol he’d crawl in through the window and you would sit on the couch together. Some nights it was awkward with not much talking, other nights it was a weird in-between of what normal used to mean for you two.
You hadn’t forgotten the fight, it still stung most days.
You knew it wasn’t easy for him to come back. You weren’t so naïve. He had crawled out of his grave, was dunked in the Lazarus pit, fought in the league of assassins, and was still trying to find a place in the world.
It didn’t erase all the hurt however.
On the fourth night he looked at you over the rim of his glasses.
“How’d you like it?”
Glancing up from your laptop, your eyebrows threaded together.
“How’d I like what?”
“Frankenstein,” he closes the book he was reading, Six of Crows- a recommendation from you. “You finished it the other day right?”
“Oh,” It sounded dumb but you hadn’t realized he was paying that much attention. “Yeah, I did. That’s not the first time I’ve read it though.”
“Oh,” he repeats. The vowel comes out in a breath from his mouth. “What’d ya think of it?”
“I liked it, I always liked the story. I’m reading it for a paper I’m writing for my Women in Literature class.”
He nods, accepting the answer. Still wanting specifics on your opinion, he continues to press. “What’s the paper on?”
“Basically,” you start out ready to summarize the topic in the same way you did for everyone. “It’s about how Frankenstein can be interpreted as autobiographical for Mary Shelley, and an expression of her experience as a child bleeding into the challenges she faced with motherhood.”
Your voice was robotic as you explained it to him. Countless of your classmates had asked you about your paper trying to get an idea for their own, and they all dismissed it. Despite it being a Women in Literature’s class it was a required elective, and unfortunately, you got stuck with one too many men who pitied the unreliable narrator.
Jason, however, surprised you.
He cocked his head to the side, barely shifting it to a thirty degree angle. “I… I hadn’t thought about it that way.” His face contorted together, the small dimple on his chin making an appearance as he actually thought about your analysis. “I’ll admit I don’t know much about Mary Shelley, despite that her husband seemed to be somewhat decent since he let her publish the novel, which is more than you can say for most men those days.”
“Somewhat decent is pushing it,” your tone was laced with disgust. “He was a cheater. He cheated on his first wife with Mary, and then cheated on her with her cousin.”
Jason’s eyes were wide and he shut his mouth as fast as he could. Biting his cheeks, he’s making his best effort to avoid saying something that would inadvertently piss you off. he had just managed to get civil with you and he didn’t want to waste it.
“What parts of the book are you using for the paper?” He was giving it his best effort to redirect the conversation so you would be in a good mood again.
“It’s a lot of the inner monologue for both the Creature and Victor.” You shrugged, going back to typing the outline. “In spite of there not being a lot of notable female characters, with the exception of Elizabeth, it had a lot of underlying feminine issues. Victor essentially goes through postpartum depression and rejects the creature. A lot of people also believe that the Creature remains nameless because she had a miscarriage at the time and didn’t name the baby. So the creature can be seen kind of like the child she lost, but also as herself. Since Victor went through life with a rejected creator, essentially on his own, it can be loosely interpreted as a mirror of her childhood. Her mother died when she was young and she was generally depressed like the Creature.”
You hadn’t realized how long you had been rambling for until you finished. Your lips pressed together, almost biting them in the wake of your words running from you. Jason’s face remained a carefully crafted neutral expression, but he wasn’t as successful as he wanted to be. You didn’t miss the subtle twitches in his jaw, the way the last part cut deeper into him than anyone you knew.
Jason Todd who had an addict as a mother.
Jason Todd who gave his everything into being Robin.
Jason Todd who was failed by the world.
And in spite of it all, came back.
He could relate to this monster of a being more than anyone knew. So, when he listens to you talk about it as an innocent thing, as something who was a victim of the world that created him, something broke in him. Because now, there was hope you would look past all his wrongs, to see him as a man trying his best, instead of the monster fate was determined to make him to be.
He nods and by some miracle, makes more conversation with you about the paper and then you shift into a comfortable silence. A couple hours later when he’s transitioning to the nighttime routine, he takes you in.
He knew the week would be over soon. You would go back to your apartment and probably never look in his direction again. He wouldn’t take advantage of this- of you looking at him like the past few years hadn’t happened. That he hadn’t destroyed the only good thing in his life.
Eventually, Sex and the City comes on. It’s as if the universe finally took pity on him and gave him another miracle, letting you got comfortable in his presence. You started talking through the show, shitting on something- he wasn’t sure what.
His heart stopped when he heard the same scoff you used to do when you both watched Mission Impossible. He could practically hear the mumble, ingrained in his memory.
“There’s no way they would get away with this in real life.”
He didn’t move a muscle as you spoke, save for the few encouraging grunts or hums of agreement.
Jason Todd hated when people spoke through movies. He liked to sit, digest it, then talk about after, but he never minded it when it was you.
