Hi lovely! If you’re still taking requests I was wondering if you could do angst/ comfort where reader doesn’t know Jason is red hood and he keeps missing important events, reader confronts him which leads to a fight so reader stops including him in outings, night outs, work events, etc thinking he’s just not interested.
When he realizes he grovels and confesses? I would eat that up ❤️❤️❤️
The Space You Left
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requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
The first time Jason missed something important, you told yourself it was just bad luck.
Your company's awards dinner—the one where you were receiving recognition for the project you'd spent eighteen months leading—fell on a Friday night. Jason had promised he'd be there, had even helped you pick out your dress the week before, spinning you around your apartment and telling you that you'd be the most beautiful person in the room.
"I'm so proud of you," he'd said, kissing your forehead. "I can't wait to watch you accept that award."
But when the night came, his seat beside you remained empty.
You checked your phone obsessively between courses. No calls. No texts. Just silence where his support should have been.
You accepted your award with a smile that felt like it might crack your face, thanked your team, and tried not to notice the pitying looks from your coworkers who'd heard you mention your boyfriend would be there.
Jason showed up at your apartment at 2 AM, bruised knuckles and a cut above his eyebrow that he brushed off as "a stupid accident at the gym."
"I'm so sorry," he'd said, pulling you into his arms. "There was an emergency at work. I tried to get out of it, I swear, but my boss—"
You'd accepted the apology because you loved him. Because accidents happened. Because he looked so genuinely devastated that you couldn't stay angry.
The second time, you told yourself it was coincidence.
Your best friend's wedding. You'd been talking about it for months, had your dress picked out, had confirmed with Jason at least five times that he'd be your plus-one.
"I promise," he'd said the night before. "I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it."
But when you waited outside your building in your bridesmaid dress, makeup perfect and hope still intact, he never showed.
You went alone. Smiled through questions about where your boyfriend was. Made excuses about work emergencies and unavoidable conflicts. Caught the bouquet and felt nothing but hollow.
Jason had shown up the next morning with flowers and apologies, another cut on his face, moving stiffly like his ribs hurt.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry," he'd repeated, and you'd wanted to scream at him but he looked so broken that you'd just cried instead.
By the third time—your mother's birthday dinner, the one where you were finally introducing him to your family—you'd stopped telling yourself anything at all.
You'd just started recognizing a pattern.
The fight happened on a Tuesday night, after Jason missed your work anniversary celebration.
Three years at your company. Your boss had taken the team out to celebrate, had specifically asked you to bring your boyfriend because he'd "heard so much about him."
Jason had promised. Had sworn up and down that he'd be there. Had even set three separate alarms on his phone while you watched.
You'd waited at the restaurant for forty-five minutes, making increasingly desperate excuses, before finally admitting he wasn't coming.
When Jason showed up at your apartment that night—late again, another bruise blooming on his jaw—you didn't let him in.
"We need to talk," you said, blocking the doorway.
"I know. I'm sorry. There was—"
"An emergency at work," you finished flatly. "Right. There's always an emergency at work."
"It's not like that—"
"Then what is it like, Jason?" Your voice cracked. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you just don't care. About me. About my life. About anything that doesn't involve whatever mysterious job you have that always seems to require you at the exact moment I need you."
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?" You laughed, and it came out bitter. "You want to talk about fair? I've sat alone at four major events in the last six months. Four, Jason. My awards dinner, my best friend's wedding, my mom's birthday, and now this. Do you know how humiliating it is to constantly make excuses for you? To watch people's faces when I tell them my boyfriend couldn't make it again?"
"I know, and I'm sorry, but if you'd just let me explain—"
"Explain what? That your job is more important than me? I already figured that out."
Jason's face went hard. "My job is complicated—"
"Then uncomplicate it! Get a different job! Do something that doesn't require you to disappear at random intervals with no explanation!"
"I can't just—it's not that simple—"
"Why not?" You were crying now, angry tears that you couldn't stop. "Why can't you just be honest with me? Tell me what's so important that you can't even send a text to say you're not coming. Tell me why you keep showing up with bruises and cuts that you brush off with obvious lies. Tell me why I feel like I'm in a relationship with a ghost!"
"I'm trying to protect you—"
"From what?!" You shouted. "From your job? From the truth? Or from having to actually commit to this relationship?"
Jason flinched. "That's not—I'm committed. I love you—"
"Do you? Because it doesn't feel like it. It feels like I'm an afterthought. Something you fit in when it's convenient. When there's no 'work emergency' pulling you away."
"You know that's not true—"
"Do I?" You wiped at your eyes. "Because all I know is what you show me, Jason. And what you show me is that I'm not a priority. That whatever you're doing is more important than being there for me."
"It's not about importance—"
"Then what is it about? Because I'm tired of guessing. I'm tired of making excuses. I'm tired of feeling like I'm in this relationship alone."
Jason reached for you, but you stepped back.
"Don't. Just—don't." You took a shaky breath. "I can't keep doing this. Waiting for you to show up. Hoping that this time will be different. I deserve better than this."
"You do," Jason said quietly. "You deserve so much better than this. Than me."
"That's not—" You stopped. "You know what? Maybe you're right. Maybe I do."
You closed the door in his face and pretended you couldn't hear him standing outside for the next twenty minutes before finally leaving.
After the fight, you stopped inviting Jason to things.
It started small. Your coworker's happy hour on Friday—you just didn't mention it. The gallery opening your friend invited you to—you went alone. Your company's quarterly dinner—you told them your boyfriend couldn't make it and didn't bother asking.
Jason noticed.
"Hey, didn't your team have that thing tonight?" He asked one Thursday when he showed up at your apartment.
"Yeah. It was fine."
"Why didn't you tell me about it?"
You looked at him over your laptop. "I didn't think you'd be able to make it."
"You didn't even ask."
"Would you have come?"
The silence was answer enough.
Jason's jaw clenched. "That's not fair. You can't just assume—"
"I'm not assuming anything. I'm just saving us both the disappointment." You turned back to your screen. "Besides, you were probably busy with work anyway."
"I would have tried—"
"Jason." You closed your laptop. "It's fine. Really. I'm not mad. I just... I've adjusted my expectations."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I've stopped expecting you to be there. It's easier this way."
You could see the words hit him, watched his expression crack before he carefully put it back together.
"I don't want you to stop expecting things from me," he said quietly.
"Then maybe you should have shown up," you replied, and opened your laptop again.
Your birthday was the breaking point.
You didn't tell Jason about the party your friends were throwing. Didn't mention the dinner reservation. Didn't say anything when he asked what you wanted to do to celebrate.
"Nothing special," you'd said. "Just a quiet night in."
"Are you sure? We could go out, do something nice—"
"I'm sure. I'm pretty tired lately anyway."
It wasn't a lie. You were tired. Tired of hoping. Tired of being disappointed. Tired of feeling like you were the only one trying.
Your birthday fell on a Saturday. You went to brunch with your friends, then to the spa, then to dinner at your favorite restaurant. You laughed and drank wine and accepted gifts and tried not to think about the fact that your boyfriend wasn't there.
Tried not to think about the fact that you hadn't wanted him there.
That night, when you got home to your apartment, Jason was waiting outside your door with flowers and a small wrapped box.
"Happy birthday," he said, smiling. "I know you said you wanted a quiet night, but I thought maybe we could—"
He stopped when he saw what you were wearing. The dress. The heels. The makeup that was clearly not for a quiet night in.
"You went out," he said slowly.
"Yeah."
"You said you wanted to stay in."
"I changed my mind."
"You didn't tell me."
"You didn't ask."
Jason's hands clenched around the flowers. "Where were you?"
"Out with friends. Dinner. The usual birthday stuff."
"You didn't invite me."
"No."
"Why not?"
You looked at him—really looked at him. At the hope in his eyes, the hurt, the confusion. At the flowers he'd brought and the present he'd wrapped. At this man you loved who could never seem to show up when you needed him.
"Because I knew you wouldn't come," you said simply. "Or you'd promise to come and then cancel last minute. Or you'd show up two hours late with an excuse I'm supposed to accept without question. And I didn't want to deal with that on my birthday."
"I would have come. If you'd asked, I would have—"
"Would you?" You unlocked your door. "Because you didn't come to my awards dinner. Or my best friend's wedding. Or my work anniversary. Or any of the other dozen things I've invited you to in the last six months. So forgive me for not believing that my birthday would be any different."
"That's not fair—"
"Stop saying that!" You turned on him, suddenly angry. "Stop telling me what's fair and what's not when you're the one who keeps disappearing! When you're the one with the secrets and the bruises and the mysterious job that always takes priority!"
"I'm trying—"
"Are you? Because it doesn't feel like it. It feels like you're just... going through the motions. Showing up when it's convenient. Leaving when something better comes along."
"You're not—there's nothing better than you—"
"Then prove it!" The words came out broken. "Show up. Be present. Stop making me feel like I'm in this relationship alone!"
Jason looked at you, and you could see him struggling with something. Some secret he wanted to tell but couldn't. Some truth that was caught in his throat.
"I can't," he said finally. "I can't explain. Not yet. But I need you to trust me—"
"I'm tired of trusting you, Jason. I'm tired of waiting for you to let me in. I'm tired of feeling like I don't actually matter to you."
"You do matter. You matter more than anything—"
"Then act like it!" You were crying now. "Because right now, all I feel is alone. And if I'm going to be alone anyway, I might as well make it official."
The words hung between you, heavy and final.
"What are you saying?" Jason's voice was barely a whisper.
"I'm saying that maybe we should take a break. Figure out what we really want."
"I know what I want. I want you—"
"You want the idea of me. The convenient girlfriend who doesn't ask too many questions. Who accepts your excuses. Who waits patiently while you live your secret life." You shook your head. "But I can't be that person anymore. I won't."
"Please. Just give me a little more time—"
"Time for what? For you to miss more events? To come up with more excuses? To keep me at arm's length while you do whatever it is you're doing?" You stepped into your apartment. "I've given you six months, Jason. Six months of understanding and patience and benefit of the doubt. And I'm done."
You started to close the door, but Jason caught it.
"I love you," he said desperately. "I know I've been shit at showing it, but I love you. Please don't do this."
"I love you too," you said, and your voice broke. "But love isn't enough when you're the only one fighting for it."
This time when you closed the door, he let you.
Jason stood outside your apartment for a long time after you closed the door, the flowers wilting in his hand, the birthday present in his pocket feeling like a lead weight.
He'd fucked up. He knew he'd fucked up. But he hadn't realized how badly until tonight, seeing the look in your eyes when you told him you were done.
Done waiting. Done hoping. Done with him.
He made it three blocks before his phone rang. Dick.
"Can't talk right now," Jason said.
"You need to get to the Bowery. There's—"
"Handle it without me."
Silence. Then: "Are you okay?"
"No. But that's my problem. I'm taking the night off."
"Jason—"
He hung up and went to the only place he could think of.
Roy opened his door to find Jason standing there with wilted flowers and a devastated expression.
"She broke up with me," Jason said.
"Shit. Come in."
They sat on Roy's couch, and Jason told him everything. Every missed event. Every excuse. Every time he'd chosen Red Hood over you because it seemed more urgent, more important, more necessary.
"I thought I was protecting her," Jason said, staring at his hands. "Keeping her separate from the vigilante shit. Keeping her safe."
"By lying to her?"
"By not telling her. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Roy leaned back. "Because from where I'm sitting, you've been lying by omission for six months. And she noticed."
"I know." Jason's voice was rough. "I just—I thought if I could keep her away from this life, she'd be safer. Happier."
"Was she? Happy?"
Jason thought about your face tonight. The resignation in your eyes. The way you'd stopped expecting him to show up.
"No," he admitted. "She was miserable. Because of me."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know. She said she's done. That she can't keep waiting for me to let her in."
"Then let her in."
"It's not that simple—"
"Why not?" Roy interrupted. "You love her, right?"
"Of course I love her—"
"Then tell her the truth. All of it. The Red Hood stuff. The reason you keep disappearing. Give her the choice instead of making it for her."
"What if she can't handle it? What if knowing puts her in danger?"
"What if keeping her in the dark is what loses her?" Roy met his eyes. "Jason, you're already losing her. At least if you tell her the truth, you're losing her honestly."
Jason was quiet for a long time. Then: "What if she hates me? For lying for this long?"
"She might. But she'll hate you more if you keep lying. And at least if you tell her now, you're giving her the respect of the truth." Roy paused. "She deserves that much, don't you think?"
"Yeah." Jason stood. "She deserves a lot more than I've been giving her."
"So go give it to her."
"Not tonight. Tonight she needs space." Jason headed for the door. "But tomorrow... tomorrow I'm telling her everything."
You weren't expecting Jason to show up at your door Sunday morning.
You definitely weren't expecting him to look like he hadn't slept, or to be carrying a duffel bag, or to say "I need to tell you everything" before you'd even said hello.
"Jason—"
"Please. Just—let me talk. And then if you want me to leave, I'll leave. But I need you to hear this."
Against your better judgment, you let him in.
He sat on your couch, hands clasped between his knees, and for a long moment, he just looked at you.
"I've been lying to you," he said finally. "Not about loving you. Never about that. But about everything else. About my job. About the bruises. About why I keep missing things."
"Okay," you said carefully. "So tell me the truth."
Jason took a deep breath. Then he unzipped the duffel bag and pulled out a red helmet.
"I'm Red Hood," he said.
You stared at him. At the helmet. Back at him.
"You're... what?"
"Red Hood. The vigilante. The one who operates in Crime Alley." He set the helmet on your coffee table. "That's my job. That's why I keep disappearing. Why I have bruises. Why I can never explain where I've been."
"Because I was trying to protect you. Keep you separate from that part of my life. Keep you safe." Jason's hands clenched. "But all I did was push you away. Make you feel like you didn't matter. Like you weren't important enough to let in."
"Jason—"
"Wait. Please. I need to—I need to explain." He took another breath. "Every time I missed something, it was because someone needed Red Hood. A trafficking ring that couldn't wait. A hostage situation. A tip about a weapons shipment. Things that felt urgent. Important. Life or death."
"So you chose them over me."
"I thought I was choosing both. I thought I could keep you safe by keeping you separate. But I was wrong." Jason looked at you, and there was devastation in his eyes. "I was so wrong. Because all I did was hurt you. Make you feel alone. Make you feel like you didn't matter when you're the thing that matters most."
