That TikTok of ppl pouring tomato sauce directly on the counter, adding spaghetti & mixing it with their hands while commenting how great of an idea it is? Yeah, we used to call that trolling, it's pathetic & bc all they want from it is attention, the best thing is not to give them any. Block & move on.
I keep seeing it on here too. Someone comments something outrageous on a post & gets dozens of ppl to respond, filling the entire comment section & making it unusable. And on Instagram, a comment saying "I hate colors" on a post of someone showing off colorful art gets 100 replies while positive comments get none. Congrats, you've fed the troll. Now stop doing it.
Trolling used to get you banned from forums. Now they call you an influencer and give you brand deals & ad revenue. That's why it's more important than ever not to feed the trolls, especially in spaces where any attention is good attention and getting yelled at by 10k ppl in the comments counts as "engagement", boosting your troll post in the algorithm.
What gets me about all the victim blaming and retcons DC does to try to tell us Jason was the wrong choice for Robin and at age twelve he was broken and bad and destined for failure and death, because DC felt the need to justify child sidekicks after Jason's death, so the narrative became "Batman chose the Wrong child and that's why he died, but Tim is the Right child for the job so it's okay" (and god is it boring we have to justify child sidekicks or any kind of whimsy in comics now)
...is that DITF (entirely on accident) actually gave a perfect out for both explaining why Robin wasn't good for Jason and how that might have contributed to everything in a way that didn't require massive retcons and victim blaming, AND led to an easy excuse why Batman had a reason to believe things might be different for Tim.
Basically, since being Robin helped Dick deal with his grief over his parents, Bruce thought it was a one-size-fits-all cure for dead parent trauma, a way to process grief.
But Jason isn't Dick, and he isn't Bruce either. The traumatized teenager being around even MORE death and murder just made him more traumatized, whodathunk. It's actually a pretty good thoroughline for a lot of what was going on with Jason--violence against women and children seeming to be a specific trigger, Bruce seems to even be worried her that he's showing suicidal tendencies (I think the only time the idea Jason's 'recklessness' might have been driven by grief EVER is even alluded to again is when Bruce compares Cass to Jason.) All of this has just made him more and more fixated on what he's lost, more and more desperate for his Mom.
And that desperation, and Bruce not knowing how to deal with it, is what led Jason to run away in the first place, led him to feel alienated from Bruce. It feels a lot more natural to say that rather than it being Jason failing or being wrong for Robin, being Robin wasn't what HE needed.
And then you still have an excuse for why the role might suit Tim better. Because Tim wasn't recruited as Robin with this assumption it'll help him process his grief. He became Robin because "Batman needs a Robin" and because it was his choice. His grief has never been tangled up in being Robin, even after his Mom died. (There could be an arc where Bruce was super concerned about the same thing happening again after his mom's death though, that could be interesting)
It have even tracked with Stephanie. Bruce fires her after her father dies because he's worried about the grief impacting her because omg just like Jason! But then she convinces him she doesn't care. But then he sees something and decides it IS affecting her actually and he tells her to stop again. The problem could be explicitly that Bruce was projecting Jason into Steph too much, and he genuinely did not see that Steph was not like him in the grieving respect.
Maybe it wouldn't have been better as a story overall or anything, maybe there are elements to the actual story that work/better or are more interesting and messy, but I think this story direction could have also been like, an interesting examination of Bruce's failure to realize Jason isn't going to respond to things the way Dick Grayson did, without constantly blaming Jason for dying or painting him as a bad Robin. It would also be easier to follow his logic in how he treats his sidekicks after the fact, even if said logic is still very flawed.
this also doesn't come close to telling the whole story.
the Philadelphia police harassed the MOVE organization for over a decade. MOVE began with peaceful protests against conditions at long-term-care facilities and against the city Zoo's mistreatment of animals. in 1972, police classified the group’s use of profanity as riotous and designated them violent threats to public order. the actual reason was their radical abolitionist message.
the Philadelphia police department had a brutal, corrupt, and racist reputation long before MOVE entered the picture. despite that fact, MOVE’s claims of police brutality typically fell on deaf ears, even when they had undeniable proof of mistreatment. the bombing is only one part of the story both because it is the culmination of violence between MOVE and the police and also because it is part of the broader narrative of police brutality in Philadelphia that is still largely played out today.
in 1957, two Black men were beaten by three off duty and allegedly drunk police officers, putting one in the hospital for 19 days. the commissioner at the time testified that all officers were trained in "race relations," which involved things such as having officers brandish shotguns out the window of their patrol vehicles as a show of force in so called "shotgun squads." the three officers were not convicted of any crimes.
in 1960, shots indiscriminately fired by officer Robert Marinelli killed two innocent Black bystanders. Marinelli was charged, tried, and then found not guilty on all charges by an all-white jury.
in 1967, a guy named Frank Rizzo became the police chief. his nickname while working in West Philadelphia as a captain was "The Cisco Kid," which referenced the fictional cowboy who "killed for the love of it or any other reason that came to mind." he referred to "vermin" in Philadelphia as the source of the crime and decline.
