Content warnings: drug use, addiction, overdose, neglect, suicidal ideation, major character death. This is a tragedy. No comfort, no redemption. Please read with care.
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you are dying in a house full of heroes.
This is not a metaphor. You feel it in the brittle architecture of your bones, in the tremor that lives beneath your skin like a second heartbeat. Your body has become a haunted thing, a repository for all the poisons you’ve poured into it, and still—still—no one has noticed that you are disappearing right in front of them.
You sit on the floor of your bedroom, back pressed against the foot of an antique four-poster bed that has never felt like yours. The curtains are drawn, heavy brocade that swallows the late-afternoon light and spits it back in shades of amber and rot. Somewhere in the cavernous belly of Wayne Manor, laughter peals like a bell. It echoes through the heating vents, distorted and tinny, a transmission from a world that has no space for you.
Your fingers curl around a prescription bottle. Oxycodone. The label is worn, the name smudged—someone else’s pain, stolen from the medical bay three weeks ago when Alfred was busy suturing a gash in Jason’s shoulder and Bruce was already back at the Batcomputer, already lost in the next catastrophe. You remember walking through the cave with the silence of a ghost, barefoot on cold stone, plucking the bottle from a drawer of neatly organized catastrophe supplies. No one turned around. No one said your name.
You dry-swallow two pills and chase them with the flat dregs of a soda you left on the nightstand three days ago. The carbonation has long since died. It tastes like sugar and oblivion.
Downstairs, they laugh again. You can pick out the individual threads: Dick’s bright, easy warmth, the kind of laugh that makes people fall in love with him. Tim’s quieter chuckle, a little awkward, as if he’s still surprised he’s allowed to be part of the joke. Even Damian is there—you hear the precise, clipped cadence of his voice, less a laugh and more a reluctant acknowledgment that something is amusing. And Bruce. Bruce’s laugh is so rare it cuts you every time, because it is a sound that has never been offered in your direction. It is a relic of a man you do not know.
You tilt your head back against the mattress and let the opioid crawl into your bloodstream with the patience of a lover. The edges of the world soften. The laughter becomes bearable, then beautiful, then nothing at all.
This is how you survive. This is how you die.
...
The first time you realized you were ignored by your family, you were twelve years old.
You’d been living in Wayne Manor for two years by then—your whole life, technically, but the years before Bruce’s return from his training were a blur of boarding schools and nannies who called you miss with the kind of professional distance that made you feel like a piece of expensive furniture. Then Bruce came back, and for one glittering, impossible moment, you thought you might become real.
He was your father. Your biological father. The only child born from his short-lived, ill-fated marriage to a woman whose face you had to reconstruct in your memory from photographs because she died when you were two years old. You had his (.....) hair, his stubborn jaw, and his tendency to withdraw into silence and contemplate. That must have meant something. It must have meant that you definitely belonged there.
But then Dick came, and then Jason, and then the cave opened up beneath the manor like a second heart, and you understood: Bruce did not want a child. He wanted soldiers. He wanted mirrors that reflected his own grief back at him, sharpened into weapons. And you—you were just a girl who cried when she skinned her knee, who was afraid of thunderstorms, who wanted to be held. You were soft. You were useless.
You remember the night you asked him to train you. You were twelve, small for your age, wearing pajamas with little stars on them. You’d crept down to the cave after hearing the roar of the Batmobile returning from patrol. Bruce was still in the suit, cowl pulled back, sweat darkening his hair. He looked like a god. He looked like your father.
“I want to help,” you said, and your voice echoed in the cavernous space, thin and reedy. “I want to be like Dick. I want to fight.”
Bruce turned to you, and for one breathless second you thought you saw something soft in his eyes. But then his expression shuttered, became the mask he wore even without the cowl.
“No.”
“But I can learn. I can be good. I can—”
“This isn’t a game.” His voice was not cruel, but it was final. It was a door closing. “You’re my daughter. I won’t lose you. Go back to bed.”
I won’t lose you. What a beautiful lie. He’d already lost you. He just hadn’t noticed yet.
You went back to bed. You didn’t cry. You were too hollow for tears. The next morning, Dick taught Jason how to throw a Batarang in the gymnasium, their laughter ringing against the high ceilings. You watched from the doorway for seventeen minutes before anyone noticed you were there, and even then, it was only Alfred, who offered you a cup of tea and a sad, knowing smile that did nothing to fill the chasm opening in your chest.
That was the year you learned that love in this house was a finite resource, and you had been deemed unworthy of it
...
By fourteen, you had stopped trying.
This is what the history books will never record: the slow, quiet erosion of a girl who lived in the margins of a legend. The way you stopped setting a place for yourself at dinner because no one remembered to call you anyway. The way you learned to move through the manor’s hallways without making a sound, a skill born not of training but of the desperate, animal need to avoid the pain of being seen and then ignored. It is worse, you discovered, to be acknowledged and then dismissed than it is to never be acknowledged at all.
You remember the afternoon Damian first arrived at the manor. He was ten, imperious, all sharp angles and sharper words. Bruce introduced him to everyone—Dick, Jason, Tim, Alfred, even Barbara, who had come by to assess the new addition to the chaos. They stood in the grand foyer, a tableau of fractured family, and you watched from the top of the staircase, half-hidden behind the balustrade.
No one introduced you.
Later, you found Damian in the library, examining a first edition of The Art of War with the critical eye of a general. You hovered in the doorway, trying to find the right words. I’m your sister. I know you don’t know me, but I’m here. I’ve always been here.
Before you could speak, he glanced up and fixed you with a stare that could have cut glass. “You’re the civilian,” he said. Not a question. A designation.
“I—yes. I’m your—”
“Tt. Don’t get in my way.”
He turned back to his book. You stood there for a long moment, the air pressing in on you from all sides, and then you walked away. You didn’t blame him. He was a child raised by assassins, taught that value was measured in utility. In his world, you were useless. He was just the first person to say it out loud.
That night, you stole a bottle of wine from the cellar and drank it alone in your room until the walls stopped closing in. It was the first time you used a substance to mute the noise inside your head. It would not be the last
....
The escalation happened so gradually that even you didn’t notice until it was too late.
At fifteen, you broke your wrist falling down the grand staircase—a genuine accident, not a cry for help, though you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been tempted by those before. Alfred drove you to the emergency room because Bruce was in the middle of a Justice League operation and couldn’t be reached. Dick was in Blüdhaven. Jason was off on one of his brooding self-exile stints. Tim texted you a single “u ok?” and didn’t follow up when you didn’t respond. Damian didn’t even glance at the cast when you returned home.
The doctor prescribed Vicodin. You remember staring at the bottle in the harsh fluorescent light of the pharmacy, the orange plastic warm in your palm. You’d never taken anything stronger than ibuprofen before. You were scared of it, a little. But the pain in your wrist was a relentless, grinding thing, so you swallowed one pill and waited.
The relief was not just physical. It was existential. The Vicodin didn’t just mute the ache in your bones—it muted the ache in the hollow of your chest where your family was supposed to be. It wrapped you in cotton wool. It made the loneliness feel distant, like a storm on the far side of a thick window. For the first time in years, you felt something that might have been peace.
You finished the prescription in five days. When the bottle was empty, you felt the absence like a physical blow. The noise came back—the laughter, the silence, the unbearable weight of being invisible. You needed it gone again.
So you went looking.
The medical bay in the Batcave was a treasure trove of chemical solutions. Morphine, fentanyl, oxycodone, codeine—a pharmacopeia of battlefield medicine kept stocked for the inevitability of violence. Security was tight, but you’d lived in this house your whole life. You knew the blind spots. You knew that the cave’s motion sensors were calibrated to ignore anyone under a certain height threshold—a leftover from when Damian was small and prone to wandering where he shouldn’t. You had never been a threat, so you had never been a variable worth accounting for.
Stealing became a ritual. You’d slip down in the small hours of the morning, when patrol was still underway and Alfred was asleep, and you’d take just enough to keep the silence at bay. One pill at a time. Two. Three. You told yourself you could stop whenever you wanted. You told yourself it wasn’t a problem because a problem required someone to notice, and no one did.
The first time you ran out before you could steal more, the withdrawal hit you like a freight train. You spent a night curled on the bathroom floor, shivering and sweating, your stomach cramping so violently you thought you might die. You didn’t die. You just wished you would.
The next day, you went to school for the first time in a week—Gotham Academy, where you were enrolled under a fake name because Bruce was paranoid about kidnappings but couldn’t be bothered to remember which fake name belonged to which child. You moved through the hallways like a wraith, hollow-eyed and trembling, and a boy named Leo found you in the parking lot, leaning against the brick wall, trying to remember how to breathe.
“You look like shit,” he said, not unkindly.
Leo was seventeen, tall and lanky with nicotine-stained fingers and eyes that had seen too much. He sold weed to the scholarship kids and harder things to the rich ones who wanted to feel dangerous. He didn’t ask why a Wayne—because he recognized you, despite the fake name, because everyone eventually recognized you—was shaking like a leaf behind the gymnasium. He just pulled a joint from his pocket and offered it to you.
“This won’t fix it,” he said. “But it’ll take the edge off.”
You smoked with him behind the bleachers, coughing on the first inhale, and when he asked if you needed something stronger, you said yes without hesitation.
That was the beginning of the end
....
By sixteen, you were no longer a girl who used drugs. You were an addict.
The word sits ugly in your mouth, but you’ve learned to swallow it like everything else. You smoke weed to sleep. You take pills to function. On the bad days—and there are so many bad days now—you let Leo inject you with heroin in the dingy back room of his apartment, a place that smells of mildew and old cigarettes and the particular desperation of people who have nothing left to lose.
Leo is not your boyfriend. He’s not even really your friend. He’s a transaction in human form, a pair of steady hands and a ready supply, and you pay him in cash and jewelry stolen from rooms in the manor that no one ever enters. You’ve taken a diamond bracelet from a drawer in the master suite that probably belonged to your mother. You’ve taken cufflinks from Bruce’s study, a silver letter opener, a handful of antique coins from a display case in the library. No one has noticed. No one has ever noticed.
Sometimes, when Leo’s pressing the needle into the crook of your arm, you close your eyes and pretend his touch is love. You pretend the warmth spreading through your veins is the warmth of being held, of being wanted. It’s pathetic. You know it’s pathetic. But it’s all you have.
You’ve stopped going to school. The Academy sends letters home, but Bruce is in the middle of a war with the League of Assassins and Alfred is too busy keeping the household running to follow up. You intercept the letters when you can, forge Bruce’s signature on the responses, and when you can’t, you just throw them away. No one asks where you go during the day. No one asks why your eyes are glassy, why your hands shake, why you’ve lost so much weight that your clothes hang off you like they belong to a stranger.
Once, Dick corners you in the hallway, his hand gentle on your shoulder. You flinch. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says, his smile the same easy, practiced thing he gives to the press. “I feel like we haven’t talked in a while. How’s school?”
“Fine.” Your voice is a croak. You haven’t spoken to another person in three days.
“That’s great. Listen, I’m sorry I haven’t been around much—Blüdhaven’s a mess and the Titans are running me ragged—but we should do something soon. Just the two of us. Sound good?”
You nod. You know he won’t follow through. He never does.
He pats your shoulder once and is gone, leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne and the hollow echo of another broken promise. You lean against the wall until the shaking stops, and then you go to your room and crush a pill on the nightstand with the flat of a silver hairbrush that hasn’t been used in months.
The powder burns when you inhale it. The burn is the only thing that feels real
....
Your bedroom has become an observation deck, a silent perch from which you watch the family that isn’t yours.
You’ve learned the rhythms of the manor the way a prisoner learns the rhythms of a jail: the creak of the third-floor floorboard at 4:37 a.m. when Bruce returns from patrol. The clatter of pans in the kitchen at 5:30 when Alfred begins preparing breakfast. The precise moment—6:15—when Damian’s alarm goes off and he begins his morning training, his footsteps a metronome of discipline in the gymnasium below your window.
You are not part of any of it. You are a ghost haunting the margins, a smudge on the periphery of their vision. But you watch. You can’t stop watching.
There is a particular cruelty in the way they orbit each other, a gravitational pull that excludes you with the casual precision of physics. They don’t mean to shut you out. That’s the worst part. You are not a victim of malice—you are a victim of irrelevance. You are the variable that doesn’t factor into the equation. The side character in a story that was never about you.
You watch them from the top of the stairs on movie nights, when Dick commandeers the entertainment system and makes everyone watch old musicals that Jason loudly complains about but never actually leaves. You watch Damian pretend to hate the musicals, his small body wedged between Bruce and Tim on the couch, his mouth pressed into a thin line of disapproval even as his eyes track the dancers with reluctant fascination. You watch Bruce, the cowl gone, the weight of the city temporarily set aside, his arm draped over the back of the couch in a gesture of casual affection that makes your chest ache.
You watch and you are not invited.
You tried, once. Months ago. A lifetime ago. You’d come downstairs in your pajamas, drawn by the sound of laughter, and hovered in the doorway of the media room like a moth at a window. Tim glanced up, saw you, and offered a small, distracted smile before turning back to the screen. No one else acknowledged you. The couch was full. The space was full. There was nowhere for you to sit.
You stood there for five minutes, waiting for someone to make room, to say your name, to do anything. No one did. Eventually, you went back upstairs, and no one noticed you were gone.
Now you don’t go downstairs at all. You sit on the floor of your room with your back against the door and you listen to the distorted echoes of their happiness through the vents, and you tell yourself it’s enough. It has to be enough.
The first time you overdose, it’s an accident.
You’ve been using heroin for six months now, but you’ve been careful. Careful in the way that addicts are careful—measuring doses, testing potency, telling yourself that you have it under control because the alternative is admitting that you don’t. But the supply Leo gives you this week is different, stronger, cut with something that hits your bloodstream like a fist, and suddenly you’re on the bathroom floor with your cheek pressed to the cold tile and your heart stuttering in your chest like a dying bird.
You can feel your body shutting down. It’s not painful, not really. It’s like sinking into warm water. Like falling asleep after a lifetime of insomnia. Part of you—the part that’s been screaming into the void for five years—whispers that this wouldn’t be the worst way to go.
No one finds you. No one comes.
You wake up three hours later, alone, your face crusted with dried vomit and your arms covered in bruises you don’t remember getting. The house is silent. No one has noticed you were missing. No one has come looking for you. You lie on the bathroom floor for a long time, staring at the ceiling, and you feel nothing at all.
The next day, you call Leo and ask for more
...
The invitation appears on the kitchen island on a Tuesday morning, written in Alfred’s precise copperplate on heavy cream stationery: Family dinner this evening at 7 p.m. All are expected to attend. RSVP not required.
All are expected. You stare at the word all for a long time, tracing the elegant loops of the script with your fingertip. It’s been months since you last sat at the dining table. You’re not sure anyone noticed your absence then, either.
You spend the afternoon in a state of low-grade panic, cycling through the contents of your closet like a woman preparing for battle. Your body is a ruin. You can see it in the mirror: the sharp jut of your collarbones, the hollows beneath your cheekbones, the bruise-dark circles under your eyes that no amount of concealer can fully disguise. Your arms are a roadmap of track marks, some fresh, some faded to silvery scars. You choose a long-sleeved blouse in deep burgundy. You pull your hair back into a neat ponytail. You practice smiling in the mirror until your reflection looks almost human.
You are ready. You are terrified.
At 6:58, you descend the grand staircase and walk toward the dining room. Your heart is a war drum. Your hands are shaking—withdrawal is starting to creep in, a familiar ache settling into your bones—but you clench them into fists at your sides and keep walking.
The dining room glows with candlelight. The table is set with the good china, the crystal goblets, the silverware that’s been in the Wayne family for six generations. And there they are: Bruce at the head of the table, Dick to his right, Damian to his left. Jason is slouched in his chair, flicking a bread roll at Tim, who’s trying to explain something about a case while simultaneously defending his plate. Even Barbara is there, seated next to Dick, her wheelchair tucked neatly beside the table. They are laughing. They are beautiful. They are a family.
You step into the doorway.
The laughter falters. Not dramatically—it’s not a record-scratch moment. It’s subtler than that, a brief hiccup in the flow of conversation, a flicker of confusion that crosses Bruce’s face as he registers your presence.
“Oh,” Dick says, recovering first, his smile bright but faintly puzzled. “Hey, you’re here.”
You don’t know what to do with your hands. You shove them into the pockets of your pants. “Alfred said there was a dinner.”
“Yes, of course.” Bruce’s voice is neutral, but there’s something in his expression that you can’t read. Surprise, maybe. Or something closer to guilt. “I didn’t realize you were—take a seat. We saved you a spot.”
There isn’t a spot. There are exactly enough chairs for the people already at the table. You watch Tim and Jason exchange a glance, a silent negotiation, and then Jason sighs and scoots over, dragging a chair from the corner of the room and wedging it between himself and the wall. “Here,” he says, not quite meeting your eyes. “Sit.”
You sit. The chair is cold. The space is too small. Your elbow knocks against Jason’s as you reach for your water glass, and he doesn’t say anything, but you feel him shift slightly away from you. A small, unconscious recoil. It shouldn’t hurt. It still does.
The conversation picks up again, tentatively, like a car engine sputtering before it catches. Dick tells a story about a mission with the Titans that you don’t have the context to understand. Tim and Barbara launch into a debate about encryption protocols. Damian insults Jason’s fashion sense, and Jason fires back with something about Damian’s height, and Bruce chides them both with the weary fondness of a man who has done this a thousand times.
You sit in the middle of it all, silent, invisible even in your visibility. No one asks you about your day. No one asks why you’ve lost so much weight, why your eyes are glassy, why you keep scratching at the inside of your wrist beneath the table. You push food around your plate and count the minutes until you can escape.
Halfway through the meal, Bruce’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, and his expression shifts—the father receding, the vigilante taking over. “We’ve got a situation,” he says, standing. “Riddler’s left a trail of clues across the financial district. I need everyone suited up in ten.”
The table explodes into motion. Chairs scrape. Plates are abandoned. The family that was laughing together moments ago transforms into a tactical unit, efficient and synchronized. They sweep out of the dining room in a blur of dark hair and determined expressions, and not one of them looks back at you.
Not one.
You sit at the table for a long time after they’re gone. The candles gutter. Alfred appears silently at your elbow, his face creased with a sadness that you can’t bear to look at directly.
“Shall I clear your plate, miss?”
You nod. You don’t trust your voice.
He takes the plate—still mostly full—and hesitates. For a moment, you think he’s going to say something, something that might change everything or nothing at all. But the moment passes. He retreats to the kitchen, and you retreat to your room, and the gap between you and the rest of the world widens another inch.
...
That night, you hear them come home. The cave entrance rumbles open around 3 a.m., and voices drift up through the vents—tired but triumphant. The Riddler is in custody. The city is safe. Someone—Tim, you think—lets out a whoop that’s half exhaustion and half exhilaration. Bruce’s laugh rumbles like distant thunder.
You lie in your bed, curled on your side, staring at the wall. The withdrawal has become a creature living inside your skin, gnawing at your nerves with tiny, relentless teeth. You need a fix. You need it, with a desperation that eclipses hunger, thirst, even the ache of your loneliness.
But you don’t go to the cave. You don’t steal more pills. Instead, you reach under your mattress and pull out a small velvet pouch—the last piece of your mother’s jewelry that you haven’t sold. A locket, delicate and gold, with a tiny photograph of her inside. You’ve kept it through everything. It’s the only thing you have left of her. The only proof that you were ever part of a family that wanted you.