You were quiet, processing. "How long have you been doing this?"
"Years. Since before I met you."
"And you never thought to tell me?"
"I wanted to. So many times. But I was scared. Scared that if you knew, you'd be in danger. Scared that someone would use you to get to me. Scared that—" His voice broke. "Scared that you'd leave me if you knew what I really was."
"What you really are," you repeated. "And what's that?"
"Someone who's done terrible things. Someone who's killed people. Someone who's more comfortable with violence than he should be." Jason's hands were shaking. "Someone who doesn't deserve you but loves you anyway."
You looked at the helmet on your table. At this man you loved who had been living a double life. Who had been lying to you for six months while you slowly fell apart.
You should be angry. You should throw him out. You should tell him that this was exactly what you were afraid of—that he'd been keeping secrets, that he hadn't trusted you.
But mostly, you just felt tired.
"I wish you'd told me sooner," you said quietly.
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." Jason's voice was rough. "I thought I was protecting you, but all I did was push you away. Make you feel like you weren't important. Like you weren't worth being honest with."
"Why are you telling me now?"
"Because I'm losing you. Because I've already lost you. And I realized that I'd rather lose you honestly than keep you with lies." He moved closer, but didn't touch you. "You said you felt alone. That I was making you feel like you didn't matter. And I can't—I can't let you keep believing that. Not when the truth is that you're everything."
"Everything except important enough to be honest with."
Jason flinched. "You're right. And I have no excuse for that. I was scared and stupid and I convinced myself that keeping you in the dark was somehow protecting you. But all I did was hurt you."
You stared at the helmet. "You're really Red Hood."
"Yeah."
"And every time you disappeared—"
"Someone needed help. Or there was an emergency. Or something that couldn't wait." Jason's jaw clenched. "I'm not making excuses. I chose that life over you, over and over again. And I hate myself for it."
"Why didn't you just tell me? Why let me think you didn't care?"
"Because I thought if you knew, you'd be in danger. That someone would figure out you mattered to me and use you against me." He laughed bitterly. "But I put you in danger anyway. Different kind of danger. The kind where you slowly stop believing you're worth showing up for."
You were crying now, angry and hurt and confused. "I spent six months thinking I wasn't enough. Thinking that whatever you were doing was more important than me. Making excuses to my friends and family and coworkers about why my boyfriend could never be bothered to show up."
"I know—"
"Do you? Do you know how humiliating it was? How alone I felt? How many times I cried because I thought you just didn't care?"
"I care." Jason's voice broke. "I care so much it terrifies me. You're the best thing in my life, and I've been sabotaging it because I was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of putting you in danger. Scared of—" He stopped. "Scared of a lot of things. But most of all, scared of this. Of you looking at me like you are right now. Like I'm someone who hurt you."
"You did hurt me."
"I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Jason was crying now too. "I would take it all back if I could. Every missed event. Every lie. Every time I made you feel like you weren't the most important person in my world."
"But you can't take it back."
"No. I can't." He wiped at his eyes. "All I can do is promise to do better. To be honest. To show up. To fight for you the way you've been fighting for me."
"What if that's not enough?"
Jason's face crumpled, but he nodded. "Then that's what I deserve. For being too scared to trust you with the truth. For making you feel alone when you should have felt loved."
You looked at him—really looked at him. At the man you loved who had been carrying this secret. Who had been living two lives and somehow managing to fail at both.
But also at the man who had shown up to tell you the truth. Who had brought his helmet, his secret, his entire hidden life and laid it at your feet. Who was crying because he'd hurt you and couldn't take it back.
"I need time," you said finally. "To process this. To figure out what it means."
"Okay." Jason stood. "Take all the time you need. And if you decide you can't do this—can't be with someone who lives this kind of life—I'll understand."
"Jason—"
"I mean it. I want you to be happy. Even if that means being happy without me." He picked up the helmet. "But if you decide you want to try—if you think we can make this work—I promise I'll do better. I'll show up. I'll be honest. I'll prove to you that you matter."
"How?"
"However you need me to. Whatever it takes. I'll fight for this. For you. For us." He moved toward the door. "I love you. I've loved you from the beginning. And I'm sorry it took losing you for me to realize I needed to show it better."
He left, and you sat alone in your apartment with the truth settling over you like a weight.
Jason was Red Hood. A vigilante. Someone who fought crime and saved lives and put himself in danger every night.
And for six months, he'd been doing it alone, keeping you separate, thinking he was protecting you when all he was doing was pushing you away.
You should be angry. Should be furious that he'd lied for so long.
But mostly, you just felt sad. For him. For you. For the relationship you'd both been trying to save in completely different ways.
Your phone buzzed. A text from Jason.
Jason: I know you need time. But I wanted you to have this.
A link to a folder. Inside were dozens of photos—you at your awards dinner, taken from a distance. You at your best friend's wedding. At your work anniversary celebration. At your birthday party.
Another text.
Jason: I was there. Not the way I should have been. But I couldn't let you be alone. Even if you didn't know it.
You stared at the photos. At the proof that while you'd felt abandoned, he'd been watching. Protecting. Trying to be there in the only way he thought he could.
It didn't excuse the lying. Didn't make up for the loneliness.
But it was something.
You texted back: We need to talk. Really talk. About all of this.
The response was immediate: Whenever you're ready. I'll be there.
You: Tomorrow. 7 PM. My place.
Jason: I'll be there. I promise.
And somehow, looking at those photos, at the proof that he'd been there even when you couldn't see him—you believed him.
Jason showed up at 6:45, because of course he did.
When you opened the door, he was holding coffee from your favorite place and a bag of pastries from the bakery you loved.
"I know it's not much," he said. "But I wanted—I needed to show up. Properly this time."
You let him in and took the coffee. "You're early."
"I wasn't going to risk being late. Not for this."
You both sat on the couch, careful distance between you, and for a moment neither of you spoke.
"I don't know where to start," you admitted finally.
"Me neither." Jason set down his coffee. "But I meant what I said. About being honest. About doing better. So... ask me anything. I'll tell you the truth."
"Everything?"
"Everything."
You took a breath. "How did you become Red Hood?"
And Jason told you. About dying. About coming back wrong. About the Lazarus Pit and the rage and the years of trying to figure out who he was supposed to be. About choosing to be Red Hood because he could help people in ways the law couldn't.
You listened, and your heart broke for him. For everything he'd survived.
"I'm sorry," you said when he finished. "That's—that's a lot."
"It is. And I didn't want to burden you with it. I thought if I could keep you separate from all of that, you'd be safer. Happier."
"But I wasn't happy. I was miserable."
"I know. And that's on me." Jason looked at you. "I chose wrong. Over and over again. I chose the mission over you because it seemed more urgent. More important. But I was wrong."
"Were you?" You challenged. "If you'd come to my awards dinner instead of stopping that trafficking ring—would those people have been saved?"
Jason was quiet.
"That's the question, isn't it?" You continued. "Because I understand why you chose what you chose. Lives were at stake. People needed Red Hood. And me—I just needed my boyfriend to watch me accept an award."
"That's not—you're not just—" Jason struggled for words. "Yes, people needed Red Hood. But you needed me. Jason. Your boyfriend. The person who's supposed to show up for you. And I failed at that."
"Because you were saving lives."
"That doesn't make it okay. There had to be a way to do both. To be Red Hood and be your boyfriend. I just—I didn't know how to balance it."
"So you chose."
"I chose wrong." Jason moved closer. "I thought I was being noble. Heroic. Putting others first. But all I did was neglect you. Make you feel alone. Make you feel like you didn't matter when you're the person who matters most."
"How do I know that?" The question came out small. "How do I know I'm not always going to be second to Red Hood? That the next time there's an emergency, you won't choose it over me again?"
"Because I'm going to do better. I'm going to—" Jason stopped. "I can't promise there won't be emergencies. I can't promise I won't have to leave sometimes. But I can promise to communicate. To let you in instead of shutting you out. To stop trying to protect you from my life and start including you in it."
"What does that look like?"
"It looks like honesty. It looks like telling you when I have to leave for Red Hood business instead of making up excuses. It looks like introducing you to my family—the Bats—so you understand the world I'm part of. It looks like showing up when I say I will, and if I can't, actually explaining why."
You were quiet, processing.
"I know it's not perfect," Jason continued. "I know there will be nights where I have to choose. Where someone's life is in danger and I have to go. But I'm asking for the chance to do it right this time. To be honest about it. To let you decide if this life—if I'm—worth it."
"And if I decide you're not?"
Pain flashed across his face, but he nodded. "Then I'll accept it. I'll hate it, but I'll accept it. Because you deserve someone who can be there for you. Fully. Completely. And if I can't be that person—"
"Jason." You cut him off. "You can be that person. You just have to actually try."
Hope flickered in his eyes. "Does that mean—are you willing to try? To give this another chance?"
"I don't know yet." You were being honest. "I'm still hurt. Still angry that you lied for so long. Still processing all of this."
"That's fair."
"But I also—" You stopped. "I also love you. And I understand why you made the choices you made, even if I don't agree with them. So I'm willing to try. If you're willing to actually let me in this time."
"I am. I swear I am." Jason reached for your hand hesitantly. "Can I—"
You let him take it.
"I'm going to do better," he said. "I'm going to show up. I'm going to be honest. I'm going to prove to you that you can trust me again."
"How?"
"However you need me to. Starting with this." He pulled out his phone and opened his calendar. "These are my patrol nights. The nights I'm Red Hood. I'm giving you access so you know where I am. What I'm doing. When I'll be back."
You stared at the phone. "You're sharing your vigilante schedule with me?"
"I'm sharing my life with you. All of it. No more secrets. No more lies. Just—honesty. Even when it's hard."
Something in your chest loosened. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. We can try. But Jason—if you miss one more important event without a really good explanation, I'm done. For real this time."
"Understood." He squeezed your hand. "I won't let you down again. I promise."
"Don't promise. Just do it."
"I will."
And looking at him—at the determination in his eyes, the hope, the love—you believed him.
It wouldn't be easy. There would be hard nights and difficult conversations and moments where you'd have to choose between being understanding and standing up for yourself.
But maybe—maybe—you could make this work.
Together.
Honestly.
Finally.
Three months later, your company's holiday party was the first real test.
You'd told Jason about it weeks in advance. Had marked it on both your calendars. Had confirmed multiple times that he'd be there.
And when the night arrived, you were prepared for disappointment. Had your excuses ready. Had steeled yourself for another lonely evening.
But Jason showed up.
Not just showed up—he arrived early, in a suit that fit him perfectly, with flowers for you and charm for your coworkers. He held your hand. Laughed at your boss's terrible jokes. Told anyone who would listen how proud he was of you.
When your boss pulled you aside to tell you about a promotion, Jason was there to celebrate. When your coworker asked to take a photo, Jason pulled you close and smiled.
"You came," you said later, standing on your apartment balcony while the party continued inside.
"I promised I would."
"I know. But I was still—"
"Scared I wouldn't." Jason pulled you closer. "I get it. I have to earn your trust back. This is part of that."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being here. For trying. For actually doing what you said you'd do."
"I'm going to keep doing it," Jason said. "For as long as you'll let me. I'm going to keep showing up. Keep being honest. Keep fighting for us."
"Even when it's hard?"
"Especially when it's hard." He kissed your forehead. "You're worth it. We're worth it."
And looking at him—at this man who had finally learned to balance his two lives, who made time for you even when it was difficult, who showed up—you knew it was true.
It wasn't perfect. There were still hard nights. Still emergencies that pulled him away. Still moments where you had to be understanding when you wanted to be angry.
But he was trying. Really trying.
And that made all the difference.
"I love you," you said.
"I love you too." Jason smiled. "Now come on. Let's get back to your party. I promised your boss I'd tell him the embarrassing story about your first date."
"Jason, don't you dare—"
But he was already pulling you inside, laughing, present, there.
It’s not lost on me how Jason is the only Robin to come from a life of poverty and crime, and is treated like a fundamentally broken monster in many comic books, given even less grace than Damian. “Something is not right with that boy” FUCK YOU DC. He was twelve years old. Him being slightly agressive because he knew, better than Batman or Nightwing or Barbara, how rotten Gotham was because he GREW UP in that environment did not make him evil or broken.
you literally cannot find a news story about domestic violence towards women or women being murdered bg their male partners without seeing multiple men in the comments saying some version of “oh well she wasn’t innocent either” or “what did she do to set him off, women always do something” like they hate us so so so fucking bad. electric chair to all of them idc
summary 𓂃 the one where Jason breaks a pen, walks home in the snow, and almost says the thing he's been biting back for fifteen years.
cast 𓂃 Jason Todd and posh dickhead Oliver (irrelevant side character)
tags 𓂃 childhood best friend!jason todd x fem!reader , university au , canon compliant , jealous!jason todd , study group , gotham city , grumpy!jason x sunshine!reader , pre relationship , mutual pining , Jason’s pov , idiots in love , unspoken feelings.
wc 𓂃 2.1k.
— oneshot request ! part two of this series.
Snow.
It's fucking snowing, and Jason Todd is already in a bad mood.
Not because of the snow—Gotham in December is basically a slushy, gray, miserable hellscape regardless of precipitation—but because of him.
That posh dickhead Oliver.
Even the name sounds like wet cardboard. Like someone tried to invent a pretentious trust fund baby in a lab and accidentally created the most punchable face on the Eastern Seaboard.
Jason adjusts his grip on his pen, the cheap plastic creaking under his thumb. The seminar room's fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sickly institutional pallor that makes even the most beautiful people look vaguely jaundiced. But somehow, somehow, Oliver still looks like he just stepped out of a J.Crew catalog.
Dark academia aesthetic, Jason thinks derisively, watching Oliver gesture expansively with both hands while explaining something about Keats's odes. The guy probably owns a tweed jacket with elbow patches. Probably drinks Earl Grey from an actual teapot. Probably has a father who plays tennis and a mother who calls brunch "luncheon."
Jason's own fingers are stained with ink and old calluses. His leather jacket is draped over the back of his chair, revealing the faded henley underneath — something he'd bought secondhand three years ago and hadn't bothered replacing. His combat boots have salt stains climbing up the sides from last week's patrol in the Bowery.