shortly after he was appointed, he sicced 300 officers in riot gear on Black students and advisors protesting the Board of Education who were protesting the lack of Black studies and Black teachers. Rizzo ordered the officers to "get their Black asses." 57 protesters were arrested, dozens were beaten, and 15 were hospitalized. Frank Rizzo was elected Mayor of Philadelphia 3 years later and during his bid for re-election in 1975, he said that he would "make Attila the Hun look like a faggot" once he was reelected.
so yeah, not only is the MOVE bombing virtually unheard of by the average person in America (and it's not much better in academia, for that matter), but the story that is often told when people do hear about is that this all happened in a vacuum "due to the actions of a violent Black resistance group." in reality, it was the culmination of over 50 years of brutality against Black people and minorities in Philly.
This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened either. In the 1920’s and the Tulsa massacre culminated in what is thought to be around 300 deaths and the loss of an entire black community of thriving businesses. The property damage and fires resulted in thousands of people in Greenwood Oklahoma being homeless for years after.
High schools in America teach about the civil rights movement (glazes over it really), but rarely touch on the absolute horrors black and minority populations were put through in the years prior. Odds are you will not learn of the MOVE bombing or the Tulsa Massacre in American schools due to the revisionist version of history they feed the public.
Black Wall Street was a wealthy enclave in Tulsa full of black-owned businesses. But a race riot destroyed it — and nearly wiped it from nat
nothing funnier to me than when AI does math wrong. like I get why it happens, it's a language model that's treating the numbers you feed it as words rather than integers and then giving you an answer based on how those words typically appear in a block of text instead of actually performing a calculation. but the one thing computers are genuinely incredible at. you fucked up a perfectly good calculator is what you did, look at it it's got hallucinations
I'm a fandom oldie and a strong proponent of "ship and let ship", and I defend everyone else's right to ship what they love... But I think that gives people the idea that I like, automatically love every single ship??? Or every single trope?
I don't though!
There are a lot of fandom tropes that are on my "absolutely fuck no" list. There are a lot of irk kinks that are also on my "nope absolutely not" list, too. Personally, this is healthy. I'm able to look at something and go "Yep, I hate it, but it's not harming anyone, so continue to do as you please."
I think this is where the rubber meets the road for actually having principles. It’s easy to defend the things we like, just like it’s easy to fight for our own rights and those of people just like us. When you have to use logic to extend your sense of justice to people you can’t relate to, that actually takes effort.
I don't have the citation but I remember seeing one of the AO3 founders say something like "when we sat down to discuss what would be allowed on AO3, we started by thinking about what tropes/kinks/etc we would never in a million years read ourselves, we came up with the ickiest oh-fuck-no fic concept we could imagine, and we agreed together that we were building a site where That Fic would be allowed to exist alongside all the others".
To my mind that's the same principle, and it's worth challenging your own sense of disgust that way -- asking yourself, in that case, if I'm really anti-censorship am I willing to stand against the censorship of something that disgusts me? If I'm really in favor of human rights, am I willing to stand for the basic rights of the most loathsome human being I'll ever meet? How far does "universal, basic, fundamental" really go? Do I actually believe in these things across the board?
I'm a fandom oldie and a strong proponent of "ship and let ship", and I defend everyone else's right to ship what they love... But I think that gives people the idea that I like, automatically love every single ship??? Or every single trope?
I don't though!
There are a lot of fandom tropes that are on my "absolutely fuck no" list. There are a lot of irk kinks that are also on my "nope absolutely not" list, too. Personally, this is healthy. I'm able to look at something and go "Yep, I hate it, but it's not harming anyone, so continue to do as you please."
I think this is where the rubber meets the road for actually having principles. It’s easy to defend the things we like, just like it’s easy to fight for our own rights and those of people just like us. When you have to use logic to extend your sense of justice to people you can’t relate to, that actually takes effort.
I don't have the citation but I remember seeing one of the AO3 founders say something like "when we sat down to discuss what would be allowed on AO3, we started by thinking about what tropes/kinks/etc we would never in a million years read ourselves, we came up with the ickiest oh-fuck-no fic concept we could imagine, and we agreed together that we were building a site where That Fic would be allowed to exist alongside all the others".
To my mind that's the same principle, and it's worth challenging your own sense of disgust that way -- asking yourself, in that case, if I'm really anti-censorship am I willing to stand against the censorship of something that disgusts me? If I'm really in favor of human rights, am I willing to stand for the basic rights of the most loathsome human being I'll ever meet? How far does "universal, basic, fundamental" really go? Do I actually believe in these things across the board?
The above is from this article from The Guardian. The images are from MYA Network. The caption on their website reads:
Source: ‘When a sperm and egg get together, the body creates tissue in order to support the developing pregnancy. Here are photos of that tissue from 5-9 week pregnancies. This is called the gestational sac, and it’s like the “house” for the pregnancy. Inside this sac there are cells that have the potential to become a fetus but there is no visible embryo at this stage. We rinsed off the blood and menstrual lining (decidua) for these photographs.’
