✦ masterlist ╱ dc masterlist 𓏼 ͜͜
summary 𓂃 the arkham knight breaks into his ex's apartment to get batman’s location.
tags 𓂃 arkham knight!jason x ex gf!fem reader , heavy angst , trauma , ptsd , he still has some feelings for reader , unresolved feelings , yearning , hurt/comfort , soft spot for reader , denial of feelings , stubborn!reader , past lovers to ??? , complicated relationship.
Knocking was for people who hadn't already mapped every entrance to your apartment three weeks ago. For people who weren't wearing tactical armor and carrying enough explosives to bring down the whole building if things went wrong.
He came through the fire escape window like he always did. Quiet enough not to be heard.
The lock hadn't even slowed him down. He knew his way around it.
You were in the kitchen when he landed on your floor. He heard the soft sound of a mug being set down. Then nothing. You didn’t gasp, you didn’t scream—you didn’t even run. You knew someone was there and your dumbass didn’t run. Still the same.
He found you leaning against the kitchen counter, you arms were crossed, and your coffee was still steaming behind you. You looked the same. Different hair, maybe. New lines around your eyes. But the same stubborn set to your jaw, the same way you didn't flinch when you should have.
"You broke my window," you said. He was a little bit taken aback by the tone of your voice. How it was flat—not scared. Annoyed and not terrified of the fact that someone had just broken into your apartment.
"I know you broke my window."
You stared at him. Let the silence stretch. Then you picked up your coffee and took a slow, deliberate sip.
He'd expected that. He'd even prepared for it.
What he hadn't prepared for was the way his chest tightened when you said it. Not because of the word, no he was used to that, but because of your voice. Because he'd heard that voice say his name over a hundred times in different ways. Some soft, some laughing, some breathless, and some urgent. Now it was looking at him like he was a stranger.
But he was a stranger. That was the point.
"Batman's gone," Jason said. "You have access to one of his contingency locations. I need the address."
"Because I'm going to kill him."
"You don't get to decide that."
"I'm not deciding anything. I'm telling you what's going to happen." You set your mug down. Took a step closer. He didn't move. "You're going to stand in my kitchen, bleeding all over my floor—"
He looked down. His side was wet. He hadn't noticed the cut from twenty minutes ago. Somewhere between the militia skirmish and her window, his body had just decided not to tell him.
"—and you're going to realize you can't hurt me."
Jason's jaw tightened. Eyes shuttin under the mask.
"I'm not here to hurt you."
The question landed wrong. Too simple. Way too honest for his tastes. Or rather for Arkham’s tastes. The old Jason might have appreciated it.
He was here because he needed the location. Because Batman had gone underground and none of his scouts could find him. Because you were the only loose thread, the one person Bruce had trusted outside the family, and that meant you knew something.
"I need the address," he repeated.
"And I need you to leave."
"Then we're at an impasse." You shrugged. "You want coffee? Also, you’re still bleeding on my floorboards."
You turned your back on him.
Jason felt something crack in his chest because you wouldn't have done that before. You wouldn't have turned your back on anyone before. You were always too careful, too sharp, too aware of every single exit in every room.
But you’d just turned your back on the Arkham Knight.
And that only meant you just saw him as Jason. And, fuck, that made him want to scream.
"You shouldn't turn your back on me," he said. Low. Warning.
You glanced over your shoulder. "You said you weren't going to hurt me."
You poured a second mug of coffee. Black. The way he used to drink it. But he didn't drink coffee anymore. He drank whatever kept him awake during operations. Taste didn't even matter. Mostly because everything was tasteless to him.
You set the mug on the counter between you.
"If you wanted to hurt me, you wouldn't have come through the window. You'd have sent your soldiers. You'd have had someone else do it." Your eyes met his eyes. "You came yourself because you couldn't trust anyone else to do it right. And you came through the window instead of the door because you didn't want to test whether I'd let you in or not.”
"Not to mention, you haven't threatened me once. You've been here six minutes and you haven't even raised your voice."
"No." You tilted your head. "You're terrified."
The word hit him like a bullet, but he just scoffed.
He wasn't terrified. He was the Arkham Knight. He'd survived over a year of Joker's torture. He'd built an army. And he would bring Batman to his knees.
He wasn't terrified of some… some civilian in a kitchen. Didn’t matter that this civilian was someone he’d once planned to propose to sometime in the future. Funny how time works, huh?
But his hands were shaking.
He looked down at them. Gloved. Steady. The shaking was inside, where no one could see. Except you always could. You’d always been able to see the things he tried to hide.
"Just give me the address," he said. His voice was quiet now. "Please."
Please. He wanted to fucking smack himself.
He hadn't said that word in years. Not to anyone. He doesn’t plead. Thats not who he is.
Your expression flickered. Just for a second and then it was gone just as fast.
He sat. But not without berating himself a thousand times in his head for still being weak to you.
The kitchen chair was too small for his armor. He felt ridiculous. He'd spent years building himself into something hard and untouchable, and now he was sitting in your kitchen, bleeding on your floor, being offered coffee he hadn't asked for.
You sat across from him. Didn't reach for his hand. Didn't try to touch him. Good. If you’d touched him, he would have lost it.
"You want to know why I won't give you the address?" You asked.
"Because you're loyal to him."
"No." You shook her head. "I'm loyal to the man who loved you."
Jason's throat closed and suddenly breathing was much harder than it should’ve been.