You hold it in your palm, the metal warm from your body heat, and you make a decision.
....
Three days later, you pack a bag.
It’s not a big bag—just a worn duffel you found in the back of a closet, stuffed with a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and the locket. You’re not running away, you tell yourself. You’re just… leaving. Leaving implies agency. Leaving implies choice. And after years of being a passive observer in your own life, you need to feel like you have a choice about something.
You write a note. You don’t know who you’re writing it for.
I’m sorry. I tried. It wasn’t enough.
You don’t sign it. You leave it on your nightstand, tucked beneath an empty pill bottle, and you walk out of your bedroom without looking back.
The manor is quiet at this hour—late afternoon, the golden light slanting through the tall windows in dusty shafts. Alfred is in the city, running errands. Bruce and the boys are in the cave, prepping for patrol. You can hear the low murmur of their voices as you pass the grandfather clock that conceals the entrance, and for a moment you pause. Your hand hovers over the wood. You could open it. You could go down there, one last time, and say everything you’ve never said. You could scream. You could cry. You could make them see you.
But you’ve tried that before. You’ve tried it in a hundred small ways, and it’s never worked. So instead, you press your palm flat against the clock face, feel the vibration of their voices through the ancient wood, and you whisper, “Goodbye.”
No one answers. No one ever answers.
You slip out through the kitchen door and into the dying light. The grounds of Wayne Manor stretch before you, impossibly green, impossibly beautiful. A world you have never been allowed to inhabit. You walk down the gravel drive with your duffel slung over your shoulder, and you don’t look back.
...
Leo’s apartment is in the Narrows, a part of Gotham that the tourists never see and the newspapers only mention in the context of body counts. The building reeks of damp plaster and stale cigarette smoke and the particular hopelessness of people who have been failed by every system meant to protect them. You fit right in.
Leo opens the door with a cigarette dangling from his lips and raises an eyebrow at the duffel bag. “Running away, princess?”
“Something like that.” You push past him into the apartment. It’s a mess, as always—takeout containers piled on the coffee table, a mattress on the floor with sheets that haven’t been washed in weeks, a needle and spoon on the nightstand that makes your skin itch with anticipation.
“I need a place to crash,” you say. “Just for a while.”
Leo shrugs. “Sure. But it’s gonna cost you.”
You pull the locket from your pocket. The gold gleams in the sickly light of the bare bulb overhead. Leo’s eyes flicker with interest—he knows quality when he sees it. “This is real,” you say. “Twenty-four karat. Worth a couple thousand at least.”
He takes it from you, turns it over in his fingers. Opens it. Glances at the photo inside—your mother’s face, younger than you are now, smiling at the camera with a joy you’ve never felt. He doesn’t ask who she is. He doesn’t care.
“Yeah, alright,” he says. “I can move this. You can stay.”
He pockets the locket, and something inside you splinters. The last piece of your mother. The last piece of a life where you were loved. You’ve traded it for a filthy mattress and a man who sees you only as a transaction, and you don’t even have the strength to mourn.
“I want a hit,” you say. “Something strong.”
Leo grins. “I’ve got some new stuff. Fentanyl-laced. Be careful with it—this batch is no joke.”
You don’t want to be careful. You don’t want to be anything.
...
He ties off your arm with a rubber strap. The needle slides in with a familiar sting, and you watch the blood bloom into the syringe before he depresses the plunger. The heroin hits your bloodstream like a wave of light.
This is what you’ve been chasing. This is the silence. This is the peace that the manor never gave you, the love that your family never offered, the belonging that was always just out of reach. Your head lolls back against the mattress. The ceiling swims. Your heartbeat slows to a languid, syrupy rhythm.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice whispers that this dose was too strong. That something is wrong. Your breathing is too shallow. Your limbs are too heavy. The warmth that was so comforting moments ago is starting to feel like drowning.
But you’re not scared. That’s the strangest part. You’ve been dying for years—slowly, invisibly, in a house full of people who were supposed to love you. At least this way, you get to choose the ending.
Your eyes slip closed.
The last thing you think of is the grandfather clock, the vibrations of their laughter humming through the wood. The last thing you feel is the phantom weight of a hand on your shoulder, a touch that was never really there.
And then nothing.
....
Alfred is the one who finds the note.
He returns from his errands at 6:47 p.m., precisely on schedule, and begins his usual routine of preparing the evening meal. It is only when he goes to collect the laundry from the upstairs bedrooms that he notices your door is ajar—a small irregularity, but an irregularity nonetheless. You have kept your door firmly closed for years.
He steps inside. The room is too tidy. The bed is made. The clutter that usually accumulates on your nightstand—books, empty soda cans, the detritus of a life lived in isolation—has been cleared away. All that remains is a single piece of paper, the empty pill bottle serving as a paperweight.
Alfred reads the note. His hands, steady for decades of combat and crisis, tremble.
He descends to the cave.
The family is gathered around the Batcomputer, reviewing satellite footage of Black Mask’s latest operation. Bruce is in the chair, cowl down, his expression the focused intensity of a man who has no room for anything but the mission. Dick is perched on the edge of the console. Tim is typing. Jason is cleaning a gun with methodical precision. Damian is sharpening a knife.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred says, and something in his voice—something quiet, something broken—makes every head in the room snap toward him.
“Alfred?” Bruce is already on his feet. “What is it?”
Alfred hands him the note.
The silence that follows is the loudest sound you have ever not heard.
Bruce reads the words once. Twice. His face, that impenetrable mask, cracks open like a fault line. “What is this? When did she—where is she?”
“I don’t know, sir. She’s not in the house. I’ve checked every room.”
“Track her phone,” Tim says, already typing. His fingers fly across the keyboard, and within seconds a map blooms on the screen, a blinking red dot in the heart of the Narrows. “She’s there. An apartment building on Kane Street.”
Bruce doesn’t wait. He pulls the cowl up, his movements sharp and mechanical, the Batman taking over because the father doesn’t know what to do. “Let’s go. Now.”
The drive to the Narrows takes eight minutes. Bruce breaks every traffic law in the city. Dick is in the passenger seat, phone pressed to his ear, trying to call a number that goes straight to voicemail. In the back, Jason and Tim are silent. Damian’s hands are clenched into fists, his expression unreadable.
They burst into the apartment building like a tactical breach, scattering startled residents, climbing the stairs three at a time. The door to Leo’s apartment is flimsy. Bruce kicks it open without breaking stride.
The smell hits them first: sweat, mildew, the metallic tang of old blood. And then the sight.
You are on the mattress, your body curled into a fetal position, your face slack and pale. The rubber strap is still tight around your arm. The needle is still on the floor. Your eyes are closed.
“No.” Bruce’s voice is not his own. It is a raw, guttural thing, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. He crosses the room in two strides and drops to his knees beside you, his gloved hands pressing against your neck, searching for a pulse that isn’t there.
“Call an ambulance,” Dick says, and his voice is shaking. “Tim, call an ambulance, now, now—”
“It’s too late.” Bruce’s words are a death knell. He gathers your body into his arms, cradling you against the armored chest of the Batsuit, and the sound he makes is not a cry. It’s a howl.
The others stand frozen in the doorway. Jason’s face has gone white. Tim is on the phone with emergency services, his voice a monotone of shock. Damian takes one step forward, then stops, his gaze fixed on the track marks on your arms, the evidence of months—years—of suffering that none of them saw.
Dick sinks to the floor. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares at you, his little sister, the one he promised to spend time with, the one he never got around to calling back.
The ambulance comes. The paramedics do what they can, which is nothing. You are declared dead at the scene.
...
They find your diary three days later, wedged between your mattress and the box spring. Alfred discovers it while stripping the bed, and he does not read it—not at first. He carries it to Bruce with the solemnity of a man delivering a coffin.
Bruce reads it alone, in his study, with the door locked.
He reads about your first attempt to join the family, your twelve-year-old hope crumbling under the weight of his rejection. He reads about Damian’s dismissal, Dick’s broken promises, Tim’s distracted smiles, Jason’s indifference. He reads about the first pill you stole, the first needle you let a stranger press into your vein, the first time you overdosed and woke up alone on the bathroom floor. He reads about the locket—your mother’s locket—and how you sold it for a final hit, a final night, a final silence.
He reads the last entry, written the morning you left:
I used to think that if I just tried harder, they’d see me. I used to think that love was something you earned. But I’m so tired. I’m so tired of watching them be a family without me. I’m so tired of being a ghost in my own home. I don’t know if I’m running away or if I’m just finally admitting that I was never really here at all. Either way, I don’t think it matters. They won’t notice I’m gone. They never have.
Bruce closes the diary. He sets it down on his desk with the careful precision of a man handling a bomb. And then he does something he has not done since his parents died in a pool of blood and pearls on a rain-slicked Gotham street: he weeps.
....
The funeral is small. The family stands in a tight cluster around the grave, dressed in black, their faces carved from stone. The Gotham sky is a bruised purple, threatening rain but never delivering. It’s the kind of day you always hated, the kind that made the manor feel like a mausoleum.
Alfred reads a eulogy that he wrote in the small hours of the morning, his voice steady but his eyes rimmed red. He speaks about your kindness, your quiet resilience, the way you used to follow him around the kitchen as a child, begging to help with the cookies. He does not mention the drugs. He does not mention the neglect. He does not need to.
Bruce stands at the front, his head bowed. He has not spoken in three days. The cowl hangs heavy in his mind, a shield he no longer knows how to take off. He keeps replaying moments—the night you asked to be trained, the dinner where he didn’t save you a seat, the thousand tiny betrayals of absence and inattention that accumulated like snow until they buried you alive. He wonders if there was a single moment when he could have saved you. He knows there was. He knows there were a hundred moments, a thousand, and he missed every single one.
Dick stands to his left, his arm around Barbara, who is crying silently. He is thinking about the hallway conversation, the easy promise he made and then forgot. We should do something soon. Just the two of us. He never did. He never will.
Jason stares at the coffin with a hollow expression. He’s thinking about the way you flinched when he shifted away from you at the dinner table, the way he never bothered to ask why. He’s thinking about all the times he brushed past you in the hallways, too caught up in his own ghosts to notice the living one right in front of him.
Tim is running through the data in his head, the missed signs, the pattern of thefts from the medical bay that he’d dismissed as inventory errors. He’s the detective. He’s supposed to notice things. He didn’t notice you.
Damian says nothing. His face is a mask, but his hands are trembling. He remembers calling you a civilian. He remembers every time he looked through you like you were furniture. He was a child, he tells himself. He didn’t know. But he did know. He just didn’t care.
The coffin descends into the ground. The first clod of dirt hits the lid with a sound like a door closing.
And the family that was never really yours stands in the silence, and they grieve, and they will carry this grief for the rest of their lives. It will not bring you back. It will not fix what was broken. It is too late for apologies, too late for love, too late for anything but the slow, corrosive knowledge that they failed you in every way that mattered.
You were seventeen years old. You were dying in a house full of heroes. And now you are dead, and they are still heroes, and the world will never know your name.
The rain never comes. The sky just stays purple, bruised and waiting, and somewhere in the distance, the Bat-Signal cuts through the gloom like a razor.
Life goes on. It always does.
But in Wayne Manor, a bedroom door stays closed, and a chair at the dining table stays empty, and the silence you left behind is louder than any scream.
Summary: Bruce hasn't seen Jason in over a week, and he's concerned. Tracking him down, Bruce expects to find his son either dead or up to something no good. Instead, he finds Jason living happily with a family Bruce never knew he had.
Jason hasn’t been seen in over a week.
His absence isn’t entirely surprising. Jason has always had a habit of disappearing when it suits him. Usually, though, he leaves some sort of sign of life behind. Whether it was a blood trail, a gang war on the verge of exploding, or a text telling Bruce to fuck off.
But this time, there was nothing. He’s vanished into thin air. Nearly.
This disappearance feels off, not like the other times. Jason has been avoiding Bruce and the others more than usual these past few weeks. Whenever he was brought up on it, Jason brushed him off with the same dismissive irritation he always uses.
At first, Bruce assumed it was just another way to hide something illegal or bloody so the family wouldn’t interfere with whatever he was planning. But, this feels deliberate, too much so. If there was a blood trail, Jason’s long since cleaned it up.
Bruce hasn’t felt this nervous since that day in Ethiopia nine years ago. The memory comes to him abruptly, the one where he’s digging through debris to find his son’s lifeless body. An image of a boy too small for his age, bloodied, bruised, and broken.
Bruce closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Focus, he tells himself.
More so since Jason’s made it clear on multiple occasions that he wants very little to do with his family. Still, Bruce opens the tracking program he designed specifically for the kids. Red lines scatter across the map of Gotham, zig-zagging and crossing over one another. Each line is a confirmed sighting of Red Hood over the past few weeks.
There’s nothing new; all the tracks are old and useless to him. So, Bruce takes a shot in the dark and zooms out, not really expecting to find anything. Jason leaves Gotham from time to time for places like Bludhaven, New York, or Trenton, so it’s nothing unusual. Most of them are old.
Save for one. A blue line, not connected to Red Hood at all, but, rather, Jason’s civilian phone. Bruce stares at the line, genuinely puzzled. It’s the number and phone that Jason used when he was Robin, and Bruce had been so sure that it had been disconnected.
More concerning, it’s pinging in an area akin to the suburbs. It’s the type of place that families and older folks live to get away from the inner city.
“What are you planning, Jason?” Bruce mutters to himself. He knows there’s no better way to find out than going there himself.
—
Bruce has narrowed it down to an apartment building. It’s a great place; there’s a park and a gym, which make for nice amenities.
It’s the complete opposite of Jason’s warehouse in Gotham, a shabby place that’s dank and cold. There’s little there to show life beyond the necessities of food rations and a cot. The only thing plentiful in that warehouse is the amount of weapons that irk Bruce to no end.
The normalcy of this place makes him feel uneasy.
It’s a little past six, so it’s quiet; there’s no one really around except for a family enjoying a nice evening on the playground not far away. Even the security guard at the front desk is relaxed, his feet kicked up with a magazine in his hand. He's the perfect guy to get past easily.
He slips through the door when a couple, oblivious to the world beyond just them, walks out. As Bruce climbs the stairs, he pulls out his phone and activates the tracking app. The pinging from it grows louder the closer he gets. By the time he’s on the third floor, his phone is going wild.
When the sound can't get any crazier, Bruce stops. He's in front of a dark blue door with a doormat that says ‘hello’ in pretty cursive letters. For a brief moment, the thought that his phone or the program might not be working crosses his mind.
Shutting the tracker off, he shoves his phone into his pocket with one hand as the other knocks on the door. There’s the sound of a woman’s voice and a baby’s whine before he hears the peephole cover scrape against the wood.
Before the door opens, there's the sound of someone muttering, and there you are with a baby in your arms. Bruce is speechless for a moment, not anticipating meeting a mother and her baby. The tracker must be wrong, or maybe you stole Jason’s phone?
He can’t think long on the possibilities as you ask, “Can I help you?”
Your question is worded kindly, but there’s a tiredness to your tone that makes it clear Bruce needs to get to the point. He does, because the last thing he wants is to bother an exhausted mom. Just as he opens his mouth, there’s a call of “mommy” that rolls through the house. Bruce can’t see the source of the voice, but he can guess it’s a little boy.
You turn and call back, “One second, lovebug!”
When you look at Bruce again, you huff and cock an eyebrow, ready for him to go on. He clears his throat and asks, “Does a man named Jason Todd live here?” Bruce forces one of his charming smiles in hopes it’ll deter you from slamming the door in his face.
Your brow furrows, and your hand goes up to cover the back of the baby’s head. Taking a partial step back from the door, you turn half away from him. “Babe, there’s someone at the door for you,” you call to someone further in the apartment.
Babe. Okay, this was a new development.
Then, Bruce hears Jason’s voice. “For me? Who the hell—”
When Jason steps into the doorway, his eyes widen, and his mouth falls open slightly in shock. “Bruce,” He breathes. Then, after a moment, he shakes his head. “How did you find—You know what, I have a feeling I already know. What’re you doing here?”
“I was worried,” Bruce admits as he shifts his weight a bit. He feels uncomfortable now, like he’s tumbled through a door he shouldn’t have.
“Worried,” Jason repeats, cocking an eyebrow like he doesn’t fully believe him.
Bruce swallows. “Yes, worried.”
Before Jason can make the smartass retort Bruce can feel him about to spit out, a boy, no older than two or three, appears in the doorway. The sight of the little boy leaves him speechless. He's an exact clone of Jason, right down to the little black cowlick at the top of his head and the bright, hopeful look in his green eyes.
For a moment, Bruce is brought back to Ethiopia, seeing Jason, not much bigger than the toddler but still so much older, bloodied and beaten. He snaps back to reality when the boy loudly whispers to his father, asking who “that man” is.
Bruce realizes that Jason has never mentioned him, and that feels far worse than death.
Jason doesn’t answer, but picks up the toddler and brings him further into the apartment, leaving the door open so Bruce can follow or leave. He steps in, taking in the scene before him.
It’s a warm, lived-in space. Nothing special or big, but it’s just enough. As he makes his way into the living room, Bruce notices paper plates shaped like animals with remnants of what he assumes must have been a good, hearty meal on the coffee table. On the TV, a kids’ show plays, momentarily catching the attention of the toddler.
Then, Bruce sees you again. You’re settling the baby in a pink baby bouncer, trying to get the infant to calm, but it’s clear she’s about to wail. By the small swell of your stomach, Bruce guesses that you’re recently postpartum.
Jason motions Bruce further inside, telling him to sit down in the cushioned chair opposite the couch, where he sets the squirming toddler. “As you can see, I’m fine,” Jason says as he picks up the plates left on the coffee table before momentarily disappearing into the kitchen.
You take the time to introduce yourself, reaching a hand out to shake Bruce’s. After telling you his name again, it finally seems to register who he is by your quiet, surprised, “oh”! At the very least, Jason has mentioned him to you.
“Well, what now?” Jason says as he rounds the couch to sit on the other side of the little boy. Almost instantly, the toddler is all over Jason’s lap, but he hardly reacts as if it’s something that happens all the time.
Clearing his throat, Bruce says, “You have a nice home.”
“Thank you,” you say, sounding much sweeter than when you first answered the door. He can’t blame you for being wary. In Gotham, or anywhere else for that matter, you can never be too careful. After a moment of prolonged silence, you add, “We moved in a couple of months ago! It’s a wonderful place. It even has a daycare a block or two away. Perfect for our babies.”
You pinch your boy’s cheek before moving him over to sit. Your daughter is making whining noises in her bouncer, which pulls Bruce’s gaze to her. She’s the perfect combination of you and Jason, with her father’s nose and curly black hair; everything else is you.
“How old are they?” Bruce asks quietly, as it had simply slipped from his mouth.
Jason crosses his arms, looking like he’s trying to seem protective. Yet, there’s a bit of a wane in his tough demeanor by the way his eyes gaze pitifully at his father.
“Our boy here is two, and our girl is just over a week and a half.” The smile that graces your face is the only one that can come from a mother who adores her children. “They both already have Daddy wrapped around their fingers, huh?”
You take the boy into your lap and press kisses to his black hair. He giggles and kicks about for a moment before Jason settles a hand on his legs.
Bruce watches as his boy looks fondly at you and your son, like a proud father and partner. He doesn’t know what to do or say. There are so many questions to ask. Many he can probably answer himself, though he doesn’t want to. All the answers Bruce wants, he wants from Jason.