The published images sparked a lot of debate, leading to the story being picked up by other news outlets. For example:
Source: ‘Last week, the Guardian published images of pregnancy tissue after abortions in the first 10 weeks of pregnancy. The small size and appearance of the tissue were shocking to many. We have all absorbed, knowingly and unknowingly, the pervasive anti-abortion narrative that a pregnancy resembles a tiny baby starting in the earliest weeks. Though an early embryo can be seen under the magnification of ultrasound, it can take months for it to be perceptible to the naked eye.’
Source: ‘People have responded in disbelief, citing the (magnified) images they’ve seen on ultrasounds. […] ”Think of the illustrations on pregnancy and medical websites. The Mayo Clinic, one of the preeminent medical organizations in the country, shows week-by-week illustrations of embryonic and fetal development without any context of scale, like the rulers in the MYA photos.’
As stated in the article, whilst people talk about a ‘heartbeat’ at 6 weeks, there is no heart developed at this stage - only a group of cells that will become part of the heart.
Source: ‘But what exactly do we mean when we talk about a “fetal heartbeat” at six weeks of pregnancy? Although some people might picture a heart-shaped organ beating inside a fetus, this is not the case. Rather, at six weeks of pregnancy, an ultrasound can detect “a little flutter in the area that will become the future heart of the baby,” said Dr. Saima Aftab, medical director of the Fetal Care Center at Nicklaus Children’s Hospital in Miami. This flutter happens because the group of cells that will become the future “pacemaker” of the heart gain the capacity to fire electrical signals, she said.’
It should also be noted that the images show an embryo, not a fetus, until the 9th week.
Source: ‘In human pregnancies, a baby-to-be isn’t considered a fetus until the 9th week after conception, or week 11 after your last menstrual period (LMP).’
The co-founders of the MYA Network responded in a New York Times article.
Source: ‘Many people, even those who support abortion rights, did not believe the photos were accurate. Some insisted we had deliberately removed the embryos before taking the photos. The images weren’t consistent with those often seen in embryological textbooks, magnified on ultrasounds or used in anti-abortion propaganda; these enlarged images are not what you see with the naked eye after an abortion. A Stanford gynecologic pathologist has validated our photos, but many people could not believe the pictures were presented unaltered.
If I ever share anything that was AI generated it is purely by accident. I hate that it's getting harder and harder to tell and it makes me want to never use the internet again. It definitely had its faults, but man I miss the internet of the 2000s so much.
Hey so like, this is funny and all, but if you know someone who genuinely cannot stop thinking about something and who is distressed by that, take a moment and consider that it might not just be bigotry, it might be undiagnosed OCD, and there’s a possibility that getting them mental health help could actually help them be less bigoted. I’m completely serious.
OCD gets stereotyped as “needing everything just so”, but the compulsions associated with OCD are actually just a coping mechanism for the real underlying issue, which is that your brain’s mechanism for moving on from transient thoughts is broken.
If you are neurotypical, you might think about the existence of gay sex by happenstance – you might even picture it, briefly. If you’re not into gay sex and this happens to you, then you’ll probably think “huh weird that I thought of that” – if you think anything about it at all – and then your brain will move on to something else.
But if you have OCD, you might get “stuck” – you might picture gay sex briefly, and then your brain might just keep picturing gay sex, nonstop, no matter what you do, for minutes, or hours, or even days. Some people have thoughts that don’t go away for entire weeks straight. And that can be extremely distressing! It can be distressing even if you don’t have a problem with gay sex at all, just because it won’t stop. You saw a gay person, and that made you briefly think about gay sex, and now you have an image of gay sex playing on loop in your mind, indefinitely, and nothing you do will make it go away.
The right wing loves to prey on people with undiagnosed OCD because they’re easy to manipulate and radicalize. If every time you see a gay person, your brain show you a non-stop loop of gay porn that you cannot stop thinking about no matter what you do, then it’s very easy to be seduced into thinking that gay people are inflicting harm on you just by existing in public life. If every time you hear a foreign language your brain supplies an endless list of mean things that that person could be potentially be saying without you understanding them, it’s easy to be seduced into thinking that people who don’t speak English in America are a threat. If the mere thought of someone getting an abortion can produce a nonstop flashing slideshow of every inflammatory image of an aborted fetus you have ever seen in your life, then the ability of other people to get abortions can feel like it’s a pressing issue that directly affects you, even if it absolutely doesn’t.
When you see bigots who are exhibiting signs of extreme mental distress, ask them if they are ok, and direct them to help. You’d do that if this woman had been in tears because she “couldn’t stop thinking about cows” or “couldn’t stop worrying that her house was on fire” or “couldn’t stop graphically imagining her husband cheating on her.” Don’t ignore your instincts regarding a mental health crisis just because the form that crisis takes seems bigoted.
This is both related and unrelated but genuinely I would love a study to be done on OCD and radicalization/likelihood of joining a cult.
Genuinely religion and cult thinking are the perfect combination to generate OCD but also soothe it.
My cousin has scrupulosity OCD, meaning he is obsessed with the idea of himself and other people sinning before God to the point that he has been unable to leave his house for five years.