"Bruce came to my apartment three days after you disappeared," you said. "He looked like hell. I'd never seen him look like that. Not after a fight, not after a case, not after anything. He sat in that chair—" you pointed to the one Jason was sitting in "—and he told me you were missing. And then he told me he was going to find you. No matter how long it took."
Jason said nothing. A part of him didn’t believe those words. It was bullshit—had to be. Why didn’t he find him?
"He was gone for months. Whole nights. Whole weeks. Alfred himself told me he barely slept. He barely ate. He just kept looking. And then the video came."
Jason felt his pulse spike because he knew exactly what you were talking about.
"He showed it to me himself," you continued. "I think he wanted someone to see it with him. Someone who loved you the way he did." You paused. "He cried, Jason. Batman cried. Right there on my couch. Because he thought you were dead and he blamed himself."
"Good," Jason said. The word came out hard. Brittle. He couldn’t let you see your words were getting to him.
"No. Not good." Your voice sharpened. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to sit there and pretend he didn't care. He never stopped caring. I never stopped caring. We searched for you. Both of us. For months—for a year."
"We searched everywhere."
"Where, Jason?" You leaned forward. "Where should we have looked? Tell me. Because I would have gone anywhere. I would have burned the whole city down. I would have—" your voice broke. Just a little. You caught it before it could fall apart. "I never stopped looking for you. Not once. Even when everyone else told me to move on. Even when Bruce said we had to accept it. I never stopped."
He wanted to believe you.
Because if you really had looked that hard, you would have found him. Someone would have found him. Joker's little dungeon wasn't invisible. It was hidden.
But the way you were looking at him—like he was still Jason, like you could still see the boy you’d loved under all the armor and the anger and the years of pain—that was harder to refuse than any torture Joker had ever devised.
"You don't know me anymore," Jason said.
"I know you're still in there."
"No." You shook her head. "Joker tried. He failed. Look at yourself." You gestured at his armor. "You think you built all of this because you hate Bruce? You built it because you love him. Because you wanted him to see you. Because you wanted him to come for you."
"I wanted him to suffer."
"You wanted him to acknowledge you." You leaned back. "There's a difference. And until you figure that out, you're not going to kill him. Because you can't. Because no matter how much you hate him, you still love him more."
Jason stood up. Your words were grating on his nerves and he hated that you were right and he hated that you could still read him even when he’s covered in heaps of metal.
The chair scraped against the floor. His hands were shaking again. He needed to leave. Needed to get the hell out of this kitchen, out of your fucking apartment, out of the orbit of someone who could still see through him like he was made of glass.
"Give me the address," he said. "Last chance."
It was a stupid move. Performative. He knew it even as he did it. The weight of the gun in his hand felt ridiculous. You weren’t a threat. You weren’t an enemy. You were just a woman who'd loved him and refused to stop.
You looked at the gun. Looked at his face. Then you looked back at the gun.
"You're not going to shoot me, Jason. So just put it down." You sighed.
"I know you." You stood up. Walked toward him. The gun was still in his hand. You didn't flinch. Didn't even slow down. You treated the gun like it was a nerf gun. You stopped inches from the barrel, close enough that he could see the tears you were holding back. "I know you, Jason Todd. I know you're scared. I know you're hurt. I know you've been alone for so long you forgot what it feels like to be loved. But I also know you're not going to shoot me. Because you're not a monster. No matter how hard you try to be."
The gun rattled a little.
"I have to kill him," Jason said. His voice cracked. He hated that it cracked. "I have to. If I don't—if I can't—then everything I did—everything I became—"
"You can still come back."
"There's nothing to come back to."
"Yes, there is." You reached up. Slow and careful like he was a bomb that might go off at any second. Your fingers brushed the side of his helmet. "Me."
The gun clattered to the floor.
He stood there, breathing hard, armor creaking, blood still soaking into his side, and he wanted to scream. He wanted to hit something.
Instead, he just stood there.
You just stood there, patient as stone, waiting for him to figure out what he already knew but couldn't say.
Finally, you spoke. Sighing.
"Bruce is at the old clock tower. The one in Bristol. He's been there for three days. He's injured. He's alone."
Jason froze like he hadn’t expected that. A part of him was relying on the fact that she wouldn’t tell him where he is. A part of him was afraid of facing Bruce as Arkham Knight. Afraid to find out that Bruce didn’t abandon him. And that his hatred was all misplaced.
"Why are you telling me?"
"Because I trust you." You met his eyes. "And because I know you won't kill him. Not really. You'll go there. You'll see him. And maybe—finally—you'll realize that the person you've been trying to destroy isn't him."
Through the window. Onto the fire escape. Into the brutal cold of gotham.
He didn't look back. He didn't need to.
He could still feel you watching him. Still feel your eyes on his back. Still feel the ghost of your fingers against his helmet. He wished it was his face.
Jason dropped to the alley below and landed hard. His side screamed but he ignored it.
He had time to decide what kind of monster he wanted to be.
But standing there in the dark, blood soaking through his armor, your face still warm in his memory. Jason realized something he hadn't let himself feel since the joker took him.
He didn't want to kill Bruce.
He wanted Bruce to say he was sorry.
He wanted Bruce to say he never stopped looking.
Jason pressed his hand against bleeding his side and started walking.
© nagumolvr , you do not have permission to translate, steal, repost, or feed my work to ai.
TAGLIST : @rosieposiediditagain @ninininini08
The first draft of this was written in third person (she/her) but I changed my mind halfway because I realized I didn’t really like it (god forbid I try something new LOL) so I switched back to the whole 2nd person shtick but I might’ve missed a few so just ignore that 😓
