âSo itâs either live with what happened or live without you? I can handle the first, I could not bear the latter, my light, so please donât make me.â
Genre/Tropes: angst (with happy ending), hurt/comfort, established relationship
Word Count: 5,7k
Warnings: none
A/N: This scenario oughta have been done a hundred times, angst potential is just too good, but interrupting my Whole Cake binge with a Moulin Rouge rewatch really made me wanna write my own version, so letâs goo
âSanji!!â
He doesnât turn back around at the sound of your voice, no matter how much he may want to, but of course you catch up to him and grab a hold of his hand, forcing him to a halt. He knows heâll break if he so much as looks at you, so his eyes stay downcast at your intertwined hands as you lean in close so only he can hear. âWhatever theyâre threatening you with, we can take them. You know our captain, you know this crew, have some faith in us. Come home, okay? Come back to me.â
It takes every ounce of willpower he has left not to collapse into your waiting arms right here and now, to pretend all of this was nothing more than a long, horrid nightmare. But then you move your hands just slightly, jostling the golden bracelets still tightly closed around his wrists like a hangmanâs noose and reality comes crashing back down on him with enough force to almost knock him to his knees. A reality in which the demons from his past that he so desperately tried to keep from reaching their depraved claws out towards his family, towards you, are a few mere feet away, ready to tear you all to pieces just for the fun of it if they decide he takes too long. The thought of you still holding onto him when the explosives are set off makes his stomach turn so violently, he almost loses last nightâs dinner on the grass.
You have to leave. He has to make you leave. And just like heâs already done to his captain, heâll have to hurt you to do it, even as he can feel every single cell in his body rebelling against it, rejecting the mere notion, turning his blood to poison in his veins.
Cold isnât a word anyone whoâs met the cook of the Strawhat Pirates would use to describe him. Heâs passion and kindness and warmth; the sun reflecting off the oceanâs waves on a summerâs day in glittering patterns and the vast, bright blue sky on a clear, beautiful spring day, the smell of flowers on the breeze.
And yet his gaze in this moment canât be described as anything but, the soft blue of his eyes replaced with sharp ice, scowling at you like youâre not worth more than the dirt beneath his shoes.
âWhat are you doing here?â
âI told you, we all told you, weâre bringing you home. Now drop the arrogant prince act andââ
âNo, no, what are you doing here, I mean? I thought my message was quite clear.â
âI donâtâ What are you talking about?â
He barks out a laugh then, harsh and cold and cruel, unlike anything youâve ever heard from him before.
âWow, youâre something else, you know that? I quite literally ran away from you to get married to someone else and you still donât get it?â The wicked grin heâs regarded you with until then slips from his lips, leaving something apathetic and bored in itâs wake. âIâm done with you. Get lost.â
âAnd if I donât?â you challenge right back, crossing your arms over your chest, utterly unimpressed with his performance so far.
Shit. Youâre not buying a single word heâs saying. He needs to do worse.
âThen youâll look even more pathetic and sad than you already do, but I suppose you must be used to that by now.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
He shrugs, stepping closer and crowding your space. âIt means Iâm about to marry a beautiful, sweet woman who also happens to be the daughter of an Emperor of the Sea. So what could I possibly still want from a dirty, used little lab rat like you?â
Itâs brief, barely even there and if he didnât know you as well as he did, he probably wouldâve missed it, but Sanji catches the flicker of hurt and uncertainty in your otherwise defiant stare, the slight change in posture as your shoulders grow tense. Itâs the right angle, the right button - now all he has to do is push.
But he absolutely canât bring himself to do it while holding your gaze, so he drops his eyes to his hands again, picking at a nonexistent loose thread on his sleeve.
âIf Iâm so beneath you, why even put up with me for so long?â
âHonestly? Because you were there and so ridiculously willing. Easy and convenient, nothing more.â
âSo look me in the eyes and say that.â
âGood griefâŚâ Sanji groans under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, helplessly trying to keep his voice from cracking and foolishly ignoring the burn of tears behind his eyes.
Fuck.
He canât. He canât. He canât. He canât.
He has to.
He has made damn well sure youâd never doubt his love for you - and now itâs coming back to mock him.
Sanji curls two fingers under your chin to tilt your head up in a familiar gesture of warmth and tenderness in a pointless effort to lull himself into a false sense of security.
âYou want the truth? You are a needy, clingy and exhausting little thing. Always looking for attention, needing reassurance and affection, disgustingly desperate for someone to love you. All it took was a hollow smile here, a fabricated compliment there and you were bending over backwards for me - or just bending over really, if weâre being honest.â
You physically startle at the crude comment, attempting to retreat and get away from his touch, but he doesnât let you, even if it costs him his own sanity, the grip with which he traps your jaw is harsh and he prays to any deity willing to listen that the shock he watches take over your entire system has you mistaking the disgust he knows to be contorting his features at his own actions as something directed towards to you.
âStop itâŚâ you whisper hoarsely, clawing at his wrist, silently begging for him to let you go, to end this, defiant and stubborn, despite the tears he can see gathering at your lashes, his chest seizing like itâs about to cave in at the mere sight.
âStop what? Telling the truth? Your own parents, the first people who were supposed to love you, sold you as a science experiment for a few Berry and you genuinely thought youâd find someone else in this world whoâd love you unconditionally? Youâve only ever been worth what people could take from you, no more, no less.â
Every insecurity, every fear, every personal hell, entrusted to him during sleepless nights spent talking on deck with freezing fingers curled around steaming mugs, during rare lazy mornings whispered between the sheets with the first rays of the sun as the only witness. All of the pain, once calmed, hushed and made bearable, now weaponized against you with venomous intent to pull you apart at the seams by the very same person.
âIt was fun while it lasted, but Iâm done taking, so save yourself whatever little dignity you might have left and get. lost.â
Sanji turns then, striding towards the waiting carriage without another look back. He doesnât need to. The image of your tear streaked face, bottom lip trembling, beautiful eyes glassy and wide in disbelief and horror and hurt, is gonna be burned into his retinas for the rest of his miserable life.
You donât call out to him again, donât reach for him, not when he climbs back into the carriage and not when they start moving again, pulling him further away from you.
He buries his hands in his hair, tugging on the blond strands harsh enough to sting, trying to hide his own tears and anguish from his laughing brothers and distract himself from the sheer agony of his heart coming apart in his chest, jagged, broken shards burrowing into his rib cage to make a new permanent home. His teeth come down on his bottom lip hard, struggling to keep the sobs at bay, until the tangy, warm taste of copper creeps onto his tongue.
Good. If heâs lucky, maybe heâll choke on it.
Sanji wakes in a cold sweat, sheets tangled around his longs legs and shirt sticking to his clammy skin, the memory of the taste of his own blood still clinging to the back of his throat, sending him upright retching and gagging. No matter how many gulps of air he forces into his lungs, it isnât enough to assuage the burning ache in his chest, so he scrambles out of his bunk, yanking a hoodie and his cigarettes from his locker as he stumbles toward the door on unsteady legs.
The low growl of thunder accompanied by the occasional streak of lightning cutting through the night off somewhere on the far horizon greet him when he steps outside, the gusts of wind reaching the Sunny still enough to snuff the flame from his lighter. Curses fall from his lips as he climbs the steps to the second floor, trembling hands cupped around the cigarette between his teeth until the end finally catches flame, a dimly glowing ember when he takes a drag. His back collides with the railing in exhaustion, head tipping back to exhale in a long heavy breath, watching the smoke curl up and disappear against the dark, starry sky. The second cigarette is already reduced to nothing by the time he realizes heâs wandered close to the sick bay without meaning to, drawn to you like moth to flame, as he always is.
He chances a glance through the bullseye on the door and finds Chopper safely tucked in and contentedly snoring on the bed, no doubt your handiwork; an attempt at a placating gesture, considering you are blatantly ignoring the doctorâs orders for bed rest yet again. As hard as the little reindeer has tried to make the space that is the sick bay as warm and inviting and comforting as possible, you could never stand to be around anything even remotely resembling a laboratory: syringes, vials, medical notes. Everything too much like the cage youâd been locked up and used in for so long, the subtle reminders always enough to leave you nauseous and anxious. Sanji knows this, of course, this isnât the first time youâve bolted from the infirmary to be literally anywhere else on the ship.
Most nights, you had ended up in the kitchen - supposedly because it was the closest room. Gentleman that he is, Sanji had never doubted you. Maybe, once upon a time, it had actually been the truth. Not anymore, though. It hasnât been the truth, your real reason for seeking comfort in the kitchen of all places, for a long time. Now, with the remnants of a wreckage of his own making staring back at him, the cook has to wonder if youâll ever look at him like that again. Between stopping the wedding and running for your lives, you two havenât had the time to speak about anything thatâs gone so wrong. But he has to set things right, try to at the very least, you have to know how he really feels, that he didnât mean a single word of the hateful vitriol and vile lies he spat at you. Of course he wonât blame you if it doesnât change anything; after he took the beautiful thing youâd built together and twisted it into something ugly and horrid? Yeah, you should hate him.
He makes a quick stop in the kitchen to prepare something to keep you warm tonight where he wonât be able or wanted, then proceeds to check the rest of the Sunny, ultimately finding you at the back of the ship, arms crossed on the railing, head buried between and it could be an illusion, nothing more than the moonâs rays reflecting off the waves, but he swears he sees your shoulders shake.
Are you crying?
âAnd whose fault is that?â a voice in the back of his head asks, snide and cruel.
âPretentious arenât we? Why would they be wasting tears over a failure like you?â another one answers, mocking and apathetic.
Sanji begs them both to just shut up for once in his life.
The scent of lavender and honey carried along with the sea breeze reaches you, your head snapping up instantly to find a steaming mug on the railing next to you, placed with such practiced ease and quiet care, if you werenât so attuned to his presence, you probably wouldnât have noticed until after he had gone again. Swiveling your head to search for the source of your comfort, you find him a few feet behind you, so busy shrugging out of his hoodie, he completely misses how your entire face lights up and the tension bleeds from your whole body at his presence. Warmth engulfing you follows, accompanied by the familiar scent of cigarette smoke and spices clinging to the fabric now draped over your shoulders, and the way he so desperately makes sure not to touch you while doing it, trying to preserve whatever fragile semblance of peace the blanket of night has provided over the current mayhem in your lives by not invading your space, has your heart twisting painfully in your chest.