For those who don't know the treatment for OCD outside of medication is ERP (exposure response prevention) therapy. The method of which is to expose yourself in leveling doses to the things that make you afraid to desensitize your brain's panic response. So if someone's having intrusive thoughts about harming themselves, an Exposure their therapist might have them do is try holding a knife for longer and longer periods of time without self soothing after.
However here's the thing-
For my cousin his exposures that his therapist was trying to get him to perform were "say the Lord's name in vain", "don't pray before eating", "throw the Bible on the ground." And his parents wouldn't make him do it because then he "would actually be sinning".
He was also obsessed with me going to hell for being queer as well as his little sister. He'd constantly demand people repent or apologize.
I myself have had weeks of being convinced that I was being tortured by God like Job for my sins. As a kid I was convinced I was a prophet of God who could only foresee tragedy and my parents would regularly tell me that they knew I had sinned or lied because God had told them.
People with OCD are just so particularly vulnerable to this kind of thought control but also the dynamic of being told EXACTLY what you need to do in life and how you need to behave to be a good person is also particularly appealing to the doubting disorder.
((also I remember seeing this post a while back and going "huh that sounds like OCD" but didn't have the words to articulate like this person did))
OCD is a far more debilitating/psychosis inducing disorder then it's ever given credit for. Obviously it does not excuse abusive action or bigotry but it can definitely perpetuate keeping someone in that thought pattern. And remember it's far more common for good people to be obsessed with being bigoted/cruel/bad people than otherwise.
Summary: A lapse of judgement leads to an interesting friendship.
Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader
CW/TW: None!
Jason may be OOC! Inspired by an old oneshot. Divider by toxisyddy
~~~
The pattering of rain against the window was soothing, aided by the cold air that flowed in through the small gap that allowed the smell of rain and the noises of the nightlife of Gotham to seep in.
(Y/N) usually kept the window permanently shut with the locks on and the restrictor flipped out of the precaution his parents instilled in him. Gotham wasn't the type of city to test your luck with. The wailing of sirens zooming by on the rain-slicked road was proof enough of that.
But lately, (Y/N) had been feeling a little less paranoid and a little safer. It was funny, in a way, how the reasoning for his newfound calmness toward his home was something that should've frightened him.
The first time they'd met, it'd been a moment of right place, right time.
(Y/N) had been typing away on his laptop, chatting with a friend who'd made the smart decision of hauling ass out of Gotham after getting their degree, when he'd heard it. Rough grunting, hard thumps, the clatter of a trash can getting knocked over and things scattering.
He stood up immediately and approached his window with the intent of drawing the curtains, dead set on ignoring whatever was going on in the alleyway beside his apartment building.
But his fingers hovered over the curtain, barely grazing it, some dumb curiosity in his head coaxing him into taking a peek.
It was the exact opposite of what anyone would do in Gotham, because curiosity could kill the cat, and no amount of satisfaction would bring it back.
He peeked anyway, pressing himself to the wall and rolling onto his toes to get a view of the alleyway. It was obstructed slightly by the fire escape, but he caught flashes of crimson against the muted gray of the sidewalk. His eyes tracked it, and the curiosity grew obnoxiously.
Against his better judgment, he pushed the window up, slowly to avoid making too much noise. He poked his head out, his gaze locking on the vigilante he'd come to know as Red Hood in the middle of a fist fight with a man in a ski mask roughly a foot or two bigger than him.
Red Hood had a bad reputation, one soaked in violence and blood, but (Y/N) had to admit.. he got the job done, kept the streets a little safer. The dead couldn't exactly hurt anyone again.
(Y/N) ducked his head back into the room and retrieved his Stanley bottle from the desk, clutching it tight in his hand when he resumed his previous position. He leaned further out, nearly climbing onto the fire escape, and then chucked the bottle down.
It slammed into the top of the goon's head with an almost comical vibrating echo, forming a decent enough distraction that allowed Red Hood to really lay into him with his fists until the guy was either dead or unconscious, lying across the cold pavement.
When the red helmet tilted upwards, (Y/N) shot backward, almost knocking his head on the window in his fumble to get back inside his room. He tossed the curtains closed after slamming the window shut and squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of the fire escape rattling beneath new weight.
It stopped after a few quick minutes, and right when (Y/N) was about to let out a tiny sigh of relief, someone tapped on his window. Once. Twice. Thrice. The fourth time was more of an impatient knock, so (Y/N) tugged the curtain open before the fifth time could shatter the glass.
There he was, crouched down by the window, holding the bottle in his hand. Tentatively, (Y/N) opened the window once more, again against his better judgment. Red Hood wasn't exactly your average vigilante. He didn't instill the same sense of safety that Superman or Nightwing did when you saw them out and about, swinging in to rescue a poor civilian from one of Riddler's games or a vine created by Poison Ivy.
Silently, Red Hood extended his arm, offering him back the now dented bottle. His helmet was lowered, as if he were looking at it. "Guess he really was hard-headed."