That’s actually how Dick discovered his crush on you when you were teenagers. He walked by his room and peaked in through the door frame. You were watching some romcom and you had spoken more dialogue through the scene then the film had in general. He was expecting Jason to blow a fuse, but it never came.
Dick teased him relentlessly for days.
He couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed, or care though. He would listen to you talk about anything and everything. Jason Todd would spend every night bleeding dry on the Gotham streets if it meant he got to come home and listen to the harmony of your voice. In those dying seconds he had left in that warehouse, his last thought was of every voicemail he’d never receive.
So now, here on this couch, he absorbs every word, carving it into stone. Every syllable from your mouth was like a recitation of the Bible to him, you were holy.
He didn’t think he’d ever be granted this luxury again. For now, he’ll take what he can get and maybe one day this could be his normal again.
•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•
As if the past three nights were on replay, you fell asleep before him. He sighs in relief when he notices your eyes close and breath even out. Like every other night, he takes you back to the bed even if you’re determined to take the couch.
The next few nights are also the same. Small domestic moments highlighted by his flickering light bulb and uncharacteristic pleasure of 90s chick flicks.
It had become habit to wait for him to come through the window. You usually were up until this time anyway. Whether it was nightmares, small anxieties that kept you up, or just your general inability to fall asleep, you were up at all hours of the night.
It was weird. You weren’t expecting to feel any comfort in this apartment, you were prepared for the exact opposite actually. Yet, in his stupidly charming Jason way, he managed to make you smile. He got you to laugh. He cooked enough for two even when you said you weren’t hungry.
It was surprisingly peaceful.
Until the last night.
All the butterflies dropped to the pit of your stomach in seconds when he barreled in through the window.
Covered in blood.
His breath was coming out heavy and jagged. He was flat on his ass, arms and legs spread out as if he was cosplaying a starfish who had just gone to war.
“Jason-”
You’re not exactly sure how the words leave your mouth. Laptop forgotten, shoved off your lap onto the couch. Your legs carry you just far enough until you can drop to your knees next to him.
“I-” he coughs. “I’m alright.” His arm wraps around his midsection trying to press on the giant wound that went straight down from his left pectoral to waistline.
“Alright?” He winces at your incredulous tone. “Jason please, you can barely hold your head up.”
The clock had barely struck two, which was never a good sign. If he ever came home early, it was due to some catastrophic injury.
“You shouldn’t be up at this time anyway.” He somehow manages to get out in one breath, wincing again when his hand presses on his torso.
Pointedly ignoring the comment, you help him to his feet. Silence overtakes you two when you help him to the bathroom. He sits on the lid of the toilet. His head leaning against the wall behind it.
Deep, slow breaths are coming from his nose and mouth. A part of you hopes that it’s to calm himself and that he’s not fighting for his consciousness.
That is not a phone call you want to be making tonight.
He sheds the jacket, then the shirt. You’re left with a bloody bruised Jason whose red in the face. He’s staring at you with no hope, ready for you to walk away, to decide that it’s too much.
It’s quiet when you step out the bathroom to the little half closet. It’s quiet when you grab a hand towel and walk back in. The only sound now echoing through the apartment being the water pouring from the faucet onto the grey towel when you wet it.
You finally break the silence, when you sit on the edge of the bathtub. The wound getting uglier by the second, your hand hovers it, right before contact.
“This is going to hurt.” It’s barely a whisper, yet in this room, it could’ve been a scream.
He chuckles and it’s half concerning, half reassuring. “Do your worst darlin’”
The nickname does something to you, and your face flushes.
The towel makes contact with his skin and he hisses. Your hand doesn’t move, letting him adjust to the sting. Then with a small nod, you continue the first cleaning. Once all the grime is scrubbed away, you find the first aid kit in the cabinet under the sink. The antiseptic is next, then the gauze, then the tape.
It took a little longer than thirty minutes to get him patched up. He’d have to see someone to get it properly looked at tomorrow, but this would be okay for now.
You couldn’t ignore the way he was looking at you the whole time. His eyes were swimming with guilt, pain, and something else you weren’t sure you wanted to name.
When you’re finally done, you stand to your full height. He’s looking up at you now from where he’s sitting. Both of you don’t pay mind to the biohazard on the floor next to you, just simply getting lost in each other again.
So much more was said in the quiet of the bathroom than in the past week you’ve been here. It feels like you’re seeing each other again for the first time in the fluorescent bathroom light. It was as if something clicked for you two.
“You’re not fourteen anymore you know that right?” You’re still looking in between his emerald green irises when you start to mumble. “You can’t jump straight into a fight and crash through my window expecting me to patch you up.”
His eyes are half lidded, squinting in disbelief, like he isn’t sure if this is real. That you’re here and teasing him.
“But you patch me up so well.” His voice is a low rumble, words meshing together out of delirium and exhaustion. “It’s also technically my window.”
A snort comes out of your nose along with a roll of your eyes.