He looks like he walked into the wrong building.
And Oliver keeps. Touching. You.
It's subtle. A hand on your shoulder when you laugh at something. Fingertips brushing your wrist when you reach for the same annotated anthology. Leaning in closer than necessary to point at a line of poetry, his breath warm against your temple.
Jason's jaw aches. He's clenching it so hard his molars might crack.
"Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind' is obviously about revolution," you're saying now, your voice bright and familiar and so goddamn warm that Jason wants to wrap it around himself like a blanket. "It's not just about autumn — it's about death and rebirth. About tearing everything down so something better can grow."
You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, and Jason watches the motion like it's sacred. He's watched you do that a thousand times. A million. Since you were both nine years old and you sat next to him in Mrs. Albright's fourth-grade classroom, your ponytail askew and a pencil tucked behind your ear, asking him if he wanted to share your crayons because his were all broken.
"Your crayons are sad," you'd said, already pushing half the box toward him. "These are the good ones. The ones that don't have paper. They feel nicer."
He'd stared at you like you were insane. No one shared with the kid from the bad part of town. No one offered him anything without wanting something back.
But you just smiled at him — that ridiculous, sunshine smile — and went back to coloring your tree purple because "green is boring, Jay, don't you want to live in a world where trees can be purple?"
Jay. That was the first time anyone had ever called him that.
He'd colored his tree orange that day. Just to be contrary.
You'd laughed.
He'd felt something crack open in his chest that he didn't have a name for yet.
"Interesting interpretation," Oliver says now, and his voice is smooth. Educated. The kind of voice that's never had to shout to be heard over gunfire or police sirens. "But I think Shelley's more concerned with the personal than the political. The west wind as a metaphor for creative inspiration, not violent upheaval."
He looks at you when he says it. Like he's inviting you into a secret.
Jason's pen snaps.
The sound is sharp in the quiet seminar room. Heads turn. Professor Chen glances up from her notes, eyebrows raised.
"Everything alright, Mr. Todd?"
"Fine," Jason grits out, and he pulls another pen from his jacket pocket. This one's metal. Harder to break. "Pen was cheap."
You're looking at him now. You've got that expression on your face — the one you always get when you're worried about him but don't want to make a thing of it. Your forehead creases slightly. Your lips part.
He looks away before you can ask.
Don't. Don't ask. Don't make me say it out loud.
Oliver is still talking. Something about Keats's "l on a Grecian Urn" now. "Beauty is truth, truth beauty" — that is all you know on earth, and all you need to know. Oliver thinks it's about transcendence. Jason thinks it's about how beauty and truth are both violent, both painful, both things you can't hold onto no matter how hard you try.
He thinks about the urn. Frozen. Perfect. Preserved forever in a moment that never actually happened.
He thinks about how he came back wrong. How his hands don't feel like his hands anymore. How sometimes he looks in the mirror and sees a ghost wearing Jason Todd's face.
You've never treated him like a ghost.
You were there when his mom — Catherine, not Sheila, never Sheila — got sick. You used to sneak him food from your own kitchen because you knew the Todds didn't always have enough. You sat with him in the hospital waiting room when he was ten and terrified and trying not to cry.
You were there when Willis went to prison. When the social workers came. When Catherine died.
You were the one who found him in the cemetery afterward, sitting on the wet grass in the rain, and you didn't say anything. You just sat down next to him and put your head on his shoulder.
"I'm cold," you'd whispered.
"So go home," he'd said, his voice wrecked.
"Not without you."
You were there when Bruce took him in. You met Batman when you were twelve years old and you didn't even flinch. You just looked Bruce Wayne in the eye and said, "You take care of him. Or I'll find you."
Bruce had been impressed. Jason had been embarrassed.
He'd also been — something. Something warm and terrifying and too big for his chest.
The study group ends eventually. Forty-five minutes of Shelley and Keats and Byron, forty-five minutes of Oliver finding excuses to touch you, forty-five minutes of Jason fantasizing about putting his fist through a wall.
Or Oliver's face. Oliver's face works too.
You pack up your things slowly. Jason shoves his notebook into his bag with more force than necessary, the spiral binding catching on a loose thread.
"Same time next week?" Oliver asks, and he's looking at you. Only at you. Like none of the other students are there. Like he isn't even there.
"Sounds good," you say, and your voice is casual. Friendly. Oblivious.
Jason wants to shake you.
He's flirting with you. He's been flirting with you for three weeks. How do you not see it? How do you not—
"Great." Oliver smiles. It's a nice smile. Perfect teeth. Probably had braces. Probably never been punched in the mouth in his entire privileged life.
Jason shoulders his bag and starts walking. He doesn't wait for you.
He knows you'll follow anyway. You always do.
The snow is coming down harder now, fat white flakes dissolving against the asphalt. The campus paths are empty — everyone else has gone inside, or gone home, or gone somewhere that isn't here.
Jason walks fast. Too fast. His boots crunch against the frozen ground, and his breath clouds in front of him, and his thoughts are a hurricane of everything he can't say.
I've known you since we were nine.
I watched you cry at my mother's funeral.
I died, and I came back, and you were the first person I wanted to see.
You're the only person who makes me feel like I'm still human.
And I can't—
"Jason!"
Your voice cuts through the snow. He hears your footsteps hurrying to catch up, the familiar rhythm of your stride. He doesn't slow down.
"Jason, wait up! What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit."
He grits his teeth. You always call him on his bullshit. You always have.
You fall into step beside him, slightly out of breath. Your coat is unzipped — you always forget to zip it — and your scarf is trailing behind you like a banner. Your cheeks are pink from the cold, and there's snow in your hair, and you look so alive that it makes something in his chest ache.
"Is it patrol? Did Bruce say something? Was it—"
"It's nothing," he says again, and his voice comes out harsher than he meant. "Drop it."
You don't drop it. When do you ever?
Your hand catches his elbow, and he stops walking because he can't not stop. Not when you're touching him. Not when your fingers are curled around his arm like you're anchoring him.
"Jay. Come on. Talk to me."
Jay. No one else calls him that. No one else is allowed.
He stares at the snow on the ground. At the footprints they've left behind. At the way your shadow overlaps with his on the white pavement.
"Do you like him?" The words come out before he can stop them. Low. Rough. Almost angry.
You blink. "Who?"
He won't repeat it. He can't. Saying it once was bad enough.
"Forget it." He pulls his arm away from your grip — gently, as gently as he can manage when everything inside him is screaming — and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.
The rest of the walk is silent.
He ends up at your apartment because you live closer, and because Jason can't bring himself to go home to his own cold, empty space. Your apartment is small and cluttered and warm, full of mismatched furniture and stacks of books and fairy lights that you never turn off because "they make everything feel softer, Jason, don't you think?"
He thinks they make everything feel like a lie.
But he doesn't say that. He just sits on your couch and watches you put on a kettle, and he tries very hard not to think about Oliver's hand on your shoulder.
You make tea — chamomile, because you always make chamomile when he's upset — and you sit down next to him, close enough that your knees almost touch.
"Okay," you say softly. "Start talking."
"Nothing to talk about."
"Jason Peter Todd."
He flinches. You only use the middle name when you're serious.
"I'm not going to let you sit there and pretend everything's fine when you broke a pen with your bare hand in the middle of a seminar," you continue. "That was terrifying. And also kind of hot. But mostly terrifying."
He snorts — and sighs — despite himself. "You're impossible."
"You've known me for fifteen years. You should be used to it by now."
Fifteen years. God.
Fifteen years of you. Fifteen years of sunshine and stubbornness and never, ever letting him push you away.
Because god knows he’s tried… and failed. Terribly. You’re like a living, walking, breathing boomerang.
He looks at you now — really looks — and you're watching him with those eyes that see too much. That have always seen too much. You know about his parents. About the streets. About Robin and the Joker and the crowbar and the grave.
You know about the pit. About the rage. About the things he's done since he came back, the blood on his hands, the monsters he's become.
And you're still here.
You're still here.
"He likes you," Jason says finally. The words scrape against his throat like broken glass.
"Who?"
"Oliver."
You tilt your head. "Oliver's just being friendly."
"He's not." Jason's jaw tightens. "He's not just being friendly. He touches you. He—" He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. "Forget it. I'm being an idiot."
"You're not an idiot."
"I'm acting like one."
You're quiet for a moment. The kettle clicks off, but neither of you moves to pour the tea.
"Jason," you say, and your voice is different now. Softer. "Why do you care if Oliver likes me?"
Because I love you.
Because I've loved you since fourth grade when you gave me your purple crayon.
Because I died and I came back and the only thing that made sense in the whole world was you.
Because I'm afraid one day you'll realize you deserve someone who isn't broken. Someone who isn't a monster. Someone like Oliver with his perfect teeth and his perfect life and his perfect hands that have never hurt anyone.
Because if you choose someone else, I don't know who I am anymore.
He doesn't say any of it.
He just looks at you, and you look at him, and the snow keeps falling outside the window, and the fairy lights glow soft and warm, and his heart is beating so loud he's sure you can hear it.
"Jason," you whisper again.
And he thinks — maybe.
Maybe this is the moment.
Maybe he could reach out. Touch your face. Kiss you. Finally, finally stop pretending he doesn't want to spend every night wrapped up in you, breathing you in, being someone better because you make him want to be better.
His hand moves before he can stop it.
His fingers brush against yours.
You inhale sharply.
And then—
"Aren't you going to pour the tea?" he asks, and he hates himself for it. Hates the way his walls snap back into place. Hates the way you blink, confused, and then slowly, slowly, pull your hand away.
"Right," you say, and your voice sounds strange. "Tea."
You stand up. Walk to the kitchen.
Jason watches you go and feels like he's just lost something he never had the courage to claim.
Later, after the tea is gone and the silence has stretched thin and he's standing at your door with his jacket zipped up to his chin, you stop him.
"Jason."
He turns.
You're standing in the doorway, haloed by the warm light from inside. Snowflakes catch in your hair. Your eyes are bright.
"Oliver doesn't matter," you say quietly.
He stares at you.
"I don't care about Oliver," you continue. "I've never cared about Oliver. I care about—" You stop yourself. Swallow. "Just. He doesn't matter."
"...Okay," Jason says, because he doesn't know what else to say.
You smile. It's not your sunshine smile. It's something softer. Something sadder. Something that looks like hope and fear and everything in between.
"Goodnight, Jason."
"Goodnight."
He walks home in the snow, and his hands are freezing, and his heart is pounding, and he thinks—
summary: 1.6k w.c. It seems like everybody gets to have Jason except you, and now he's here in your living room.
tw!: breakups, angst, no/mis-communication, are definitely not over each other, poor jason is getting put through it yet again, yearnmaxing, oc!jason todd? (Potential mischaracterization?), no use of y/n or gendered pronouns in part 1
note: My first ever fic so pls bear with me! Shout out to my yearning/breakup playlist for all the ideas, this one is inspired by Sweet Boy by Malcom Todd!
He'd promised you it wouldn't happen again.
You can't count how many times he's come back home after a surprise mission or a patrol that ran too late with his same routine, carrying your favourite flowers and bags of groceries while halfway through the same prepared apology.
The worst part is that you know he does care. That he did want to take you out to dinner to make up for missing some milestone you can’t even remember anymore. On a date to the same restaurant, you finally cancelled the reservation for last week after they refused to postpone it for the third time in a row.
You notice the soft tone he takes with you in the same way you notice that everyone in this city is starting to talk about Red Hood more. It’s been coming for a while. Everyone knows the city has always loved the Bats. You’re living proof of that.
You remember when the suit still had its draw. How you’d pretend to be subtle while checking him out. How the leather draped over him, highlighting his broad shoulders and his thighs that you still refuse to admit you have a soft spot for. He’d tease you for it, for how flustered you got, using that gravelly voice that could only come from the modulator.
You especially loved when he’d take the suit off, not only because you got to admire him underneath, but because you got him back. Red Hood belonged to the city, but Jason, he belonged to you. You loved peeling off his helmet after a long night, leaving only the domino one underneath. It made his eyes shine even brighter, especially when they looked at you.
You can’t remember the last time you got to see him like that.
Instead, you hear about him through random news reports or from your coworkers who have taken a liking to Red Hood and his "atonement" to the city. If you were lucky, you’d get a quick call wishing you goodnight, or Barbs would relay a message he sent over. But you don't get that grace anymore.
You don't even know why you've stayed up this late. He won't be back. You'll fall asleep in an empty apartment and wake up in one too.
You weren’t angry.
Sure, the first time it happened, every bone in your body shook with worry that something had happened to him. You knew the risks of dating a vigilante. No calls, no texts—what else were you supposed to think? It wasn’t until the next morning, when he came back without a single scratch, that your anxiety transformed into relief, which soon gave way to anger.
You didn't know what got into Jason that night, but it never seemed to stop. And so your life went on without him.
The apartment was always yours. Before he moved in, you basked in finally living alone and having a space to do whatever you wished. So you started treating it that way again. If Jason was going to spend his time doing whatever he pleased, then this was your home.
You could always tell when he'd come by. The flowers would be fresh. The fridge would be stocked; every item that looked even remotely empty since his last visit was suddenly replaced without comment. You used to joke that you had your own housekeeper and personal shopper.
He never pushed back against how you had started treating the apartment. That was the problem. You didn’t know if he was your absentee roommate or your boyfriend. Eventually, you'd have to ask. But you were okay with it for now. Or at least, you had convinced yourself you were.
Which is why you really should’ve ignored the sound of Jason opening the front door. Why you should’ve started getting ready for bed like you'd planned hours ago. And, most importantly, why you should’ve ignored the way you could immediately tell he was upset from the sound of his footsteps alone.
You were supposed to be asleep, for God's sake. But that doesn't stop you from slowly creeping out of the bedroom and towards the living room.
You know Jason can tell you're awake, but he doesn't turn around. For a moment, you just stare at his back. You give yourself a second to pretend he came home for you. That he must have somehow heard the turmoil that’s been keeping you awake. That he's not here to apologize or make up for something, to only disappear the next day. Just for a second, you get to pretend he's here because he wants you.