(Y/N) laughed, half-startled half half-amused, the low, raspy voice sending a shiver down his spine. His fingers ran over the dent, wiping away the dirty droplets and gravel clinging onto it. It'd served him well, and he supposed served Red Hood pretty decently, too.
He raised his head, a thanks on the tip of his tongue, before his eyes noticed the tear in his jacket, the clean cut across his arm visible. He was bleeding.
"Uh, I've got a first aid kit. If you-" What the fuck am I doing? "-if you want to use it."
Red Hood stared at him, or he assumed he was staring at him. It was hard to tell with the helmet. The way it was made, it looked like it had its brows furrowed, giving it a permanently displeased look. He was probably wondering how stupid (Y/N) was for basically inviting a stranger in Gotham to stick around.
(Y/N) hoped he'd say no.
Red Hood nodded.
Biting his tongue, because the dude had a gun holster around his hips and he had the self-preservation skills to assume it was most definitely loaded, (Y/N) spun on his heels, his eyes flickering toward the chat where his friend had begun to question if he'd fallen asleep.
He rummaged through his bathroom cabinet until he found the first aid kit tucked away in the back, dusty and forgotten about, before he returned to his bedroom, half-expecting Red Hood to have disappeared into the shadows.
He was still there, crouched and waiting.
(Y/N) thrusted the first aid kit toward him, his hands slipping away, unwilling to make contact with his bloodied gloves. That was just unhygienic.
Red Hood sorted through the items in the first aid kit, his movements almost robotic, even when he touched and treated the cut as if it hardly hurt at all. Once he was done, he offered the stained plastic box back.
"Well," (Y/N) exhaled, cringing slightly at the smeared blood. "Bye."
In a fluid motion, he slid the window shut again, swearing he caught Red Hood's shoulders shaking slightly in a laugh before he tugged the curtains closed. The sound of the rattling was relieving, a sign that the danger was over.
He'd thought that'd be the last of it, a chance encounter he could use as an icebreaker with strangers, a tale to tell any future kids that'd undoubtedly think it a stretched truth. Except that four days later, the rattling returned, loud and jolting.
(Y/N) had been lying in bed, scrolling through social media, reading the latest news, when it happened. He hoped it was a teenager making use of the fire escape to sneak out or someone taking a breather from their stuffy apartment, but then, the taps came on his window.
Tap, tap, tap. Knock.
(Y/N) winced. This is what you get, dumbass. Mind the business that pays you next time. He heaved out a sigh, palm running over his face, wondering what the jail time was for potentially harboring a fugitive. He couldn't exactly claim Red Hood was holding him against his will.
Reluctantly, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, peeling back the curtains to stare into that eye-catching helmet.
Surprisingly enough, Red Hood lifted a Stanley bottle, the same color and design as the one that had been dented. (Y/N) stared at it through the window, and then swallowed.
Was he returning the favor? Or had the favor been not putting a bullet in him? (Y/N) really didn't want to owe vigilantes any favors, especially ones that danced the line between beloved hero and wanted criminal.
Wordlessly, he walked away from the window, going to his kitchen and popping open the microwave with the fast food bag he'd intended to eat later. He returned to his bedroom, opened the window, set the bag aside on the fire escape, and took the bottle from Red Hood's hand.
"I'll trade you," (Y/N) said simply, and slid the window shut again.
No favors. Trade was safer.
He sat on his bed and listened to the muffled sound of the bag crinkling, of metal groaning and shaking, but the shadow peering through the window told him the vigilante had merely taken a seat to eat the bag's contents.
(Y/N) stared forward at the wall across his bed, his knee jumping, his thoughts racing. Would this be simply part of the icebreaker, a tidbit he could toss randomly into conversations? Or would this become a routine?
As time passed, he learnt it'd become the latter.
The daytime was normal. No new faces popped in unexpectedly with a suspiciously similar build to the vigilante; he didn't feel followed when he walked around the city. His schedule and routine were unchanged, casual, and as normal as days could be in a city like Gotham. He kept his head down, remained small, tried not to search the shadows for that familiar red helmet.
Nighttime was a different story. It was almost like clockwork, two to three times a week, he'd hear the metal groan and shake. Tap, tap, tap. Knock. Sometimes he'd come at nine, sometimes at ten or eleven. Sometimes he brought things along with him, snacks or drinks, small, cheap things.
Other times, he brought injuries with him, but he only treated the superficial ones, the ones men like him could easily ignore, the ones first aid kits could help with. (Y/N) would always hand him over the kit, watching Red Hood treat himself, barely flinching when he cleaned the injury and wrapped it in bandages or gauze.
They hardly spoke. It was mostly silent interactions, thoughts and wants conveyed through nods and head shakes or vague hand motions.
It was an odd friendship, if it could even be called that.
But (Y/N) felt safe. Red Hood hadn't done anything to prove he was untrustworthy, save for the few times he popped up on the news for some grisly thing he'd done to a bad guy or the few times he and Batman collided on rooftops, an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force.