âI know you donât like being confined in the sick bay, my loveââ He cuts himself off abruptly, unsure if heâs still allowed to call you his, then continues with a little shake of his head, voice quiet and strained. âPlease do make sure you get some rest nonetheless.â He turns to leave so fast, you barely manage grab a hold of his hand, effectively and immediately stopping him in his tracks, frozen mid step, upper body angled away from you as you tug on his hand gently in a clear demand for him to stay. He does, yet he refuses to look at you and no matter how long you wait, silently begging him to acknowledge you, he doesnât budge. Realizing youâll have to be the one to make the first move, you circle around, coming to a halt in front of him, fingers still tightly wrapped around his wrist, terrified heâll bolt if you let go. Stubborn to a fault, heâs still turned away from you, hair falling into his face to hide his ocean eyes from your searching gaze. Calling his name quietly, begging and oh so soft, only has him flinching away from you as if struck, so careful fingers instead trail up his arm to gently trace the bandage that peeks out from under his shirt sleeve, desperately trying to coerce him into lifting his head through touch instead of words.
When he doesnât recoil again, your fingers drift higher, along his shoulder, over his collarbone, his neck, until finally your knuckles ghost over his cheek in a barely there caress, avoiding the fading yellow bruises, still an ugly violet in parts, matching the scabbed over cut below his visible eye and the split lip. All recent injuries, yes, but not fresh enough to have come from your struggle escaping Big Momâs territory. Youâre very well aware where they actually came from, who inflicted them on him and your heart aches for him all over again.
âIâm so sorry I wasnât there, my light.â you croak, the sting of unshed tears already in your eyes as you bring your other hand up as well, your touch growing firmer but no less gentle as you cup his face. âI wish I couldâve done more. I should have.â Thatâs what finally has his gaze snapping to yours, eyes wide in shock and horror, mouth falling slightly agape as he stares at you as if youâve lost your mind. You donât let it deter you though. âI was so worried about you the entire time you were gone, I⌠You didnât deserve to get trapped with those monsters again.â He springs into action as if struck by distant lightning, long, slender fingers curling around your wrists in a soft, grounding touch, lips tugging upward in a joyless, rueful smile that doesnât reach his sapphire eyes, wet with unshed tears. âYou see thatâs where youâre wrong, I did. I deserved that and so much worse, a just punishment for my actions and yet nothing they could inflict on me could ever pain me as horribly as what I did to you. Mon cĹur, not a single word I said was true, I need you to know that.â
A small, sad smile matching his precedes your next words, heart cracking at the mere notion that he genuinely thought youâd ever truly doubt his love and devotion for you. âYou really think I didnât already know? You were trying to protect me by pushing me away, I understood that while it was happening, Sanji.â
The frown on his handsome face only seems to etch itself deeper.
âThe end doesnât justify the means. You trusted me with something as precious as your heart and I couldnât even keep it safe and cherished, fitting for a failure like myself. Instead I humiliated you and treated you like dirt.â A bark of laughter, incredulous and self deprecating, as he releases his hold on you and steps out of your reach, digging a cigarette out of his pockets and lighting it with trembling fingers, a deep inhale to soothe his nerves before he continues speaking. âSo why arenât you furious? Why do you still care about me? After all of it, how can you even look at me with anything but disgust?! I donâtââ He interrupts himself with another long drag, then moves to throw the butt of his cigarette overboard, leaning his elbows on the railing, back to you and both hands buried in his hair, anxiously tugging at the blond strands like he always does when heâs upset or worried. Meanwhile you remain rooted to the spot, slipping your arms into the sleeves of his hoodie before wrapping them around yourself for comfort, aching to reach out and soothe him, but you know he wouldnât allow it right now, so you give him his space, let him work through this on his own.
The lull of the waves against the hull of the ship and the song of distant thunder fills the silence between you for a while and only when you see him drop his hands from his hair, his shoulders no longer heaving with heavy breaths, followed by the familiar click of his lighter do you move towards his form with quiet, careful steps, coming to stand beside him, mindful to keep some distance between you. Your back is against the railing, stealing wistful sideways glances at his profile, trying to gauge whatâs going through his mind as you watch smoke curl towards the stars.
It takes him another moment to gather the courage to speak his next words aloud. âMy intentions donât matter, thereâs no excuse in this world or the next that could justify my actions, I⌠I hurt you.â The poor cook can barely bring himself to say it, fresh tears brimming in his pretty blue eyes when he finally brings his gaze to yours again. You open your mouth to argue, but he doesnât let you, fully aware of what youâre going to try and do. âPlease, mon ĂŠtoile, donât pretend I didnât. I could see it in your eyes.â
Yet again you want to argue but one look at him is enough to have your shoulders slumping in defeat. âI⌠I wonât lie to you, my love, after all, youâd catch me in it anyways.â A weak, humorless chuckle follows, then you mirror his stance to stare out at the horizon, watching lightning split the sky as you stall for time, struggling to find the right words. Words that will be truthful but wonât cause him any more pain and guilt - a fruitless endeavor, the longer you think on it, so you start speaking even if you donât feel ready. âThereâs always been a part of me⌠a little, cruel and mocking voice in the back of my head, constantly telling me Iâm not worthy to be part of his crew, that I donât deserve to have someone like you loving me. Always reminding me that Iâm too much, yet not enough and hearing you of all people confirm that just⌠well, that voice is just gonna be a little louder now, I guessâŚâ
Said voice has also started to sound an awful lot like your lover, but you could never bring yourself to tell him that. Not when he already looks like heâd rather throw himself overboard and drown than to have ever had a hand in your suffering.
âIâd give my life to take it all back.â he confirms, grief making his voice crack halfway through.
Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you offer him a weak, but genuine smile as you push his hair away from his eyes and gently cradle his face in both of your hands.
âSo itâs either live with what happened or live without you? I can handle the first, I could not bear the latter, my light, so please donât make me.â
Tears slip down his cheeks, brushed away by a stroke of your thumb as he leans into your touch, nuzzling into your hand before turning his head to press his lips to your palm, the touch lingering and reverent, then, in a voice so low and wrecked with guilt it almost gets carried away on the sea breeze, âSo what can I doâŚ?â
âAbsolutely nothing.â is what you want to say, that heâs long since been forgiven for any sins he thinks he has to atone for, that youâve been waiting for him with open arms and an open heart since he left, but heâll never accept that. Luckily you know him well enough to have anticipated this predicament.
âIâve been thinking about that, actuallyâŚâ you start, his full attention on you in an instant, sapphire eyes bright with determination, tightly clasping your hands in his like a lifeline.
âAnything. Iâll do anything.â The fact that he truly means it melts your heart as much as it terrifies you.
âSince you seem so adamant about proving that your words werenât true, I want you to do just that. I wanna be showered in affection and compliments and fall asleep every night feeling cherished enough to not question my worth. Love me loud enough so that the little voice in my head doesnât even get the chance to speak up.â
He blinks owlishly, processing your words, trying to make sure he heard you right. He couldnât have.
Of course you know what youâre asking of him - or rather arenât asking, after all, he already heeds all of these requests every single day without fail and without even trying. Your cook wears his heart on his sleeve and his love for you is no different; itâs ever present, constantly wrapped around you like a warm blanket. Youâve never felt more protected and cherished, downright worshipped, then when heâs by your side, inner demons recoiling and retreating at the light he brings into your life, yet heâs constantly insisting that heâs the lucky one to have you, readily and proudly declaring himself yours whenever given the slightest opportunity.
His arms your home, his voice your lullaby, his heartbeat your safe haven, his laugh your sun - his love loud and encompassing in the best, most beautiful way imaginable and it comes to him so naturally and effortlessly, you canât imagine asking for more.
So you donât, instead disguising his regular adoration and devotion as your idea for his supposed atonement, even though you know heâll abhor the idea, yet what is he going to do, refuse you?
The longer he continues to gawk at you in utter disbelief, the harder it becomes for you to keep the self satisfied grin off your face, eventually trapping your bottom lip between your teeth in a futile attempt. Realization finally settles over his features and for a moment, you think heâll argue, insist itâs not enough, but he only ends up heaving a sigh while running a hand through his hair before he leans in close to leave a kiss on your temple.
âWell, you sure set this trap up quite brilliantly.â
âWhy thank you, I thought so, too.â
Sanji watches another lightning bolt branch across the horizon over your shoulder, bright against the dark backdrop of the night, the distant clap of thunder close behind. A storm just like this one had accompanied your first meeting and he almost wants to slap himself for how obvious it all was from the very start.
Coup de foudre.
A lightning strike. Or⌠love at first sight.
The universe itself going out of itâs way to show him just how important youâd be to him the second he first laid eyes on you and even so it had still taken him longer than heâd ever care to admit to finally understand why everything felt brighter and easier and more beautiful when you were by his side.
âThere was a thunderstorm the night we met, too, do you remember?â
You pull back from his embrace to look at him quizzically, clearly confused by the sudden change of topic, but you go along with it, nodding in confirmation. âYes, I remember that messâŚâ
A miracle really, considering most of your early time with the crew is a bit hazy. That night though⌠a horrible storm that had threatened to tear the ship apart, a frightened, feral little thing, freshly awoken in an unfamiliar place full of strangers after years of imprisonment and torture, and a poor cook with the misfortune to run into said terrified creature, who still carries the faint scar from that encounter on his jaw today. Youâll end up placing a kiss on that exact scar more often than not, a never ending apology, your memories of that night not something you recall fondly.
Judging by the look heâs fixed you with, though, he clearly feels differently and you understand the workings of his mind well enough to know whatâs coming, so you immediately put a damper on what youâre sure heâs gonna say next.
âSanji, if you now try to tell me something about love at first sight, Iâm officially declaring you insane.â
He simply shrugs and grins at you, the bastard. âWould you prefer I phrase it differently, ma chĂŠrie? Becoming aware of the certainty that my life would change because now you were in it? The whole world shifting on its axis to bathe everything in a new light?â
âConsidering the storm, you think that mightâve just been the ship tilting?â you ask, tone bone dry, earning yourself a slight pinch to your sides and an indignant huff, all mock annoyance and very real fondness.
âNot quite love at first sight maybe, but⌠intrigue. Curiosity. The need to learn everything. Looking back on it now, that stormy night was when I lost the first piece of my heart to you and the more I got to know you, the more pieces I willingly gave without even realizing until one day I just looked up and my heart wasnât beating in my own chest anymore, safely cradled in your gentle hands instead and what a wonderful, magnificent, perfect place for it to be.â
Any and all teasing has slipped from your face, replaced by awe and reverence for the man in front of you, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes when he gently gathers your hands to press your palms against his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft under your fingertips, the beat of his heart strong and steady.