You take him in the same way you used to when he'd wake you up. How he’d carefully untangle himself from you. Getting up to pour your cup of tea so it was ready by the time you made it out into the kitchen. How he’d gently nudge you awake and you’d open your eyes to him. To his dishevelled hair from where your fingers have been brushing through it all night. To his patience as you refused to leave the bed, always letting him drag you into the kitchen. To when you could pretend that there was nothing else that needed you but him.
That's not what this is. You don’t even know if you were capable of being together like that again. Heck, what are you even supposed to say now?
Hey, Jason! It's so nice that we're both here tonight. Do you want to come play house, and I’ll pretend I'm totally okay with whatever this is? Like, I haven’t been awake all night thinking about you and wondering if we should break up.
That would be ridiculous. Which is exactly why the only thing that leaves your lips is "Jason. Are you out here?"
You can see his muscles tense beneath his shirt, almost as though the sound of your voice startles him.
“No,” he says.
“No?” You repeat. You’re shocked he’s committing to this bit. That he’s worked up the courage to sit here on your couch and pretend he’s fine.
"No."
You’re closer now. You can feel the air shift, lighter just from the mere fact of being near him. “You know I can see you right?”
"I know." The answer comes so quickly that you almost miss it. You’re not in the mood to let him pretend this is nothing. Not in the mood to let this get swept under the rug like you’ve been doing these past few months.
And so you start, “Why are you out here?”
He doesn’t respond. He lets you sit there and wallow, letting the hum of the fridge and the distant noise of the city through the window he’s opened up fill the void.
"I don't know, baby." The name startles you. It feels alien coming out of his mouth. It fills up space, stretching in a way this apartment can’t hold any more. You can tell he didn’t mean for it to slip out. You watch as he curls into himself, hiding his face before you ever have the chance to see his expression.
Your saving grace is that you’re behind him, glad that he’s hidden his face so there’s no way to see yours.
"Okay," you say quietly, scared to ruin the shift he’s started. "Can I sit next to you?"
He doesn't move. If anything, he’s found a way to make himself smaller.
You walk in, settling next to him, beside the corner of the couch he’s attempting to shove himself into.
It’s the closest you’ve gotten to him in months. The proximity is unsettling. You’ve spent weeks convincing yourself that the space was what you needed. That you could live without Jason Todd. Without wanting his touch. Without his sweet words. Without his presence in your life.
Your body seems to disagree, your hand moving before you could stop it. It reaches out and slowly coaxs him out of the cave he has created in your living room. You feel him shift, settling in between your hands.
Your fingers drift, mapping every fibre of his face, taking the time to update your memory on how he looks through touch alone. They linger past the scars, past the ones you used to trace every night before bed and past the new ones whose stories you wouldn’t want to hear. They settle on the jagged skin of the one he hates the most. He flinches.
It catches your attention, making your eyes meet his. They’re puffy. You can’t tell if it is because he hasn’t been sleeping or because he’s been crying. Knowing him, it’s probably both.
You stare at him a second longer, wanting to read all the words he wouldn’t be able to say out loud. He misses you. He shouldn’t. You want to tell him he has no right to be. That he’s forced you to be like this, to have learned to live without him. But you can’t. The truth is that you’ve missed him too
You feel him shift under you and out of your grasp. He takes your hand before the disappointment takes over. The familiarity sets in instead; he’s guiding you towards your bedroom. You want to be mean, to let that part of you be so cruel that your every word nestles into his heart. It dies before the words reach your lips; he's too gentle.
He stops in front of the bed, the moonlight spilling across him. It’s unfair how he always makes you forget. You want to hold a grudge, but he’s here and he’s yours.
You can feel the question in the air before he says it.
“Can I stay tonight?"
His voice shifts, so hoarse that it’s barely above a whisper, as if it’s a confession for only you to hear.
“I want to be home."
He hesitates, leaving you to take in the moment, and finishes his truth.
He starts by pulling you towards him by the waist using both of his hands, pushing your bodies together, leaving no space for air or doubt. His hands are steady and strong, afraid of the thought of you moving just one inch away, afraid of the separation. He wants you near, he needs to feel you.
One of his hands moves from your waist to your back, caressing it like something precious, while the other one moves to let his entire arm hug your waist, trapping you in position.
And while his arms are around you, his beautiful eyes are scanning every single detail on your face. Admiring you like something holy, something unreal. In your eyes you're the most beautiful being that has ever stepped on the planet earth. He gets drunk by the sight of you, and the feeling of having you with him.
And while he’s taking his time worshipping you, your hands move to his chest, rising to his shoulders, and finally ending in the back of his head, with your fingers intertwining with his hair.
It doesn’t matter how much time has passed since you both saw each other—it could be years, it could be months, or it could be just one day—the moment Jason’s lips touch yours he can’t hold back.
You taste the desire and longing in his tongue. The kiss is deep, heated and long. Jason only pulls apart to groan, making your entire body shiver with pleasure.
He needs you to be impossibly closer. He needs your hands touching him all the time. He needs to feel your breath against his skin. He always needs more when it comes to you.
Sometimes—whenever the situation allows it—without stopping, his kisses start lowering towards your neck; lower, your chest; lower, your stomach; lower-
But, when the situation is different—and he can’t have you like he wants to—he’s the one that pulls apart first. His body doesn’t move, he’s still holding you against him. His grip hasn’t loosened. It’s still strong, holding you against him, like he is afraid you might run away, or just vanish into thin air.
He admires you again, but this time with pride. Proud of being the reason your lips are swollen now. Proud of being the one having you.
Jason Todd kisses like a starved man, but only because he’s obsessed with you.
A/N: Don't ask me what this is, I don't even know myself. This is probably the closest you're going to get to smut written by me.
Big tsundere vibes, will come up with a “logical reason” on why he HAS to come with you to your doctors appointment. He HAS to stay close to you on the sidewalk. He MUST stay within your perimeter because "anything could happen..." Very common when he first started catching feelings, over time, he was more honest.
Has a BITCH FIT if he wakes up alone in bed and you’re gone. Mr. Grumpy quietly standing at the entry way of the kitchen as you cook breakfast. Groggy and sleepy. In the end, he has you back in bed with him, wrapped tightly in his arms (and one leg). Gives grumpy kisses before he passes out again but you're not leaving anytime soon.
Your conversations don't end if you need to use the bathroom or have to shower. He’s sitting on the toilet as you wash your hair, chatting about his weird dream last night all to venting about Bruce being an ass (again). He’s a chatterbox with you because of how well you listen and how safe you make him feel to express himself. That's very precious to him.
Casually plays with your hair when waiting in line. Twirling your hair or brushing his fingers through your scalp. This isn’t PDA, at least not intentionally, he doesn’t think about it as that. He just fidgets a lot and playing with your hair happens to calm him down, nothing more....(bombastic side eye)
Randomly puts his hands in your pockets, either your hoodie or your jeans, it’s the best feeling ever to Jason yet it makes you flustered that someone needs THIS MUCH physical contact with you. Especially someone as tough and edgy like Jason who keeps to himself from everyone!
When cuddling, Jason likes to listen to your heartbeat as you hold him. It's his favorite song that he can listen to for hours. No one has ever made him feel this way. He occasionally glances at your sleeping face and it only fills him with determination to protect you. You weren't someone with superpowers, mastery of martial arts, or special abilities like others he had known. But you've kept him more safe than any hero he's ever met.
Jason Todd who, after you leave, can't step foot in his apartment without being sick. Every blank space where you were makes his stomach twist and knot. The silence without you threatens to deafen him
"I'll be gone by the end of the week." He tells his apartment manager. He only packs the essentials, leaving behind a semi furnished, sterile apartment
Jason Todd who spends months and months and months living on a new side of town in a new apartment. Away from every corner café that you frequented and stray cat that you fed. He's doing better, he thinks, until he hears your name on the street
You're not supposed to be here. You have a new apartment downtown. Jason, someone who's faced death more times than any person should, stops dead in his tracks when you look up to greet your friend but make eye contact with him instead
Jason Todd who sees the worst of humanity every single night and continues on with easy steps, feels his knees buckles and legs go weak. And yet gravity pulls him towards you
"Hi..." His voice cracks. He looks at you like you're a ghost and an angel wrapped together in one heartbreakingly beautiful being standing in front of him
"Hey..." You whisper. Your friend watches with bated breath, waiting for the inevitable implosion. But it never comes
"Can we talk?" Jason doesn't think before he asks. With your throat tightening all you can do is nod
Jason Todd who gets blurry vision when he's standing on your doorstep. His heart is racing, his mind a swirling mess
He doesn't know why he's even bothering with this or why you're even entertaining him after what he did. And when you don't answer the door? He tells himself to leave. He tells himself this is a mistake
Jason Todd who feels like he can finally breathe again when you open the door and stand in front of him, until he sees your eyes swollen and red from crying
"Please don't- please don't cry because of me." He murmurs into your temple
Jason Todd who knows he's broken. Jason knows his issues are too big for either of you to handle. But he breaks the second you look up at him like he's still the same man who asked you out with a stutter and wilted flowers in hand
"I hate you." You mumble to him. It's half hearted, weak
"Good. You should." He agrees
"I thought I was over you." You hiccup
"I know." He murmurs
"But I'm not." You choke on your words. Jason holds you tighter
"Me either...." He admits out loud for the first time
Jason Todd who swears on his grave and his grave alone that he is going to spend the rest of his life making sure nothing, not even himself, hurts you again
request reader who acts as a healer for the team, and their ability on paper [and seemingly in practice] is just that they can heal anybody, no matter the damage or cause, except their power actually works by stealing the wound and inflicting it upon themselves. they can take any pain, mental, chronic, sometimes even emotional depending on circumstances and the degree of it. no one knows until they take on something far too bad: losing a limb, breaking their spine, guts spilling out, etc.
content gn! reader x jason wayne, todd! reader, reader gets hurt, graphic injury, blood, severe abdominal trauma, near-death experience, pain transfer, self-sacrificial healing, lazarus pit trauma references, medical trauma, panic, guilt, emotional distress, jason’s death trauma referenced, angst with hurt/comfort
masterlist | word count 12.6k
Jason Todd did not trust miracles. Miracles had a bad habit of coming with fine print. He had crawled out of his own grave with dirt in his mouth and death still tucked under his fingernails. He had been dragged back into the world wrong, pieced together by rage and green water and people who looked at resurrection like it was a tool instead of a wound.
So, yeah. Jason did not trust miracles.
He especially did not trust people who called themselves healers. Not that you had ever called yourself that. Other people did it for you.
The Justice League called you an invaluable asset. The Titans called you a lifesaver. Young Justice called you their emergency button. The Supersons called you cool in the way teenagers called something cool when they were trying very hard not to look impressed. Roy called you “the team’s cheat code,” usually while bleeding on furniture that did not belong to him.
Jason called you trouble. At first, anyway.
“Absolutely not,” Jason said the first time you tried to heal him.
You were standing in an Outlaws safehouse in Prague at three in the morning, wearing an oversized jacket, cracked boots, and a face that said you had already heard every possible version of that sentence. Jason was sitting on the kitchen table because Roy Harper had dragged him there by the back of his jacket and threatened to sedate him with “friendship and also possibly a tranquillizer dart.”
There was a knife wound in Jason’s side. Technically, there were three. The worst one was deep enough that Jason had stopped pretending it was not a problem. The blood had soaked through his shirt, his jacket, and the towel Roy had pressed against it with increasingly frantic mutters of, “Nope, no, we are not doing this cowboy nonsense tonight.”
Koriand’r hovered near the window, glowing faintly with worry. Roy pointed at Jason with one bloody hand. “Let them fix you.”
Jason glared at him. “I don’t need fixing.”
“You are actively leaking on a rental table.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That is not the flex you think it is.”
You stepped closer. Jason’s attention snapped to you. Not because you were threatening. You weren’t. That was part of what made him suspicious. You moved carefully, hands visible, eyes steady. You did not reach for him. Did not crowd him. Did not look at his blood like it frightened you or fascinated you.
“Jason,” you said, voice calm. “Can I check the wound?”
“No.”
Roy groaned. “Jaybird—”
You lifted a hand without looking away from Jason. Roy went quiet. “I won’t touch you without permission,” you said.
Jason narrowed his eyes behind the white lenses of his helmet. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
“No,” you said. “It’s supposed to be true.”
That knocked something loose in him. Not trust. God, no. Trust was not a light switch. It was a locked door in a house that had burned down twice. But the answer made him pause. Most people tried to soothe him. Manage him. Talk around him like he was a bomb with a heartbeat. You just told him the truth and let it sit there. Jason hated that he respected it.
“Five seconds,” he said.
Roy exhaled loudly. “Thank God.”
Jason pointed at him. “You talk again, I’m bleeding on your boots.”
“You already are.”
“Then I’m doing it on purpose.”
You came closer. Slowly. Jason watched every movement. You stopped beside the table and held out your hand, palm up. “May I?”
It was a stupid question. He was bleeding out. Anyone else would have grabbed him, pressed down, started working. Bruce would have barked orders. Alfred would have said something dry and terrifying and gotten exactly what he wanted. Leslie would have given him that look that made him feel twelve years old and doomed.
But you asked. Jason looked at your hand. Then at your face. Then, because blood loss apparently made people stupid, he nodded.
Your fingers touched the torn fabric near his side. He flinched. You stopped immediately. The wound throbbed. His pulse roared. Your hand did not move.
“Still okay?” you asked.
Jason stared at you. Something in his chest got tight in a way that had nothing to do with the knife wound. “Yeah,” he muttered.
You continued. Careful. Gentle. Professional. It was worse than pain, somehow. Pain was familiar. Pain did not ask anything from him except survival. Gentleness was another language, and Jason had forgotten it.
You peeled the ruined fabric back and inhaled softly. You did not look away from the wound. “It’s deep.”
Jason scoffed. “You should see the other guy.”
“I did. Kori threw him through a wall.”
Kori smiled brightly. “He was most unpleasant.”
Jason huffed, then hissed when the movement pulled at his side.
Your eyes flicked up. “That hurt.”
“Nothing gets past you, huh?”
“I’m good at my job.”
“And humble.”
“Deeply.”
Against his will, Jason’s mouth almost twitched.
You placed your palm near the wound, not quite touching it.
“This will feel warm,” you said. “Maybe strange. It shouldn’t hurt.”
“Shouldn’t?”
“Bodies are weird.”
“That your professional opinion?”
“Yes.”