“She’s beautiful. They both are,” Bruce manages to say.
Jason mutters, “Thanks.”
You, on the other hand, take the praise more personally: “Our boy is just the spitting image of his dad, so no argument there. But, Jason says our girl looks like a little alien.”
“She did look like an alien the first day. All smooshed and red-faced. She’s cute now,” Jason replies, leaning over to take the baby into his arms.
When Bruce opens his mouth to speak, Jason’s smile falls a little. “Beautiful. That’s the word you’re looking for, Jay.”
Jason snickers but corrects himself. “Beautiful. More than, really. Angelic. Spitting image of her mama.”
A blush crosses your cheeks, and you wave him off. “Oh, stop it—”
A sharp cry cuts you off as the baby’s discomfort now fully boils over. Jason tries bouncing her before checking her diaper for any accidents, but that doesn’t seem to be the problem. Your boy is covering his ears, angrily looking at his little sister, and it seems like he’s about to tell her to shut up.
You sense the growing agitation and hold out your arms. “Give her here, babe. Oh, she’s hungry.”
Jason’s gentle as he hands over the baby, his eyes full of hurt at the sounds of his crying girl. Luckily, the moment she settles against you, her cries turn into little whimpers, and her hands blindly grip your shirt. Excusing yourself, you walk down the hall to nurse the baby in your room. You look back and call after your son, who hops off the couch with a grin as he toddles after you. He pauses when he notices Jason isn’t following.
A rueful smile crosses Jason’s face, and he reaches out to run a hand through his son’s black curls. “I’ll be there in a second, go watch cartoons with Mama and your sister.” The boy hesitantly leaves, glancing over his shoulder at his father.
It dawns on Bruce far too late that Jason has lived a whole life separate from the one in Gotham. A life that was never meant to involve him or any of the others.
Jason leans back against the couch and rubs a hand over his face. “Don’t go telling everyone about this. I don’t need any fucking bats in my business.”
“I won’t, but I think Dick, at the very least, would like to know you’re alright,” Bruce says.
Jason shakes his head and laughs to himself. “Dick can go fuck himself.”
“Jay—”
“No. Don’t—” Jason cuts in. He exhales and looks away, trying to hide the way his eyes are glassy now. “Don’t give me some bullshit that you guys miss me or want me back. What did you expect when you came here tonight, hm?”
Bruce didn’t know how to answer. He knew that he couldn’t because Jason would be right. He’d come here, to his son’s home—to your home—expecting to find plans to conquer Gotham or, worse, finding Jason dead. Because obviously, it couldn’t have been anything good. You, two kids, and a nice, comfortable home were the last thing on his mind.
“You can’t even fucking look at me,” Jason spat. “Which, I guess, proves my point.”
“I’m sorry.”
When Bruce looks at Jason again, he’s blinking back tears and looking at the ground. Sniffling, Jay stands and wipes his hands down the front of his sweatpants, his eyes going to the hallway where you disappeared before going back to Bruce. It’s a good minute of going back and forth before Jason finally figures out what he wants to do.
“Sorry isn’t good enough anymore, Bruce.” There’s a pause before he goes on. “It hasn’t been for a while. A long while.”
“I understand, Jason.” Bruce stands, holding his jacket tighter around him, and takes a step. When he does, you come back out of the room with just your son on your hip and a baby monitor in your free hand.
“Are you leaving?” You ask, and there’s not an ounce of contempt in your face. In fact, Bruce could have sworn you sounded a bit disappointed.
Jason answers for him, “Yes, he is.”
You must be able to understand the stress because you don’t ask for any more information. The boy in your arms squirms until you let him down, and he trots over to his father, who happily picks him up.
“Hey, baby,” Jason coos, pressing kisses into the boy’s hair. “Let me walk my friend out, and I’ll come play with you, how’s that?”
“Okay,” the boy mumbles joyfully. Jason gives the boy one more kiss before putting him down.
My friend. Bruce has the near urge to yell a correction at Jason, but can’t. The last thing he wants to do is yell at Jason in his home. It wouldn’t make the situation better, especially considering Bruce wants to be allowed back.
Bruce turns to you and gives a forced smile. “Thank you for letting me in. I’m sorry to have shown up unannounced.”
You open your mouth, then shut it, your eyes flickering over to Jason for a split second. No doubt, you don’t know what to say, and you certainly don’t want to say the wrong thing. You manage to find something and reply with, “It’s no trouble. It was nice meeting you.”
As Bruce turns towards the door, he notices Jason giving you a passing kiss that’s too sweet not to be filled with love. A home full of love—a foreign concept in Wayne Manor. He looks away, thinking about how he assumed everything wrong, and tries to comb through the excuses to show up again. Bruce wants to know the man his son has turned into and to know the mother of his grandchildren
Selfishly, he doesn’t want to be known as Jason’s ‘friend’, either. No, Bruce wants to be ‘grandpa’.
Jason corrals him out the door, nearly pushing him, before stopping just before the threshold. Bruce takes in the hallway again, not at all happy with the sight of long rows of doors—Jason’s family should be in a house with a yard for the kids to play in, he thinks. Just for a moment, Bruce considers buying a house for Jason in hopes that it might bridge the gap between them.
Knowing Jason, he'd set it on fire before even considering moving in.
“I’ll see you around?” Bruce says, hopeful.
Jason looks like he’s going to say no—in fact, it looks like he wants to say it, but there’s the sound of the boy inside giggling. It sounds just like the little boy who used to think Robin was magic. And Jason suddenly looks hesitant.
“Maybe,” He says before he shuts the door.
Bruce stands there for a second, staring at the welcome mat, as he listens to a loud, high-pitched laugh seep through the door.
One day, he told himself, he’d be invited into the little apartment full of love.
Hiii can I request a Jason x reader where the reader faints at a party or one of Bruce’s galas and everyone is freaking out but it just turns out she’s pregnant? 🩷🩷🩷 thank youuuu
The Gala Incident
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requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
You've been to enough Wayne Galas to know the rhythm of them. Arrive fashionably late (Jason's preference, not yours), endure exactly forty-five minutes of small talk with Gotham's elite (your limit, not his), find Bruce to make an appearance (mandatory), and then hide in a corner with appetizers until it's socially acceptable to leave.
Tonight is not going according to plan.
For one thing, the smell of the hors d'oeuvres is making your stomach turn. For another, the room feels approximately eight thousand degrees despite the October chill outside. And for a third, you've had to excuse yourself to the bathroom twice in the last hour.
"You okay?" Jason murmurs in your ear, his hand warm on the small of your back. He looks unfairly good in his suit, tailored perfectly, making him look less like a crime lord and more like he actually belongs among Gotham's wealthy elite.
"Fine," you say, which is a lie. You've been feeling off for days. tired, nauseous, emotional over the strangest things. Yesterday, you cried because Jason came home with the wrong brand of coffee creamer.
"You've been saying that all week," he says, eyes narrowing. "And you barely touched dinner."
"The salmon was too..." You stop, swallowing hard as another wave of nausea hits. "It smelled weird."
"It smelled like salmon."
"Exactly. Weird."
Jason looks like he wants to argue, but Dick appears at his elbow with two champagne flutes. "There you are! I've been looking for you guys. Bruce wants a family photo and... hey, you look pale."
"I'm fine," you insist, taking the champagne glass on autopilot. The smell hits you immediately.. sharp, acidic, wrong. Your stomach revolts.
"Whoa, hey." Jason takes the glass from your hand before you drop it. "Maybe we should get you some air."
"I'm fine." But even as you say it, the room starts to tilt. The chandelier above you seems too bright, the conversation around you too loud. Your vision goes spotty at the edges.
"Babe?" Jason's voice sounds far away. "Babe, look at me."
You try. You really do. But the floor is rushing up to meet you, and then everything goes black.
You wake up to chaos.
"—call Dr. Thompkins—"
"—is she breathing—"
"—someone get Bruce—"
"—EVERYONE SHUT UP!"
That last one is Jason, his voice sharp with panic. You're on the floor, you realize, your head in someone's lap. Jason's lap, based on the expensive suit fabric under your cheek.
"Hey," he says, and his voice is gentler now, shaking. "Hey, there you are. Stay with me, okay? Don't close your eyes."
"M'okay," you mumble, trying to sit up. Bad idea. Your head spins and your stomach lurches.
"Don't move." Jason's hand is in your hair, keeping you still. "Someone's getting a doctor."
You force your eyes open properly and immediately wish you hadn't. You're surrounded by concerned faces, Dick hovering anxiously, Tim on his phone, probably calling every medical professional in Gotham, Damian looking uncharacteristically worried, and Bruce pushing through the crowd with Dr. Leslie Thompkins in tow.
"I fainted," you say unnecessarily. "At a Wayne Gala. That's so embarrassing."
"That's what you're worried about?" Jason's hand is shaking in your hair. "You just collapsed. You could have hit your head, you could have—"
"But I didn't." You reach up to touch his face, trying to reassure him. He looks terrified, all the color drained from his face. "Jason, I'm okay. I just... I've been feeling a little off lately."
"Define 'off,'" Dr. Thompkins says, kneeling beside you with her medical bag. She's been the Wayne family doctor for decades, has patched up more vigilante injuries than she probably cares to count. "Any pain? Dizziness? Nausea?"
"All of the above?" you admit. "And I've been really tired. And emotional. I cried at a cat food commercial yesterday."
"The one with the kitten?" Dick asks. "That one is pretty sad."
"It was about senior cats finding homes," you say. "I sobbed for twenty minutes."
Jason is staring at you like you've grown a second head. "You didn't tell me any of this."
"I thought I was just stressed." You let Dr. Thompkins check your pulse, your blood pressure, shine a light in your eyes. "Work's been busy, and you've been dealing with that thing in Crime Alley—"
"I don't care about Crime Alley right now. I care about you." He says it fiercely, and you can see the fear underneath the anger. "Why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?"
"Because you worry," you say softly. "You worry so much already."
"Of course I worry. You're—" He stops, jaw clenching. "You're everything."
Dr. Thompkins is watching you both with an expression you can't quite read. "When was your last period?" she asks casually.
You blink. "What?"
"Your last menstrual period. When was it?"
"I—" You try to think back. "I don't know. A few weeks ago? Maybe... six weeks?"
The room goes very quiet.
"Oh my god," Dick says.
"Holy shit," Tim adds.
Damian just stares.
Jason has gone completely still, his hand frozen in your hair. "Six weeks."
"Maybe seven?" You're trying to do math in your head, but everything feels fuzzy. "I haven't really been tracking it. I'm usually pretty irregular when I'm stressed, and—" You stop, the implications finally catching up to you. "Oh."
"Oh," Dr. Thompkins agrees, a small smile playing at her lips. "Combined with the fatigue, nausea, emotional sensitivity, and fainting spell... I think we should run a test."
"A test," you repeat stupidly.
"A pregnancy test," she clarifies, and the word seems to echo in the sudden silence.
Pregnant.
You might be pregnant.
You and Jason might be having a baby.
"I need—" You try to sit up again, and this time Jason helps you, his movements careful and mechanical. "I need to take a test."
"I have one in my bag," Dr. Thompkins says. "Always prepared for situations like this. Bruce, is there somewhere private?"
"My study," Bruce says immediately. He's been quiet this whole time, watching with that unreadable expression he gets. "Third floor, first door on the left."
Jason helps you stand, his arm around your waist like he's afraid you'll collapse again. Maybe you will. Your legs feel like jelly and your mind is racing.
Pregnant. You might be pregnant with Jason Todd's baby.
The walk to Bruce's study is a blur. Dr. Thompkins walks ahead, Dick and Tim trailing behind like anxious ducks, Damian muttering something about "another Todd" that you don't have the energy to process.
Jason hasn't said a word.
In the study, Dr. Thompkins hands you a small box. "Bathroom's through there," she says, pointing to a door you hadn't noticed. "Take your time."
You look at Jason. He's staring at the box in your hands like it might explode.
"Come with me?" you ask quietly.
He nods, still not speaking, and follows you into the bathroom.
It's awkward, taking a pregnancy test in Bruce Wayne's private bathroom while your boyfriend watches. You follow the instructions with shaking hands, set the test on the counter, and then you both stare at it.
"Three minutes," you say, reading the box. "We have to wait three minutes."
Jason makes a sound that might be acknowledgment.
"Are you—" You turn to look at him. "Are you okay?"
"Am I okay?" He laughs, but it sounds slightly hysterical. "I don't know. Are you okay?"
"I don't know either." You lean back against the counter. "This wasn't... we weren't planning this."
"No." He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the careful styling. "We weren't."
"If it's positive—" You stop, not sure how to finish that sentence.
"If it's positive," Jason says slowly, "then we're having a baby."
"Yeah."
"A whole baby. A tiny person."
"That's typically how it works."
He's quiet for a moment, then: "Are you scared?"
"Terrified," you admit. "Are you?"
"Fucking petrified." He moves closer, taking your hands. "I died once. Came back wrong. Spent years being angry and violent and doing things I'm not proud of. I'm not exactly father material."
"Jason—"
"But if you are pregnant," he continues, his grip tightening on your hands, "if we're really doing this, then I'm in. Completely in. Because you're not doing this alone, and this kid, our kid, they're going to know they're wanted. They're going to know they're loved."
Your eyes are burning. "You really mean that?"
"I've never meant anything more." He pulls you closer, pressing his forehead to yours. "I'm scared as hell, but I'm also... if you are pregnant, I'm happy. Is that crazy?"
"No." You're crying now, tears streaming down your face. "I'm happy too. Scared, but happy."
"We should probably check the test," Jason says, but neither of you moves.
"Probably."
"I'm terrified of looking."
"Me too."
You stand there for another moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing in sync. Then, at the same time, you both turn to look at the test on the counter.
Two lines.
Very clearly, unmistakably, two pink lines.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
"Oh my god," Jason repeats.
"We're having a baby."
"We're having a baby." He says it like he's testing out the words, seeing how they fit. Then, louder, with a growing smile: "We're having a baby!"
He picks you up, spinning you around, and you're both laughing and crying at the same time. When he sets you down, he kisses you, deep and thorough and full of promise.
"I love you," he says against your lips. "I love you so much."
"I love you too." You cup his face, memorizing this moment. "We're really doing this?"
"We're really doing this." He grins, and it's that rare, genuine smile that makes your heart skip. "Holy shit, we're having a baby."
There's a knock on the bathroom door. "Everything okay in there?" Dr. Thompkins calls.
You open the door to find the entire family crowded in the study: Bruce, Dick, Tim, Damian, and even Alfred, who must have been summoned at some point.
"Well?" Dick asks, practically bouncing with anticipation.
Jason wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you close to his side. "We're pregnant," he announces, and his voice cracks on the words.
The room erupts.
Dick literally screams, launching himself at Jason for a hug that nearly knocks you both over. Tim is grinning so wide it must hurt. Damian looks torn between horror and something that might be excitement. Bruce... Bruce is smiling, a real, genuine smile that makes him look years younger.
"Congratulations," he says, pulling you both into a hug. "I'm so happy for you."
"I'm going to be an uncle!" Dick is still screaming. "I'm going to be the best uncle! Tim, we're going to be uncles!"
"I'm already planning the nursery security system," Tim says seriously. "And a background check protocol for potential babysitters."
"The child will need proper training from an early age," Damian adds. "I suppose I can make time in my schedule to ensure they're not completely incompetent."
"That's very generous of you, demon spawn," Jason says dryly, but he's smiling.
Alfred appears with a tray of tea and water. "Congratulations are in order," he says warmly. "Though I must insist you sit down, miss. You've had quite a shock."
You let Jason guide you to the couch, suddenly aware of how shaky your legs still are. He sits beside you, his hand never leaving yours.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks quietly while the others chatter excitedly around you. "Do you need anything? Water? Food? A hospital?"
"I'm okay." You squeeze his hand. "Better than okay. I'm pregnant."
"You're pregnant," he repeats, like he still can't quite believe it. His hand moves to your stomach, resting there gently. "There's a baby in there. Our baby."
"About the size of a lentil right now, if I'm doing the math right."
"A lentil," he says, wonderstruck. "That's so small."
"They'll get bigger."
"Yeah." His thumb strokes your stomach through the fabric of your dress. "They will."
Dr. Thompkins appears with some pamphlets. "I'll want to see you in my office next week for a proper examination and blood work. In the meantime, start taking prenatal vitamins, get plenty of rest, and call me if you have any concerns. No alcohol, no caffeine—"
"That explains why the coffee tasted wrong," you murmur.
"—and take it easy. Fainting can be normal in the first trimester, but I want to keep an eye on you." She smiles. "Congratulations to you both."
"Thank you," Jason says, still staring at your stomach like he can see through to the tiny cluster of cells that's apparently making you both parents.
The rest of the evening is a blur. You never make it back to the gala, Bruce makes excuses for you, and nobody questions it. Instead, you stay in the study, surrounded by the family, drinking tea and fielding a million questions and listening to Dick and Tim argue about godfather rights.
"I'm the oldest," Dick insists. "I have seniority."
"I'm the smartest," Tim counters. "I can teach them practical skills."
"I am the only one with the discipline to raise a child properly," Damian adds.
"Nobody's raising this child except us," Jason says, but he's smiling. "But if we're talking godparents..." He looks at Dick. "You're loud, irresponsible, and you let Damian use your car as target practice last month."
"That was ONE time!"
"You're in," Jason finishes, and Dick practically tackles him with another hug.
"What about me?" Tim asks.
"You once stayed awake for seventy-two hours straight working on a case. You're not allowed to babysit until you learn what sleep is." Jason pauses. "But yeah, you're in too."
"I suppose I can serve as well," Damian says with an air of great sacrifice. "Though I expect the child to address me with appropriate respect."
"They're going to call you Uncle Dami and you're going to deal with it," Jason says.
For once, Damian doesn't argue.
Bruce appears at Jason's shoulder. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"
Jason tenses slightly, but nods. They step away, speaking in low voices near the window. You can't hear what they're saying, but you watch Jason's shoulders gradually relax, watch something soft cross his face. When Bruce pulls him into a hug, Jason hugs back.
When they return, Jason's eyes are suspiciously bright.
"You okay?" you ask.
"Yeah." He sits beside you, pulling you close. "Bruce just... he said he's proud of me. Said I'm going to be a good father."
Your heart clenches. "You are. You're going to be an amazing father."
"I'm going to try." He kisses your temple. "I'm going to try so hard."
"I know you will."
It's past midnight when Alfred finally insists you both go home and rest. Jason doesn't want to leave, convinced you might faint again, or something worse might happen, but Dr. Thompkins assures him you're stable and just need sleep.
The ride home is quiet. Jason drives with one hand on the wheel and one hand on your thigh, like he needs the physical contact to believe this is real.
"We're having a baby," you say into the silence.
"We are," he agrees.
"We're going to need a bigger apartment."
"We'll find one."
"And a crib. And diapers. Oh god, so many diapers."
"We'll figure it out."
"What if I'm a terrible mother?"
Jason pulls over, right there in the middle of the street, and turns to look at you. "You're going to be an incredible mother. You're kind, patient, smart, and you put up with me on a daily basis. That alone proves you can handle anything."
"What if you're a terrible father?"
"Then you'll tell me, and I'll do better." He takes your hand. "We're going to make mistakes. Probably a lot of them. But we're going to love this kid with everything we have, and we're going to figure it out together. Okay?"