âAs long as itâs beating, itâs yours. Come what may, itâll belong to you until I take my last breath. No matter the distance between us, no matter the time we have to spend apart, if nothing else please know it to be true that I will love you until my dying day.â
Sight blurring, you blink away the tears until his handsome, kind face swims back into focus, wetness now clinging to your cheeks instantly brushed away by warm, soft thumbs as he cradles your face, your own hands still on his chest, desperately clinging to the song the rhythm of his heart provides.
âDid you mean for that to sound like wedding vows?â Sniffling, you try for a teasing tone and a confident grin - you miserably fail both, if the way his blue eyes cloud over with shame and the hold on your face growing firmer, more reassuring is anything to go by.
âNot necessarily, no. But considering youâre the only person Iâm ever truly going to marry, I donât see why you shouldnât be allowed to hear something akin to vows now.â
âIs that what you really want, though?â you question, voice quiet and strained with the effort to keep the sobs trapped in your throat, tears only falling harder, trembling hands fisting in his shirt and your head dropping low, unable to still meet his gaze, causing his hands to fall from your cheeks and find purchase softly wrapped around your tense wrists instead. Youâre trying to keep it together as best you can, but the joy and relief of having him back is ebbing away, the grief and terror of almost losing him in so may different ways in such a short amount of time finally catching up to you, your own suffering and fears rearing their ugly heads. âSanji, if you think the only way you can rejoin the crew is to come back to me as well even though itâs not what you want, then I⌠I donâtâ You shouldnâtââ
I donât want you to.
You shouldnât have to.
But your battered, selfish, aching heart doesnât let you say it. Doesnât want to hear what his answer might be. And with all the damage he managed to do by trying to protect you now staring him straight in the face, Sanji can feel his own heart bleeding alongside yours.
âOh, mon ĂŠtoile, no, you have it the wrong way around. I longed to return to you above all else. Not even an hour went by when I wasnât thinking of you and ways to make amends for what I did.â A stuttering, heaving breath from you, the terrible word âButâ barely out of your mouth when heâs already speaking again, voice soft and warm, utterly unwilling to let you continue this horrendous train of thought, closing the small distance between you to press a kiss to your hair. âWhy do you think I always call you that, hm? My star?â
The question is enough to cut through the cruel voices in your mind, the beautiful man in front of you already delivering exactly what you asked of him, and has you lifting your head to look at him because itâs true - as fond as he is of pet names for just about anyone, youâve never heard him use that for anyone but you.
You give him a tiny, uncertain shrug, releasing the death grip on his shirt in favor of wiping a sleeve over your eyes. A steadying hand finds your waist, the other cradling the back of your head while his lips brush against your forehead in a quick, soft caress before his ocean eyes find yours again. âItâs because youâre my North Star, the beautiful constant that will always be there to guide me home, the light that remains when the rest of my world goes dark, the invisible pull I will always blindly, happily follow.â
Heat crawls up your neck and has you burying your face in your hands, the way heâs looking at you like youâre the only thing in the world worth breathing for, coupled with his words too much for the current fragile state of your heart, hammering against your rib cage so viciously youâre certain he has to feel it in his own bones. Dragging oxygen back into your lungs with heavy, shuddering breaths, you try to calm and compose yourself, while long, slender fingers draw soothing patterns into your skin, not pushing or demanding, simply a constant, reassuring presence, as he always is. You scrub your hands over your face a final time before you instead go to hide in the crook of his neck, arms coming around his waist in a hug tight enough to steal the air from his lungs, not that he would ever mind.
âYouâre really mine, thenâŚ?â Itâs barely a whisper, yet oh so hopeful.
Sanji just barely bites back a laugh, heâd never mean to belittle or make light of your insecurities and fears, heâd have the moss head run him through with all three swords before heâd even think of it, but the notion of him being anyone elseâs is so utterly ludicrous, he canât help it.
He returns your hug just as fiercely, lips leaving a whisper of a kiss just below your ear, then, âJe suis avant tout Ă toi. Never doubt that.â
A little laugh, soft and helpless. âI donât⌠I donât think I can promise that.â
Another kiss, chaste and gentle, to your jaw this time, then your cheek. âThatâs okay. Iâll be here to remind you whenever you need.â
Your press yourself impossibly closer, arms tightening further, nails undoubtedly leaving marks on his back, meanwhile the kiss you leave on the pulse point of his neck is as tender and vulnerable as your voice. âGods, I love you.â
His heart stutters like itâs about to stop, jumping in joy and devotion, desperately trying to find a way out of the prison of his ribs back to itâs real home. âI love you, too. More than I could ever hope to put into words. And Iâm yours for as long as youâll have me.â
That has you pulling back slowly, carefully, not letting him go, never again, but far enough so that you can see his face, look into his beautiful ocean eyes when you speak. âForever?â you suggest, peeking up at him through your lashes, lovely lips tugged upward in that crooked smile he adores so much. A low chuckle, his warm breath fanning over your face as he leans forward to seal his next words into your heart, body and soul with his lips finally finding yours again after so long.
Donât Go Where I Canât Follow [Vinsmoke Sanji x GN!Reader]
âIâd rather have it be me than you. Iâve been made the luckiest man on the Grand Line solely through you choosing to love me, so if I take my last breath protecting you, Iâll do so gladly.â
âYeah, I know. Trust me, I know. And I donât think you understand how absolutely terrifying and daunting that is.â
Genre/Tropes: hurt/comfort, established relationship
Word Count: 4k
Warnings: mentions of canon typical injuries
A/N: Rewatching Whole Cake always makes me wanna wrap his self sacrificial self in a blanket and keep him safe even more than I usually do, so here we are. Written with anime Sanji in mind, but could be read as OPLA Sanji, too, I think??
The food in front of you mustâve grown cold by now with how long youâve been pushing it around your plate listlessly, any appetite replaced by anxiety induced nausea the moment Usopp had found you stumbling out onto the deck, still bleary eyed and only half awake, and had told you to pick up the pace if you still wanted any breakfast. The buzz and chatter of the crew has faded to not much more than static in your ears as you keep stealing glances at the blond serving food and bright smiles like nothingâs wrong in the slightest. It takes several calls of your name to realize Luffy is talking to you, desperately wanting to know if youâre gonna finish your breakfast, so you end up shoving your untouched plate in your captainâs general direction, harsher than strictly necessary, before falling back in your seat heavily, arms crossed over your chest, eyes downcast and overall radiating discontent and restlessness. It earns you a concerned gaze from the cook, one youâve become so accustomed to you can feel it, yet you refuse to lift your head or react in any other way.
The rest of the crew catches on to the tension between you both quickly, all filing out of the kitchen one after the other with flimsy at best excuses, except for Luffy, who has to be dragged out by Zoro, bless the swordsmanâs heart. Silence settles over the room, awkward and strained, so unlike the comfortable warmth that usually occupies the quiet spaces between you.
âAngel, you didnât eat a single bite. Would you like me to make you something else?â
His voice is low, soft, careful, meant to calm and reassure you. Any other day, it probably would, as it usually does.
Today?
Today, it makes you want to strangle him.
âAre you serious right nowâŚ?â you ask, trying to keep your voice level.
âWhy wouldnât I be? Weâve had a rough couple of days and are all still recovering, you need to keep your strength up, ma chĂŠrie.â
Tipping your head back, you exhale the anger burning you from the inside out in a long breath before leveling him with a disapproving glare.
âExactly. So why are you standing here, first day out of a coma, still covered in bandages, pretending like itâs just any other regular morning? Like nothing at all happened?â
The soft smile slips from his face, replaced by a worried frown as he runs a hand through his hair anxiously, leaning against the counter across from you.
âItâs not that big of a deal, weâve had close calls before.â
âNot that close.â
âSweetheart, please, Iâm fine, you donât have toââ
âYou almost died, Sanji!!â you finally explode, shooting up from your seat so fast, your chair goes tipping over and clattering to the ground loudly. âYour fucking heart stopped and you were out cold for days!! I donâtâ Whyâ How can you just brush that off like itâs fucking nothing?!â
You cross your arms over your heaving chest, a false, thin layer of security over your aching heart, nails digging crescent idents into your arms while you desperately hold on to the anger, lest the grief and fear of the last few days take over again.
Seeing you so upset because of him pains Sanji more than his actual injuries and he just barely resists the urge to wrap you in a hug, fully aware that you wonât let him lull you back into familiar security and comfort through honeyed words and gentle touches this time.
âI am so sorry, my love, I never meant to frighten you like this, but I donât regret any of it and even if I could go back I would not change a thing.â
Terror comes creeping back into your veins, mingling with the rage to burn like poison, same as the tears you can feel building, threatening to spill from tired eyes as you throw your hands up in exasperation.
âDoes your own life really mean that little to you?!â
Thereâs a tick in his jaw from grinding his teeth too hard, crossing his arms over his chest while he stares right back at you, eyes pleading, but stubborn.
âNo. But Iâd rather have it be me than you. Iâve been made the luckiest man on the Grand Line solely through you choosing to love me, so if I take my last breath protecting you, Iâll do so gladly.â
You bark out a laugh, short and humorless, the first tears finally falling and leaving streaks across your cheeks.
âYeah, I know. Trust me, I know. And I donât think you understand how absolutely terrifying and daunting that is, to be absolutely certain that I can trust you with my life, but not with your own! And I get that itâs not your intention to make me feel like this, that itâs just in your nature to want to protect the people you care about and Sanji, let me make it clear to you that I have not felt unsafe or uncared for for even a single second since meeting you, but when you push it to such extremes, do you have any idea what that ends up doing to me?! I donât want to lose you in some honorable, heroic act of self sacrifice, I want a future with you!!â
All color drains from his face rapidly, shock taking over his features so instantly and completely, you clamp your mouth shut fast enough for your tongue to get trapped between your teeth, the coppery taste of blood not enough to distract you from realizing what youâve just let slip - or from how utterly terrified he looks at hearing it. Averting your gaze, you swallow hard around the lump in your throat and wipe a sleeve over your eyes, futilely trying to stop the tears from flowing.