His head lifted away from his notebook at the sound that'd become something akin to a car pulling into the driveway of its home, familiar and welcomed. The curtains were opened, and Red Hood appeared at the window, crouching again, his thighs more pronounced, more muscular looking when they were pressing along his calves.
Red Hood's head turned toward him. Tap, tap, tap. Knock.
(Y/N) stared at him, silent, curious. Red stared back, silent, likely puzzled.
It was like that for a few ticking minutes, the two of them staring at each other, until Red's gloved fingers curled around the bottom of the window and pushed, slowly, stopping every few seconds as if waiting for him to dart over and block his way in. (Y/N) remained seated, watching.
His entry into the apartment wasn't quite graceful; he was tall and the window was small, but he managed. He looked out of place. He acted out of place. Tense and unsure, like a stray cat being brought inside for the first time, not fully understanding that it was safe, that there wasn't any danger lurking around the corner.
And maybe he was a stray (Y/N) was bringing inside. He sure treated Red like one.
"Your bag's in the kitchen." He told him, voice soft, mindful of the tension visible in his shoulders.
Red looked at him, his gloved fingers twitching, droplets of rain dripping onto the floor from his clothes. He was quite the sight, tall and hulking in his room. A breathing statue. At least there wasn't any blood on him, not yet anyway. The night was still young for vigilantes like him.
The chair's wheels squealed when (Y/N) rolled back, fingers closing his notebook and bare feet slapping against the floor as he left his room. Red's thumping footsteps followed a minute later, trailing behind, probably stuck between lingering and leaving.
(Y/N) stopped in the kitchen, his head angling over his shoulder to watch Red take in his small, dingy apartment. He had no valuables to be stolen, and if he'd wanted to harm him, he easily could've already.
"Eat."
(Y/N) jerked his head toward the kitchen table, only big enough to fit a maximum of two people, and brushed right back past him toward the bedroom. His ears strained for noise, his feet pausing before he reached the door.
There was the drag of the chair being pulled back, the groan of weight settling on it. (Y/N) stepped into his bedroom and sat back at his desk, opening his laptop to distract himself while Red ate. He clicked through tabs on the screen, completing random small tasks like finally sending the email he'd been procrastinating on and scrolling through job sites for anything better than the one he currently had.
The rain picked up slightly outside, so he stood up, sliding the window shut again before the raindrops could leave his floor soaked with puddles. He stared up at the dark clouds overhead, spotting a flicker of light and the clap of thunder that swiftly followed. It faintly made the window vibrate, the barely audible sound catching his attention.
His shoulders jerked slightly at the splotch of red in the reflection, his heartbeat kicking up and then calming down once his brain registered it was Red. How a man like him could manage to be both as loud as a truck horn and as quiet as a mouse was beyond (Y/N). His breath came out slow, allowing his heart to return to its usual pace before he turned around.
"How was-"
(Y/N)'s lips pressed together, his eyes locked on the red helmet he'd come to look forward to seeing being tightly gripped in a familiar gloved hand. He slowly lifted his gaze, trailing it up the sleeve of the worn-out, faded brown biker jacket until he reached Red's collarbone.. and then his face.
His features were sharp, angular, and ruggish. His hair was short and straight, mostly pitch-black like the shadows along the floor, except for the slight pop of white along the hair falling over his forehead. His eyes were turned downward, narrowed as if he were glaring at the floor, and his mouth, scarred on the corner, was frowning, hard.
There was something strikingly familiar about him, but (Y/N) couldn't put his finger on it.
"Uh," (Y/N) cleared his throat, blunt fingernails scratching at the back of his head awkwardly. "How was the burger? New item on the menu. Thought you'd probably.. like it."
What did this mean? What the hell did this mean?
Obviously, a vigilante unmasking themselves was a sign of trust, proof that they felt confident enough to reveal who they were, but Red looked upset. At least, it was what (Y/N) thought, until he spotted the way Red's eyes, a deep blue like the ocean during a storm, flickered up and then down again. He was nervous, uncertain.
"Why'd you help me that night?" Red raised his head fully, his boots quietly crossing the room, and his fingers still tightly clutching the helmet like it was his lifeline.
The light from the lamp on the desk crawled across his face. Red was... beautiful, in a haunting way, almost, like an abandoned cathedral on the cusp of falling apart and being overtaken by foliage, but with the vibrant stained glass still intact.
Nostalgia crept into the corners of his mind, a faint sense of deja vu. He'd seen these tormented eyes before, but where?
(Y/N) lifted one shoulder, lamely. "Why not? You're... not exactly the average friendly neighborhood superhero, but.. I don't know. You get the job done, I guess. I did my good deed of the day by helping you."
Red's face was unreadable, his brows tightly knitted together, eyes faintly squinted and mouth still curved downward. He was intimidating, that was for certain, but (Y/N) didn't feel frightened or uncomfortable beneath the weight of his gaze. He wasn't sure what to make of it, if he was honest. He wouldn't be surprised if Red thought he was the dumbest man in all of Gotham.
Red took a step back, knees bending, carefully lowering himself down on the edge of the bed. "If you give people a chance, they might surprise you, right?" His voice was gruff, tight, somber, his eyes gliding away as if lost in thought, in a memory. "Why give me a chance?"