He snorted. Then your hand settled over the wound. Warmth bloomed under his skin. Jason stiffened. Every instinct in him screamed. Hands on him. Body vulnerable. Blood loss. Magic. Lazarus. Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea. Then the pain started to fade. The torn flesh pulled together beneath your palm. Muscle sealed. Skin knitted. The hot pulse of damage vanished like someone had turned down the volume on his body.
Jason’s breath caught. You removed your hand. The wound was gone. A smooth line of new pink skin remained beneath the blood.
Roy gave a soft, relieved laugh. “See? Cheat code.”
Jason kept staring at his side. His whole body felt wrong without the pain. Too quiet.
“You good?” you asked.
He looked up sharply. You were watching him, not smug, not pleased with yourself, not expecting gratitude. Just checking. Jason hated that too.
“Fine,” he said.
Your mouth twitched like you knew exactly how much that word did not mean. Then your hand flexed once at your side. A tiny movement. Almost nothing.
“Does it drain you?” he asked.
You blinked. “Little bit,” you said.
Jason stared. That was not an answer. But he was too tired and too raw to chase it. So he pulled his ruined shirt down and slid off the table. His legs held. His side did not split open. Miracle.
Fine print, he reminded himself. There was always fine print.
You stepped back to give him space. That was when Jason decided he did not like you. Which, for him, meant he was probably doomed.
It did not happen quickly. Jason did not wake up one day and trust you. That was not how people like him worked. Trust grew sideways. In bad lighting. With teeth.
It started with you never pushing. You healed Roy without complaint. Kori with tenderness. Artemis, when she was around, though she always eyed you like she was trying to decide whether your power was divine favour or extremely suspicious witchcraft. Bizarro once held out a scraped hand to you with such solemn faith that even Jason had to look away.
You asked every time. Even when someone was hurt badly. Even when the answer was obvious.
“May I?”
“Can I help?”
“Is it okay if I touch your shoulder?”
“Tell me if you need me to stop.”
Jason watched you do it for everyone. Then he noticed you did it for him more carefully. Not delicately. That would have pissed him off. Carefully. Like you had studied the shape of his boundaries and decided they deserved architecture.
The second time you healed him, it was a bullet graze across his ribs in Buenos Aires. He let you do it because Roy was unconscious, Kori was busy tearing through an alien weapon depot, and Jason needed to be able to stand without bleeding all over the mission.
You said, “May I?”
He said, “Yeah, yeah, get on with it.” You looked at him. He sighed hard enough to make the wound burn. “Yes. You may.”
Your smile was small and annoying.
The wound vanished beneath your touch.
Your mouth tightened for half a second. Jason saw it. “You okay?”
You looked surprised. Then amused. “That’s my line.”
“Didn’t ask whose line it was.”
“I’m okay.”
There it was again.
Not fine.
Worse. Okay.
Jason did not trust okay either. But you were already turning away to check on Roy, and Jason let it go.
The third time, he caught your wrist afterwards. Not hard. Just enough to stop you from leaving.
You looked down at his hand, then back at him.
Jason let go immediately.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
You tilted your head. “For what?”
He did not know what to do with that question. For grabbing. For needing. For noticing. For being the kind of person who flinched at kindness and still wanted it badly enough to make himself sick.
“You looked dizzy,” he said instead.
You smiled. “I’m alright.”
“Strike three.”
“What?”
“Fine. Okay. Alright.” Jason crossed his arms. “You got any honest synonyms in there?”
Your smile faded.
For a second, he thought you might tell him. Something passed behind your eyes. Something tired and old and buried so deep Jason recognised it by shape alone.
Then Roy groaned from the other side of the room, and the moment broke.
You stepped back.
“I just need rest sometimes,” you said.
Jason watched you walk away.
That night, he left an electrolyte drink outside your door. He did not knock.
The next morning, it was gone.
You did not mention it. Neither did he.
After that, trust grew teeth and settled in. You started leaving medical supplies in Jason’s safehouses without asking. Better gauze. Antibiotic ointment. Suture kits. Painkillers that did not make him foggy. You labelled everything in neat handwriting.
Jason complained about it for three straight weeks and used every single thing.
He started buying coffee the way you liked it.
You never told him your order. He figured it out anyway.
“You stalk all your medics?” you asked the first time he handed you the cup.
Jason shrugged. “Only the annoying ones.”
“I’m honoured.”
“Don’t be.”
You took the coffee and smiled into the lid. Jason pretended not to notice how warm that made him feel.
The first time you saw him without the helmet for longer than an emergency, it was because you had shown up at his apartment at two in the morning with a split lip and a bruise blooming under one eye.
Jason opened the door with a gun in one hand. Then he saw you.
The gun lowered. “What happened?”
You smiled weakly. “Hello to you too.”
“Who did it?”
“Very normal first question.”
“Name.”
“Jason—”
“Name.”
You sighed and leaned against the doorframe. “No one did it. Not to me.”
Jason went still.
The bruise was dark. Fresh. Angry. The split lip had already started bleeding again.
“What does that mean?”
You looked away. “I healed someone.”
Jason’s grip tightened around the door. “Who?”
“A kid. Metahuman. Scared. Cornered. Police got involved. It was messy.”
“Kid hit you?”
“No. The kid had been hit.”
Jason stared at the bruise. It sat on your face like evidence.
His mouth went dry. Something was wrong. Something had been wrong the whole time.
But you looked exhausted, and there was rain in your hair, and Jason could not make himself interrogate you in the hallway when you seemed one bad breath away from falling over.
So he stepped aside. “Get in.”
You blinked. “I wasn’t asking to—”
“Didn’t ask what you were asking.”
“Bossy.”
“Bleeding.”
“Fair.”
His apartment was not much. A safehouse pretending badly to be a home. Books stacked on every flat surface. Weapons cleaned and hidden with the casual paranoia of someone who had never believed walls were enough. One battered couch. One chipped mug in the sink. One photo tucked into the frame of a mirror where nobody would see it unless they knew where to look.
You saw the books first.
“Jane Austen?” you asked, eyebrows lifting.
Jason scowled. “You got a problem with Austen?”
“No. Just adjusting my worldview.”
“Adjust faster.”
You smiled, then winced when it split your lip further.
Jason pointed at the couch. “Sit.”
You obeyed, mostly because your knees seemed to have unionised against you.
He got the first aid kit.
“You’re a healer,” he said, sitting across from you.
“Observant.”
“Why don’t you heal yourself?”
You looked at your hands. There was a long pause.
“I can,” you said. “Kind of.”
“Kind of.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Uncomplicate it.”
Your eyes lifted. There was that look again. The one that said you were deciding which truth would hurt least.
Jason hated that he already knew you well enough to see the calculation.
“Some things take time,” you said.
Bullshit. He knew it. You knew he knew it.
But he did not push. Instead, he cleaned the blood from your lip.
You went very still when he touched you. Jason noticed.
He almost pulled back.
“You good?” he asked.
Your gaze flicked to his. Then softened. “Yeah.”
He waited.
You huffed. “Yes, Jason. I’m good.”
He resumed. You watched his face while he worked.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re gentle.”
He scoffed. “Don’t spread that around. Ruin my brand.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“Better be.”
Your smile was small.
Jason taped gauze over a scrape near your temple, then leaned back.
“There,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I said thank you.”
“Yeah. Weird.”
You laughed softly. The sound settled somewhere behind his ribs and refused to leave.
That night, you fell asleep on his couch before the rain stopped. Jason covered you with a blanket and sat in the armchair across from you with a book open in his lap, pretending to read.
He watched you instead. The bruise on your face darkened. Your hand curled near your chest. You looked younger asleep. Not innocent. Jason did not believe in innocence as a permanent state. But unguarded.
He wondered who took care of you when you were done taking care of everyone else. He wondered why the thought made him angry. He wondered when you had become someone he worried about.
By morning, your bruise had faded to yellow.
You woke to find coffee on the table and Jason in the kitchen burning toast with the grave concentration of a man defusing a bomb.
“You cook?” you asked.
Jason glanced over his shoulder. “You sound surprised.”
“You own one fork.”
“It’s a good fork.”
“It’s bent.”
“It’s got character.”
You smiled. Jason looked away first.
After that, you came back.
Not often. Not predictably.
But enough. Sometimes you arrived after healing someone else, pale around the mouth and trying to hide the way your hands shook. Jason stopped asking questions you refused to answer. Instead, he made tea. Or coffee. Or soup from a recipe Alfred had bullied into him years ago and would deny knowing if asked.
Sometimes Jason came to you. Not for healing. Not at first. He would show up outside the clinic where you volunteered, leaning against his bike with a second helmet hooked over one arm.
“You look like a kidnapping waiting to happen,” you told him.
“I’m charming.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“Same thing in Gotham.”
Then he drove you home because your shift ended late and he had already checked the police scanners and knew the neighbourhood was getting worse.
You told him you could take care of yourself.
He said, “Didn’t say you couldn’t.”
You got on the bike.
The first time he had a Lazarus nightmare in front of you, it was an accident. You were in his apartment, both of you pretending the movie Roy had recommended was not terrible. Rain hit the windows. Your feet were tucked under you on the couch. Jason sat on the floor with his back against it, close enough that your knee almost touched his shoulder.
He fell asleep. He never meant to. Jason did not sleep around people unless his body betrayed him. One minute, he was listening to you complain about the movie’s medical inaccuracies. The next, he was back in the Pit.
Green light. Hands dragging him down. Laughter. Crowbar. Dirt. His own voice screaming from somewhere far away.
He woke with a knife in his hand. You were on the floor in front of him, hands raised, breathing slow.
“Jason,” you said.
His vision tunnelled. The knife shook.
“Don’t touch me,” he rasped.
“I won’t.”
“I said don’t—”
“I heard you.”
His chest heaved. Sweat ran cold down his back. The room flickered between then and now, green and dark, grave and apartment.
You did not move closer. You did not move away.
“I’m here,” you said. “You’re in your apartment. Window’s cracked because you said the soup smelled too healthy. Roy’s terrible movie is paused at forty-two minutes. You have a knife. I am not touching you.”
The details landed slowly.
Window. Movie. Knife. You.
Not the Pit. Not the warehouse. Not the grave.
Jason lowered the knife. It hit the floor with a dull thud.
Your hands stayed raised. He hated that. He hated that you had to be careful with him. Hated that some broken animal part of him needed it.
“I could’ve hurt you,” he said.
“You didn’t.”
“I could’ve.”
“But you didn’t.”
He looked at you. Your face was calm.
Then, very carefully, you said, “Can I sit beside you?”
Jason’s throat worked. He nodded.
You moved slowly, sitting on the floor a few feet away.
He stared at the wall.
“You should leave,” he said.
“Probably.”
That startled a laugh out of him. It cracked on the way out.
You smiled faintly.
“I’m not going to,” you said.
“Stupid.”
“Frequently.”
“Dangerous.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Jason closed his eyes. His head pounded. Lazarus static crawled beneath his skin. Rage, fear, memory, pain — all of it tangled until he wanted to claw himself open just to let it out.
He felt your gaze on him.
“Can I help?” you asked.
His eyes opened. “No healing.”
“I didn’t say healing.”
“What else you got?”
You held out your hand, palm up, not reaching. “Grounding.”
Jason looked at it like it was a trap. Maybe it was. Maybe kindness always was, if you had been starved long enough.
He took your hand anyway.
Your fingers curled around his. Warm. Steady.
Something in him eased. Not the whole thing. Not the Pit. Not the rage. Not the dead boy under his skin.
But enough.
For the first time in a long time, Jason breathed and did not feel like the air had teeth.
You stayed until dawn. You did not mention the way his hand never let go of yours. Neither did he.
After that, things changed. Quietly.
Jason started calling you when missions got bad.
Not because he needed help. Never that. Because you were “already on the roster” or “closer than the League” or “less annoying than a hospital.”
You started calling him when healing took too much.
Not because you needed help. Never that. Because his apartment was “nearby” or “quieter than the Tower” or “the only place nobody asked questions.”
Neither of you called it what it was. That would have been too sensible, and both of you were apparently allergic.
Roy figured it out first. Obviously.
“You two are doing the thing,” he said one morning, walking into the safehouse kitchen to find Jason making you eggs while you sat at the counter wearing one of his hoodies.
Jason did not look up from the pan. “The thing where I shoot you?”
“The domestic thing.”
You choked on your coffee.
Jason pointed the spatula at Roy. “Out.”
Roy grinned. “Oh, this is precious.”
“Harper.”
“They’re wearing your hoodie.”
“They were cold.”
“You own, like, twelve blankets.”
“Kori burned three.”
“One time,” Kori called from the living room. “And they were ugly.”
Roy leaned against the counter, delighted. “So the hoodie was medically necessary?”
You set your mug down. “I’m not participating in whatever this is.”
“This is love, babe,” Roy said.
Jason went very still. The word landed in the room like a live grenade.
Your eyes flicked to Jason. Jason stared at the eggs.
Roy’s expression changed./ For once in his life, he seemed to realise he had stepped directly into a minefield.
“Anyway,” he said loudly, “I’m going to go stand over there and pretend I have survival instincts.”
He fled. Kori appeared in the doorway, took one look at Jason’s face, and gently turned around again.
The kitchen went quiet.
You looked down at your hands. Jason turned off the stove.
The eggs were probably ruined. He did not care.
“Jay,” you said softly. He hated how much he loved that nickname in your voice.
“Don’t,” he said.
You closed your mouth. Regret hit him immediately.
He set the spatula down.
“I didn’t mean—” He stopped.
Words were hard. Honest ones were worse. They jammed in his throat like broken glass.
You waited. You were good at waiting. That was how you got under his armour in the first place.
Jason braced both hands on the counter. “I ain’t good at this.”
Your voice stayed gentle. “At eggs?”
A laugh punched out of him.
He looked at you. At his hoodie around your shoulders. At the fading bruise beneath your jaw from some injury you still would not fully explain. At the coffee he knew exactly how to make. At the space you had taken up in his life so gradually that he had not noticed until the whole damn room was full of you.
“I don’t know what this is,” he said.
Your expression softened. “I don’t either.”
“But it’s something.”
“Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”
His chest hurt. Not bad hurt.
Worse. Hopeful hurt.
Jason looked away. “I don’t wanna ruin it.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” you admitted. “I don’t.”