âI guess⌠I guess you donât⌠think about that. I justâ never mind, forget I said anything.â
You make for the door as fast as humanly possible, hand already on the knob when he calls out to you. âDonât. Please. Donât leave, not⌠not like this.â
Heeding his request, you turn and let your back collide with the door heavily, sniffling while you wrap your arms around yourself for comfort, but your eyes stay locked on the floor. Itâs not like you actually want to leave, you hate arguing with him, as rare as it is, and youâve never parted ways upset with each other, itâs not how your relationship works. But the shock of almost losing him is still gnawing at your bones, not to mention your own injuries havenât fully healed; youâre exhausted, mentally and physically, and now the added humiliation of exposing a wish for a future he seemingly doesnât want is making you want to crawl into a small, dark space to hide.
A pair of black shoes enters your field of vision, followed by slender fingers reaching for your hand, still tightly clamped around your own arm. His movements are slow, careful, giving you ample time to pull away if you so choose. When you donât, he gently rests his hand over yours in a barely there, featherlight touch and the second his skin touches yours, warm and familiar, relief floods your system, everything else falling away.
Heâs okay. Heâs alive. Heâs right here with you. Nothing else matters right now.
You weave your fingers together, grip like a vice, tight enough that youâre certain it has to hurt, yet he doesnât let go, in fact, he steps closer and brings your intertwined hands to his lips, pressing chaste, soft kisses to each of your knuckles individually.
âMon cĹur, will you look at me, pleaseâŚ?â
One, two, three deep breaths, in and out through your nose, thatâs how long it takes to work up the courage to do as he asks and youâre immediately met with anguished blue eyes, wet with unshed tears. His free hand comes up to brush a gentle thumb over your cheek, wiping away some of the salty tracks still clinging to your skin.
âI have so obviously failed you in countless ways, I couldnât expect forgiveness, not even from someone as benevolent as you.â
âSanjiââ
âNo, let me speak, please, my darling.â he interrupts softly, but doesnât continue until you give him permission in the form of a small nod. âNot only did I cause you grief and pain through my actions, no matter how well-intentioned they might have been, I also have been negligent enough in my affection and devotion to have you truly believing that I donât desperately desire a future with you.â
âY-You doâŚ?â Itâs a hoarse whisper, quiet, but oh so hopeful.
âEmbarrassingly much.â he confirms with a low chuckle, accentuated by the tips of his ears turning pink. âIâve thought about introducing you to Zeff, at some point. Iâm⌠still trying to figure out how to set that up without the old geezer sending you bolting in the opposite direction the second he opens his damn mouthâŚâ
That earns him a huff of a laugh, along with the ghost of a smile tugging the corners of your lips upwards and itâs enough to assuage the ever present fear of overwhelming you, of being too much with his version of fondness and love.
âThinking about finding the All Blue? That dream isnât complete anymore without picturing you by my side. Getting to be with you long enough to see your smile lines deepen and the first glimpses of gray appearing in your hair, even if I might be the cause of some of them? Nothing would make me happier.â
âProbably all of the gray hairs that Luffy doesnât cause, letâs be honest.â you mumble, brushing his bangs away from his eyes and cupping his face, heart fluttering when he nuzzles into your touch and presses a quick kiss to your palm.
Then you watch his brows furrow in deep thought, gears in his head clearly turning as he figures out the best way of phrasing his next words.
âI⌠I donât want to die, please never think that. And I know youâre perfectly capable of looking out for yourself and that we have a crew that would move heaven and earth for each other, but⌠if thereâs something, anything, I can do to save you when youâre in danger, even at the risk of my own life, I canât just⌠uselessly stand by and watch it happen. Not again.â You immediately open your mouth to interject, to remind him that what happened to his mother was not his fault and that there was nothing he couldâve done, but you donât get the chance before heâs speaking again. âI hate that my actions scared you, mon ĂŠtoile, but I donât think⌠Iâm not sure thatâs something I can change about myself.â
The poor cook looks so utterly lost and apologetic, hunched shoulders, trembling fingers and glossy eyes, your heart lurches in your chest, rattling around your rib cage, leaving bruises in itâs attempt to get to him. You never meant to make him feel like he has to change such a core aspect of himself just to keep you happy.
âIâm not asking you to, my light. The fact that your kindness knows no bounds, to the point where you would sacrifice anything for the people you care about is one of the reasons I fell in love with you in the first place. What kind of hypocrite would I be if I now asked you to erase that? I just wish you would think about yourself, too, every once in a while. If not for your own sake, then⌠then maybe you could do it for me? And for the future we both want? Because, Sanji, none of what you talked about can happen without you.â
Heaving a heavy sigh, he ends up dropping his forehead to yours, eyes falling closed while he threads his fingers together behind your lower back in a loose hug.
âYeah, I⌠I know. And Iâll do better. Well, I⌠I promise Iâll try. For you. For us.â
He can quite literally feel the tension bleed from your form at his words.
âThatâs all I ask,â you murmur, leaving a quick kiss on his cheek. âThank you, my love.â
His answer comes in the form of little kisses, ghosted over your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, anywhere he can reach, and just as he leans in to capture your lips, your stomach very loudly reminds you that youâve barely eaten anything proper in days. Sanji freezes at the sound, which has heat crawling up the back of your neck and stealing into your face instantly, but it only lasts a second, then heâs already laughing, quiet and soft and warm, before pressing a final chaste kiss to your warm cheek. âWill you please let me make you some breakfast now?â
He has already turned around, halfway to the stove, so he completely misses how you purse your lips and narrow your eyes at him in disapproval. âNo, I wonât, actually.â
âSo what would youâ No?â
The blond whips back around so fast itâs downright comical, blue eyes wide and confused and looking so much like a kicked puppy you almost consider taking it back. Almost.
âYou heard me, no. We mightâve made up, but that doesnât mean you didnât mess up and that has consequences. So you are going to sit,â you gesture at one of the stools at the counter, confidently striding past his bewildered form and beelining towards the cupboards, âand let me make breakfast, because I know for a damn fact that you havenât eaten either.â
He blinks owlishly, like heâs trying to wake himself up from a dream, rooted to the spot, long, slender fingers flexing at his sides, utterly unsure of what do with himself now. âLove, donât be ridiculous, Iâm perfectly capable ofââ
âI know you are, thatâs not the point.â you interrupt him, shutting one of the drawers as you jab a spoon in his direction as threateningly as possible and yet again motion for him to take a seat. âThis is your punishment so sit down before I make you, you know I can and will.â
Color blooms across his cheeks, stuttered half sentences dying on his tongue as he tries to come up with a defense he already knows you wouldnât fall for anyways. Defeated, he drops himself down at the counter, chin propped up on one hand, watching you pull a bowl and flour from the cupboards, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against the counter top, bottom lip trapped between his teeth in thought.
âDarling, not to throw a wrench in your oh so carefully crafted plans, but being taken care of by you can hardly be considered a punishment.â
Turning back around from where youâve grabbed a pan, you regard him with raised brows: head cocked to the side, nestled into his palm, blond hair illuminated by the sunlight filtering in through the bullseye on the door almost halo like, blue eyes warm and bright like the sky on a clear spring day and a smile so genuine and soft, your heart just about melts through your rib cage.
Sighing, you deposit the pan on the still cold stove, then meander over to stand opposite of him, forearms coming up to rest on the counter and then leaning in close enough for your breaths to mingle, one wave rocking the ship away from having your lips on his.
âFor you, Mister âActs of service are my love language and if I donât take care of my loved ones constantly I will implodeâ? Yeah, thisâll do just fine. Nice try, though.â A condescending pat to his cheek paired with a smug grin follows, then you return to the station he usually occupies and start dumping ingredients into a bowl.
âWorth a shot.â Hands raised in surrender with his own grin tugging the corners of his lips upwards despite himself, he seemingly finally settles into his seat, albeit temporarily.
Of course youâre not wrong in your assessment, he does get antsy when prohibited from showing his affection through care, but when itâs you reversing the roles, he never actually minds, and you know this; itâs what has him analyzing the entire situation all over again. Sapphire eyes observe you carefully, the way you so comfortably move around a space thatâs usually his like youâve never belonged anywhere else, humming contently under your breath, calm and at peace for all the world to see, but thatâs not what Sanji sees. Thereâs the slightest tremble in your hands, the inside of your cheek occasionally getting trapped between your teeth, gaze flicking over to him every so often, a shaky, little smile as his reward when you catch him staring - and the truth finally hits him like a slap to the face. No matter what you may claim, this isnât some actual form of punishment, this is you, still trapped with the fear and panic from the last few days, and not knowing where else to put it all besides making sure heâs safe and sound and cared for. Of course youâre not going to let him lift a single finger. Of course youâre not going to let him out of your sight, the need to reassure yourself that no harm will ever befall him again too great. Itâs exactly what he would do in your position and heâs long since learned that you can be scarily similar to each other.
Wether Sanji likes to admit it or not, he had in fact almost paid for his chivalry with his life this time around; had almost gone somewhere you would not have been able to follow, something heâd promised you heâd never even think of. In the moment, heâd told himself itâd be okay. That heâd live and even if he didnât, you would be alright and thatâs all that mattered. Youâd grieve him for a while, or so he hopes, and then youâd heal. Move on. Find someone else, someone better, to spend your life with and make you happy. He would want you to. After all, you wouldnât spend the rest of your life wishing for âWhat ifsâŚ?â with someone whoâd never been worthy of your affections and love in the first place, would you?
In his mind, it had all seemed so easy.
Would it have been easy for him if your roles had been reversed?
The answer is as clear as he pictures the waters of the All Blue and just like that the world tilts on itâs axis, shifting into focus, bathing everything in a different light and Sanji feels nauseous with the weight of what he put you through. His ailing heart drives him from his seat despite the reprimands already falling from your lips, molding his body to yours, arms tightly wound around your middle and head buried in the crook of your neck. The complaints die on your tongue when you realize he doesnât try to pry the spatula away from you, lets you flip your pancake in peace, no indication that heâs about to take any of the work from you, only a gentle, reassuring presence, strong, steady heartbeat at your back.