"Why not?" (Y/N) plopped back down in the swivel chair, one leg tucking beneath his knee. "You're not so bad."
The vigilante huffed out a breath of amusement, the corners of his lips rising into a dry smile, tinged with bitterness. He said nothing, only cradled his helmet in his hands and looked. His eyes ghosted all over the bedroom, soaking in the little details that wouldn't be visible from his usual spot on the fire escape.
(Y/N) turned away from him, resuming his mundane tasks on his laptop, most aimlessly pretending to be doing stuff. He hadn't brought friends over to his place for a while, hadn't had anyone hanging out in his bedroom in years. He almost felt like a teenager again, desperate to impress but failing miserably.
"How was.." Red spoke again, trailing off, his throat clearing. There was some underlying awkwardness there, and (Y/N) was thankful to know he wasn't the only one grasping at straws. "How was your day?"
(Y/N) turned slightly in the chair, his lips puckering slightly and back pressing into the chair as he began talking about his day. It'd been a pretty average work day for him, the same old routines and motions, but it was all new to Red's ears, so he talked about the details. The clients that were dealt with, the workplace drama from months ago, how he'd practically gotten front row seats to Nightwing arresting Penguin a few weeks before meeting Red.
Red listened to him, his almost unblinking eyes never leaving his face, studying him whilst he spoke. His stare was unrelenting, like he was picking him apart with his eyes alone, leaving him exposed. It was easier when the helmet was on, when (Y/N) wasn't sure if he was looking at him or in his general direction. The attention left his skin burning.
"And, uhm, yeah." (Y/N) looked away from him, peering down at his lap and picking at the soft fabric of his sweatpants. "And, uh, your day, Red?"
"Busted a drug operation over in Down River."
"Ah." (Y/N) couldn't help but chuckle, his head lolling to the side and cheek smushing against his shoulder. "My life must sound pretty boring compared to yours, huh? You're the only interesting new thing that's happened to me recently. Boring is nice in Gotham, though."
"Yes, it is." The mattress groaned when Red stood up from it, footsteps now heavy when he cut the short distance between the bed and the desk. He lingered beside him, his hand raising and fingertips hovering behind (Y/N)'s head, hesitating. "Boring is better." He muttered gently, knowingly.
(Y/N) tilted his head back to peer up at him, and then tilted it further so Red's fingers touched him. He was slow, cautious, his palm coming to press into the back of (Y/N)'s head, vaguely affectionate.
The silence was comfortable, less awkward and fumbly than before, just their eyes soaking in what the threshold between his bedroom and the fire escape had hidden away.
Red eventually retracted his hand to slide his helmet over his head and turned toward the window. "Goodnight, (Y/N)."
"Night, Red."
It was only when the fire escape stopped rattling, signalling Red had disappeared into the night, that it clicked in (Y/N)'s head.
He'd never told him his name.
Red disappeared for almost a week, nearly two, and (Y/N) wondered if the friendship that'd been developing had simply been a thing of curiosity, a spell broken by physical contact. Maybe Red regretted showing him his face, rolling over and exposing something valuable: his identity.
But it wasn't like (Y/N) could put a name to his face. Whatever part of his brain that recognized Red refused to give up the memory; whatever encounter they'd shared in the past that'd left an impact on him was left hidden behind a fog of blurred together memories.
The disappointment settled on his chest heavier than expected, heavier than the grocery bags he was hauling up into his arms. They dug into his arms, leaving imprints behind, and he speedwalked toward the elevator so he could temporarily rest the bags on the stained floor. The elevator creaked and groaned, old cables protesting with each floor until they reached (Y/N)'s.
He let out the same sigh of relief as always, pleased that the elevator hadn't chosen to plummet into the void this time around. He collected the bags swiftly, hurrying out of the elevator before the doors could shut, and he made his way down the dimly lit hallway toward his apartment.
It was silent, his footsteps and the rustle of the bags echoing. He could hear faint voices from behind apartment doors, the songs of cartoons, the occasional meow or bark.
(Y/N) fumbled with his key, inserting it into the doorknob and throwing his door open with a quiet huff. He locked the door, his body relaxing, and all but waddled to the dining table to haul his bags onto it. He rubbed his hand over one arm, cringing slightly at the sting, and then turned, eager to kick his shoes off and change out of his work clothes.
His eyes caught a subtle movement from his living room, and he raised his head, the towering shadow standing near the hallway's archway suddenly moving.
"Jesus Christ!" He yelped, nearly shrieked, his hand flying to clutch his chest through his shirt.
He heard familiar thumping footsteps coming from his bedroom, and the shadow, one he was able to recognize as Batman, quickly stepped away from the archway. Red appeared under the archway instead, his gloved hand tightly gripping his handgun, his concealed head quickly scanning the room until his attention settled on the intruder.
There was a buzzing electricity between the two, the tension high in their shoulders too obvious to miss. There was history there, one that had to go further than their occasional fights. If Batman had a habit of entering homes unannounced, (Y/N) wasn't surprised he had so many enemies. His stomach felt sick from the fright.