“Let’s get you to bed big guy.” You start to hook his arm over your shoulder and he breaks into a sly smile.
“You think I’m big?”
“Yes.”
A small pout appears on his face when you won’t play this game with him. As much as you loved a good round of teasing, you were far too stressed to try and keep up with it right now. Your goal for the evening was to get him to the bed alive and make sure he doesn’t die.
Again.
After he lies down, you sit next to him on the bed with your legs crossed. He’s bound to fall asleep any moment now, but you want to keep his eyes open a little longer. It was part in worry and part selfishness. This way you could make sure he was actually okay by the time he drifted off while also getting to stare into the eyes that you used to feel like home.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology snaps you out of your daze. It’s the first coherent sentence he’s managed since busting through the window.
“It’s alright.” Your hands shake while you try to wave it off. “This is hardly the first time you’ve shown up beaten and bruised needing a cleanup.”
He came to you as much as he could to patch him up when you were younger. You’d had enough practice patching Wally up that he trusted you.
“No, I’m sorry about what I said to you that night.” Your veins turn to ice. “I was an asshole. You were trying to be nice and I pushed you away. That wasn’t fair to you.”
He takes a deep breath.
“I was a mess when I crawled out of my grave, the pit wasn’t a big help either. I was so angry with the world, upset that it brought me back.” His eyes lay on the popcorned roof now. “I was even more pissed that the world hadn’t changed while I was gone, it was still the same shit. I was horrible to everything and everyone. I… I lost my way.”
“You were the only good thing left here.” His eyes are back on you now. “When you came to see me, it scared me. It was like you saw right through me and everything I didn’t want to deal with was rising in my chest. I couldn’t handle it. So, I said some nasty shit to get you to go away. It was disgusting of me and it’s my biggest regret in this and every life I’ll ever live. I’ll never forgive myself for it. In a way, it felt easier to stay in that angry hole than to grow.”
You weren’t sure how you kept your breath even, it was like every time you managed some oxygen, it was robbed from you.
“Eventually though, I finally started getting help and wanted to get better. I’ve been trying every day to be better than who I was. To be someone who could be something. I don’t want you to think that these are excuses, they’re not.” His eyes are so conflicted, he can’t read your reaction and it’s terrifying him. “I just wanted you to know, I guess. If you never want to talk to me again, I completely understand. I’ll never bother you and I’ll leave you to your life.”
There’s a pause and your heart sinks.
“But if there’s a chance you’d be willing to try again, I had to give it a shot. I’ll spend every day making sure you know I’m serious about this. I’ll do it all this time. I’ll take you to dinner, I’ll give you your space, I’ll bake you cookies every Sunday night just like you always wanted.” His breathing pattern is broken and it shudders when he tries to breathe in.
You couldn’t bring yourself to speak. Your hands begun tracing the web of scars on his chest. A fingernail along the constellation he had over his heart. He shuddered, the intimacy of seeing him like this was almost as difficult as the vulnerability in the apology.
Eventually your hand lays flat on his chest, feeling the warmth. Your palm was right over his heart, it was beating a little quicker than normal but it was your favorite rhythm. His thumb and pointer finger wrap around your wrist. It was a loose grip, you could break out whenever and he kept it that way, but it was still strong enough that you could feel the hope behind it when he says,
“Stay.”
Your head whips back to him and desperation is written across his forehead.
There was still so much you had to talk about, so much you needed to get through. But right now, when he’s looking at you like you’re the most important person on the planet, you can’t stop yourself from indulging.
He watches you walk to the other side of the bed. His breath catches in his throat when you pull back the covers. He starts to believe in love again when you scoot closer to him.
His eyes are on yours when you make eye contact again, mere centimeters apart.
“I’m sorry.” He repeats again. And this time, you know it.
You know he’ll spend the rest of his life making up for seventeen months.
Your hand rests on his cheek and he leans into it. His eyes close and he breathes in the feeling. You’re not entirely shocked when his arms are pulling you into him. The rest of the night passes with him whispering sweet nothings into your ear.
And for the first time all week, you both fall asleep together.
•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•
Bonus:
Once he’s finished his own patrol, Dick Grayson appears at his little brother’s window.
Jason had disappeared after the fight in the middle of patrol. They knew he had gotten hurt but he said he would patch himself up at home. Bruce was fighting an aneurysm, trying to keep him safe but not push him out of his comfort zone. When Jason cut his comms, Bruce almost tore the apartment door from its hinges, but Dick convinced him that he would drop by and check on him.
What he finds however, renders him speechless.
Jason was in bed with the one person he thought was going to buy him a one way ticket to his grave again. His arm was wrapped protectively around your waist, almost in fear of letting you go. Even in a state of crippling pain, you were always his priority.
At the heartwarming scene, Dick has one thought that turns his body to ice.
Wally is going to kill him.
•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•
A/N: Sorry guys I got kind of lazy with the ending but I hope you like it anyway! I’m really tired and wanted to finally get this out lol