âTu es mon univers entier, mon avenirâŚâ Itâs not much more than a quiet murmur against your skin, soft and reverent. âI was⌠blind to you seeing me as yours. And that is not your fault, my inner demons and insecurities should not have to be your burden and yetââ He cuts himself off with a frustrated huff, arms tightening around you. âIâll never know what I did to deserve my very own guardian angel, but⌠thank you, my beloved. For looking out for me.â
Reaching back, you tangle one hand in his soft hair, gently scratching at his scalp and he immediately goes snuggling into you further, eliminating any nonexistent remaining space. âSomeone very clearly has to.â
A barely there huff of a laugh, dry and joyless. âThere ought to be much better uses of your precious time.â
You hum quietly in mock thought. âCanât think of a single one.â
The sound that escapes him is somewhere between a laugh and a sob as he spins you around to face him, consciously moving you away from the hot stove and trapping you between him and the counter now digging into your back. Thereâs nothing but devotion, downright worship, written all over his pretty features, eyes shining like the rays of the sun reflecting off the waves, then, âI really want to kiss you, mon amour, please can Iââ
You beat him to it, yanking him forward by his shirt, all too happy to oblige, the movement so hasty and desperate you end up clashing your teeth together. The recovery is quick, seamless, the kiss becoming less frenzied, passion and adoration taking center stage instead. A low groan from the back of his throat has you looping your arms around his neck to drag him impossibly closer, helplessly addicted to anything he gives you, his own hands reaching up to cradle your face in turn, thumbs softly brushing over your cheekbones and angling your head to deepen the kiss further, your surroundings falling away as the world shrinks down to just the two of you.
The need for oxygen is what regretfully forces you apart eventually, yet you stay tangled together, heaving chests pressed against the other, both unwilling to allow even an inch of space to disturb the little corner of the world youâve carved for yourselves.
His warm breath fans over your face and then he moves lower to busy himself with leaving little nips and kisses against the sensitive skin of your neck, goosebumps following in his wake. âHeavens above, I adore youâŚâ he sighs against your skin.
âHmmm, lucky me, cause thatâs just about the only thing thatâs gonna make these pancakes edible.â
Confusion furrows his brows as he straightens back up, watching you reach over to grab the pan, depositing the charred victim of your distraction onto a plate youâd already set aside. When he actually has the audacity to laugh, you level him with an icy glare and jab an accusing finger into his chest. âThis is your fault, you know. You distracted me.â Still chuckling, he lifts said accusing finger to brush his lips against it in apology. âOh come now, love, thereâs still batter left, everythingâll turn out fine. Besides, Iâd happily eat poison if you were the one to serve it to me.â
You almost feel your knees buckle at hearing that, immediately reaching for his cheeks to pinch both of them in frustration. âIâ You canâtâ What did we just talk about?! Good grief, you are incorrigible!!â Thereâs no real bite to your words, only very real, very fond exasperation.
Clearly amused, heâs grinning while he pries your hands off his face and returns them to their previous position comfortably settled at the back of his neck. âAnd yetâŚâ he starts, leaning forward to leave a small, soft kiss on the corner of your downturned lips, which has them quirking upwards despite your best efforts, âhere you are.â
Shoulders dropping in defeat and rolling your eyes at his antics, you try your utmost best to appear cross with him, but youâre already mirroring his smitten, lovesick expression before you know it. âHere I am. And Iâm not going anywhere.â A beat of hesitation, your voice growing quiet with the true weight of what youâre about to ask. âAre you?â
His teasing grin softens into something gentle and warm as he regards you: worry and uncertainty creating a crease between your brows, beautiful eyes pleading and fingers anxiously fidgeting with the short hair at the nape of his neck. Carefully unclasping your hands, he brings them to his chest instead, right over his heart, steady and strong against your palms, itâs rhythm trying to prove his next words true, to leave you certain that he means them mind, body and soul.
âNo, mon ĂŠtoile, Iâm not. Not now, not ever.â
Y/N: Babe, did you know that there are belly button rings in the shape of a mistletoe~?
Jason: âŚ
Jason: Okay, two things. One, you donât have your belly button pierced. And two, I didnât get to be this size by not knowing how to eat. I definitely donât need instructions or a pointing light to tell me where to go, I got it, I promise.
Y/N: Ya know, when I was younger, some of the best snacks came with tattoos - like gum, fruit rolls ups, things like that. Now that Iâve gotten older, some of the best snacks still come with tattoos, but now they also come with a loud mouth and an attitude.
Jason Toddâs favorite color was green, once upon a time.
The first motorbike he ever got to sit on was a bright neon green, courtesy of one of Willisâ friends that wasnât a complete dick. His feet hadnât even reached the pavement back then, but heâd decided he wanted one just like it when he grew up.
Catherine had brought home a small ice cream cake, one they really couldnât afford, with pale light green frosting and green-white striped candles on one of his birthdays. To this day, itâs still the best cake heâs ever had.
His favorite spot in the manor had been a big, old armchair in the library, the dark moss green leather soft and pliant from years of use. Bruce had found him curled up in it, fast asleep with an open book in his lap, more often than heâd found him in his own bed.
Back then, green was relaxing and peaceful and safe.
Until it wasnât.
Heâd felt the clownâs hair, bloody, filthy strands of dirty swamp green, against his face as heâd leaned down to taunt him before smashing his face into the concrete floor again, blood from the wound on his forehead starting to obscure his vision.
He remembers waking up, truly waking up, drowning at the bottom of the pit, desperately clawing for the surface and then hacking and coughing up glowing green water, infusing him with new life he never asked for.
He avoids mirrors like the plague, cause he damn well knows he no longer shares his momâs blue-ish gray eyes. Instead, the too bright, unnatural jade green of something that should no longer be walking the mortal plane stares back at him.
For a while, everything green was nothing more than a painful reminder of a life cut short, leaving him longing and envious of things that couldâve been.
And then you came along.
Jason doesnât even notice it at first. But one day, itâs like he just looks up and sees that damn color everywhere.
Thereâs the tiny herb garden in your kitchen, along with the other plants in your apartment, leaves always a fresh, vibrant green thanks to your care. That of course includes the plants youâve been sneaking into his apartment, despite his insistence that he doesnât have time to properly care for them, which only lead to you informing him that youâll be coming over more often to âgive them all the love and care they may need.â Heâs fairly certain you consider him a plant, to that extent.
Your favorite set of bed sheets is a nice, rich, pine green; you even like them enough to have two of the same. Which means heâs woken up tangled in them often enough: in the middle of the night, roughly roused from sleep by another nightmare, only to get safely tucked into your arms or a rare lazy morning with nothing to do but bury further into the sheets when the light of day comes peeking in through the blinds, your form a comforting warmth curled into his chest.
He once came home to a rare, stupidly hard to find collectorâs edition of Pride and Prejudice sitting on his nightstand; deep, earthy green leather contrasting beautifully against the letters and patterns emblazoned on the cover in shining gold. Youâd come across it randomly and had just wanted to do something nice for him, youâd said. The receipt from a bookstore in Central City, halfway across the damn country, that accidentally landed at his feet when he took out the trash a few days later tells a different, much less casual story. He constantly keeps the book on his couch table now, displayed like a trophy, a prized possession.
And then thereâs the morning that has you on the kitchen counter, kicking your legs back and forth while you watch him make breakfast for you both and Jason can feel it; heâs learned to read you like the back of his hand and itâs in the way he can see you staring at his profile out of his peripheral, head cocked to the side in deep thought, and he knows youâre about to say something thatâs gonna punch the air from his lungs. Heâs still utterly unprepared for hearing âI love you.â for the first time and hence almost flips the pancake straight into the damn stovetop. When he does manage to look at you, he finds soft eyes, crinkled at the corners to accompany the affectionate, if slightly amused smile on your face, completely at rest and undisturbed, like saying what you just did comes as easy to you as breathing. Naturally, youâre snuggled into a hoodie you stole from him and of course the stupid thing is fucking green.
So yeah, maybe green still is Jasonâs favorite color - if only because nowadays it reminds him of you.
Preview: âYou never gave me the chance to get to know you again, to form my own opinion, you just decided for me! God, I canât believe you, you absolute prick! How could you ever think Iâd turn against you?! After everything weâve been through?!â Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he shrugs nonchalantly, his next words steeped in bitterness. âEveryone else had no trouble doing it.â You stare at him like heâs gone completely insane. âWell everyone else doesnât love you the same way I do, do they?!â
Genre: angst with happy ending, hurt/comfort
Word Count: 4,8k
Warnings: mentions of past suicide attempt, canon typical violence and related injury
A/N: Can yâall tell Iâve had one too many Jason edits to the Alex Warren song on my dash? Anyways, come get your birthday boy angst everyone đ
If you use any of my works for AI I will hunt you down for sport đŹ
He holds no love for you anymore, youâve come to terms with that. Maybe he never did, you canât be sure.
What you do know is that it nearly destroyed you when he died. You only wouldâve had the streets to go back to and the only reason youâd been invited to the manor was gone. Not that that place had ever felt like home, heâd been your home. So youâd tried to join him, still have the scars to show for it. Dick had been the one to drag you back and oh, youâd hated him for it at the time. Some dark, twisted part of you that you pretend doesnât exist still does, because while itâs blurry and fading more with each day, you remember. Remember something silly and domestic and normal, prom maybe? And you canât see him clearly, but you can still feel his hand in yours, can still hear him laugh at one of your dumb jokes. Above all, you remember how youâd felt: happy, at peace. Something you havenât truly felt since.
And you know what it felt like hearing that he was back - back in Gotham, back from the god damn dead, yet not back with you, parading around as the cityâs newest crime lord, yet again leaving his brother to pick up the pieces. Even so, you waited and you waited and you waited; for him to reveal himself to you, for him to come home, for him to do fucking something that would prove that youâd meant something to him once, that maybe you still did. Nothing ever came.
The nasty, horrible wound that had torn into your chest is still healing, held together with not much more but spite and duct tape; a dull, ignorable ache on better days, a festering, all consuming ache on the worse ones.
Today? Itâs not a better day or a worse day.
Itâs an absolute shitshow.
Bleeding out on the floor of some rundown, dirty apartment complex in the Bowery, Hood is crouched over your slumped form, one gloved hand keeping pressure on the wound in your lower abdomen, the other scrambling for a medpack on his belt, barking your location and an emergency code into his comms to whoever might be listening.
The more rational side of your brain is screaming, blaring alarms at you, because none of this is real. Well, the wound is, hurts too much not to be. But you and the rest of the Bats were out hunting a pack of sirens that had claimed Gotham as their new feeding ground, so of course those things would take his face to trick you, lure you in and make you their next meal.
The more emotional side of you, given the wheel and taking center stage through blood loss and the ensuing delirium, finds that it doesnât terribly mind, because Hood is fussing, cursing under his breath as he wraps bandages around your middle, interspersed by an occasional light slap against your cheek to keep you conscious, still desperately searching for the adrenaline shot you heard him mutter about. No, you decide, itâs not so bad, because youâre cold and hurting and lonely and heâs here. Heâs right here with you where heâs supposed to be, real or fake be damned. You just wish the cruel creature would at least have the courtesy of actually showing you his face, not that youâd know what he looks like since he came back, they went through all the trouble of stealing it after all and you? WellâŚ
âIâm starting to forget what you looked likeâŚâ
Time might as well have frozen with how abruptly he stills, glowing, unblinking eyes staring at you as you raise a shaky hand to touch the side of his helmet, the bloody stains you leave all but disappearing against the red.