"Okay." You bring his hand to your lips, kissing his knuckles. "Together."
"Together."
When you get home, Jason immediately starts googling everything about pregnancy. What to expect, what foods to avoid, what vitamins you need, symptoms to watch for. He makes a list of baby books to order, creates a spreadsheet of potential names (which you'll probably never use, but it's adorable that he's trying), and sets reminders to make sure you take your prenatal vitamins.
"Jason," you say finally, watching him from the bed where you've collapsed in exhaustion. "Come here."
He looks up from his laptop. "I'm almost done. I just need to finish reading about first trimester development—"
"Jason. Come here."
He sets the laptop aside and climbs into bed with you. You curl into his side, his arm coming around you automatically.
"We have nine months to figure all this out," you remind him. "Tonight, let's just... be happy."
"I am happy." His hand finds your stomach again, resting there like it belongs. "I'm so happy I don't know what to do with it."
"Kiss me," you suggest. "That's a good start."
So he does. He kisses you soft and slow and sweet, and when he pulls back, he's smiling.
"I love you," he says. "Both of you."
"We love you too."
You fall asleep like that, Jason's hand on your stomach, his voice soft in your ear as he talks to the baby that's barely bigger than a lentil. He tells them about the family they're going to have, the uncle who will spoil them rotten, the grandfather who will teach them everything he knows, the butler who will sneak them cookies.
He tells them about their mother, about how strong and beautiful and perfect she is.
And he promises them, voice thick with emotion, that they will always be safe. Always be loved. Always be wanted.
It's the best promise you've ever heard him make.
Bonus : Seven Months Later
"I can't believe you're making me go to another Wayne Gala," you groan, trying to find a comfortable position. At seven months pregnant, comfortable is a relative term.
"It's the last one before the baby comes," Jason says, helping you with your shoes because you can't reach your feet anymore. "Bruce promised it would be quick."
"Bruce's definition of quick and mine are very different."
"We'll stay for an hour. Two tops." He stands, offering his hand to help you up. "Besides, everyone wants to see you. Dick's been asking about the baby every single day."
"Dick's been shopping for baby clothes every single day," you correct. "We have more clothes than the baby could wear in a year."
"That's what I told him." Jason's hand goes to your stomach, something he does constantly now. The baby kicks in response, and his face lights up like it does every single time. "Hey there, little one. You ready for your first gala?"
"They better not decide to make an appearance tonight," you mutter. "I did not spend an hour on my hair just to go into labor."
"If you go into labor, your hair will be the least of our concerns."
The gala is exactly as tedious as you remember, except now you have a convenient excuse to sit down. Jason doesn't leave your side, bringing you water and snacks and glaring at anyone who gets too close.
"You're being overprotective," you tell him.
"You fainted at the last gala we attended," he reminds you. "I'm allowed to be cautious."
"That was seven months ago!"
"And I'm never going to forget the feeling of catching you as you collapsed." He squeezes your hand. "So yeah, I'm being overprotective. Deal with it."
Dick appears with a wrapped present. "I know we're supposed to wait for the baby shower, but I couldn't help myself."
"Dick, you just bought them a bouncer yesterday," you say.
"This is different! This is special!" He's practically vibrating with excitement. "Open it!"
It's a tiny leather jacket, replica of the one Jason wears as Red Hood.
"Absolutely not," Jason says immediately.
"It's adorable!" you counter, holding it up. "Look at the little zippers!"
"Our child is not wearing a Red Hood jacket."
"Our child is going to look amazing in a Red Hood jacket."
You're still arguing about it when Bruce finds you, a rare smile on his face. "How are you feeling?"
"Large," you say honestly. "Very, very large."
"You look beautiful," he says, and it's so sincere that you want to cry. Pregnancy hormones are no joke. "Jason's been telling me about the nursery. Sounds like you've got everything ready."
"As ready as we can be." Jason's hand is on your stomach again. "Though I keep thinking of things we forgot. What if we need—"
"You'll be fine," Bruce interrupts gently. "You're going to be wonderful parents. Both of you."
Later, after you've made your rounds and satisfied everyone's need to touch your stomach (why do people think that's okay?), you and Jason escape to the balcony for some air.
"Seven months ago, I fainted right over there," you say, pointing to the ballroom. "And now look at us."
"Now we're about to be parents." Jason wraps his arms around you from behind, his hands cradling your stomach. "Best fainting spell ever."
"I don't recommend it as a pregnancy announcement method."
"No, probably not." He kisses your neck. "But I wouldn't change a thing."
The baby kicks hard, and you both feel it. Jason laughs, the sound full of joy and wonder.
"I can't wait to meet them," he says.
"Two more months."
"Two more months," he agrees. "And then everything changes."
"Everything already changed," you say, turning in his arms to kiss him. "The moment we saw those two pink lines."
"Yeah," he says softly. "It really did."
And as you stand there on the balcony of Wayne Manor, seven months pregnant with Jason Todd's baby, surrounded by a family that loves you both, you can't help but think that fainting at a gala was the best thing that ever happened to you.
Well. Second best.
The best is sleeping in Jason's arms every night and kicking your ribs every day.
content tim drake x gn! reader, meta! reader, forget-me-not powers, memory loss, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, strangers to friends to soemthing more, canon-typical violence, no yn, memory loss, loneliness, identity erasure, implied childhood neglect, injury/blood, panic, gun wound, stab wound
masterlist
wordcount 7.1k
every time someone looks away from you, they forget you exist, leaving you trapped in a life of constant introductions, abandoned conversations, and grief no one else remembers causing. desperate for help, you track down red robin again and again until tim drake begins building systems, notes, recordings, and theories around the shape of your absence—even though he forgets you every time his gaze slips. but as tim’s body learns to trust you before his mind can remember you, both of you must decide whether trying again and again can be enough to turn loneliness into something like hope.
The first time you met Red Robin, he forgot you before you finished bleeding.
To be fair, it wasn’t his fault.
People never meant to do it. They didn’t mean to turn away from you in grocery aisles and leave you holding half-finished conversations like dropped glass. They didn’t mean to blink past you at bus stops, their faces emptying of recognition while your mouth still shaped their name. They didn’t mean to invite you in, laugh at your jokes, make promises, then look toward a ringing phone and turn back with polite fear in their eyes.
Can I help you?
The worst four words in the English language.
People always said them gently. That was the thing.
No one remembered hurting you. So, no one ever apologised.
You’d been twelve the first time you realised it wasn’t normal. Your teacher looked down at your homework, looked back up, and asked whose desk you were sitting in. Your classmates laughed because children could always sense when the world had found a new way to be cruel.
Your parents forgot you in pieces. At first, it was little things. Leaving your plate out at dinner. Locking the front door while you were still on the porch. Calling the police about “a child in the house” when you came downstairs for water.
By sixteen, you had learned to keep your backpack packed. By eighteen, you had learned not to tell people your name unless you were prepared to watch it die in their mouths. By twenty, you stopped expecting anyone to hold onto you.
Then Gotham happened.
Gotham had a way of making tragedies feel ordinary. A city full of curses, chemicals, ghosts, gods, monsters, and miracles gone sour. People disappeared here every day. Some of them even left bodies.
You were good at disappearing. Not invisibility, exactly. Nothing so useful. People saw you. They could talk to you. Touch you. Hurt you. Help you.
But the second they looked away, you were gone.
Not physically. Just from them.
A thought ripped clean from the page. A footprint swallowed by black water. A name left out in the rain until the ink ran.
You called it your forget-me-not curse.
A joke, originally.
A bad one. The kind you made alone because there was no one around long enough to laugh.
You tracked Red Robin because he was the only person in Gotham paranoid enough to believe evidence over memory.
Batman would have been the obvious choice, but Batman was myth and shadow and trauma in Kevlar. Nightwing was too bright. Red Hood was too dangerous. Robin was a child with swords and the emotional range of an alley cat.
Red Robin, though—Red Robin solved things. Red Robin noticed patterns. Red Robin built answers out of scraps.
You had watched him for three weeks before you approached him.
Not stalked.
Watched.
There was a difference, though you were pretty sure the difference would not hold up in court.
He moved like exhaustion had learned martial arts. Sharp, efficient, clever. Always three steps ahead of everyone except himself. His cape snapped behind him as he crossed rooftops, and his voice over comms, when you caught pieces of it through stolen frequencies and cheap equipment, was dry enough to sand paint off a wall.
You liked him immediately.
Which was unfortunate. Liking people was how hope got its teeth in you.
Still, you needed help. So you followed him onto a rooftop in Chinatown during a rainstorm that turned every neon sign into a bleeding wound.
He had just finished taking down three men trying to move unmarked crates through the back of a restaurant. You watched him zip-tie the last one to a drainpipe, then crouch beside a broken lockbox.
“You missed one,” you said.
Red Robin spun so fast his bo staff was at your throat before your second breath.
You froze.
Rain ran down the side of your face.
His white lenses narrowed. “Who are you?”
There it was.
The beginning. Your least favourite place to stand.
“My name won’t matter in about ten seconds.”
“Try me.”
“You’re going to forget me.”
“Unlikely.”
You almost laughed. “Everyone says that.”
His jaw tightened beneath the mask. “Meta?”
“Maybe.”
“Threat?”
“To myself, mostly.”
“Explain.”
You lifted one hand slowly, pointing toward the alley below. “There’s another guy under the fire escape. He has a gun. You missed him because he didn’t come in with the others.”
Red Robin didn’t look away.
Smart boy.
His head tilted slightly. Listening.
A second later, he threw a birdarang without taking his eyes off you.
A pained shout rose from the alley.
You blinked.
“Nice.”
“Thanks. Now explain.”
“I need help.”
“With?”
You swallowed. This was always the hard part. The moment before someone knew enough to pity you and not enough to stay.
“With being remembered.”
For a second, he didn’t speak.
Rain tapped against his armour. Somewhere below, a siren cried like a mechanical animal.
Then his comm crackled.
“Red?” a voice said. “Status?”
His eyes flicked away.
Just for a second.
Just enough.
When he looked back, his bo staff snapped up again.
“Don’t move,” he said. “Who are you?”
There it was.
The ending.
Your throat tightened anyway.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “That’s the problem.”
His grip shifted on the staff. “How did you get up here?”
“I climbed.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No,” you said. “I expect you to forget this conversation, too.”
“What conversation?”
You closed your eyes. Rain, cold and patient, slid down your neck.
“Never mind.”
You stepped backwards off the ledge.
Red Robin lunged, but you had already dropped onto the fire escape below, landing hard enough to rattle your bones.
By the time he looked down, he shouted, “Hey!”
Not your name.
Never your name.
You ran.
Behind you, Gotham swallowed the sound.
The second time you met him, you brought a folder. The third time, a USB drive. The fourth time, a whiteboard marker, because you were starting to get desperate. The fifth time, you wrote YOU WILL FORGET ME across his left gauntlet while he was distracted disarming a bomb.
He noticed the writing forty-three seconds later.
Unfortunately, he noticed it after looking away from you.
“Why does my arm say that?” he demanded.
You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of an abandoned subway station, chin propped in your hand. “Because subtlety wasn’t working.”
His eyes narrowed. “Did you write on my suit?”
“With consent.”
“I don’t remember giving consent.”
“Exactly.”
He stared at you. You stared back. Somewhere above you, a train rumbled through a city that had forgotten this station existed.
Relatable.
Red Robin looked down at his gauntlet again.
Then at you.
Then at the folder in your lap. Then at the cheap burner phone you had placed beside it, already playing a video of the two of you from fifteen minutes ago.
On the tiny cracked screen, Red Robin said, “Testing hypothesis. Subject claims memory alteration occurs when visual attention is broken. I am recording this willingly.”
Onscreen, you gave a tired little wave.
Current Red Robin went very still.
You hated this part. The suspicion. The recalibration. The way people looked at proof of you like it had crawled out of a sewer.
His voice dropped. “What did you do to me?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
The recording continued. Onscreen, Tim — Red Robin, but by then you had found his name in enough public footage and gala clips to know the shape of him outside the mask — looked intensely uncomfortable.
“Subject claims this has occurred throughout their life. Existing theory: anomalous cognitive deletion tied to direct perception. Memory resets after loss of visual contact. Physical evidence remains. Emotional impressions may remain.”
Current Red Robin slowly looked at you. “Emotional impressions?”
You shrugged, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to wounded animal. “Sometimes people feel something. Déjà vu. Unease. Comfort. Anger. Depends on the person.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line. “What do I feel?”
You shouldn’t answer. You knew that.
Hope was a mousetrap with velvet on the spring.
Still, he asked, and you were very bad at denying yourself crumbs.
“You feel comfortable,” you said quietly. “Usually. Around me.”
He didn’t respond.
The recording ended. The silence after it was massive.
He crouched in front of you, careful and slow, like you were something wild.
“How many times have we had this conversation?”
You looked away first.
It didn’t matter if you looked away. You always remembered.
“Six.”
His breath caught. “Six?”
“Seven, if we count the rooftop, but that one was short.”
He sat back on his heels. “You tracked me down seven times?”
“You’re hard to catch.”
“You should not have been able to catch me at all.”
“Yeah, well.” You gave him a tired smile. “Being forgettable has perks.”
That landed wrong.
You saw it on his face. The way his suspicion cracked open just enough for sadness to show through.
You hated that too. Pity was a warm blanket made of needles.
“Don’t,” you said.
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re already sorry.”
His lips parted, but no sound came out.
Then his comm chirped.
You saw the instant he registered it. You saw the calculation.
His gaze flicked toward the sound.
“Wait,” you said.
Too late.
His eyes moved away.
His face emptied.
Not dramatically. Not cruelly.
Just blank.
When he looked back, he was a stranger again.
His hand went to his staff.
You exhaled shakily.
He looked at the folder. The phone. The writing on his gauntlet.
Then at you.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “I’m guessing we’ve done this before.”
Your laugh broke halfway through. “Yeah.”
His posture eased by one painful inch. “I’m sorry.”
You stared at him.
He didn’t know what he was apologising for.
He meant it anyway.
Oh, that was dangerous.
That was so, so dangerous.
Tim Drake made a problem board.
Of course he did.
You found out two nights later when Red Robin left you coordinates scratched into the edge of a takeout menu you’d taped to his belt before he forgot you.
The coordinates led to a safehouse.
Not the Nest. Not the Cave. Somewhere smaller. Older. A third-floor apartment above a closed pawn shop, with three separate exits and windows reinforced from the inside.
There was a note taped to the door when you arrived.
If you are reading this and you are the person I keep forgetting, come in. I gave you the code. If I didn’t, check under the gargoyle across the street. If you are not that person, this door is electrified. Good luck.
You smiled despite yourself.
The code was under the gargoyle.
The safehouse smelled like coffee, dust, and circuitry. Three laptops glowed on a folding table. A whiteboard stood against the wall, covered in branching theories and question marks.
At the top, in sharp block letters, Tim had written:
FORGET-ME-NOT Under it: Not invisibility. Not standard telepathy. Not illusion. Perception-linked mnemonic erasure?
Then: DO NOT LOOK AWAY WITHOUT RECORDING.
Then, circled three times: THEY ARE REAL.
You stood in front of those words for a long time. Long enough for your chest to hurt. Long enough to hate yourself for how much it mattered.
They are real.
Not subject. Not anomaly. Not possible threat.
They. Real.
Your fingers lifted before you could stop them, hovering just beneath the words.
You didn’t touch. Touching felt too much like asking.
The bathroom door opened.
Tim Drake stepped out in sweatpants, a black T-shirt, damp hair curling at his forehead, and a toothbrush in his mouth.
He froze. You froze.
He blinked at you.
You lifted one hand weakly. “Hi.”
Tim removed the toothbrush from his mouth.
There was a very long silence.
Then he said, “I’m guessing you’re Forget-Me-Not.”
“Please don’t make that my codename.”
“I already made it your case designation.”
“That’s worse.”
“I’m bad at branding.”
“I’ve noticed. Red Robin?”
He pointed the toothbrush at you. “Okay, low blow from someone whose entire thing is being forgotten.”
You stared. He stared back.
Then both of you laughed.
It surprised you so badly that you almost didn’t recognise the sound coming out of your own mouth.
Tim’s smile faded first.
Not gone. Just softened.
“Sorry,” he said. “That was—”
“Funny,” you said.
His eyes searched your face. “I didn’t hurt you?”
You looked at the board again.
THEY ARE REAL.
“No,” you said. “You didn’t.”
He nodded once, then glanced toward the mirror over the kitchen sink.
Your stomach dropped. “Tim—”
His gaze shifted. His face went blank.
You hated mirrors. You hated reflective windows. Phones. Passing cars. Anything that gave people an excuse to stop looking at you.
Tim looked back. His eyes landed on you.
His hand tightened around the toothbrush.
Then he looked at the whiteboard. Back to you. Whiteboard.
You.
“Okay,” he said after a moment. “That’s deeply unsettling.”
You swallowed the ache in your throat. “Welcome to the club.”
He crossed the room carefully, eyes fixed on you with almost comic intensity. Like a cat trying not to lose sight of a laser pointer.
“Do I know your name?”
“Yes.”
“Do I get to know it again?”
You told him.
He repeated it.
Softly. Correctly.
Like it mattered. Like names were not disposable things.
Then he wrote it on his wrist in black marker.
Your chest went tight. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I do, actually.”
“Tim.”
He paused.
It was the first time you had said his name to his face. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask how you knew.
He only looked at you. “What?”
“You’re going to forget anyway.”
His expression shifted. Not pity this time.
Determination. Very different.
Much worse for your heart.
“Then I’ll remember again.”
You looked away.
The words hit somewhere deep. Somewhere, still twelve years old, standing in a classroom while everyone laughed.
“You say that like it’s easy.”
“No,” Tim said. “I say that like it’s possible.”
The apartment hummed around you. Computers. Rain. Gotham breathing through broken brick.
You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him.
That was the problem with starving.
A crumb looked like a feast.
Tim built protocols.
Protocol One: Cameras on before conversation.
Protocol Two: Notes visible on every surface.
Protocol Three: If he forgot you, he had to read the red folder before engaging.
Protocol Four: No sudden movements after reset, because apparently the third meeting had involved him pinning you to a wall and then feeling guilty about it for forty-eight hours, based solely on the bruise and your annoyed sticky note reading RUDE.
Protocol Five: Coffee.
You weren’t sure why coffee was a protocol.
Tim insisted it helped.
“You just want an excuse to drink more coffee.”
“That’s a serious accusation.”
“You have a mug that says ‘sleep is a social construct.’”
“It was a gift.”
“From who?”
“Me.”
You stared at him. He stared back.
Then he shrugged. “I know what I like.”
The work was slow. Messy. Painful.
Tim forgot you dozens of times.
Sometimes in the middle of a sentence. Sometimes, while reaching for a pen. Sometimes because his phone lit up and instinct won before caution.
Every reset cut, but not always the same way.
Some were clean. His face would go politely guarded, and he would ask for an explanation, and you would hand him the folder like a nurse handing over bad news.
Some were worse. Once, after a long night of testing, Tim laughed at something you said. Really laughed, head ducked, eyes bright, shoulders shaking. You had been talking about the time a mugger forgot he was mugging you halfway through and apologised for standing too close.
Tim laughed, and you laughed too, because it was stupid and awful and somehow funny in the way tragedies became funny if they happened enough.
Then he turned to grab his coffee.
When he looked back, the laughter died on his face.
He stepped back. “Who are you?”
You sat very still.