He appreciated that.
You got off the stool and came around the counter slowly. He did not move. You stopped close enough that he could feel your warmth, far enough that he could choose.
Always choose.
“Can I touch you?” you asked.
Jason closed his eyes. The question still did things to him. Maybe it always would.
“Yeah,” he said.
Your hand settled against his chest, over his heart. His own hand came up and covered yours.
“I’m scared too,” you said. His eyes opened. You smiled sadly. “In case that helps.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Fair.”
“It kinda does.”
“Also fair.”
Jason looked at your mouth. Your breath changed. He almost laughed because, really, after blood, bullets, nightmares, Roy’s emotional terrorism, and two idiots dancing around the obvious for months, this was what made him nervous? A kiss? Ridiculous.
Terrifying.
He leaned in slowly. Giving you time. Giving himself time.
Your eyes fluttered shut.
Jason kissed you like he was asking a question he could not say aloud. You answered by curling your fingers in his shirt and kissing him back.
The eggs burned.
Roy yelled, “I smell emotional development and also breakfast crimes!”
Jason broke the kiss just long enough to shout, “I will end you!”
You laughed against his mouth. And Jason, against all odds, felt alive.
Not resurrected. Not surviving.
Alive.
That was how you became his person. Not all at once. Not with fireworks or grand declarations. With coffee. Consent. Bad movie nights. Blood on kitchen tile. Your hand in his after nightmares. His hoodie on your shoulders. Soup neither of you admitted was Alfred’s recipe. Books traded back and forth with notes scribbled in the margins.
You gave him a copy of Frankenstein with a sticky note on the front that read: For obvious reasons. Jason threw a pillow at you and then read the whole thing in one night. He gave you The Odyssey and wrote inside the cover: For getting home, even when it takes too damn long.
You cried. He pretended not to panic.
You loved him. He loved you.
Neither of you said it for a while. Jason thought that was okay. He thought you had time.
That was the thing about miracles. They made you stupid enough to believe in later.
The mission that ruined everything started in Qurac.
It was supposed to be simple. That was how Jason knew they were screwed. A weapons ring was moving experimental biotech through old League of Assassins tunnels. Not Lazarus, not exactly, but close enough that Jason felt the green under his skin start snarling the second he read the briefing.
Roy leaned over the table. “We can sit this one out.”
Jason glared at him. “No.”
“You did the voice.”
“What voice?”
“The ‘my trauma is driving, and I’m pretending it’s tactical’ voice.”
Kori, floating upside down near the ceiling because chairs were apparently optional, nodded solemnly. “I have also heard this voice.”
Jason looked at you for backup. Bad idea. You were sitting across from him, expression too careful.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” you said.
Jason scoffed. “Not proving anything.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not.”
“I said okay.”
“You said it judgmentally.”
“I said it accurately.”
Roy whispered, “Married.”
Jason threw a pen at him. You caught it without looking away from Jason. He hated when you did hot things during arguments. Deeply inconvenient.
“I’m going,” he said.
“I know,” you replied.
Something in his chest softened despite himself. You did know. You knew when not to push. Knew when the mission mattered for reasons he could not explain without turning himself inside out. Knew that sitting out would feel like letting the Pit own a part of him forever.
“But I’m coming with you,” you added.
“No.”
Your eyebrow lifted. “Cute.”
“No.”
“Jason.”
“No. Those tunnels are League-adjacent, Lazarus-adjacent, and cursed-adjacent. That is three adjacents too many.”
“So you agree it’s dangerous.”
“Yeah. For you.”
“And not for you?”
“I’m built different.”
“You’re built concussed.”
Roy made a strangled noise.
Jason pointed at him without looking. “Do not.”
Roy raised both hands.
You leaned forward. “I am not asking to fight,” you said. “I’m asking to be nearby if something goes wrong.”
“Something always goes wrong.”
“Exactly.”
Jason stared at you. You stared back. He knew that look. You had learned it from him, which was rude.
“You stay behind the extraction point,” he said.
“No.”
“You stay with Roy.”
“Roy is going inside with you.”
“Then you stay with Kori.”
“Kori is also going inside with you.”
“You stay in the jet.”
You smiled. It was not a nice smile. “I love when you try to assign me to furniture.”
Jason’s brain snagged.cLove. You had not said I love you. Not exactly. But the word slipped out so easily in your voice that Jason’s whole stupid heart tripped over it.
You noticed. Your expression softened. “Jay.”
He looked away. “Fine. But you stay back unless called.”
“I can agree to that.”
“No hero shit.”cYou gave him a flat look.c“Fine,” he amended. “Limited hero shit.”
“Reasonable.”
“It’s not.”
“No, but it’s us.”
That was the problem.cIt was very much you. Both of you, sprinting toward pain with your hands out, pretending it was strategy instead of instinct.
Jason should have known then.cMaybe some part of him did.
The tunnels stank of old water, rust, and memory.cJason hated them immediately.
The walls were carved stone reinforced with modern steel. League symbols had been scraped away in some places, but not all. Emergency lights flickered red along the floor, casting the corridor in a glow that reminded him too much of blood under water.
His helmet filtered toxins, mapped heat signatures, tracked motion.cIt did nothing for ghosts.
Roy moved ahead of him, bow raised. Kori floated silently behind. You were back near the extraction route with a comm link, medical kit, and strict instructions Jason knew you would disobey the second things got ugly.c
The first fifteen minutes were quiet. Too quiet.cThen Roy said, “I hate to be the one to say this, but—”
The tunnel exploded.cThe walls opened. Hidden panels slid back, and figures poured out wearing armour marked with a symbol Jason had only seen once before, burned into the doors of a Lazarus laboratory. His vision went green at the edges.
“Jason,” Roy snapped.
“I’m good.”
“Liar.”
Gunfire lit the tunnel. Jason moved.
The first wave went down fast. Rubber rounds, electrified knives, a boot to one helmet, elbow to another throat. Kori’s starbolts tore through the far wall. Roy’s arrows pinned armour joints and disabled weapons with surgical precision.
Then the second wave came. Bigger. Modified. Wrong. Their veins glowed faint green beneath grey skin.
Jason’s breathing changed.
Lazarus experiments. Of course. Of course, some bastards had looked at the thing that ruined him and thought, How can we make this worse?
A soldier lunged at him with a hooked blade. Jason ducked, drove a knee into their ribs, and slammed them into the wall.
The body twitched. Too strong. Not feeling pain. Jason’s helmet flashed warnings.
Behind him, Kori cried out.
He turned. A net of glowing wire wrapped around her, crackling with energy tuned specifically to disrupt Tamaranean physiology. She hit the ground hard. Roy shouted and fired three arrows in rapid succession. A fourth soldier caught them midair.
“Okay,” Roy said. “That’s new and bad.”
Jason shot the soldier in the knee. They did not fall.
“Very bad,” Roy corrected.
Then your voice came through comms. “Jason, status?”
He should have lied. He almost did. Instead, because he loved you and was trying to be less of a hypocrite about trust, he said, “Complicated.”
“That is not a status.”
“Hostiles enhanced. Kori’s down. Roy’s being annoying.”
“Means he’s alive,” Roy grunted.
You were silent for half a second. Then: “I’m coming in.”
“No.”
“Jason—”
“No. Extraction point. Stay there.”
A blast shook dust from the ceiling. The comm crackled.
Jason drove his shoulder into an attacker and fired point-blank into their armour.
“I mean it,” he snapped. “You stay back.”
Your voice went quiet. “Come back to me, then.”
Jason’s throat tightened. Bad timing.T errible timing. Absolutely lethal timing.
“Plan to,” he said.
The fight turned uglier. They pushed forward inch by inch, deeper into the tunnels, until they reached the central lab.
It was worse than Jason expected. Rows of containment pods lined the walls. Some empty. Some occupied. Tubes pumped greenish fluid through bodies that twitched in artificial sleep. Screens displayed vitals. Pain responses. Regeneration trials.
Jason froze. For one second, he was not in Qurac. He was in the Pit. He was in the grave. He was on a table, dead and not dead, while people decided what his body was worth.
Roy’s hand closed on his shoulder. “Jay.”
Jason inhaled. Gun oil. Dust. Roy.
Not Pit. Not grave.
Now.
“I’m good,” Jason said.
Roy did not call him a liar this time. Maybe because he knew Jason needed the lie to stand.
They planted charges. Kori tore free of the net with a furious roar bright enough to shake the pods.
That was when the real weapon woke up. It came from the far chamber. A man, maybe once. Now something stitched together with biotech and Lazarus residue, skin pale, eyes burning green, a blade grown from his own arm like bone turned cruel.
Jason knew immediately.
This was not a soldier. This was a prototype.
The prototype looked at him. Smiled.
“Returned one,” it said.
Jason’s blood went cold.
Roy whispered, “Hate that.”
The prototype moved faster than anything that large should have. Jason barely dodged the first strike. The blade cut through his jacket, armour, and skin beneath like it was all paper.
Pain flared hot across his chest. He fired twice. The bullets sank into the prototype’s shoulder and were pushed out by healing flesh.
“Of course,” Jason snarled.
Kori hit it with a Starbolt that threw it through three pods. It stood back up. Roy’s explosive arrow took out half the floor. It crawled out of the crater. The charges beeped. Time ticking down.
Jason made a decision.
Not a noble one. A necessary one.
“Get the civilians out,” he said.
Roy’s head snapped toward him. “No.”
“Kori, take the pods that are still viable. Roy, extraction.”
“Jason.”
“Now!”
Kori looked at him. Something in her expression said she understood. That she hated understanding. She lifted two pods, one under each arm, and flew toward the exit.
Roy lingered. Jason turned on him. “Go.”
Roy’s mouth twisted. “You better not do the dead boy routine.”
Jason smiled behind the helmet. “No promises.”
“Jason.”
“Roy.”
For a second, all the jokes fell away. Then Roy cursed and ran.
Jason faced the prototype alone. The thing tilted its head.
“Returned one,” it said again.
Jason rolled his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he said. “And you’re about to be discontinued.”
The fight became brutal. Jason broke three fingers. Maybe four. Took a hit to the ribs that cracked armour and bone. Lost one gun. Then the other. Drew a knife. Lost that too. He fought dirty because he had never known any other way to survive. The prototype fought like pain was a rumour.
The countdown hit sixty seconds. Jason lured it deeper into the lab, toward the central reactor.
Fifty. He took a blade through the shoulder and used the angle to get close enough to slam an explosive charge into the prototype’s chest.
Forty. It roared.
Jason laughed, bloody and breathless.
“Yeah,” he rasped. “Didn’t like that, huh?”
Thirty. The prototype grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the reactor casing. His helmet cracked. Warnings flashed.
Twenty. Jason reached for the detonator. The prototype’s bone blade punched into his abdomen.
Everything stopped. Not because there was no pain.
Because there was too much. The blade went in low and deep, tearing through armour, flesh, organs. Jason’s mouth opened around a sound he refused to make. Blood flooded hot beneath his jacket.
The prototype leaned close.
“Returned,” it whispered, “can return again.”
Something inside Jason went very still. No. No, he couldn’t.
Not again. Not the Pit. Not the dark. Not crawling back wrong.
His fingers closed around the detonator.
Ten.
He pressed it.
The charge on the prototype’s chest exploded. Green fire swallowed the room. Jason hit the ground hard.
The world went silent. For a while, there was only heat.
Then ringing. Then pain.
Jason opened his eyes to a broken ceiling and emergency lights flickering red. He knew before he moved. He knew from the wet warmth beneath him. From the wrongness in his gut. From the way every breath dragged knives through his lungs. From the cold spreading outward, slow and hungry.
He looked down.
Bad. Very bad.
His abdomen was open. Blood slicked the floor beneath him, dark and spreading. Something inside him had become outside him, and Jason’s brain refused to look at it directly.
He laughed once. It came out wet.
“Gross,” he muttered.
Footsteps thundered. Roy appeared first, skidding into view, face going white.
“Oh no,” Roy breathed. “No, no, no.”
Jason tried to lift a hand. It did not move. “Hey,” he rasped. “You look like shit.”
Roy dropped beside him. “Shut up. Shut up, don’t talk.”
Roy pressed both hands against the wound.
Jason screamed. Couldn’t help it. The sound tore out of him. Roy flinched but did not let go, tears already standing in his eyes.
“I told you not to do the dead boy routine,” Roy choked.
Jason tried to smile. He tasted blood.
Kori landed hard enough to crack the floor, her glow flickering with horror.
Then you were there.
Jason’s heart lurched. No.
No, no, no.
You dropped to your knees beside him. Your face went still when you saw the wound. That was how Jason knew it was worse than he thought.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he rasped.
Your eyes snapped to his. Roy made a broken sound. Jason had never called you that in front of them before.
You looked like you might fall apart. Instead, you reached for him.
Jason caught your wrist. Weakly. Barely.
“No,” he said.
Your face crumpled. “Jason—”
“No.”
“Jay, you’re dying.”
“Yeah.”
Roy swore. “Don’t say that.”
Jason ignored him. His eyes stayed on you. He knew now. Maybe not everything. But enough. The bruises. The shaking hands. The dizziness. The injuries that mirrored other people’s pain. The way you looked after healing someone too badly hurt.
Fine print. There was always fine print.
“Don’t,” he said again.
Your tears spilled over. “I can fix it.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Yes,” you whispered. “I can.”
“No.” His grip tightened with the last scraps of his strength. “You can take it.”
The words hit the room like a gunshot. Roy looked at you. Kori’s glow dimmed. Your face went pale.
Jason laughed weakly, and it hurt like hell. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Figured it out.”
You shook your head. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Jason—”
“Don’t you fucking dare apologise and then do it anyway.”
Your mouth trembled. Behind you, the tunnel groaned. The charges had destabilised more than the lab. Dust rained from the ceiling.
Roy looked between you and Jason, panicked. “What does he mean, take it?”
You did not answer.
Jason did. “Their power,” he said, each word dragging blood with it. “Doesn’t heal. Transfers.”
Roy froze. Kori whispered your name. You closed your eyes.
Jason wanted to reach for your face. Couldn’t.
“You should’ve told me,” he said.
“I know.”
“You should’ve told me before I let you touch me.”
“I know.”
His vision blurred. He blinked hard.