You mustâve blacked out, how long for you donât know, because next thing youâre aware of is being carried in his arms, long strides taking you down a dark hallway, as fast as he dares with you still critically injured. Bursts of static from the scrambler in his helmet accompany his frantic conversation with someone on the other end of the comms, interspersed by occasional curses and colorful threats when he hears something he doesnât like. You still have your own comm, but the constant noise in your ear is nothing more than an annoying buzzing in your state, and when you go shuffling closer into the crook of his neck to try and hide from it, something shifts against your shoulders and you realize that youâve got his jacket wrapped around you in an effort to preserve some of your body heat. It reeks of gun powder and blood, yet it brings a small, content smile to your face anyways. âThank youâŚâ you murmur, trying to tug the jacket tighter with numb fingers.
âYouâre not outta the woods yet, save the thanks for later.â
Giving a minuscule shake of your head, you have trouble getting your mouth to cooperate as you feel your eyes grow heavy. âNah, I meant⌠letting me pretend⌠he still cares about⌠a-about me before I⌠IâŚâ You can hear him shouting your name over and over as your world is finally swallowed by darkness and the sheer panic in his voice sounds so real, so raw, your failing, bruised little heart still yearns for him, even in its final moments.
You come to in the med bay of the cave some odd days later, Dr Thompkins at your bedside and explaining that while it had been a call way too close for comfort, youâd be fine in a few weeks. Thatâs enough reassurance for you to book it out of the manor and back to your own apartment as soon as youâre left to your own devices, because with your mind clear again, the events of that night come violently crashing down on you.
Your comm had been on the entire time.
Everyone heard - Hood heard.
Heard you falling into the trap of a siren whoâd taken the form of a man who couldnât be more indifferent over wether you lived or died.
Yeah, you werenât about to face any of them anytime soon. Never again, preferably.
So now youâre sitting out on your fire escape in the middle of the night, sleep avoiding you like it did so very often, half empty glass of whiskey in your hand and a fresh change of bandages wrapped around your wound, when thereâs a thud on the stairs somewhere above you. Not like you werenât expecting him; always the worried older brother. Doesnât mean you have to like it.
âYouâve had more light footed days, Nightwing. Age finally getting to you?â
âIâm not exactly trying to be quiet.â
You freeze, almost dropping your glass as your fingers go stiff in shock. Not Grayson, then. No, of course itâs the one person you absolutely do not wanna see right now.
âThe hell do you want?â
The clang of his heavy boots against the rickety metal frame signals his approach, but he doesnât dare to close the distance completely, instead opting to stay a few steps behind you as he speaks.
âThat wound looked nasty.â
Itâs a statement, an obvious one, not a question, but you still know what heâs asking and you hate that you do; that you still have an unspoken understanding of each other despite it all.
Are you okay?
âI know how to care for an injury just fine, havenât forgotten how to, thank you very much. Fuck off, I donât need you babysitting me.â
He didnât care enough about your well-being to come check in on you even once since he came back to town, didnât care enough to maybe let you know he was resurrected from the fucking dead and all of a sudden heâs worried about a stupid little flesh wound? Please.
Or maybe thatâs not even him. Maybe those things are making a fool out of you for a second time around. Thatâs more likely than him actually being here at least.
A heavy sigh followed by footsteps, coming down the stairs towards you and then heâs sitting next to you, gun holster pressing into your thigh uncomfortable in the small space the step provides. You barely reach his shoulder even sitting down; when had he gotten so damn tall? You always used to have a few inches on him, when did that change? Probably around the same time everything else changed, you think bitterly.
âIâm not here to babysit you.â he starts and even with the scrambler, exhaustion and concern bleed into his voice. âYou almost died on me a few days ago, I just wanted to make sure itâs not gonna happen again.â Chugging the rest of your drink, you frown. âThe hell are you talking about? You werenât anywhere near me when I got hit.â Out of your peripheral, you catch his head snapping in your direction so fast itâs almost comical, hollow, glowing eyes boring holes into the side of your face. âThe hell are you talking about? I know you lost a lotta blood, but youâre seriously gonna tell me you donât remember I was the one who got you out?â Of course you remember. You remember the siren that looked like him, carrying you off to its lair to be eaten. A lair youâd never made it to, because someone had come to your rescue.
But what if you hadnât actually needed rescuing, cause there never was a siren in the first place? What if your only concern had been your injury and it had in fact been the real him whoâd found you? Trembling takes hold of your hands, so bad you lose the death grip on your glass and it goes tumbling between the steps, shattering into hundreds of pieces on the pavement below. âThat⌠that was you?â You barely manage to squeeze the words out through the dread settling in your chest. âYa know any other guys running around Gotham with guns and a bright red helmet?â he scoffs, leaning back against the stairs and crossing his arms over his broad chest, and he actually has the audacity to sound offended. It sends you to your feet in a surge of rage, whirling around to scowl at him. âOh stop bullshitting me. That wasnât real, that was one of the damn sirens we were hunting. Pardon me, I was a little too unconscious to notice who got me away from that thing, but it sure as hell wasnât you.â Itâs subtle, barely even there, but you swear you see him flinch the tiniest bit, as if your words had physically struck him, but itâs gone just as quick, shaken off with a roll of his shoulders as he stands. âAsk the rest of them if you donât believe me, theyâll tell you the same thing. Or you can check the footage in this thing.â He taps two fingers against the side of his helmet. âIâm telling the truth.â
âRight.â you mock with a snide laugh, wrapping your arms around yourself for comfort. âAll of a sudden you care wether I live or die. Why the change of heart?â You seem to have hit a nerve as you clearly watch him tense, standing to his full height and stalking towards you with heavy steps. âNothing has changed. I never stopped caring about you.â Rolling your eyes, you jab an accusing finger into his chest. âSure, sure, you care so much, hence why this is the first time weâre having a conversation since you came back to town. Why I had to learn about Gothamâs newest crime lord being my dead best friend from Dick. Please, the only thing you might care about are my skills as a vigilante being potentially useful to you and you almost lost that, thatâs why youâre here playing this charade to get back on my good side.â Your chestâs heaving with heavy breaths, meanwhile your rant seems to have taken some of the wind out of his sails, because you can watch him deflate right in front of you. âThatâs⌠thatâs not true. Thatâs not what this is.â
Your heart goes hammering against your rib cage at how soft and hurt his voice sounds, trying to claw its way out of your body to get to him, cause it desperately wants him to be telling the truth and you hate it. So you cross your arms over your chest like thatâs gonna help, a false, thin layer of security over your broken heart, and turn your gaze away. âRight. And thatâs why itâs Red Hood checking up on me and not Jason.â
âIâm starting to forget what you looked likeâŚâ
The phrase echoes in his mind again, like it has the past few days, rattling around his skull and chest cavity and leaving bruises in its wake. Itâs the trigger that has him calling out to you when you declare the conversation ended and start to climb back into your apartment through your window. You turn back towards him slow and apprehensive, eyes guarded and skittish when you look at him, but he managed to keep your attention for just a moment longer and he doesnât intend to waste it, so he sucks in a deep breath before unlatching the locking mechanism of his helmet, pulling it off his head with a hydraulic hiss to tuck it underneath his arm. And just like that, he finds he canât look you in the eyes anymore, his own instead staying on the dirty metal grid beneath his boots.
If he did lift his gaze, heâd find you staring, wide-eyed and slack jawed, because⌠itâs actually him. Itâs still your Jason. Up until now, there had still been the tiniest part of you that hadnât believed it. Of course, he doesnât look quite how you remember, itâs been years and too much has happened to leave him the same boy you grew up with. Heâs taller, broader, his face has thinned out, become more angular with a sharp jawline and pronounced cheekbones. His unruly mop of black hair is sticking up every which way from the helmet, now with a startlingly white streak in his bangs. A nasty, thick, jagged line of a scar runs from the corner of his mouth up the length of his left cheek before disappearing into his hair line, put on full display when he angles his head away from you, desperate to avoid eye contact.
Your steps forward are slow, careful, deliberate. Youâre certain any movement made too fast is gonna scare him off; heâs shuffling from one foot to the other, fiddling with his fingers and his gear and gaze never staying put on one thing for too long - which accidentally causes him to lock eyes with you for all of a second, but itâs enough. Enough to see that the muddled seafoam green-ish blue is gone, replaced by a green too bright, too vibrant to still be considered natural, seemingly even glowing in the dark.