Your smile felt glued on. “No one.”
His eyes flicked to the notes.
He read them fast.
Too fast.
His face crumpled in slow motion.
“Wait,” he said. “We were laughing.”
You didn’t answer.
“I was laughing,” he said, quieter.
“Yeah.”
“With you.”
“Yeah.”
“I forgot that?”
You looked down at your hands. “You forget everything.”
Tim didn’t speak for a long time.
Then he said, “Not everything.”
You almost snapped at him.
You wanted to. You wanted to tell him not to soften it. Not to romanticise it. Not to turn your curse into a puzzle with a hidden blessing, because there was nothing beautiful about being erased. There was no secret poetry in sitting across from someone who had smiled at you three seconds ago and watching their eyes turn unfamiliar.
But then Tim touched two fingers to his own chest.
“My heart rate is elevated,” he said. “But not fear response. My shoulders are relaxed. I’m angled toward you. I reached for coffee without checking my weapon first.”
You blinked.
He looked at you, eyes steady.
“My body knows you,” he said. “Even when my brain doesn’t.”
That shut you up completely.
Tim seemed to realise what he had said a second after saying it.
His ears went pink. Extremely pink.
You stared at them because you were sad, not dead.
He cleared his throat. “Scientifically speaking.”
“Right,” you said.
“Physiological familiarity.”
“Obviously.”
“Conditioned trust response.”
“Super romantic.”
His blush deepened.
You smiled despite yourself.
Tim saw it. Something in him eased, like he had been waiting for proof he hadn’t ruined everything.
You looked away first.
Not because you wanted to.
Because wanting was getting dangerous.
You started staying longer. That was the mistake.
At first, you only came by for testing. Then for updates. Then because Tim texted a number he had written in six different places and asked Are you safe?
You stared at the message for twenty minutes.
No one asked you that. Not and remembered long enough to care about the answer.
You typed back Mostly.
His reply came instantly. That is not a yes.
You should have ignored it. Instead, you went to the safehouse.
Tim opened the door with a laptop under one arm, hair a disaster, a hoodie hanging off one shoulder.
He looked you over. “You’re hurt.”
“Barely.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“That’s what barely means in Gotham.”
He stepped aside.
You came in.
He patched your arm with hands so careful they made you want to scream.
Not because it hurt.
Because it didn’t. Because he kept looking at you. Kept his gaze trained on your face while reaching blindly for gauze and antiseptic.
“You can look down,” you said.
“Nope.”
“You’re going to tape my sleeve to my skin.”
“I have done worse with less.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
His fingers brushed your wrist.
You both went quiet.
Tim’s gaze stayed on yours. There were shadows under his eyes. Purple-blue and stubborn. His mouth was set in that familiar line of someone trying to outthink the universe through sheer spite.
“You’re tired,” you said.
“I’m always tired.”
“That’s not as cute as you think it is.”
“I think you think I’m cute?”
Your soul left your body.
Tim froze. His ears went pink again.
A gift. A treasure. A tiny biological betrayal.
“I meant—” he started.
“You said what you said.”
“I’m sleep deprived.”
“You’re always sleep deprived.”
“Then I’m always not liable for my words.”
You smiled. He smiled back.
For a second, there was no curse.
No whiteboard. No folder. No grief waiting in the corner with its coat still on.
Just Tim’s hand around your wrist, warm through his gloves, and his eyes on yours like looking away was the one thing he refused to lose.
Then his phone rang.
Both of you flinched.
Tim did not look away.
The phone kept buzzing on the table.
He stared at you. You stared back.
“Could be important,” you whispered.
“Probably.”
“You should answer.”
“I know.”
“Tim.”
His jaw worked. “I don’t want to forget this.”
Your breath caught. “This?”
His thumb shifted against your wrist.
His voice dropped. “You.”
Hope was a stupid thing. A stubborn weed growing through concrete.
You wanted to rip it out by the roots.
Instead, you sat very still while it bloomed.
“Tim,” you said softly. “You will.”
The phone stopped ringing.
Then started again.
He closed his eyes.
Your heart jumped.
But he didn’t turn away.
Eyes closed, he said, “Still thinking about you.”
“That’s cheating.”
“That’s science.”
“That is absolutely not science.”
“It is if I write it down later.”
You laughed, but it hurt.
His eyes opened.
He looked almost relieved to find you still there.
The phone stopped again.
A beat passed.
Then his comm went off.
Oracle’s voice filled the room.
“Red Robin, if you’re ignoring me because you found another conspiracy wall, I’m sending Nightwing.”
Tim grimaced.
“You should take it,” you said. He did not move. “Tim.”
“I know.”
You gently pulled your wrist from his hand.
He let you.
You stood.
His expression tightened. “Don’t leave.”
The words were too raw. Too young. Too much like your own secret prayers.
You swallowed. “I’ll come back.”
“You don’t have to say that just because I won’t remember.”
“I know.”
“Will you?”
You should have lied less softly.
“No,” you said. “Not tonight.”
His face went still.
You stepped back. “Because you’ll forget me, and I don’t think I can watch it again right now.”
The comm crackled.
Tim’s gaze stayed on you.
You gave him one last smile. It was probably a bad one.
Then you slipped out the window onto the fire escape.
You heard him say your name. Then Oracle said something urgent. Then the night took you.
By morning, he had sent seventeen messages. All to the number he did not remember saving.
I’m sorry.
I don’t know what happened.
There’s a note on my arm that says I hurt you.
Please tell me what I did.
Please be safe.
You don’t have to answer.
But please be safe.
You deleted none of them. You answered none of them.
Avoiding Tim Drake was harder than finding him had been.
This was unfair, frankly.
Gotham was huge. You were practically a professional non-entity. You had evaded landlords, social workers, police officers, and one very confused census worker who kept rediscovering you on your own couch.
You could avoid one vigilante. In theory.
In practice, Tim Drake was a nightmare with Wi-Fi.
He left messages in places no sane person would think to check.
On rooftops. In police scanner chatter. In the metadata of a corrupted file you had stolen from a Falcone server. Once, in a fortune cookie.
You still had no idea how he managed that.
The fortune read: YOU ARE NOT A BURDEN. ALSO, PLEASE STOP GHOSTING ME. UNFORTUNATE WORD CHOICE. SORRY.
You kept that one in your wallet.
Not because it mattered. Obviously.
You avoided him for eleven days. On the twelfth, you found Red Robin bleeding on a rooftop.
Because Gotham had a sense of humour, and it was mean.
He was propped against an air-conditioning unit, one hand pressed to his side, cape torn, breathing shallowly. Three unconscious men lay scattered around him. A fourth crawled toward a gun.
You kicked the gun off the roof.
The man looked up at you, startled.
Then he glanced away toward Red Robin.
When he looked back, confusion washed over his face. “What the—”
You punched him.
He went down.
Red Robin made a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t wrapped in pain.
“Nice,” he rasped.
You crouched beside him. “You’re an idiot.”
His lenses were cracked. One had gone dark, leaving a sliver of blue eye visible beneath the mask.
He looked at you. Really looked.
Your chest ached.
“You came back,” he said.
“You got stabbed.”
“Technically shot.”
“Do not get pedantic while bleeding.”
“Sorry.”
You pressed your hands over the wound. He hissed. “Where’s your emergency beacon?”
“Damaged.”
“Comms?”
“Jammed.”
“Backup?”
He gave you a weak smile. “You?”
“Terrible plan.”
“Working so far.”
“Tim.”
His smile faded. The exposed corner of his eye softened.
“I know you,” he whispered.
Your hands froze. Blood slicked your fingers.
“What?”
“I don’t—” He swallowed hard, face twisting. “I don’t remember. But I know you.”
You tried to breathe. “Tim, stay with me.”
“Trying.”
“You need pressure here.”
“Okay.”
“And you need to keep looking at me.”
His laugh came out broken. “Was already planning on it.”
You hated how that hurt. You hated how good it felt.
You dragged him upright, and he leaned heavily against you. Too heavily. His head dipped toward your shoulder.
“Eyes on me,” you said quickly.
He forced his head up. “Bossy.”
“You like it.”
“I feel like that’s true.”
“It is.”
“Good to know.”
You half-carried him across the roof toward the stairwell.
Halfway there, the door slammed open.
Nightwing burst through, escrima sticks raised.
Behind him came Batman.
Of course. Of course, the universe looked at your worst night and said, Actually, let’s add the emotionally constipated bat-themed father figure.
Nightwing saw Tim. Then saw you.
“Step away from him.”
Tim’s grip on you tightened.
“Don’t,” he said.
Batman’s eyes narrowed. “Red Robin.”
Tim breathed hard. “They’re helping.”
Nightwing looked at you.
Then away, scanning the roof.
Then back.
His expression blanked. “Who are you?”
Your stomach sank. Tim went rigid against you.
“No,” he snapped. “Look at the notes.”
Nightwing blinked. “What notes?”
“Left gauntlet,” Tim said through gritted teeth.
Batman moved first, taking Tim’s wrist carefully.
Written across the inside of Tim’s gauntlet in white marker were the words: IF SOMEONE IS WITH ME AND YOU DON’T KNOW THEM, TRUST THEM. MEMORY HAZARD. DO NOT LOOK AWAY.
Batman read it. Then looked at you.
You expected suspicion. You got it.
Then he looked at Tim’s blood on your hands.
You expected threat. You got that too.
But beneath both, there was calculation.
“Can you get him downstairs?” Batman asked.
You nodded.
Nightwing stared at the message on Tim’s gauntlet, face pale.
“How long has this been happening?”
“Long enough,” Tim muttered.
His knees buckled. You caught him with a panicked noise.
Batman stepped in, taking some of his weight.
For one terrible second, Tim’s gaze slipped from you to Batman.
You felt the exact moment he forgot. His body went tense. His hand jerked toward his weapon.
Then stopped.
His eyes dropped to his wrist. To the writing. To the blood. To your hands still holding him up.
He looked at you again.
No recognition.
But his shoulders eased.
His voice came out hoarse. “Hi.”
You almost broke.
Right there on that rooftop. With Batman watching and Nightwing confused and Tim bleeding between your fingers.
You almost shattered into every version of yourself that had ever been left behind.
Instead, you smiled. Small. Devastated. “Hi, Red.”
His eyes flickered. “Red?”
“You hate when I call you that.”
“I do?”
“Yeah.”
He considered this. Then, barely audible, “Feels familiar.”
Batman’s jaw tightened. Nightwing looked like someone had punched him in the chest.
Good.
Let them see it. Let someone else hold the horror for once.
Tim swayed.
Batman said, “Move.”
So you did.
The Cave remembered you better than people did.
Computers didn’t forget unless told to. Cameras kept your shape. Motion sensors tracked your movement. The Batcomputer marked you as UNKNOWN ENTITY until Tim, pale and stitched and furious from the medbay cot, demanded Batman change it.
“To what?” Batman asked.
Tim looked at you. He had forgotten you three times since arriving.
Each time, he read the notes. Each time, his face did something painful.
Now he sat upright despite Alfred’s stern disapproval, one hand pressed to his bandaged ribs, eyes stubbornly fixed on you.
“Forget-Me-Not,” he said.
You groaned. “Tim.”
“It’s accurate.”
“It’s corny.”
“It’s poetic.”
“It sounds like a Victorian ghost with abandonment issues.”
Nightwing, who had been trying very hard not to stare at you and failing because staring was now medically necessary, whispered, “Kind of on brand, though.”
You pointed at him. “Don’t encourage this.”
Nightwing held up both hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then he looked away toward Batman.
His face blanked.
He looked back at you. Startled. Tim pointed at the gauntlet.
“Oh, come on,” he said, horrified. “I did it again?”
“Yep.”
He dragged both hands down his face. “This sucks.”
You laughed.
You didn’t mean to. It just escaped.
Nightwing looked stricken. “That was insensitive. I’m sorry.”
“No,” you said. “It does suck.”
Tim smiled faintly.
Batman did not. Batman had been watching the recordings.
All of them. Every safehouse interaction Tim had saved. Every reset. Every time Tim’s face went from warm to blank. Every time you flinched like you had been slapped, and then patiently explained your own existence again.
Bruce Wayne had an excellent mask. Batman had a better one.
Neither was good enough. Not for this.
When Tim finally fell asleep — reluctantly, after Alfred threatened sedation with the casual authority of a man who had raised vigilantes and regretted much — Batman approached you near the computer.
You stiffened.
He stopped several feet away.
“Tim trusts you,” he said.
You looked toward the medbay. Tim’s face was turned toward you even in sleep. “He trusts evidence.”
“No,” Batman said. “He trusts you.”
You laughed under your breath. “He forgets me.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
You hated him a little for that.
For being right. For saying it in that gravelly voice, like truth was a verdict.
“He shouldn’t,” you said.
“Why?”
“Because I’ll get him hurt.”
Batman said nothing.
You looked at Tim again.
“He keeps trying to remember me. He gets distracted. He hesitates. He writes things on his skin and loses sleep and builds systems and—and cares.” Your voice cracked. You hated that. “He cares, and he doesn’t even get to keep why.”
Batman was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Tim is very difficult to stop once he decides someone matters.”
Your throat tightened. “Bad survival trait.”
“Yes,” Batman said. “It runs in the family.”
That almost got a smile out of you. Almost.
Bruce looked toward the medbay.
“He has been calmer,” he said.
“What?”
“Recently. Still sleep-deprived. Still reckless. Still Tim.” A pause. “But calmer.”
You stared at him.
Batman’s gaze returned to you. “I didn’t know why.”
You had no idea what to do with that.
So you did what you always did.
You prepared to leave. “I should go.”
Batman’s voice sharpened. “That’s not necessary.”
“It is.”
Tim stirred faintly in the medbay. Your feet rooted to the floor.
“He’ll wake up,” you said. “He’ll forget. Then he’ll remember from notes, then he’ll feel guilty, then he’ll try harder. It’s a loop.”
“Then we break it.”
You looked at Batman. Something like anger sparked under your ribs.
“You can’t punch this.”
“I’m aware.”
“You can’t adopt it either.”
One corner of his mouth twitched.
Tiny. Devastatingly father-like.
“I’m aware of that as well.”
“Then what?”
Batman’s eyes moved to the computer. “Tim has theories.”
“Tim has a caffeine addiction and a martyr complex.”
“He also has a working prototype.”
You froze.
Bruce tapped a key.
A file opened.
CONTINUITY ANCHOR — FMN PROJECT
Your breath stopped. Schematics filled the screen. A visual tracking system. HUD integration. Facial recognition. Constant line-of-sight proxy through micro-cameras. Audio prompts. Haptic alerts. A recording loop designed to feed Tim reminders before, during, and after attention breaks.
A way to outsource memory. A way to build a bridge over the gap.
Not a cure. Never a cure.
But a handrail in the dark.
“He didn’t tell me,” you whispered.
“He likely intended to finish it first.”
“Of course he did.”
Because Tim Drake would rather bite through his own tongue than offer hope before he could guarantee it.
Your eyes burned.
On the screen, beneath the diagrams, was a note.
Not technical. Not polished. Just Tim’s writing, rushed and uneven.
They deserve continuity. Even if I can’t give memory, I can give consistency. That has to count for something.
You covered your mouth.
Batman looked away. Then immediately looked back, jaw tightening as his memory reset.
You laughed wetly.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Annoying, isn’t it?”
Batman stared at the screen. Then at you. Then, very carefully, he said, “I understand why Tim is angry.”
That undid you more than pity ever could.
Tim woke three hours later and forgot you before saying good morning.
His eyes opened. They landed on you.
Blankness.
Then he saw the note taped to the ceiling directly above his bed. YOU KNOW THEM. DO NOT PANIC. ASK FOR THE BLUE FOLDER.
He stared at it. Then exhaled.
“Morning?” he guessed.
You sat beside the medbay cot, knees pulled to your chest. “Afternoon.”
“Did I sleep?”
“Under duress.”
“Alfred?”
“Alfred.”
He nodded gravely. “Powerful man.”
“You have no idea.”
His gaze drifted to your face. Stayed there.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You sighed. “Tim.”
“No, don’t ‘Tim’ me. I know you hate it when I apologise for something I don’t remember doing—”
“I never told you that.”
His mouth shut.
You raised an eyebrow.
He looked briefly smug. “Physiological familiarity.”
“You are impossible.”
“I feel like you’ve said that before.”
“Many times.”
“Nice.”
You shook your head, but you were smiling.
He noticed. Tim always noticed. Even when he forgot why it mattered.
His expression softened. “You stayed.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
You looked at your hands.
Because you were tired. Because he kept trying. Because you had spent your whole life being temporary, and Tim Drake had looked at your curse and said, then I’ll build something that lasts.
Because hope had teeth, yes. But maybe you were tired of bleeding alone.
“You got shot,” you said.
“Again, technically stabbed after being shot.”
“Tim.”
“Right. Not the time.”
A quiet beat passed.
Then he said your name.
You looked up.
He was watching you with that unbearable focus.
“I don’t remember meeting you,” he said.
“I know.”
“I don’t remember most of our conversations.”
“I know.”
“I don’t remember why you look sad when I look away.”
Your throat tightened.
“But I know I hate it,” he said softly.
You stared at him. Tim’s fingers curled against the blanket.
“I know there are gaps,” he continued. “I know something is missing. Every time I reset, it’s like walking into a room after someone has stopped crying. I don’t know what happened, but I know it mattered.”
Your eyes burned. “Tim—”
“I’m not saying that fixes anything.”
“Good, because it doesn’t.”
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
His face changed.
You regretted it instantly. But the words were out now, and maybe they deserved air after all.
“You don’t know,” you said, voice shaking. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to prove you exist every single day. To explain yourself over and over until your own name sounds fake. To watch someone care about you and then lose it because they looked at a clock.”
Tim went very still.
You stood because sitting hurt too much.
“You don’t know what it’s like to be someone’s favourite person for five minutes and a stranger for the rest of your life.”
Silence.
Huge. Electric. Tim’s eyes did not leave you.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
You laughed once, broken and sharp. “I know.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“No.”
“What does?”
You looked at him. He looked so tired. So young, suddenly. Not Red Robin. Not the genius detective. Just Tim, with messy hair and stitches in his side and your name written on his wrist like a prayer he refused to stop saying.
“I don’t know,” you admitted.
Tim absorbed that. Then he nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“If there’s no fix yet, then we start with no fix.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“It’s the beginning of one.”
Despite everything, a laugh trembled out of you.
He smiled faintly.
“There it is,” he said.
Your heart did something stupid. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that.”
His smile faded. “Like what?”
“Like I’m someone you could keep.”
Tim’s expression went quiet. Then he reached toward the tray beside him, picked up a marker, and wrote something on his palm.
He turned it toward you.
TRY.
One word. Three letters. Ridiculous. Insufficient.
Everything.
Your breath caught.
“That’s not enough,” you said.
“I know.”
“You’ll forget.”
“Probably.”
“It’ll hurt.”
“Probably.”
“You’ll get tired.”
His eyes sharpened. “No.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Yes,” Tim said. “I can.”
You wanted to argue. You wanted to run. You wanted to believe him so badly it felt like standing on the edge of a building with no grapple and calling it flight.
Tim lowered his hand. “I don’t get to choose what my brain keeps,” he said. “But I get to choose what I do about what it loses.”
You pressed your lips together.
He swallowed. “And I choose to try.”
Your vision blurred. “Every time?”
His voice softened. “Every time.”
You looked away.
For once, someone else remembered the important part.