No. He was not dying like this. Not while looking at you. Not while you were about to make the worst choice of both their lives.
“Listen to me,” he said. Your eyes opened. “I ain’t worth that.”
Something in your face changed.
Not soft. Not sad.
Angry.
Good. Anger meant you were still you.
“You don’t get to decide that,” you said.
Jason’s breath hitched. “Yeah?” he whispered. “Funny. Thought that was your whole thing.”
You flinched.
The wound pulsed under Roy’s hands. Jason’s body jerked. Black crowded the edges of his sight.
Your hand slid from his grip.
Panic ripped through him sharper than the blade.
“No,” he tried.
You leaned over him. “Forgive me,” you whispered.
Jason knew those words. He had heard them in dreams. In nightmares. From people who were about to hurt him and wanted absolution first.
But your voice was different. Broken. Loving. Terrified. He tried to move. Tried to stop you. Tried to tell you he loved you because apparently he had waited too long and now the universe was laughing.
Your hands pressed to his abdomen. You inhaled.
And Jason healed. It was instant. Horrific. His organs pulled back into place. Flesh sealed. Blood stopped. Pain vanished so fast it left him dizzy. His lungs opened. His heartbeat slammed strong and furious against his ribs.
He gasped.
Sat up. Alive. Whole.
And you screamed. Your body folded forward, arms wrapping around your abdomen as blood burst between your fingers. The same wound tore open through your body, deep and devastating. You collapsed against him before he could catch you properly.
For half a second, Jason could not understand what he was seeing.
Then the blood hit his hands. Your blood. Your wound.
His wound.
“No,” he said. It was not a word. It was an animal sound.
Roy scrambled backwards, horrified. “Oh, my God.”
Kori’s hands flew to her mouth. You choked on a breath, eyes wide with pain. Jason caught you, pressing both hands to your abdomen. Blood welled between his fingers.
“No, no, no, no, no.”
Your head lolled against his chest. He had seen you hurt before. Bruised. Dizzy. Pale.
Never this. Never open. Never dying.
Because of him.
“Why would you do that?” he shouted.
You tried to speak. Blood touched your lips. Jason’s heart split clean in half.
“Don’t,” he said, voice breaking. “Don’t talk. Don’t you dare talk.”
Your eyes found his. Relief. Again. Always that damned relief. Because he was alive. Because you had done this and thought the math worked.
Jason wanted to scream until the tunnels came down.
Roy was talking rapidly into comms, calling for evac, medical, League transport, anything. Kori knelt beside Jason, glowing hands hovering uselessly because Tamaranean starfire could destroy armies but could not undo this.
Jason pressed harder. You whimpered. He nearly threw up.
“Sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
Your fingers twitched against his jacket. Trying to hold on. He leaned close.
“Stay with me,” he said. “You hear me? You stay with me.”
Your lips moved. He bent lower.
“Worth it,” you breathed.
Jason shattered. “No.” His voice cracked so hard it barely sounded human. “No, you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to put that on me.”
Your eyes fluttered.
“No!” he shouted. “Look at me. Look at me!”
They opened again. Barely.
Jason’s hands were soaked. He had been covered in blood a thousand times. This was the first time it felt like drowning.
“You’re not dying,” he said. “Not for me. You hear me? Not for me.”
The tunnel groaned again. Kori touched his shoulder. “Jason, we must move.”
“I can’t.”
“We must.”
“I can’t move them!”
“You can,” Kori said, voice shaking but firm. “You must.”
Roy appeared on your other side with a field stretcher, face wet, hands trembling. “Jay. We’ve got medevac two minutes out, but this tunnel is coming down now.”
Jason looked at you. Your breathing was too shallow. Two minutes was forever. Two minutes was nothing.
He slid one arm under your shoulders, the other beneath your knees. You made a small, broken sound. Jason flinched like he had been shot.
He lifted you. Blood ran down his arm. His healed abdomen felt like a mockery.
Every step out of the tunnel was hell. Not because of his body. His body was fine. That was the problem. His body was fine, and yours was not. You had turned him into a ghost story again. A boy walking away from his own death while someone else paid the price.
Jason kept his eyes on the exit. He did not look back when the lab collapsed behind them. He did not think about the Pit. He did not think about graves.
He thought only of your pulse against his chest.
The emergency jet became a battlefield. Not against enemies. Against death.
Roy worked with frantic precision, hands moving over bandages and pressure seals, voice too high and too steady. Kori held your head in her lap, murmuring soft Tamaranean prayers under her breath. Jason knelt beside you and refused to let go of your hand.
He had taken off his helmet. He did not remember doing it. Your blood was on his face.
“Talk to them,” Roy said.
Jason’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Talk to them. Keep them here.”
Jason looked down at you. Your eyes were closed. Your face had gone grey. He leaned closer.
“Hey,” he said. Nothing. His throat closed. “Hey, you stubborn pain-in-the-ass miracle with legs. Open your eyes. You don’t get to do this,” he said. “You hear me? You don’t get to barge into my life, reorganise my first-aid kits, insult my cooking, steal my hoodies, make me read books I already read just because you wanna argue about the themes, and then dip.”
Your fingers did not move. Jason’s voice shook.
“I was gonna tell you,” he said. Roy went still. “I was gonna tell you properly. Not in a tunnel. Not like this. I had a plan. Sort of. It was a bad plan, but it was a plan.” Kori smiled through tears. Jason swallowed hard. “I was gonna take you to that bookstore you like. The one with the cat that hates me.” Your heart monitor beeped. Steady. Too slow. “And then dinner. Real dinner. Not takeout on my fire escape. I was gonna be normal as hell about it.”
Roy whispered, “Debatable.”
Jason shot him a look, but there was no heat in it. Then he looked back at you. “I love you,” he said. The words fell out raw. No armour. No joke. No place to hide. “I love you, and you are not allowed to make that a tragedy.”
Your eyelids fluttered. Jason stopped breathing.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Come on, sweetheart. Stay.”
Your eyes opened a sliver. Unfocused. Pain-glazed. Alive.
Jason laughed, a broken, wet thing. “There you are.”
Your mouth moved. He leaned close.
“Bad… plan,” you whispered.
Jason choked.
Roy laughed and sobbed at the same time. Kori bent over you, smiling through tears. “Beloved one, your timing is excellent.”
Jason pressed his forehead to your hand.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, it was a bad plan. You can bully me about it later.”
Your eyes drifted shut again. But your pulse held. Jason clung to that like scripture.
You did not die. Jason repeated that sentence so many times it stopped sounding like language.
You did not die. You did not die. You did not die.
The Watchtower medbay took you because Earth hospitals were not equipped for catastrophic transferred magical-biotech trauma, which was an insane phrase that Jason hated with his entire soul.
You went into surgery. Jason was not allowed in. This went about as well as anyone could expect.
He lasted four minutes before trying to force his way through the doors.
Clark stopped him.
Jason slammed both hands into Superman’s chest and got exactly nowhere. “Move.”
Clark’s face was pale. “Jason.”
“I said move.”
“They’re operating.”
“I need to be in there.”
“You can’t.”
Jason shoved him again. Nothing. His chest was heaving. His hands were still stained red. His body was whole, perfect, healed. He hated it. He hated his skin. He hated his heartbeat. He hated that he could stand.
“Move,” he said again, voice breaking.
Clark’s expression shifted.
“I can’t,” Clark said softly.
Jason swung. Clark caught his wrist. Jason tried to wrench free.
“Don’t,” he snarled.
Clark let go immediately. Jason stumbled back.
Jason wanted to blame someone. Anyone. The doctors. The League. Your power. Himself. God, if he existed, which Jason doubted and also had several complaints prepared just in case. Mostly, he wanted to blame you. Because if he blamed you, he could be angry. If he was angry, he did not have to be terrified.
Bruce arrived an hour later. Still in the suit, cowl down, expression carved from stone. Jason almost laughed. The big bad bat coming to loom at another disaster.
Bruce looked at Jason. Then at the blood on him. His mouth tightened. “What happened?”
Jason’s smile was vicious and empty. “They saved me.”
Bruce went still. Clark murmured, “Jason…”
“No, he asked.” Jason stepped toward Bruce. “They saved me. Took a gut wound that should’ve killed me and put it in themselves. That answer your question?”
Bruce’s face changed. Only slightly. But Jason knew him. Horror, for Bruce, looked like silence.
“How long?” Bruce asked.
Jason laughed. There it was. That detective brain. Already building a case out of the wreckage. “Ask them if they wake up.”
“When,” Bruce said. Jason’s jaw clenched. Bruce stepped closer. “When they wake up.”
For some reason, that nearly undid him. Jason turned away sharply. “I should’ve stopped them.”
“You were dying.”
“Yeah, been there. Didn’t stick.”
Bruce said nothing. Jason hated him for that, too.
The surgery lasted six hours. Jason did not sit down once. Dick showed up sometime around hour three, hair damp from rain, face tight with worry. Tim arrived with three tablets and the haunted look of someone already building a database. Damian came with Alfred and said nothing at all, which was how Jason knew he was scared.
The hallway filled with heroes you had saved. League. Titans. Outlaws. Young Justice. Too many people. Too much guilt.
Jason wanted to scream at all of them. He wanted to scream at himself more.
When the surgeon finally emerged, Jason’s whole body locked.
“They’re stable,” she said. Jason’s knees almost gave out. Roy caught his elbow. Jason let him. “They’re stable,” the surgeon repeated. “Critical, but stable. Their healing factor is responding, though slowly. The transferred injury was severe. We’ve repaired what we can. Now we wait.”
Jason hated waiting. Waiting was helplessness with a clock. But he waited.
You woke thirty-six hours later. Jason knew because he had been watching your face like it contained the last light in the universe.
Your eyelids fluttered. His chair scraped violently against the floor.
“Hey,” he said, leaning forward.
Your eyes opened. Slowly. Painfully. They found his. For one second, you looked confused. Then relieved.
Jason’s chest cracked. “No,” he said immediately. Your brow furrowed faintly. He pointed at you. “No. Do not look relieved. We are not doing that.”
Your lips twitched. A mistake. Pain flashed across your face.
Jason stood so fast he nearly knocked the chair over. “Don’t move.”
Your voice came out rough. “Bossy.”
His eyes burned. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m a real tyrant. Stay still.”
You blinked slowly. Your gaze moved over him. His face. His shoulders. His abdomen beneath a clean shirt.
“Does it hurt?” you whispered.
Jason stared at you. The room went very quiet. Roy, asleep in the chair near the wall, jerked awake. Kori lifted her head from where she had been praying silently near the window. Jason leaned over your bed.
“You almost died,” he said.
Your eyes softened. He hated it.
“Does it hurt?” you asked again.
Jason’s hands curled around the bed rail.
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t. Because you took it.”
Your gaze dropped. “Good.”
Jason flinched like you had slapped him. “Good?” he repeated.
Your eyes closed. “Jason…”
“No, open your eyes.”
Kori said softly, “Jason.”
He ignored her. Your eyes opened again, wet and exhausted. “Don’t you good me,” he said, voice shaking. “Don’t you lie there looking like death warmed over and tell me it’s good that I feel fine.”
“You were dying.”
“So were you!”
“After.”
He stared. “What?”
Your breathing hitched, but you kept going. “You were dying first.”
Jason stepped back. The logic of it hit him like a crowbar. You had triaged your own death behind his.
“You don’t get to do that,” he said.
“I did.”
“Yeah, and I’m pissed.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” His voice cracked. “You have no idea.”
Your eyes filled. Jason laughed once, sharp and broken. “You know what it felt like? Waking up healed while you screamed? Seeing my wound on you? My blood gone and yours everywhere?” He shook his head. “You made me watch someone die in my place again.”
Your face went slack with horror.
Good.
No. Not good. He did not want to hurt you. He wanted you to understand. He wanted to take the wound back and crawl inside it if that meant your body would stop paying for his.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
Jason looked away. The apology landed wrong. Too small for the room. Too late for the blood.
Roy stood slowly. “We’ll give you two a minute.”
Kori hesitated. Jason did not look at her. Finally, she followed Roy out. The door closed. Silence settled. You and Jason stared at each other across the wreckage.
“I figured it out,” he said eventually.
“I know.”
“Not fast enough.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
His head snapped up. “Don’t.”
You swallowed. “Don’t make this my fault?”
“No,” he said. “Don’t make it only yours.”
Your mouth closed.
Jason dragged a hand through his hair. His knuckles were bruised. He did not remember punching anything. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe the bruises were old. Everything felt old.
“I saw things,” he said. “I saw you hurt after healing people. I asked, and you dodged, and I let you. Because I wanted the miracle too.” Your eyes softened again, devastated. “I wanted Roy alive. Kori alive. Me alive.” He laughed without humour. “Especially me, apparently. Real selfish.”
“You are not selfish for wanting to live.”
“I didn’t want to live at your expense!”
“I know.”
“Do you?” He stepped closer. “Do you actually? Because you keep looking at me like this was worth it.”
You were quiet. Jason’s stomach dropped.
“You think it was,” he said.
Your tears spilled over. “I think you’re alive.”
He closed his eyes. There it was. The whole terrible thing. You believed that was answer enough. Maybe once, Jason would have too. Before you. Before coffee and bad movies and your hand on his chest and the way you asked permission before touching him like his body was not a battlefield but a home someone might enter gently. Before he had something to lose that looked at him with your eyes.
He sat down hard in the chair beside your bed. “I was dead,” he said. You went still. Jason looked at his hands. “I know people say that like a metaphor. I don’t mean it that way. I mean I was dead. In the ground. Gone. Then I wasn’t.” His mouth twisted. “And everyone had an opinion about what that meant. Talia. Bruce. Me. The Pit. The universe. Whatever.”
Your breathing trembled.
“Nobody asked if coming back hurt.” A tear slid down your cheek. Jason reached for it, then stopped. “May I?” he asked.
Your face broke. You nodded. He wiped the tear away with his thumb.
“Coming back hurt,” he said softly. “And when I woke up healed in that tunnel and saw you bleeding, it felt like that again. Like being dragged back over someone else’s body.”
You made a small sound. “I’m sorry,” you said again.
This time, it sounded bigger. This time, it reached him.
Jason’s anger did not vanish. But it lowered its weapon.