Thereâs a whole storm of emotions brewing in your chest: joy at seeing him again, relief that itâs true, itâs really true and heâs back, curiosity about what happened to him, grief over being left behind. Most of all though, youâre pissed, downright livid, because if what he says is true, if he still cares for you as much as you care for him, then, âWhy didnât you come to see me sooner?â
Your voice is level, firm, dangerously calm and he damn well knows itâs not a good sign, like the sea drawing back before unleashing a tsunami. Even so he doesnât answer, which only serves to piss you off further, getting in his face and forcing him to finally look at you and while he was expecting the angry scowl twisting your features, the tears gathering on your lashes make him feel like he just got sucker punched in the gut. âYou came here out of your own volition, Todd. So are we having this conversation or not?â Itâs an olive branch, one last chance for him to finally speak up before you lose your patience. He doesnât take it and you shove at his chest in frustration, forcing him back against the rusty railing of the fire escape. âWe used to be inseparable god damnit!â you shout, tears freely running down your cheeks now. âUs against the world, now and always, those were your words!! And if theyâre still true like you claim they are, then why?!â You draw your fist back, readying to punch him in his stupid jaw. âFucking whyââ
âBecause I couldnât stand the thought of you looking at me the same way the rest of them do!!â he snaps, easily stopping your fist before it can make contact with his face, gloved hand wrapped tightly around your wrist. âI donât know whatâs worse, having a chunk of my life just taken away from me or coming back to everyone thinking Iâm gonna snap! All they see when they look at me is a failure, a rabid dog they need to keep their eyes on in case they need to put him down! And you honestly think I wanted to go through the same thing with you?!â Struggling against his grip proves fruitless, and when you go to swing another punch at him with your other hand, you end up with both arms trapped so you settle for glaring daggers at him. âOh, so itâs my fault now?â He scowls right back at you, eyes literally aglow in Lazarus green. âThatâs not what I said, stop twisting my words!â Without many more options, you stomp your foot in a tantrum, the old fire escape ominously rattling from top to bottom. âYou never gave me the chance to get to know you again, to form my own opinion, you just decided for me! God, I canât believe you, you absolute prick! How could you ever think Iâd turn against you?! After everything weâve been through?!â Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he shrugs nonchalantly, his next words steeped in bitterness. âEveryone else had no trouble doing it.â
âWell everyone else doesnât love you the same way I do, do they?!â
It doesnât register with you what exactly it is you said, your mind going too fast, thoughts a jumbled, riled up mess, not until Jason drags you forward by the wrists and crashes his lips to yours, frantic and desperate, which effectively stops you from screaming at him any further. Anger still burns hot in your veins though and it shows in the way you kiss him back, teeth clashing against his before they come down on his plush bottom lip - hard. His growl gets swallowed by your greedy mouth, but it doesnât stop him from walking you backwards until your back hits the brick wall behind you, broad frame caging you in, one arm around your waist to cushion the impact. It frees one of your hands that you immediately tangle in his hair, tugging on the dark strands and pulling him in closer, any distance left between you unbearable, as any previous rage and grief starts to melt into something different. Jason slots a thigh between your legs, immediately rewarded with a groan that he uses as an excuse to slip his tongue into your mouth, letting go of the wrist heâd pinned against the wall in favor of cupping your cheek and angling your face up to deepen the kiss. It leaves you clawing at his jacket, heat pooling in your belly as you grind your hips against his, which earns you a low moan from the back of his throat and has him readjusting his hold around your waist, big hand splayed across your ribs to drag you closer andâ
You pull back with a pained yelp, hissing through clenched teeth and curling in on yourself so fast you almost knock the top of your head straight into his nose. Meanwhile he immediately removes his hands from you, pulling back as if heâd been burned, because youâre clearly in pain; why are you in pain? Did he hurt you somehow? He considers just leaping of the fire escape and disappearing, because of course he ended up hurting you, coming here was a horrible idea, he never shouldâveâ
âSâfineâŚâ you croak out as you straighten back up, breathing hard, one hand on your lower abdomen while the other is already busy reaching for him again, dragging him closer by the edge of his jacket and startled as he still is, he simply lets you. âJust the stupid stitches, donât worry about itâŚâ And then youâre already kissing him again, but the smitten, lustful haze is clearing from his mind, letting him remember that you literally got torn open just a few short days ago and itâs like having a bucket full of ice water dumped over his head. So his hands end up on your shoulders, pushing you away with a soft plea for you to stop before you hurt yourself further, and as much at it pains him, you clearly like it even less, as you immediately start pawing at him frantically. âNo, no, itâs fine! I just wantâ Just lemmeââ With all the thrashing youâre doing now, youâve got him genuinely scared youâre gonna tear right through your stitches, so he ends up with one arm across your chest, keeping you still you against the wall. âItâs not fine, slow down, damnit!â You vehemently shake your head and itâs only then that he realizes youâve started crying again. âNo, no, no! Iâve only got you here now, I donâtâ I canât wasteâ Jason, pleaseââ
âIâm not going anywhere!â
It comes out loud and harsh, even if he hadnât meant for it to, almost a snarl with his teeth bared, but it gets you to stop all movement and simply blink up at him with wide, watery eyes, wetness staining your cheeks, bottom lip quivering and all the damage heâs managed to do by staying away from you is staring him right in the face. It makes something twist painfully in his chest and he hates that thatâs a reaction he has while looking at you, even if he only has himself to blame. Almost mechanically, he trails one hand down your arm to gently grasp your hand and bring it up between you both, because he has to see; he doesnât want to, doesnât want to see proof that what Dick had hurled at him during one of their many arguments about his refusal to go see you is true, but he needs to see. He owes you that much at least. The raised, neat lines staring at him from your wrist pull the ground out right from underneath his feet, have him feeling like heâs falling, spiraling with no end in sight. Because while it might be blurry for you, Jason remembers in clear vivid detail: he remembers heaven. He remembers you there with him for a little while and then you were just gone again. He didnât understand any of it at the time - he does now and it makes him wanna throw up. Youâd been willing to follow him and stay with him even in death and he couldnât even be bothered to show you his face once since coming back? All because he was scared, selfishly so, that you would leave him, too? That all youâd see was the same monster everyone else saw and now he realizes that youâd be right to, because he is; a vile creature who left you behind when heâd promised to never leave your side. And yes, his death hadnât been his fault, he hadnât gone willingly, hadnât been brought back willingly, either, but everything after? Yeah, he couldâve done better. Maybe he still could.
Swallowing thickly around the bile rising in the back of his throat, he presses a kiss against your scars gently, his heart cracking when he hears you whimper quietly.
âIâm not going anywhere.â
Itâs softer this time, the desperation giving way to something more intimate and reassuring.
âP-PromiseâŚ?â you hiccup, sniffling slightly and thereâs a warmth that spreads from where he still has his lips pressed to your skin all the way down to his toes, that despite him having broken his last promise to you, you still trust him enough to ask for a new one. So he pulls back and links his pinky with yours, giving you a tiny smile. âPromise.â You drop your head back against the brick wall, eyes fluttering closed as you take deep breaths to calm yourself, in through your nose, shaky, trembling exhales through your mouth. Jason lets you, only readjusts his posture, the arm still across your chest moving around your middle to carefully hold you again, while he threads the fingers of his other hand through yours, squeezing softly to let you know heâs there. âIâm sorryâŚâ you mumble eventually and he genuinely thinks he mustâve misheard you, because, âWhat on earth are you sorry for?â
You still have your eyes closed, mulling over your next words carefully. âI just⌠yeah, I was pissed at you, maybe part of me still is, butâŚâ Blinking your eyes open, you cock your head to the side, studying him with a worried crease in your brow. âJason, you died. And then someone decided you shouldnât stay dead and forced this life on you again, completely against your will. That⌠that messes someone up in ways I could never imagine and I think I shouldâve taken that into consideration before judging you.â
Yeah, youâre either insane or an actual fucking angel. Maybe a little bit of both.
A soft chuckle escapes his lips as he drops his forehead to yours, the remaining tension bleeding from your entire body at the contact. âMaybe. Youâd be the first to, though... Either way, you have every right to be upset, I⌠fuck, you thought a version of me that cares about you was more likely to be a bloodthirsty monster than the real me. I messed up.â Humming in agreement, you nudge your nose against his affectionately. âHmm, you did.â He half expects you to shove him away and tell him to fuck off, that no apology is gonna be enough and you never wanna see him again. He wouldnât blame you. âSo anyways, you still like Neapolitan ice cream?â
âWhat.â
He pulls back so fast, blinking owlishly and confusion written all over his pretty face, like you just suggested something utterly scandalous, it earns him a laugh, short but real, your eyes crinkling at the corners.
âNeapolitan ice scream, dipshit. That still your favorite?â
âI, uh⌠yeah?â
âGood. Iâve got a tub, you can help me finish it while we talk about this,â you gesture between you both while pushing off the wall and starting towards your window, âabsolute mess weâve made of ourselves.â And just like that youâre climbing back into your apartment, clearly expecting him to follow, but Jason remains rooted to the spot.
Absolutely everything has felt wrong since heâd stepped out of the pit. His own body too big and heavy, leaving him feeling like an imposter in his own skin most of the time. His mind an ugly mess of past and present, muddled and loud and violent, constantly banging against his skull, refusing him any respite. His soul? There are days when he thinks it never even made it back with him, left to eternally drown at the bottom of the Lazarus pit, unleashing nothing more than a monstrous shell of a former human being upon the world. And then you do nothing more than simply exist in his general vicinity and just like that, all of it is bearable. His body lighter, his inner demons finally quiet and he knows youâve been his heart and soul since long before he died, so who cares if his own did indeed get left behind? It doesnât matter, not when youâre the first and only thing that feels right about his second life.
Too lost in thought, he forgets that heâs supposed to be following you, right up until you pop your head back out the window in search of him and startle him out of his stupor.
âIâm pretty sure you only count as undead now, youâre not a vampire, right? So are you coming or do you, like, actually need to be invited inâŚ?â Elbows resting on the window sill, youâve got your brows raised, a mocking smirk tugging at the corners of your lips, eyes sparkling with mirth.
Things between you are never going to be how they once were, he knows that and is certain you do, too. But right now, a grin mirroring yours forming on his face, it feels pretty damn close. Itâs a start and itâs good enough.
Jason avoided being shirtless around you for the longest time, cause while heâd been sure you were expecting scars, the giant Y across his chest and abdomen would absolutely raise some questions, rightfully so. And he hadnât been ready for that, not yet. Just telling you about Red Hood had been difficult enough.
But at some point he finds he doesnât care anymore. Or rather, he cares enough to trust you with that dark part of his life.
And you donât catch onto what heâs telling you immediately. Gotham has itsâ fair share of freaks, so sure, heâs run into someone who carves fake autopsy scars into people, why not. But as you trace the raised edges of the scar it starts to dawn on you how deep someone wouldâve had to cut to leave a scar like that and the light smile youâve kept glued to your face, for his sake more than anything else, starts to slip.
A quiet call of your name makes you tear your gaze upwards and you find his bright green eyes already on you; he appears calm, sure of himself, but his heart hammering against his ribcage right under your finger tips gives him away.
"It's not fake."
He watches the crease between your brows deepen, gears turning while you try to figure out what exactly he's just told you. And then your face just falls, mouth open in a silent 'Oh' as your eyes find his scar again. There's no actual emotion or reaction, not yet anyways, youâre simply... processing. Even in a world with literal aliens and gods, knowing your boyfriend died and then came back from the dead at some point in his short life is⌠a lot.
You open your mouth and some stuttered sounds that might be the beginning of a half formed question come out, but ultimately you decide differently and clamp your mouth shut again. This happens two more times before he assures you that you can ask anything you want. It takes you some more agonizingly slow seconds before you finally settle on: "How... how did you die?"
Two words is all it takes for your eyes to grow wide in absolute horror.
"The Joker."