"Get out." Red sounded like he was speaking through gritted teeth, his finger sliding over the trigger threateningly. Unstoppable force.
Batman remained standing still, the ends of his cape brushing along the floor. Immovable object. "What do you want with this civilian?"
Please, don't get into a fight. The landlord will freak. (Y/N) worked on getting his racing heart settled, a hint of pain stabbing at his temples.
God, he hated Gotham. Why couldn't it be more like Metropolis? He'd take raging monsters and rich assholes over criminally insane clowns and vengeful scientists any day.
Red's thumb brushed over the safety, and (Y/N)'s throat tightened when Batman's hand settled over his utility belt. Without thinking, he moved forward, sneakers filling the heavy silence. He slung his arms around Red's chest, his face pressing into his shoulder, inhaling the smell of gun powder and rust that clung to his jacket. Batman wouldn't risk a civilian getting hurt, and Red was (hopefully) trying to protect him.
He dug his feet into the floor, chest pressing against Red's further, silently urging him to back up, to back down. He felt an arm curl around him, a palm pressing against the curve of his back, fingers curling to fist the back of his shirt. It was protective, at first, but when Red tightened his hold to keep him as close as possible, it felt strangely possessive.
Reluctantly, Red took a couple of steps back, pulling (Y/N) along with him with ease. He jerked his outstretched arm toward the hallway, his body almost curling into (Y/N)'s, tense and prepared for Batman's next move. (Y/N) craned his head over his shoulder, peering back at Gotham's savior, hoping his gaze conveyed the pleas in his head.
Silently, Batman moved. If it weren't for the way his cape flowed and swayed around him, (Y/N) would've thought he was gliding across the floor like a goddamn ghost. He dipped into the hallway, toward the only other exit aside from the front door, and Red pulled away from him, following the man like a guard dog chasing away a coyote.
(Y/N) let him go, hoping they would wait until they were outside to exchange punches and leave his apartment unscathed, free from bullet holes and broken items.
His hands trembled, unable to do much but robotically put away his groceries. Boring was better, but now he was on Batman's radar as a pal of a known enemy of his. God.
He'd have to check how cheap the rent was in Metropolis. The drive to work would be longer, but at least Superman wouldn't be waiting for him inside his apartment.
"What is my life becoming?" (Y/N) asked himself quietly, fingers rubbing into his forehead, chilled from the ice cream he'd tucked into the freezer.
He noticed his coffee table looked more occupied than usual, and he tentatively approached, his breath held in his throat until he realized it was one of his yearbooks from Gotham Academy, a school he'd managed to attend thanks to the help of a family friend.
His memories of the place were tucked away in the depths of his brain, not quite good but not quite bad. He never thought he fit into the crowd of elites, and it was like they could smell he wasn't one of them.
(Y/N) reached down, picking up the yearbook, his eyes flickering over the pages it'd been flipped open to. The freshman year school photos, but his picture was a page back. Then, he spotted it.
A mouth curled up into a mischievous grin, a uniform made to be purposefully messy, and eyes the color of the ocean during a storm.
Jason Todd. The boy who'd tragically died in an attack, coincidentally around the same time the second Robin died at Joker's hands.
"Oh." The exhale was shaky, quiet, his legs stumbling back until he fell onto the sofa's cushion.
He remembered now. He and Jason sat together at the same table for history class, but they never interacted until one day early on in the semester.
It'd been a normal day at the academy, and the teacher had stepped out to speak to a dean in the hallway. Tommy Smith thought it'd be funny to kick the back of his chair repeatedly, but before he could turn around to tell him to knock it off, Jason lunged at him in the blink of an eye.
Jason got detention. Tommy's eye remained swollen for nearly two days.
(Y/N) recalled both scolding him and thanking him, but Jason only flashed him a grin, told him they should stick together. The following week, he was gone. Buried in the cemetery.
(Y/N) didn't notice Red- Jason's return until he was standing right beside him, his hand grabbing (Y/N)'s forearm and roughly dragging him up onto his feet. He'd discarded the helmet, leaving his face bare so (Y/N) could really feel his glare.
"Don't ever do that again-"
"You're Jason Todd."
Jason's face fell away from anger, smoothing over into surprise, and then tightening again within seconds. (Y/N)'s brows gradually drew together, his mouth forming soundless words. Jason knew him, remembered him from their brief time in the academy, and he hadn't said anything.
(Y/N) reached up to grab the collar of his jacket, tempted to shake him back and forth and ask how.
How was he alive? How had he come back from the dead? How had fate brought them back together, an act of kindness in the past unknowingly repaid in the present?
His hands smoothed out, instead, and he wrapped his arms around Jason's broad shoulders. Those muscular arms wrapped tentatively around him again, his hold loose at first but tightened once he realized (Y/N) wasn't letting go. Their chests pressed together, the armor of Jason's suit pressing roughly against (Y/N).
"I'm so sorry, Jason." He exhaled, and Jason's arms tightened even more, his nose burying itself into his neck. "I'm glad you're here, though."
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