“I know why you did it,” he said. Your eyes searched his. “I do,” he continued. “Doesn’t mean I’m okay.”
“I don’t expect you to be.”
“Good.”
“I wouldn’t be okay either.”
Jason huffed a humourless laugh. “Yeah, you’d be feral.”
“Completely.”
“Hypocrite.”
“Yeah,” you whispered.
He looked at you then. You were pale. Exhausted. Tubes and wires everywhere. Bandages hidden beneath the blanket, but he knew what was under them. Knew the wound. Knew the shape.
His shape.
He wanted to touch you so badly it hurt. He wanted to never touch you again if touching meant letting you save him.
“You lied to me,” he said. “About your power. About being okay. About why you kept showing up at my place hurt.”
Your eyes closed. “Yes.”
Jason nodded slowly. The truth was ugly. He still preferred it. “Anything else?”
Your eyes opened.
Fear moved through them. Then resolve.
“The Lazarus pain,” you whispered.
Jason froze. “What?”
“Not all of it,” you said quickly. “I couldn’t. It’s too deep. Too tangled with you. But sometimes, after nightmares, when you held my hand…”
His body went cold. “No.”
“I didn’t take memories. I wouldn’t. I just took some of the physical backlash. The migraines. The tremors. Some of the rage when it was burning too hot.”
Jason stood. The chair hit the floor behind him. You flinched.
He stepped back like you had become something dangerous. Maybe you had. Maybe the danger had been there all along. “You took the Pit from me?”
“Pieces,” you said, crying now. “Only pieces.”
“I told you no healing.”
“It wasn’t healing.”
“Bullshit!”
You went silent.
Jason’s chest heaved. The room blurred green for half a second.
No. Not now. He dug his nails into his palms.
“You had no right,” he said.
Your face crumpled. “I know.”
“No, you don’t. That shit is mine.”
The words surprised both of you.
Jason swallowed. His voice dropped. “It’s awful. It’s ugly. It makes me feel like I’m gonna rip my own skin off. But it’s mine. You don’t get to reach inside me and decide what I can survive.”
“I thought I was helping.”
“You were.”
That stopped you. Jason’s laugh came out broken. “That’s the hell of it. You were helping. I had good mornings because of you. I slept because of you. I didn’t put my fist through walls because of you.” He shook his head. “And I hate that. I hate that you hurt yourself to make me easier to be around.”
Your eyes widened. “No. Jason, no.”
“Then why?”
“Because I love you.”
The words landed, not like a grenade this time. Like a blade laid carefully between you.
Jason stared at you. You looked terrified, but you did not take it back.
“I love you,” you said again, voice shaking. “And I know that doesn’t excuse it. I know. I know I took choices from you. I know I hurt you. But I never did it because you were too much. Never. I did it because you were in pain and I could reach it.” Jason could not breathe. “I love all of you,” you continued, tears sliding into your hair. “The good mornings and the bad ones. The books and the guns and the nightmares and the terrible toast and the way you pretend you don’t care while caring more than anyone in the room.” Your voice broke. “I love you when the Pit is loud. I love you when it isn’t. I just wanted you to have quiet.”
Jason closed his eyes. Quiet. God. What a beautiful, awful gift. What a terrible thing to steal for someone.
He sank back into the chair slowly.
For a while, neither of you spoke. Then he reached for your hand.
“May I?” he asked, voice rough.
Your lips trembled. “Yes.”
He took your hand carefully.
“I love you too,” he said. You inhaled sharply. Jason looked at your joined hands because your face was too much. “I was gonna tell you at the bookstore.”
A tiny, wet laugh escaped you. “With the cat that hates you?”
“Demon cat. Yeah.”
“It doesn’t hate you.”
“It bit me.”
“You called it ugly.”
“It was ugly.”
“It has one eye.”
“And used it for evil.”
Your laugh turned into a wince. Jason’s grip tightened.
Your smile faded into something aching. “You love me?”
Jason looked at you then. “Yeah,” he said. “Unfortunately.”
Your eyes filled again. His thumb moved over your knuckles.
“And because I love you,” he continued, “I am furious... No more taking the Pit without asking.”
You nodded immediately. “Never again.”
“No more healing me unless I say yes.”
Your face tightened. “Jason—”
“No.”
“If you’re unconscious—”
“If I’m unconscious and dying, we can have a contingency plan.”
“A contingency plan?”
“I know. Sounds very Batman. I’m dealing with it.” Your mouth twitched. “But if I’m awake,” he said, “if I can choose, you ask.”
You swallowed. “And if you say no?”
Jason’s chest tightened. He hated the question. Loved you for asking it. “Then you don’t.”
Tears slipped down your face. “That’ll be hard,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“I might hate it.”
“I know.”
“You might die.”
His grip tightened. “Yeah,” he said. “I might.”
You looked wrecked.
Jason leaned closer. “But if you take the choice away from me, sweetheart, you save my body and leave the rest of me behind.”
Your breath broke. He hated saying it.
He needed you to hear it.
“Okay,” you whispered.
He kissed your hand. “And no more hiding your injuries,” he said.
“You’re making rules?”
“Damn right.”
“Hot.”
Jason blinked. Then a laugh punched out of him, startled and real. You smiled faintly.
“Don’t flirt from your deathbed,” he said.
“Am I dying?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll flirt.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love me.”
His face softened despite everything.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
Your fingers shifted weakly against his.
“I’m sorry,” you said.
“I know.”
“I’ll keep saying it.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to forgive me?”
Jason looked at you for a long moment. He thought about lying. A soft lie. An easy one. Something that would make the pain in your eyes fade. But that was what got you both here, wasn’t it? Lies meant to spare pain.
“No,” he said. You went very still. “Not yet,” he added.
You breathed out shakily. “Okay.”
“But I’m staying.”
Your face crumpled. Jason leaned closer. “I’m mad. I’m hurt. I’m probably gonna yell again.”
“Probably?”
“Definitely. Roy says I process feelings like a raccoon in a dumpster fire.”
A laugh escaped you. This time, he smiled.
“But I’m staying,” he repeated. “You don’t get to carry this alone either.”
Your eyes closed.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Jason bowed his head until his forehead touched your hand.
For the first time since the tunnel, he let himself breathe. You were alive. He was alive. Neither of you was okay.
That would have to be enough. For now.
Recovery was ugly. Jason appreciated ugly things. They were honest. There were no clean miracles this time. No glowing hands. No vanished wounds. Just stitches, surgery, pain medication, nightmares, and the slow work of your body undoing what it had stolen from his.
He stayed through all of it. At first, everyone expected him to leave. Not permanently. Just for air. Sleep. A shower. Anything. He refused. Roy brought him clothes. Kori brought him food. Alfred sent soup in containers labelled with heating instructions and one note that read: Master Jason, starvation remains an ineffective form of devotion. Jason read it twice, called Alfred a meddling old bastard under his breath, and ate the soup.
You woke and slept in pieces. Sometimes you woke screaming. Those were the worst. Jason would stand immediately but not touch until you reached for him or said his name. It killed him every time. Every instinct wanted to gather you up, hold you down, make the pain stop by force of will.
But he had made rules. So he followed them. Choice, he learned, was not just asking once. It was asking again. And again. Even when terrified. Especially then.
One night, you woke with a gasp, hands flying to your abdomen. Jason was beside you instantly.
“Hey. You’re safe. Medbay. Watchtower. It’s me.”
Your eyes were wild. “Jay?”
“Yeah.”
“Hurts.”
His throat tightened. “I know, sweetheart. I know. Can I touch you?”
You nodded frantically. He took your hand, then cupped the side of your face. Your breathing hitched.
“Stay with me,” he said. “Window on your left. Terrible ceiling lights. Roy snoring in the hallway because he says these chairs are worse. Kori threatened to throw a doctor into the sun if they gave you the wrong meds. You’re safe.”
Your breathing slowed by degrees.
“Jason,” you whispered.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
He closed his eyes. Sometimes you said it in your sleep. Sometimes awake. Sometimes with pain clouding your voice so badly he did not know if you were apologising to him, to your body, to everyone you had ever healed.
He kissed your forehead. “I know.”
“I love you.”
His heart twisted. “I love you too.”
“Even mad?”
“Especially mad.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Most true things don’t.”
You huffed weakly.
He brushed his thumb over your cheek. “Go back to sleep.”
“Stay?”
Jason looked at you like you had asked whether he planned to keep breathing. “Always.”
Your eyes softened. Then closed.
He stayed.
Two weeks after the tunnel, Jason took you home. Not to your apartment.
His.
You argued, obviously.
“I have a place,” you said as he helped you into the passenger seat of his car.
“Your place has stairs.”
“So does yours.”
“I have arms.”
“You cannot carry me everywhere.”
“Watch me.”
“Jason.”
He leaned down, one hand on the car door, the other braced above you. “You can stay at your place if you want,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounded suspiciously mature.”
“I hated it.”
“I could tell.”
“But I need you to want my help. Not just tolerate it because I’m louder.”
Your expression softened.
He looked away, jaw tight. “I want you at my place,” he said. “I want to take care of you. I also want you to choose it.”
For a moment, you said nothing. Then your hand covered his. “I choose it.”
Jason swallowed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded once. “Good.”
“Your couch is terrible, though.”
“You nearly died and came back picky.”
“I’ve always been picky.”
“Yeah,” he said, helping you settle. “I know.”
His apartment was cleaner than you had ever seen it. Suspiciously cleaner.
“Did you panic-clean?” you asked from the doorway, leaning heavily on your cane.
Jason took your bag inside. “No.”
You looked at the spotless counter. The organised books. The suspicious absence of weapons on visible surfaces. “Jason.”
“Roy helped.”
“That makes this more concerning.”
“He called it nesting.” You smiled. Jason scowled. “Don’t.”
“You nested for me.”
“I made the place accessible.”
“You nested.”
“I will put you back in the car.”
“No, you won’t.”
No. He wouldn’t. He helped you to the couch. The good blanket was already there. So were your favourite snacks, pain meds, water, and three books stacked on the table.
Your fingers brushed the top one. The Odyssey. The copy he had given you.
Your eyes lifted. Jason shrugged. “Figured it counts as a recovery theme.”
You opened the cover. Inside, beneath his original note, he had written something new.
For getting home. This time, I’m coming with you.
You stared at it for a long time. Then you started crying.
Jason panicked immediately. “Too much?” You shook your head. “Bad crying?” Another shake. “Good crying?”
You nodded.
He exhaled. “Jesus. We need a code system.”
You laughed wetly and reached for him. “Come here.”
Carefully, he sat beside you, leaving space for your injuries. You leaned your head against his shoulder.
Jason went still. Then softened. He wrapped one arm around you lightly.
“I’m still mad,” he said.
“I know.”
“I’ll probably be mad for a while.”
“I know.”
“I’m still gonna take care of you.”
“I know.”
“You gotta stop saying that. Makes me feel predictable.”
“You are predictable.”
“I’m mysterious.”
“You alphabetised your bookshelf by emotional damage.”
“It’s called genre.”
You smiled against his shoulder. For a while, you sat like that. Afternoon light slid through the blinds, striping the floor gold. Somewhere outside, traffic moved. A siren wailed in the distance and faded. The city carried on, rude and alive.
Jason looked down at your hand resting near his. He touched your fingers. “Can I ask you something?”
“You just did.”
“Don’t be cute.”
“I’m recovering. I’m allowed.”
He huffed. Then sobered. “If I hadn’t figured it out,” he asked, “would you ever have told me?”
You went quiet. Jason already knew the answer. Still, he waited.
“I wanted to,” you said.
His chest hurt. “That’s not what I asked.”
“No,” you whispered. “Probably not.”
He nodded. It hurt. Truth often did. “Thank you for telling me.” You lifted your head slightly. He looked at you. “For not lying just now,” he clarified.
Your eyes softened. “I’m trying.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
You studied him. “What are you trying?”
Jason looked toward the window. Sunlight caught the scar along his hand. “Not to make your mistake mean you don’t love me right.” Your breath caught. He struggled through the words. “You messed up. Big. Like, astronomical levels of dumbassery.” A laugh broke through your tears. “But you loved me,” he continued. “You loved me badly in that moment, maybe. Secretly. Scared. But it was love.”
Your eyes shone.
“And I’ve loved people badly too.” His mouth twisted. “Loudly. Violently. By leaving. By coming back with guns. By making my pain everybody else’s problem because I didn’t know where to put it.”
“Jason…”
“So I’m trying,” he said, voice rough, “not to turn this into proof that love only hurts.”
You stared at him. Then your face crumpled with the kind of tenderness he never knew how to survive.
He looked away quickly. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m good.”
Your hand touched his cheek.
“You are,” you whispered.
Jason closed his eyes. He wanted to argue. The words lined up automatically. No, I’m not. You don’t know everything. I’m trying. I’m not enough.
Instead, he breathed. Then turned his face into your palm.
“Working on believing that,” he said.
Your thumb brushed his cheekbone. “Me too.”
He opened his eyes. You smiled faintly.
“That I’m worth saving without bleeding for it,” you said.
Jason’s heart ached.
He leaned forward and kissed you. Gently. So gently it almost hurt. You sighed into it, careful and warm beneath him.
When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.
“Was that okay?” he asked.
Your smile curved. “Very.”
“Good.”
He kissed your forehead. Then your temple. Then, because he could, because you were alive and in his apartment and wearing his hoodie again, he rested his forehead against yours.
“No more ghosts,” he said.
Your eyes opened. “What?”
Jason swallowed. “I can’t do it again. Watching somebody disappear in my place. Watching someone become a grave I walked away from.” His voice shook. “No more ghosts.”
Your hand slid to his chest. Over his heart. The way it had in the kitchen, before the burned eggs, before Roy’s teasing, before everything had gone red and green and terrible. “No more ghosts,” you promised.
It was not a perfect promise. You both knew that. The world was dangerous. You were both reckless. Heroes made terrible decisions before breakfast. But it was a real promise. A beginning. Jason could work with beginnings. He had clawed his way out of an ending once.
This was better. This was warm light and your hand in his and soup on the stove and a book on the table with both your stories written in the margins. This was you choosing to stay. This was him choosing to believe you could.
Outside, the city kept howling. Inside, Jason held you carefully, like something precious but not breakable. Like someone wounded but not ruined. Like someone he loved.
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