You can already feel the sting of unshed tears and you find yourself swallowing thickly around the lump in your throat threatening to choke you - maybe you should let it, cause you're not sure you actually want an answer to your next question, but it's out of your mouth before you can think better of it. "Was it... I mean was it a 'wrong place, wrong time' kinda situation or was it... personal?" You know he was Robin. You know the clown goes over literal dead bodies if it means he gets a laugh over the bat. So really, you already know the answer. You still can't bring yourself to look at him when he says it.
âBoth, I guess, but... l'd say bashing my head in with a crowbar and then blowing me up would be considered personal."
"Jesus Christ..." you whisper, voice cracking and tears staining your cheeks, so you drop your head into your hands and try to collect yourself as best you can.
Jason doesn't mind. Matter of fact, heâs glad for it; gives him time to prepare himself for the inevitable onslaught of pity and sympathy. And of course you'll mean no harm by it, how could you, but it already makes his skin crawl nonetheless - he's had enough to last him a lifetime.
But then your head snaps back up so fast it's as if you've been struck by lightning, staring at him with confusion written all over your face. "Wait, the Joker's still alive, though?"
Okay. So not even close to the reaction he's used to - you'd never stop surprising him, it seems. Even so, he has no idea what you're implying or where you're going with this, framing an obvious fact as a question, and when he doesn't answer, you sit up ramrod straight, your entire being screaming offense and animosity. Not a second later, youâre up and off the couch, pacing the length of your small living room, anxiously raking your hands through your hair and muttering profanities under your breath. And after several moments of quiet, seething mumbling, you finally hit him with:
âThe fuck do you mean that monster brutally murdered his son and Bruce just let him live?!â
Complete and utter silence follows for all of a second before you resume your pacing and cursing and ranting, at a much less restrained volume this time, and poor Jason has absolutely no clue what to do because⌠youâre upset. More than that, youâre⌠youâre pissed. Livid. About what happened to him. Why⌠why are you angry? No one else beside himself ever was; thatâs supposed to be his burden, his flaw - isnât it?
So he just watches you, lets you get it all outta your system for several minutes until you finally flop back down on the couch next to him, chest still heaving and simply mutter, âThat is so messed up.â He breathes a light, humorless laugh through his nose. âYeah, tell me about it.â Quiet settles between you both for a while and when he chances a glance at you, he can clearly see the gears still turning. Eventually, you tuck your legs underneath you and turn to face him, arm folded onto the back of the couch and head nestled on top.
âDo you hate him?â
He scoffs. âThe Joker? Yeah, I guess you could say thereâs some lingering resentment.â It earns him a halfhearted punch to his shoulder. âNo, smartass. Bruce, I mean.â Jason doesnât answer right away, just tips his head back and stares at the ceiling for a long moment.
âNoâŚâ he states, slowly, like he isnât entirely sure. âNo, I⌠not anymore. I did, once, I think. But now IâŚâ He sighs as he drags a hand down his face. âNo, I donât hate him. I just canât be him. Or whatever it is heâd like me to be.â
You shuffle closer and cover the hand still resting in his lap with yours. âGood. We donât need another Batman running around. And I feel like I should tell you that while I am proud of you for how far youâve come in dealing with this, I hold no such mature notions and will punch Bruce in the face next time I see him.â
That actually gets you a laugh, short but real, even though he knows youâre perfectly serious. âWell, I suppose I canât stop you from doing that.â You snort and poke his bicep. âOh, you absolutely could. You just donât want to.â It was supposed to be a tease, nothing more, but regret gnaws at you immediately when you watch the smile you just managed to put on his handsome face slip right off again.
âNo, I guess I donât. Itâs justâŚâ he turns to you then, brows furrowed and intense green eyes studying you in confusion. âNo oneâs ever been angry about it before. Iâve gotten plenty of pity and grief and tears butâŚâ he shakes his head lightly in disbelief, âItâs just been me, that was angry about it, ya know? And eventually it just felt pointless to talk about it, because if nobody else feels that way, then maybe I didnât have any right to be angry in the first place? Not that it matters anymore, Iâm always the angry one anyways.â And theyâre not entirely wrong, sure, he just⌠gets tired of constantly having it lorded over him sometimes.
Without even realizing, heâs retreated back into the corner of the couch, out of your reach. Youâre having absolutely none of that, and next thing he knows, youâre in his lap straddling him, both hands cupping his cheeks and forcing his gaze back to you. Thereâs no trace of the pity heâs oh so terribly used to anywhere on your beautiful features, instead thereâs a fire burning in your eyes, quiet but determined.
âIâm sorry no one ever made you feel like being angry about what happened to you was okay - because it was. It is. And while Iâm in no way telling you to let rage dictate every action in your life, if that anger had any part in making you the man you are today? Well, then I donât think itâs all that bad.â
Heâs staring at you now, eyes wide in wonder and disbelief and mouth slightly agape. It makes heat crawl up the back of your neck in self-consciousness, like you said something you shouldnât have, so you just shrug and whisper a soft âWhat?â into the air between you both. It gets him out of his stupor as he huffs out a quiet laugh, turning his head to press a quick kiss to your palm. âNothing, just⌠youâre something else, you know that?â The tension bleeds from your shoulders and a teasing, joyful smile lights up your face. âSo you keep telling me. Still not sure wether to take it as a compliment or not.â
âStick around and maybe youâll find out.â he quips back, mirroring your smile as he rests his elbows on your thighs and links his hands behind your back in a lazy hug. Your grin turns downright mischievous as your hands go from thumbing over his cheekbones to pinching his cheeks instead. âOh, Iâm planning on it. If you thought telling me that Iâm basically dating an ex corpse was gonna scare me off, youâve got another thing coming.â
Snorting in amusement he swats at your hands, eventually settling for grabbing your wrists and prying them off his face. âYeah, that tracks, ya weirdo.â Wriggling one hand free from his grip, he willingly lets you more like, you poke at his face again. âYour kind of weirdo, though, you wouldnât be here otherwise.â you state with the smuggest grin you can manage. âAdmit it, you love me and my weirdness.â
Jason tries, and fails miserably, to hide the growing smile on his face by turning his head sideways, mumbling something along the lines of, âYeah, yeah, whateverâŚâ under his breath as your teasing fingers land on his throat with his movement. He feels you tense up and can actually see your smile falter out of his peripheral, yet before he can ask whatâs wrong, you beat him to it. âHey, while weâre on the topic of your scars⌠can I ask about this one?â You carefully trail your fingertips over the nasty, jagged, raised line of skin on the left side of his neck while you say it; itâs one of the scars heâs never been able to hide, given the placement, and itâs one of the worst ones heâs got, too.
It takes Jason a moment to realize which scar exactly it is youâre talking about but when it does dawn on him, he immediately decides itâs probably best not to tell you about that one right this moment. You were pissed enough at Bruce for something he didnât do, he canât imagine youâll take knowing he got that scar from a Batarang very well.
But then you mistake his silence for you having overstepped a line and start to backtrack, assuring him he only ever has to tell you about things he feels ready for with the brightest, most earnest eyes heâs ever seen, your voice firm and one hand in his squeezing gently and he feels his heart stutter in his chest at the sight, cause it once again proves that youâre not asking out of simple curiosity, youâre not prying for information to use against him at some later point, youâre asking because you care. About him. About his point of view. About how he feels.
Fuck it. If youâre already gonna punch Bruce in the face anyways, might as well make it worth your while.
Jason Todd is lucky enough to have a s/o who gets the vigilante thing, you have since he was Robin. Of course youâll worry and fuss and absolutely rip him a new one while patching him up when he comes home hurt, but you let him do his thing, let him go out on patrol, because you understand itâs important - to him and the city.
And then one day he comes home to find his gear haphazardly hidden throughout the apartment. Itâs not particularly well done; his helmet comes tumbling out from the cupboard under the sink when he opens it, his guns peek out from behind the plates and part of his armor almost trips him up from itsâ new place under the couch. Meanwhile youâre nowhere to be found and heâs desperately trying to figure out if heâs walked into some half cooked, ridiculous prank or if he should actually be worried. And then the front door opens to you, balancing several containers from your favorite takeout place in your arms, and greeting him with a smile like always.
It takes Jason all of ten minutes to understand that, despite your best efforts to keep up appearances, somethingâs wrong.
Itâs in the way you donât let him out of your sight for more than five seconds at a time. In the way your eyes will find your wristwatch every other minute, like youâre waiting for something and time canât seem to pass fast enough. In the way youâre constantly touching him one way or another: an arm around his waist, a hand on the small of his back or your shoulder against his when you both finally end up on the couch, takeout containers in hand and some silly, brightly colored game show on the TV in the background.
After you get up for the third time to convince yourself that the door and all windows are definitely locked, he almost asks whatâs going on, but then you trudge back over and all but collapse on his splayed out form on the couch with a heavy sigh, body coiled tight like a spring and an absolute death grip on his shirt. And he decides against prying right then and there, because⌠because heâs had days like this.
Days when everything feels wrong and heâs hurting. Days when he doesnât want to talk about that drug lord that got away or the kid he wasnât fast enough to save or his last fight with Bruce. Days when he just wants to exist in the same space as his favorite person for a while without having to explain himself - and you donât push or prod in those moments, you just let him be. He knows he can talk to you if he wants, but thatâs not always what he needs. Not extending the same courtesy to you right now would make him nothing more than a cruel hypocrite.
So he simply wraps his arms around you a little bit tighter and gently, teasingly reminds you that, âYou can always ask me to ditch patrol and stay with you. No need to turn my gear into a tripping hazard.â He receives a quiet, affirmative hum in response and thatâs good enough for now. Eventually, even though he tries to fight it for a bit, he dozes off with you still tucked safely against him, his nose buried in your hair; god knows when he last allowed himself a proper nightsâ rest. Any other day this would be enough to calm you; having him right here, letting his strong, steady heartbeat lull you to sleep - not today.
No, today you will not find rest for another hour and forty two minutes at least, if experience is anything to go by. Experience that says that the tension keeping your body wound tight and your brain abuzz with anxiety will not subside until you can watch the hands of the clock on the wall crawl over the twelve, signaling the beginning of a new day.
Youâre not sure if heâs realized what today is; if heâs figured out the pattern. That you use different methods to virtually trap him inside the apartment on the same damn day every year. If he has, heâs playing along for your sake, if he hasnât⌠just as well, you donât want him to know. Rationally speaking, youâre aware that this is utterly ridiculous. It was a random day back then, it could be any random day now. And yet⌠you canât help it.
He can go be a hero and risk his life any other day of the year, but April 27th? April 27th he stays right here with you, where you can keep him safe and sound and make sure history doesnât repeat itself.