The prototype was ugly.
You told Tim this. He looked offended.
“It is functional.”
“It looks like a beetle married a security camera.”
“That’s mean.”
“It has antennae.”
“They’re signal stabilisers.”
“They’re emotionally antennae.”
Tim scowled at the device clipped onto his cowl.
Nightwing, who had been instructed not to look away and had taken this to mean he should stare at you with the intensity of a golden retriever witnessing a magic trick, nodded. “It’s a little buggy.”
Tim pointed at him. “You’re not invited to science anymore.”
“I was invited to science?”
“No.”
“Harsh.”
The Continuity Anchor worked. Mostly.
Tiny cameras mounted in Tim’s cowl maintained visual contact when his eyes moved. His HUD displayed a small marker whenever you were in range. If all visual tracking broke, an audio cue played in his ear.
You know them. Look for notes. Do not panic.
Tim recorded it himself.
You hated the first version. He sounded too clinical.
The second version was worse. Too gentle.
The third version made you leave the room.
You came back to find Tim sitting alone, staring at the recorder.
He looked up at you.
“I don’t know how to talk to myself about you,” he admitted.
Your anger dissolved on impact. “Try talking to me.”
So he did.
The final version said Hey. You forgot. That’s okay. They’re real. You trust them. They are not leaving because of this unless you make them feel like they should. Be kind. Start there.
You listened to it once. Then never again.
It lived in Tim’s ear now. A tiny ghost of himself, guiding him back.
The first field test happened on a rooftop at dawn.
Gotham stretched around you in bruised purples and dirty gold. The city looked almost soft from up there, which was one of its better lies.
Tim stood beside you in full Red Robin gear, the new system humming faintly.
“Ready?” he asked.
“No.”
“Great. Me neither.”
You gave him a look.
He smiled. Nervous. Hopeful.
You hated how beautiful he looked in the thin morning light.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to look away.”
Your stomach clenched. “Okay.”
“I’ll look back.”
“You might not know why.”
“I’ll have help.”
You nodded.
He took a breath. Then slowly, deliberately, Tim Drake turned his head and looked out over Gotham.
The world did not end. For him, maybe it shifted.
For you, it cracked open.
His profile was sharp against the sunrise. The wind tugged at his cape. One second passed. Two. Three.
Then he turned back.
His eyes found you. For half a heartbeat, there was blankness.
A terrible, familiar void.
Then his HUD must have triggered.
His hand twitched.
His gaze dropped to the writing on his wrist.
Then back to your face.
Recognition did not return.
Not fully. Not magically.
But something else did.
Choice.
“Hi,” Tim said softly.
Your eyes stung. “Hi.”
He stepped closer. “Did it work?”
You laughed, and it came out like crying. “Depends what you mean by work.”
“Did I panic?”
“No.”
“Did I threaten you?”
“No.”
“Did I make that face?”
“What face?”
“The one that makes you look like you’re trying not to disappear on purpose.”
Your breath left you.
Tim’s mouth tilted, small and sad. “I don’t have to remember everything to notice you.”
That was unfair.
That was devastating.
That was Tim.
You wiped at your face quickly. “This is still going to be hard.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m still going to get hurt.”
“I know.”
“You can’t just tech-solution your way out of grief.”
He winced. “That one felt personal.”
“It was.”
“Fair.”
You both stood there, the sun rising behind Gotham’s teeth.
Then Tim held out his hand.
Not grabbing. Not assuming.
Just offering.
“You don’t have to,” he said.
You stared at his hand. “How very dare you be respectful right now.”
His lips twitched. “Trying something new.”
“It’s rude.”
“I’ll stop immediately.”
“No.”
The word came out too fast.
Tim’s smile softened.
Slowly, like approaching a scared animal or a miracle, you placed your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours.
Warm. Careful. Real.
He looked down at your joined hands.
Your heart lurched. “Tim—”
His gaze snapped back to your face.
Still there. Still knowing enough.
The camera on his cowl gave a tiny mechanical whirr.
He grinned. “Science.”
You laughed wetly. “Dork.”
“Accurate.”
He rubbed his thumb once across your knuckles. “Can I ask you something?”
“You usually do.”
“Have I asked you on a date yet?”
Your entire brain short-circuited. “What?”
“I’m guessing no.”
“Tim.”
“That sounds like no.”
“You cannot ask me out because your own tech is bullying your memory into cooperating.”
“Actually, I can do whatever I want. I’m very stubborn.”
“You got stabbed yesterday.”
“Shot, then stabbed.”
“I swear to God—”
“Coffee,” he said.
You stopped.
His thumb moved again. “Just coffee. Somewhere public. Somewhere with reflective surfaces covered if needed, cameras on, notes ready, exits clear. Worst first date ever, logistically, but emotionally? Strong concept.”
You stared at him.
He looked nervous now. Actually nervous. Tim Drake, who fought assassins and solved murders and apparently stared down gods with caffeine and audacity, was nervous because he had asked you for coffee.
Your heart broke in a new direction. A better one, maybe.
“You might forget halfway through.”
“I might.”
“You might look back at me and not know we’re on a date.”
“I might.”
“That would be awful.”
“Probably.”
“And you still want to?”
Tim’s voice went quiet. “Yes.”
You searched his face.
There was no perfect answer there. No cure. No promise safe enough to build forever on.
Only Tim. Only trying. Only a boy with too much grief and too little sleep, holding your hand like forgetting was not the same as letting go.
You squeezed his fingers.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Tim’s smile bloomed slowly. The sunrise caught on his lenses, turning them gold. “Okay?”
“Coffee.”
“Coffee,” he agreed.
“And if you forget, I’m leaving you with the bill.”
His smile widened. “Reasonable.”
“And I’m picking the place.”
“Smart.”
“And no making Forget-Me-Not my codename.”
He hesitated.
“Tim.”
“Fine.”
“Tim.”
“Fine.”
You laughed. He looked at you like the sound was something worth surviving for.
Then, because the universe was still cruel but maybe not only cruel, Tim looked away.
A gull cried overhead.
The city moved.
His hand stayed in yours.
The device in his cowl whispered softly.
His fingers tightened.
Then he looked back.
For one splintered second, his face was blank.
Your heart braced itself.
Then he glanced at his wrist. At your hand. At your face.
And smiled.
“Hi,” he said.
You smiled back, tears slipping hot down your cheeks. “Hi.”
Tim lifted your joined hands, pressing his mouth gently to your knuckles.
Not because he remembered everything.
Because he chose to begin again.
And for the first time in your life, being forgotten did not feel exactly like being gone.
⋆˙⟡ chapter synopsis: after figuring out that your regular—jason—who you have a small crush on is actually red hood, he saves you from a robbery attempt, as a result, you ask him out on a date.
⋆˙⟡ pairing: jason todd 𝔁 cashier!reader.
⋆˙⟡ content warnings/tags: mild stalking (binoculars, rooftops—played for humor); references to vigilantism/violence; mild language; mention of hospitalization, injury (head wound, stitches, bruises).
⋆˙⟡ word count: 9.4k.
⋆˙⟡ author’s note: this is set in the same universe as @coffeelovingreader’s upcoming tim fic, so you’ll be meeting honey!reader here, who’s paired with tim. i also want to thank @fromrory, who helped me translate arabic for a specific scene in this fic. thank you for the support on part one, here is part two for everyone who asked!
✏ part one───GOT SOMETHIN’ IN MY SYSTEM! ౄ on AO3!
The convenience store hasn’t changed a bit since your hospital visit. You were halfway in the entrance, eyes trailing over the “OPEN” sign, which is still missing the “O”. The letters are glowing a dark purple, contrasting against the evening’s dark hues—it definitely makes this store look like you sell dirty magazines.
The bell above the door is cracking at the edges now, but it still gives out a sound that’s so loud you’ll never get used to it. Plus, it exposed your presence to Marjorie.
“I’m fine, Marj,” you raise your hands, gesturing to your more than intact skull. “See? I’m in one piece. Better than ever, in fact. I’m ready to get back to work. Do you need restocking? Cleaning?”
You’ll take anything at this point. Just to forget how cold the counter was when your head collided with it. How rough that robber’s grip was around your arm. How helpless you felt.
“You think I’m blind, huh?” Marjorie points, jabbing her finger in your chest. You huff out a breath in response to the push. “Look at you! You look half dead.”
“Thanks, Marj,” you deadpan, hands now on your hips.
“Don’t thank me. Thank that regular of yours. What’s the boy’s name? Started with a ‘J’, didn’t it?”
Right. The not-so-smart cover story you conjured up to explain what happened that night—that no, it wasn’t Red Hood who bridal carried you off to the nearest hospital. It was all Jason—a regular with a heart too big.
And hands big too.
You’ve definitely got issues you need to fix.
“Jason. His name is Jason,” you remind her. “I find it hard to believe you don’t remember him.”
You lean back against the counter. Marjorie cornered you as soon as you walked through the door. Your apron is hung over your shoulder. You wanted to get back to work as soon as you could. To have something to distract yourself with and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get the chance to see Jason again.
“Why would I?” Marjorie waves a hand. “Does he pay well?”
You raise a brow at her eager tone.
“He’s the Jason that buys the expensive cigarettes.”
Marjorie squints her eyes at you. Her wrinkles become even more pronounced with her furrowed brows.
“The Yellow Spirits?”
“Oh,” she gasps. “You’re talking about the Jason you have a crush on!”
God help you. You should have stayed at the hospital.
“That’s not—” you sputter a reply, “—that’s totally not what’s going on.”
Marjorie tilts her head at you. Her eyes glint. You don’t like what that means. You’ve raised your hands again. In protest now. And you hope they cover your flushed cheeks.
“You chose a good one,” Marjorie nods in approval.
“Please, do not talk like that.” You groan into your palms.
“He saved you, he’s not too bad on the eyes—”
“Oh, my god.”
“—he pays well. The most important bit. If he asks for a date, do not act frugal. Go somewhere expensive, kid. You’re completely hopeless, so I have to help you.”
“Can I just,” you try to change the subject, “organize the cigarette stand or something?”
Marjorie sighs. There’s a small piece of actual worry in her tone. For a moment, you think you imagined it. She steps closer to you, raising her hand to grab your shoulder. You have to lean down a bit to reach her height.
“Only if you don’t steal Yellow Spirits for your boyfriend.”
Never mind.
“I’ve never shoplifted.”
“Look at you,” she grips your shoulder tighter. “You haven’t denied the fact that he is your boyfriend.”
“I can’t tell if you’re threatening me or not, Marj.”
“Just don’t make out in the shop.”
“You’ve actually gone crazy in the time I was in the hospital.”
“I don’t care if he played hero. He pays just like any customer.”
“So,” you tut, “no favoritism?”
“You can show that favoritism outside the shop. However you want to.”
She lets go of your shoulder, but not before patting you in the most affectionate way that Marjorie is capable of. She looks you up and down, eyes trailing to the small stitches peeking out of your clothes. You pull down your sleeves by instinct.
“Only the cigarette shelf,” she says.
“Only the cigarette shelf,” you parrot back. “And maybe the counter? Please?”
“Okay, fine,” Marjorie groans. “But you’re out of here by five. Or six.”
“That’s so soon,” you look at the clock—4:12 PM.
“It’s your fault for coming in at all,” she clicks her tongue. “Be thankful I’m letting you go instead of locking you up in here.”
You nod your head. She returns the gesture and starts walking back to her little manager’s office, which is huddled at the back of the convenience store. She slams the door.
You sigh. The stitches still feel a bit raw. You try to limit your movements as you step behind the counter. The cigarette shelf is the same as you left it. Marjorie didn’t keep the shop open for some reason. You think it’s because she secretly cares about you and misses your presence.
You unlock the stand. The Marlboros and Yellow Spirit packs catch your eye.
You can’t get Red Hood—Jason out of your mind. No matter how hard you try. Your hand lingers on the cigarette pack. In your mind, you try to remember his lighter—the silver was cold to the touch. You want to trace the Latin engraving again. Somehow, that leads to the thoughts of his scars resurfacing—the river-like form of them as they trail down his arms. The way he gestured you to light his cigarette, the way he leaned in and you—in your awestruck reverie, lost in his dim sea-green eyes—lit it for him.
You shut the cigarette shelf shut. Fuck. You’re actually doomed. Absolutely doomed.
You’re just glad Jason wasn’t here to see Marjorie figure out your…crush, if that’s what you could call it.
What you don’t notice is the motorcycle across the street. It’s parked in a way that you can barely see it from the counter window. You don’t notice the biker who hasn’t moved from his spot, the very same man who has scars like rivers and green eyes hiding under the helmet.
Jason’s grip around the handlebars tightens. From your flushed face and constant stares at the cigarette shelf, he can only hope you were thinking about him.
He knows he’s acting like a complete creep right now.
It’s not like this is the first time he’s watched you. He stopped by during the days he was free from patrolling. Even subconsciously circled your store while on patrol. He’s gotten weird looks from Tim already.
That night, he didn’t even notice him sneaking up. It was two weeks ago. The rooftop near the store.
+++
Jason had his binoculars out—binoculars, like some kind of birdwatcher—and Tim had landed behind him without a sound. Which was ironic, considering the stern lecture that followed.
Tim had snatched the binoculars right out of his hands. Peered through them. Spotted you behind the counter, restocking the cigarette shelf.
“Is this the cashier from the robbery?”
Jason had snatched the binoculars back. “Mind your business.”
“You’re stalking them.”
“I’m protecting them,” Jason swung a kick near where Tim was standing, getting a quiet swear as a response.
“Sure,” Tim rolled his eyes. “Do they know that you watch them? I, personally,” he laid a hand on his chest, “would want to know if a vigilante was stalking me. This is a horrible basis for a relationship.”
“Do I badger you about your honey?” Jason swung again, and that time it hit the target.
Tim stumbled and barely caught himself. His ears went pink.
“She’s not my—” He stopped midway. “You know what? Continue stalking your cashier.”
“They’re not my cashier.” Not yet anyway. Jason shoved the binoculars back into his jacket. “And you’re the last one to talk about stalking.”
“I don’t stalk. It’s called being prepared. Totally the opposite of whatever you’re doing here.”
“What you call being prepared is actually being a freak, Drake.”
Tim crossed his arms. Leaned against the ledge. Looked out toward the store—toward you, still behind the counter, completely oblivious.
“Fine,” Tim said. “But if you’re going to keep doing this, at least talk to them. The binoculars thing is sad.”
The city hummed below. Somewhere, a siren wailed.
“Just don’t screw it up,” Tim said finally. “They seem nice.”
“They are.”
“Then stop watching from rooftops and go inside.”
“Tomorrow,” he said.
Tim snorted. “You said that last week.”
“This time I mean it.”
“Sure you do.”
Jason swung at him again. Tim dodged. Grappled away with that stupid, smug look still on his face.
Asshole.
But he wasn’t wrong.
+++
Tomorrow, he told Tim. Today is tomorrow.
God, this is so stupid.
Screw it.
He takes off the helmet. The fresh Gotham air bites at his cheeks. It oddly feels exhilarating. The idea of seeing you after so long is running through his bloodstream like fire.
It only takes him a few seconds to cross the street. In his complete daydream, he doesn’t even look both ways. His gaze is locked onto your figure. The way you move behind the counter. He notes the way you bite down on your lip while counting the cigarette packs. The way you readjust your collar and expose just a small piece of your neck.
He probably mirrors your flushed look right now. Who could blame him? He can’t take his eyes off of you, no matter where you are—in a sketchy convenience store, leaning on the counter, or in a hospital, berating him as if he’s not one of Gotham’s most feared men.
His hand grabs the door handle, twisting it. In his mind, he’s a man with blood caked into his skin, running through the grooves of his fingertips. But you don’t seem afraid to get your hands dirty by luring him in—lighting his cigarette with the smoke spreading between the two of you.
You scare him more than anyone. That spurs him on more than anything.
He steps through the entrance. The bell above rings. It only takes you a minute to turn, eyes trailing to him. Your lips form into a small “O” as you take in his figure. It’s as if there is lightning playing on his skin.
Just as he planned, your eyes first trail to his exposed tattoos. He can’t fight back the smirk that’s forming on his lips.
“Cat got your tongue?”
Teasing bastard.
His voice sounds as if it’s been dipped in honey—hoarse at the edges, but luring you in with a promise of something more.
You completely forget the key to the cigarette shelf in your hands. Your fingers flex, tightening around the sharp key.
“Oh—” you feel the edges dig into the skin of your palm, “—Crap.”
The smirk on Jason’s face disappears, replaced with a frown. He steps near the counter, gesturing for you to move closer. His hands are outstretched. There are faint callouses spread throughout the skin. You can trace a single scar over his palm.
He notices your stare and chuckles in response. The sound is light, escaping his lips with a hiss.
“I’m not going to bite your head off.”
Speaking of biting… Your eyes trail back to his arms. You manage to take a step closer to him, placing your hand in his. He turns your hand palm up. He does this while keeping eye contact with you.
In any other situation, you’d rip your gaze away from him. You’d find something else to focus on to somehow ignore the heat spreading from your palm to your entire body.
His fingertips trace the skin irritated by the key’s edges. There’s a small trace of red across your palm, but the skin isn’t cut.
“No blood. Lucky you.”
“For once,” you snort.
He doesn’t let go. His grip stays firm around your hand, but it never gets too much. He softly tugs your palm near him—like an offer. It’s more like he’s pleading for something. You’re the one leaning over him, looking down on him. His elbows are on the counter, the cold of the surface is probably seeping into his skin, but if he feels as flushed as you do—which you think he definitely does, considering the pink hue of the tips of his ears—the sensation won’t bother him.
He seems to be focused on you to care anyway.
You lean closer, your body following how his hand tugs you towards him. You swallow. He’s so close. Too close. Too close for a convenience store with Marjorie in the room next to you two.
“Someone might see,” you warn, but your voice is missing the bite.
“Let them see,” he mumbles while bringing your knuckles to his lips.
He doesn’t kiss like a gentleman from a black-and-white movie. His lips are surprisingly warm. They’re softer than you expected. His lips don’t leave your knuckles. The skin just above the bones is slightly bruised. You don’t remember how or when the bruises formed. Probably in the struggle.
You can’t focus on the whys and hows, especially now.
Jason’s eyes are half-closed. You can still see the sparkle of his eyes behind those lashes. It’s as if he’s memorizing the feel of your skin, the grooves of it, the way the colors bloom into faint purples and yellows.
His brows furrow at the sight of the bruises. You want to say something. You’re sure he’s spiraling—blaming himself or something ridiculous. You’re about to form at least a single word, but the sensation of something warmer on your knuckles knocks the breath out of your lungs.
You feel the barest slip of something softer. Wetter. It slides across the purple-yellow bruise.
For a moment, you both stay frozen in time. You don’t move your hand, half flustered beyond measure and half too curious to see what he will do. Jason doesn’t look up, but you can see his eyes widen. He’s surprised himself just as much as he surprised you. You think he’s more baffled by the fact that you haven’t stopped him.
You tilt your head, taking in his expression. His lips are parted against your skin, like he couldn’t help himself. As if he had entirely forgotten where he was.
Your fingers curl.
“Jason?”
He pulls back. His lips are glossed over. His ears are pink at the tips.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling back.
You almost whine at the loss of contact.
Will he be creeped out if you tell him to continue?
Definitely.
He started it, though.
“Don’t be,” the words escape your lips before you can stop them.
Jason’s expression contorts. His lips are stuck between a crooked half-smile and being parted in a gasp. You can’t tell which one you want more—for him to take the lead again, or for him to be under your mercy for once.
“You’re going to get me in so much trouble,” you say, voice so quiet only he can hear it.
He’s so close you’re sure your breath grazes his ear as you speak. He leans towards the sensation.
“Worth it.”
He turns your hand over, pressing another kiss to your palm. Right near where the key dug in.
Your knees feel weak.
“I,” you try to find the words, “can’t tell if you’re doing all of this on purpose just to fluster me.”
“Maybe,” he doesn’t deny it. His thumb traces circles on your wrist. “Is it working?”
Before you can answer—before you can even think about answering—the office door creaks.
You yank your hand back like you’ve been burned.
Jason doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even move. Just looks at you with those stupid green eyes, that stupid little smirk, like he knew exactly when Marjorie was going to interrupt.
Bastard. Charming bastard. But still.
The door doesn’t open all the way. Just a crack. Marjorie’s voice slips through.
“I’m making coffee,” she calls out. “Anyone want some?”
You glance at Jason. He glances at you.
“No coffee,” you say, voice too high. “We’re good. We’re fine. Everything’s normal.”
“Didn’t ask if everything was normal. Asked if you wanted coffee.”
“No. Thank you. No coffee.”
The door creaks shut.
You exhale, pressing your forehead against the counter. The laminate is cold. It does nothing to cool you down.
Marjorie opens the door again, and you’re sure you feel your heart actually jump out of your chest. Jason only snorts at your expression.
“Kid, you’re going home.”
“Wait, what?” you ask, voice still high.
“I gave you one rule,” Marjorie pops her head out of the manager’s office. “Do you even remember it?”
“Don’t shoplift?”
“You shoplifted Marjorie’s stuff?” Jason asks you with an insufferable grin that you desperately want to wipe off his face.
Maybe with a punch.
Or a kiss.
He seems like the type of guy to enjoy both.
“No!” Marjorie’s voice rings out in the whole shop. “Don’t-make-out-with-your-boyfriend rule during work! Even if the shop has no customers in the building.”
Jason looks back at you. The grin has grown even bigger—it’s now a full-blown smile. Giddy even. Your heart tightens.
“He’s not my boyfriend!”
“He’s not?”
“I’m not?”
“You haven’t even taken me out on a date yet!”
“A shame,” Marjorie tuts. “You know, the pier is a good idea for a date. They’ve got good hot dogs there.”
Jason’s grin falters for a second. Suddenly, he rises from the counter. There’s a familiar flicker in his gaze.
“Then let me give you a ride home. We can plan out the date then.”
“I,” you sputter, “I mean, yes! But only if you want to. Not that I’m against it. It’s just a pier date is kind of expensive. Minus the hot dogs, I guess—”
“It being expensive is the main point,” Marjorie’s voice rings out again.
“I know what I said,” his voice is full of certainty. “I could give you a ride home.”
“On your motorcycle?”
He tilts his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Better hold on tight.”
Marjorie clears her throat. “I’ll be in my office. Locking the door. Not listening.”
She disappears. The door clicks shut.
“It’s just a single ride,” he says.
“Just a single ride?” you mentally scold yourself for repeating it. “That sounds like it means something else.”
“Well, now that you point it out—”
“—just, give me five minutes.”
Jason nods with a breathless chuckle. He steps back. The bell rings as he opens the door.
“I’ll be outside.”
And he’s gone.
And you’re about to melt on this very spot.
You press your palms against your eyes. Count to ten. You grab your bag from under the counter. You snatch a Marlboro from the cigarette shelf and hope Marjorie will forgive you for this one transgression.
Marjorie’s door cracks open.
“Five minutes,” she says. “Not six.”
“Okay, goodbye!” You run past the counter, throwing a wave over your shoulder. “I’ll definitely clock in after well, all of this?”
”Just go!”
Your apron is left forgotten on the counter.
“Kids these days.”
+++
The bell hasn’t even stopped ringing behind you before you spot the bike.
The motorcycle is parked right outside, and somehow it’s exactly what you expected. Matte black, all of it—the tank, the hardware, the mirrors catching nothing but grey Gotham sky. A leather bag is buckled to the tank, worn at the edges in the way that suggests it’s been there a long time. It’s a heavy thing, broad, and low to the ground.
You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to.
Of course, this is his bike.
Jason is already near it, helmet tucked under his arm. He’s got a second helmet hanging off the handlebars.
You stop dead on the sidewalk.
“You weren’t kidding about the motorcycle.”
“I don’t kid about things that go fast.” He holds out the extra helmet. “You scared?”
“No.”
“Good.”
You take the helmet. It’s heavier than you expected. You fumble with the strap for a second before his hands cover yours.
“Let me.”
Oh, my god. His hands are way too close.
You totally haven’t daydreamed about this.
He buckles it under your chin. His knuckles brush your jaw. His eyes don’t leave yours the whole time, while your gaze flickers between him and his knuckles—the skin is almost white, as if he’s nervous.
“There,” he says. “Now you won’t die.”
“Comforting,” you quip. “You’ve got a way with words, Todd.”
He swings his leg over the bike with a chuckle. The suspension dips. He twists the key, and the engine rumbles to life. The sound is low and guttural, like something waking up.
He looks back at you. As if he’s expecting something, he jerks his head toward the seat behind him. The idea of actually getting on his bike is too much. What will you even hang onto? His shoulders?
Hopefully, his waist.
Maybe staying in the store was a better idea.
“You coming or not?”
Get it together.
You step closer. The bike is taller than you expected. You put a hand on his shoulder for balance—his shoulder is solid, warm through his jacket—and swing your leg over. The seat is narrow and firm. You can feel the engine humming through it, a vibration that settles right in your chest.
“Hold on,” he says.
“To what?”
He reaches back. Grabs your wrists and pulls your arms around his waist.
“That.”
Everything about him is firm. Your chest presses against his back. He’s warm. You place your cheek against his shoulder. You can smell leather and smoke and something underneath—soap, maybe.
“Don’t let go,” he says.
Then the bike lurches forward, and you hold on tighter. You can feel how his entire body strains beneath your hold, as if your touch is affecting him, just like what his touch does to you.
The city blurs past. Streetlights smear into streaks of orange and yellow. The wind is cold against your cheeks, but his body blocks most of it—broad shoulders, that stupid jacket, the way he leans into every turn like he’s part of the machine.
You lean with him. It may be instinct. You can’t help it, your fingers twitch—just where your knuckles graze his torso. The skin beneath his shirt is warm despite the biting cold air. Your knees feel weak. You can make out the small shape of something square in his jacket pocket—maybe a lighter. The one that exposed him to you.
Never in your life have you been so thankful for someone’s smoking habits.
You let go of his waist, one hand staying looped around him and the other digging in your pocket. Jason looks back, silently asking if you’re okay. You tap a finger on his torso. You hear a huff through his helmet as a response.
You take the Marlboro pack you borrowed—or stole—from the cigarette shelf. Leaning your chest even closer to his back, you slide the pack into his pocket.
“So, you do shoplift,” Jason says, the words are muffled through the helmet.
“For you,” you wrap your arms around his waist again.
“I’m the luckiest man in the world.”
You groan against the crook of his neck. He chuckles in response.
At a red light, his hand comes down to rest over yours and squeezes once. The touch is reassuring. You move your head, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.
“Doing okay back there?”
“Ask me when I can feel my legs again!”
“I’d rather ask now,” he says, his voice just below a whisper. You can hear the sound reach you, consider how close he is. “I can feel you blushing, you know. You’re warm.”
“Shut up.”
He laughs. The sound vibrates through his back, through your chest, through the bone. You tighten your arms around his waist. He turns slightly. You raise your head in response. His eyes are locked onto yours. Before you can ask what he’s planning, his lips graze your forehead. It’s a bit of an awkward movement, considering the helmet, but it gets your cheeks hot either way.
The light turns green. He twists the throttle and the world speeds up again.
+++
He pulls up in front of your building. The engine cuts out. The sudden silence is almost louder than the roar. You don’t let go right away. Neither does he. Your legs have completely given up on you from the ride. Plus the feel of his torso under your hands, the kiss on your forehead—
“We’re here,” he says.
“I can see that.”
His thumb traces a circle on your knuckles, just like in the store. Then he pulls away, swinging off the bike. He offers you a hand.
You take it. Your legs are wobbly. He steadies you with a hand on your elbow.
“Told you,” he says. “Not going to let you fall.”
You unbuckle the helmet and hand it back to him. His fingers brush yours. You almost lean in, instinctively searching for his touch.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Seven. The pier.”
“You’re really set on those hot dogs.”
“I’m really set on you.”
You might actually melt.
“Goodnight, Jason.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
You’re about to step back towards the apartment entrance, but a thought stops you.
“How do you know where I live?”
He doesn’t answer right away. You can see how his fingers twitch.
“The hospital,” he says. “They gave me your paperwork. Thought I was your emergency contact.”
“You didn’t correct them?”
He looks at you. There’s something soft in his expression, a familiar glint in his eyes. The streetlights reflect in his gaze.
“Didn’t seem like the right time to argue.”
You can’t turn around. Not yet. There’s a thought forming—one that you’re not sure how it will end, but the warmth spreading in your body moves you on its own despite the cold. Despite the beating of your heart.
You take a step near Jason. His eyes follow you. There’s confusion in his expression as his brows furrow. You lean over, and your lips brush his cheek. His skin is surprisingly soft—even the faint scar running down the cheek is tender.
He goes very still.
You pull back. Your face is hot. Your heart is loud in your ears. You’re sure you look ridiculous.
“Thank you,” you whisper. “For the ride. For the hospital. For—” you gesture vaguely at all of him, “—everything.”
Jason blinks. His lips part, but close just as soon.
“Yeah,” he says. His voice is rougher than before. “Yeah, I—” He clears his throat. “Any time, sweetheart.”
The nickname lands differently now. Like there’s something tangible here. Like you won’t only hear him say that in some sketchy shop, behind a counter.
You turn towards your building. Your hand is on the door when he speaks again.
“Hey.”
You look back.
He’s still standing by the bike. One hand is in his pocket. The other is holding both helmets. The white streak in his hair catches the streetlight.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Seven. The pier, remember?”
“I know.”
“Just wanted to make sure.”
You smile. It’s as if you can’t help it.
“Goodnight, Jason.”
“Goodnight.”
You slip inside and close the door. You lean against the wood. There’s no one else in the apartment lobby. The silence doesn’t bother you one bit. The beating pace of your heart is still ringing in your ears.
Through the glass, you watch him stand there for a long moment. Then he shakes his head—at himself, probably—and swings a leg over the bike.
The engine rumbles. The taillight disappears around the corner.
You press your finger to your lips. His cheek was so soft.
You’re so gone.
+++
You don’t get a wink of sleep. You’re mostly sure it’s not because of the concussion. You’ve been staring at the ceiling fan in the middle of your bedroom. It turns and turns nonstop, just like your wandering thoughts.
The sheets feel too warm, bordering on hot. Maybe you’re even sweating. You turn on your stomach. The pillow isn’t cold like before. You punch it and groan into the cushion
All of this because of a date. You haven’t been on a date with a guy you actually wanted to impress in a while. And you really want to impress Jason.
You turn on your back. The ceiling fan is still turning. The faint buzz is starting to annoy you. You try to close your eyes—to force yourself to sleep—but every time you do, you’re back on that motorcycle. His back against your chest. His hand over yours at the red light. His lips on your forehead.
His lips on your forehead.
Seven o’clock. The pier.
Does he even like hot dogs? Or those carousels? Would he want to take pictures in a photo booth? Will he hold onto the picture?
You flip onto your side. Your phone screen blinks 2:47 AM at you. The ceiling fan is still turning. The whole apartment has gone quiet. It’s as if you’re holding your breath.
You have no idea what to wear.
You’ve known this man for what amounts to a handful of shifts, one robber, one hospital visit, one motorcycle ride, a kiss on your forehead, and weeks’ worth of interaction back when you thought Jason and Red Hood were different people.
Now you know something about Jason Todd that most people in this city don’t know. The man who saved your life, made sure you were safely transported to a hospital, sat in the waiting chair as you dozed off to sedatives, is the same person who patrols Gotham with guns on his back, helmet over his face, and a reputation that strikes fear in the heart of most.
You know he’s Red Hood. You’ve known for a few weeks—since the robbery attempt he saved you from. And that’s big, obviously. That’s the kind of thing that should make a normal person reconsider the whole situation from the ground up. But here’s the thing, you can’t reason around—
You’re not actually afraid of Red Hood.
You’re afraid of how little you know Jason.
Red Hood, you’ve seen. Red Hood walked into your store bleeding and smelling like smoke and gunpowder, calling you sweetheart just like a certain regular of yours—Jason. You just never connect the dots. You didn’t even have the chance before someone pointed a gun at you for a few hundred bucks. Red Hood saved you from that—he’s a known quantity. Terrifying when he wants to be, yes, but known.
Jason Todd is a person. A real one. A person who gets pink in the ears and gets nervous whenever you flirt back. He traces circles on your knuckles. He didn’t leave your side in the hospital—most of you don’t even remember other than IV bags and the mumbling of nurses. He apparently listed himself as your emergency contact. He kissed your hand in front of Marjorie and didn’t flinch when she walked out.
And tomorrow you’re going to take that person to a pier. A date you asked for, half-awake from a concussion in a hospital bed.
And he’s going to eat a hot dog, and you’re going to eat a hot dog, and then what? Will you make conversation? About what? You know he smokes Yellow Spirits, and he might speak Latin, but you’re not completely sure. You know how his expression shifts when someone actually takes the first step. You know how he tugs on his clothes when he’s nervous and thinking of something witty to say. You know he worries often, but doesn’t want to show it.
But you don’t know his favorite anything. You don’t know what vices he has other than the cigarettes. You don’t know what he does when it isn’t patrol. You don’t know what he sounds like when he’s tired, or bored, or genuinely happy about something unrelated to getting a reaction out of you.
You groan. Your pillow gets turned over and punched once more for good measure.
You really need to pull yourself together.
+++
Across the city, Jason is also staring at his ceiling.
He’s been staring at it for three hours.
Though he’s on his couch instead of his bed. The sheets were too soft. The couch is just the perfect balance between comfortable and rough that keeps him on the line between half-awake and thinking about you.
There’s a live police scanner perched on the table, just a step away from the couch. He’s been listening to GCPD officer Hunnigan complain about someone leaving cupcakes outside the precinct, worried about the possibility that there might be a bomb in the box.
There’s no chatter about your neighborhood. Thankfully.
The thing keeping him awake isn’t the date—or not just the date. He’s done things that require significantly more nerve than a pier and a hot dog. He’s bled on rooftops and talked his way out of more situations than he can count. A date shouldn’t be the thing that has him counting ceiling cracks at 3 AM.
He should probably look into fixing those cracks. You probably won’t like it when you come over.
Then it hits him—his mind is so used to the idea of you actually wanting him fully. He’s even thinking of you visiting him. Not if, but when. Jason can’t remember the last time he let himself actually enjoy something and think he deserved it at the same time. He can only dirty his hands with blood for so long before his being starts wanting something else. Someone else.
You asked him out—took the lead like no one else. Made all of this real when he thought it was temporary.
That’s the part he can’t stop turning over.
His phone buzzes.
Goldie is calling.
Jason stares at the screen. It buzzes again. He picks it up.
“Why are you calling me at three in the morning?”
“Just got back from patrol,” Dick says, still slightly out of breath. “Saw you were online. Figured you’d ignore a text.”
“I would have.”
“I know.” There’s a pause. The sound of him moving around—setting something down, pulling off a boot, probably. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Jason.”
“It’s nothing, Dick.”
“Is it the date?”
How did he even know— Tim.
“It’s the date,” Dick says.
“Goodnight.”
“Hey—hey, don’t hang up. I’m not going to make fun of you,” Dick pauses for a second. “Much.”
Jason drops his arm over his face. He lets out a muffled groan. He stares at the ceiling.
What is actually going on with him?
The fact is, he doesn’t know the answer to that. He doesn’t know what your apartment looks like. He doesn’t know if you take your coffee with anything in it. He doesn’t know what you sound like when you’re not behind a counter, on familiar ground, armed with a job to do and a register to hide your hands behind.
He knows the way you bit your lip, counting cigarette packs. He knows the color your knuckles went when you gripped the counter during the robbery. He knows you shoplift Marlboros for company and that you’ve been thinking about him—he’s almost certain—the same way he’s been thinking about you.
He knows all of that.
He doesn’t know you.
“I don’t actually know them,” Jason says. “Outside the store. I know how they act behind a counter. That’s the whole of it. Which, I guess, isn’t that big of a problem, but it is big to me. What if I want to give them flowers for the first date they themselves asked me out on, and I don’t even know their favorite color to get the proper flowers? Do they even like flowers?”
There’s silence on the other end. He should have never mentioned the flowers. Dick will never let him live it down. But a few tulips would be nice.
“Oh,” Dick says, his voice too soft for Jason’s liking. “Jay.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“That’s a very loaded oh, Jay, Dick.”
“Okay.” Dick pauses again. He can hear Dick opening what sounds like a cupboard. “Can I say something?”
“Are you seriously eating while giving me a lecture?” Jason deadpans. “You know what—sure, you’re going to say it anyway.”
“I don’t think you’re scared of not knowing them,” Duck says it slowly, like he’s gathering the right words as he goes on. “You’re scared of them knowing you. Right? That’s what it actually is.”
Jason doesn’t answer, which is an answer on its own.
He never expected you to actually ask him out, like you wanted him to stay in your life. For a moment, his heart stopped beating when the lighter fell out of his pocket that day. He was afraid you were going to look at him with an expression filled with fear, worse than you gave the bastard robber who hurt you. Every smile from you across the counter was one of the very few moments of kindness he allowed himself to have, and now, you’re giving him the chance to have more.
He doesn’t know if he deserves it.
“Yeah,” Dick’s voice rings out again. “Okay, here’s the thing, though—they knew enough about you to have asked you out, you already said yes. That counts for something.”
“It’s only a date, Dick. What if I’m not exactly what they thought I was?”
Dick stays silent for a moment. “You can’t assume before they tell you that themselves,” He clicks his tongue. “I’m just saying—go. Talk to them like a person. You’re good at that.”
“I’m genuinely not. But thanks.”
“Wear something without a bullet hole in it.”
“I have several jackets,” Jason bristles. “I’ll have you know they like my jackets very much.”
“How adorable,” Jason can imagine the ridiculous smile in his voice now. “Goodnight, little wing. Make sure to buy them flowers. It’s a gentlemanly thing to do.”
“Wait, what kind of flowers—”
The call ends.
Jason holds the phone above his face for a second. His hold on the device loosens. He sets it on his chest.
The scanner crackles. Officer Hunnigan has concluded that the cupcakes are not a bomb. Gotham finally breathes out.
+++
The morning takes the longest and shortest amount of time you’ve ever experienced. It’s all a haze—your schedule passes by in a blink, but somehow you remember every impatient second.
Your bed felt too soft to leave, but you couldn’t waste a single second. You flung the sheets off your body and took in the cold breeze in stride.
By stride you mean that you burnt your food. You had completely forgotten about the eggs sizzling, too busy with the plants—the basil that you call Basil, and the palma you call Paloma—that needed watering. You had to make do with half burn sunny side ups.
Choosing an outfit was even more hectic. After staring into the mirror and rummaging in your closet for a concerning amount of time, you finally decided on a combination that checked all the boxes for you. A teal check shirt—that reminds you of the color of Jason’s eyes—hanging open over a cream lace-trim shirt—perfectly fitting for the pier. The leather at the waist of the wide beige pants reminds you of all of Jason’s leather jackets. You wonder how he’ll look tonight.
At half past four, you end up in a small antique stall near your apartment, turning something over in your hands. You’ve seen him handle his lighter with care, like it’s something precious to him. While you genuinely don’t want to encourage his smoking, you so want to get him a gift that isn’t too much, but not too little at the same time. You’re turning a cigarette case over in your hands.
Silver, engraved, scroll-work pressed into every edge, a cross at the center of it. It’s not entirely identical to his lighter—different enough to be its own thing. Definitely old enough to have some history to it already. You turn it over once. It catches the shop light.
You buy it, putting it in your jacket pocket.
+++
He’s already there.
You see him from a distance—near the carousel, one elbow on the railing, looking out at the water. He’s wearing a distressed leather jacket, worn brown at every edge, open over a teal silk button-up that’s soft enough to have been washed a hundred times. He looks like he found the clothes in a very good pile and put them on without thinking, which means he thought about it, which you clock and feel a warmth already settling in your chest.
His white streak catches the late light. He looks like he’s exactly where he wants to be, like he was meant to be here, like the tourists flowing around him are the ones out of place, like absolutely nothing in the world could make him look uncomfortable standing exactly where he’s standing.
Of course he does.
He turns before you reach him. Some trained thing—he turns and hides one side of his body quickly. Strange. His eyes land on you, and he straightens up, one hand coming out of his pockets.
You cross the last of the distance.
The first thing he does is look at you—actually look, the way he does from across a counter but without anything between you—and then his gaze drops once, sees your outfit, and something shifts in his expression that isn’t quite a smile yet.
“What?” You ask.
“Nothing.”
“That’s a very specific tone for nothing.”
He nods toward you. “You’re wearing—” He stops. Looks down at his own button-up, then back at you. The teal of his shirt against the warm brown of his leather.
Teal. Both of you. Without any coordination whatsoever.
“We match,” he says.
“We do not—”
“We match a little.”
“That’s—I didn’t—” You look down at yourself, then at him, then back at yourself. “This is what I always wear.”
“Me too,” he says, and the corner of his mouth pulls up.
“You’ve got that smirk on your face,” you point at him.
“I’m literally not doing anything,” he raises his hands as a laugh escapes him.
“You’re smiling about it. Look at you—all giddy about us matching.”
“I’m not smiling. I might be giddy about—” Jason stops mid-sentence.
“About what?”
“About the flowers I got for you,” he finally says. “I didn’t know your favorites, so I badgered the receptionist at the flower shop for a good hour before the entire staff settled on tulips.”
Now you realize why he was hiding his side—he was covering the flowers. A small bouquet sits easily in his hand—five or six tulips, stems still green and dewy, heads just beginning to open. Petals in soft blush and cream, edges faintly flushed like they’ve caught a little sun. The stems are gathered loosely, tied with thin twine, wrapped in simple brown paper that crinkles when it moves.
“Oh, Jay,” you can’t contain the surprised tone in your voice. “Thank you. I’ve never gotten flowers on a first date. This is so thoughtful.”
Your fingers brush as he hands the bouquet to you.
“I’m glad you like them,” he says, voice slightly shaky.
“Like them? I love them.”
The smell is divine, too. The petals are soft to the touch as your fingers graze them.
Maybe you shouldn’t have been worried at all. Maybe—just maybe—tulips, hot dogs, and the pier in the evening is the perfect date.
+++
The hot dogs are, in fact, good.
You eat them at the railing overlooking the water. The bay is grey and moving, catching the last of the afternoon light in pieces. The carousel music drifts from behind you—the looping kind that should be annoying but, thank god, isn't. Gulls argue overhead—which is annoying.
You are aware, with the particular sharpness that comes with being out of your element, that this is the longest uninterrupted conversation you've ever had with him. There’s just the railing, the water, and the fact that you don’t actually know what to say to him.
You learn things. Even if it all goes a bit slowly.
He doesn’t volunteer much, but if you hand him a thread, he’ll follow it—you mention the weird overnight hours your store keeps, and he tells you about a diner upstate that only opened between 10 PM and 3 AM, best pie he’d ever had, in the middle of nowhere, and he’d stumbled into it during—he pauses—a long drive. You don’t ask about the drive. You can guess.
You tell him that your landlord doesn’t let you keep pets, that you’d love to own a cat. You tell him you almost switched jobs twice, but something about the night shift felt like your own city, like Gotham belonged to you in some small way between midnight and six.
He looks at you when you say that. Something shifts in his expression.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know that feeling.”
“I bet you do.”
A second passes. He looks back at the water.
“I don’t talk about it,” he says. “The other thing. In case you were—”
“I know,” you say. “I’m not asking.”
“Good.”
“I mean—I have questions. Objectively. I think anyone would.”
“But you’re not asking me about it.”
“Not yet, but I know it’ll take time. I can wait. I’m willing to wait.” You allow.
Wait for him.
That pulls the corner of his mouth up.
+++
The cigarette case comes out somewhere between the hot dogs and the carousel. It had to—or you’d probably melt on the spot if it stayed in your pocket for any longer.
“I got you something,” you say. Then, immediately, “it’s not a big deal. Don’t make a whole thing of it.”
You’re not sure your heart can take it.
You hold it out. He goes still in response. His eyes trail over the engraving. His fingers graze yours as you hand it to him.
“I’m not sure if you already have one,” you say. “I mean, if you do—I’m not trying to replace it. And then the bouquet, this case feels a bit underwhelming in comparison,” you stop. “I’m doing the thing. Blabbering. Sorry.”
"I like listening to you," he says, and you have to ignore the heat in your cheeks. “You don’t have to explain yourself if you don’t want to,” he stammers. “I’m glad you thought of me. Thank you.”
He has no idea how long you’ve been thinking of him.
His thumb traces the cross at the center, then the scroll-work at the edges. He puts it in his jacket pocket.
“It’s so you have something to remember me by,” you say. “In case this goes terribly, and we never speak again.”
“If this goes terribly,” he says, “you can have it back, as a keepsake.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Then we’d better hope it doesn’t go terribly.”
+++
It doesn’t go terribly.
It goes strange, though. Not bad-strange. The particular strangeness of two people who know pieces of each other, trying to find the whole. You catch yourself mid-sentence more than once, reaching for a thing to say and realizing you don’t actually have the context for it—you don’t know his schedule, you don’t know who he spends time with when he isn’t patrolling, you don’t know if there's a life outside of this city that he misses or if Gotham is the whole of it.
You ask about the languages. He'd dropped it into the conversation casually, like it was nothing, like he wasn’t watching to see how you’d react.
“How many?”
“A few.”
“That’s not a number, Jason.”
“Six.”
“Six?”
“It‘s useful.”
“I’m sure it’s incredibly useful for—” you pause, gesturing vaguely at all of him—“what you do. But also, six?”
“Would you like me to prove it?”
“I absolutely would.”
His gaze doesn’t leave yours. You feel the weight of it.
“Enta ahla min al-qamar nafsu.”
You try to make sense of it—five or six words in something that sounds like it came from further down his heart than the other words he’s told you.
“What was that one?” You ask.
“Arabic.”
"What did it mean?”
He pauses for a second. His eyes trail to the sky. “That the moon is out.”
You look up. The sky is not yet dark enough for the moon. You look back at him.
He’s already looking at the water.
Liar, you think, and feel your face go warm without knowing exactly what those words meant.
“You like showing off,” you say.
"I like to show off when you’re paying attention.”
“I’m always paying attention.”
“I know,” his tone is so light. “That’s the thing. You’re impressed with me.”
The carousel music turns behind you. The water moves. Your heartbeat is louder than any background noise. You try to snap your gaze away from his. A small photo booth catches your attention.
“You’re too cocky,” you start. “I have the perfect idea to humble you.”
“Really?” Jason raises a brow. “I’d like to see you try.”
You gesture to grab his wrist. He lets you go with no complaints. Your fingertip grazes his pulse point. You can feel the unsteady beat of his heart. He moves his hand, pinky settling against yours, and then his palm covers your hand entirely, and his thumb traces that small circle on your knuckles—the same one as always, the one he probably doesn’t know he does.
You lead him towards the photo booth. The city glitters across the water. The string lights along the restaurant edge blink on, stringing gold over the railing. The crowd moves in tandem. His hand sometimes settles on your back, grazing the clothed skin—like he’s making sure you get through the crowd.
“Photo booth?” Jason’s expression changes.
“Afraid of getting your picture taken?”
He snorts. “C’mon.”
Now he’s the one leading you towards the booth.
+++
The booth is near the front of the pier, tucked between a posters-and-prints shop and a churro stand. The curtain is dark red and crooked. You look at it and then at him.
“On second thought, I don’t think we’re going to fit.”
“We’ll fit.”
You fit barely. His shoulder is pressed against yours, arm behind you to make room, and your knees are almost touching in the cramped plastic seat. The screen counts down.
3—2—1—
The first shot: you, mid-laugh at something he said too low to be anything but for you, and him, watching you laugh like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. Like he wants to bottle the sound up to hear it over and over again.
3—2—1—
Second shot: you make a face. He doesn’t. His one arm is around your shoulders, chin tilted down, smiling into the top of your head.
3—2—1—
You turn toward him. He turns toward you. You can feel his nose graze your cheek as you turn. His eyes have never looked so dim—a small sparkle against the sea-green. You swallow.
The machine spits out two warm strips. You take yours. The last frame: his mouth against your cheek, your lips are parted, both of you slightly blurred, mid-motion.
You look at it for a long moment.
He looks at his copy for a moment too. Then he takes out the cigarette case— your cigarette case, the new one, still without a single cigarette in it—opens it, and tucks the photo strip inside against the silver interior. He closes it and puts it back into his pocket.
+++
The pier is quieter now. The crowd has thinned out—families with young kids gone home, couples migrating toward the bars and restaurants furthest down. The string lights are brighter against the darkening sky. The water is black and restless.
You walk with your shoulders touching. His hands find yours again. You two try to talk about the small things.
He tells you about a book he’s reading. You tell him about the plant Marjorie keeps forgetting to water, the one you’ve been secretly taking care of for months.
“I knew it,” he says.
“Knew what?”
“You’re a plant person.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“That’s absolutely a thing.”
You roll your eyes. He squeezes your hand.
You pass a bench near the end of the pier. It’s old, wood slats painted green, chipping at the edges. The railing in front of it looks out over the water. No one else is around.
“You wanna sit?” He asks.
“Do you want to sit?”
“I asked first.”
You roll your eyes again, but the gesture has no bite.
You sit.
The wood is cold through your pants. The wind is picking up, coming off the water in gusts. Jason shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders before you can say anything. It’s warm. It smells like him.
“Now you’re going to be cold,” you note.
“I run hot.”
“That’s not—” you stop to shake your head. “Smooth. Very smooth.”
He lets out a breathless laugh.
You sit in silence for a while. The water moves. The string lights flicker. Somewhere, a boat horn sounds in the distance.
“The moon’s finally out,” you say. You reach over, turning his face towards yours with your fingers on his chin. “What did you actually say before?”
He swallows. His eyes are wide. The green is almost gone, swallowed by the night.
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
He looks at you for a long moment. His thumb brushes your jaw.
“No,” he says. “Not yet.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“I will. Someday.” His hand drops and finds yours on the bench. “But not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want you to wonder.” His mouth twitches. “Because I want you to think about it on the walk home. And tomorrow morning. And the next time you see me.”
He leans in. His lips graze your forehead. They’re soft on your skin.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll walk you home.”
+++
The walk is everything you expected it to be. His hand is in yours. He didn’t come to the pier with his motorcycle. Your heart hopes it’s because he wanted to walk you home, wishing to spend even longer with you. His jacket is still around your shoulders.
You haven’t returned it. It’s not like he has asked for it back. You have a feeling that he won’t.
The streets are empty. You don’t feel afraid, not with Jason by your side. A cat darts across the sidewalk and disappears into an alley. Somewhere, a door slams. A radio plays from an open window—some song you don’t recognize.
Jason’s thumb traces circles on your knuckles.
You stop in front of your building. Everything feels different from last night.
You turn to face him. His hands fall and find your hips. Your hand finds his chest—the teal button-up, the one that matches yours, the one you’re going to think about every time you open your closet. Your other hand grips the bouquet closer.
“Tonight was good,” you say.
“Tonight was great.”
You lean up. Your lips graze his skin as you kiss his cheek. His skin is warm.
“So, the day after tomorrow,” you say. “It’s my day off.”
“I know.”
“Right,” you raise a brow. “You already know my schedule.”
The tips of his ears turn a light shade of pink. You can see the faint dust of the same color across his freckled cheeks.
“I’ll visit,” he says, fingertips tracing small circles on your hips.
You pull back. Your hand is on the door.
“Jason?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For the tulips. For not being weirded out by the cigarette case. For—” you gesture with your hands, “—everything, I suppose. I know I say thank you a lot,” just like last night, “but I mean it. Every single word.”
He smiles at your nervous expression.
“Any time, sweetheart.”
You should go inside. You know you should go inside. But you don’t move. Neither does he.
“I’m going to figure out what you said, by the way.”
His expression flickers.
“You can try.”
“Is that a challenge?”
His mouth curves. “More like a promise.”
You two end up with your gazes locked onto each other. The streetlight buzzes. The city hums. Somewhere, a siren wails in the distance. It’s close, then far, then gone.
“Goodnight, Jason.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
You slip inside and close the door. Your grip around the handle is strong, knuckles straining.
Through the glass, you watch him stand there for a moment. His hand is in his pocket—touching the cigarette case, probably, or the lighter, or both—and then he looks up at the window. He knows you’re watching.
You think about the weight of his gaze on the walk up the stairs. And in the shower. And in bed, staring at the ceiling.
You’re so gone, but you don’t mind at all.
⋆˙⟡ extra notes: thank you to jo again for witnessing me write this wip & rory for translating the arabic text for me. honestly, it was such a ride to make this. i wanted to keep it a tad realistic, reader won’t jump into a relationship with a vigilante they don’t know yet. there are two scenes here in which jason drops them off. they are similar because they are parallel scenes, showing the progression of the relationship before and after the date.
⋆˙⟡ tag list: the people who asked for part two — @cnqfeusd ; general tag list — @simpingmyassoff @deluludaydreamerr @mistbornwithawritingproblem @eas-8 @borednessa @xolollipop @cherryseascns @yuunarii-arii @fromrory @coffeelovingreader @loserinadress @currentblasphemy ! if anyone wants to be added or removed send me a message.
✏ 𝒹𝗁𝖺𝗓𝖾𝆑𝖺𝗐𝗇───all rights reserved; even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, modified or fed into ai ࣭ ౄు
THE ART OF LOVING: 𝒮omething In-between — 𝒥ason todd.
⋆˙⟡ series synopsis: the space between anxiety and peace has always felt unreachable for the owner of margins & pages. but when jason todd—vigilante, bookworm, and the most patient man you’ve ever met—starts leaving notes in the margins of your books, something changes—you begin to learn the art of loving.
⋆˙⟡ chapter synopsis: you wait for your vigilante boyfriend to visit for the reading date you’ve planned in your bookstore. turns out, not everything can be planned—from anxious habits to nosy family members—even if you spend hours overthinking it.
⋆˙⟡ pairing: jason todd 𝔁 bookstore-owner!reader.
⋆˙⟡ word count: 3.4k+
⋆˙⟡ author’s notes: this was a requested one-shot, but honestly i love the idea so much i’m turning it into a mini-series. i had stopped using my old dcu taglist, but now i’m reviving it, so if anyone wants something changed (want to be added or removed, send me a message!)
Margins & Pages Bookstore, November.
You look at the clock for the fifth time in these few minutes. Unfortunately, and obviously, the time has not really changed. But that’s not what is truly uncomfortably pulling at your heartstrings. Your grip on the bookmark tightens. You’re not sure what to distract yourself with—the bookmark or the pen on the counter that’s slightly leaking ink from its tip. The back end of the pen is dented. Probably from you biting down on it.
8:53 PM.
You tap your nails on the counter. Only a few regulars roam in the bookstore. The open sign has only invited in a few customers, but you’re okay with that. You can barely spot the two regulars between the bookshelves. The bookshop isn’t big at all; it’s just tucked between a few apartment buildings in a surprisingly calm part of Gotham City.
The old lady, Miss Chen, from the apartment across the street, is still engrossed in a psychological thriller. The med-student from Gotham University is nose deep in a self-care book you’ve read about four times by now—“Please Yourself: How to Stop People-Pleasing.”
You bite down on your lip. There’s probably a book about anxious habits you could pick up somewhere in that section, instead of burying your head in classics all day. If only you could remember exactly where you put it… Was it the third shelf near the right wall, or the fourth?
Where is he?
You glance at the clock again.
8:56 PM.
The smell of new and old paperbacks wafting through the air doesn’t do a good job of calming you.
Is he not coming? Or are you too early? You opened shop just a tad early. Two hours isn’t really that much when you need to somehow get an entire reading room ready for a date with your boyfriend that you yourself suggested, right? Everything had to be ready for closing—a moment of privacy for you and Jason in your favorite place, reading whatever you wanted with him.
You pick at your fingernails, the sensation spreading an uncomfortable and heavy feeling in your body. You look back at Miss Chen and the student already packing their belongings. That’s your cue to finally leave the counter.
You’re overreacting. He wouldn’t bail.
But why would a vigilante like Jason take time away from his job just to read with you? The smell of the ink reaches you as you move to lock the entrance.
You remember that night a little too well.
“Always make sure to lock up, okay?”
“Are you sure?” You tilt your head.
The corners of Jason’s lips curl in the softest way possible. You’re sure not even books can describe the way his dimples stand out against his freckled skin.
“I can get in through the window.”
“The second floor window?” You snort. “From the reading room?”
“I’m sure you’ll open the window up for me.”
He takes a step near you. Any word you wanted to say gets stuck behind your slightly parted lips. He leans in, placing a chaste kiss just above your brow. It’s a new habit of his—or maybe he always wanted to do it. You’ve only now gotten used to the touch without turning into a blushing mess. He’s waiting for your move. His arms are crossed over his chest, back against the shelves, one knee bent like he has all the time in the world.
You don’t have all the time in the world. You have about thirty seconds before your heart beats out of your chest.
Your eyes are locked on his figure as he leans away, especially on his lips. So soft.
A small chuckle breaks you out of your reverie.
“Did I say that out loud?” You groan, hiding your flushed face in your hands.
“No,” Jason’s hands find yours, but they don’t force you to show your face. “But now I’m very curious about what you were thinking.”
“Nothing!”
But you were thinking about something much more than nothing. About the way his sleeve is rolled up to his elbow, the scar on his forearm catches the lamplight. About how long it’s been since you kissed him last. An hour? Two? You’ve lost track.
Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your jeans.
“I don’t think it was anything,” you let him move your hands down, exposing your heated cheeks. “You were also staring at my lips. Is this your way of asking for a kiss?”
“You’re doing this on purpose.” You move your fingers near his, intertwining them.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about—”
You don’t want to always be the one too anxious to make a move. You want to quell the heavy heartbeat of your heart. Reign it in and make him feel the same way he makes you feel—completely awe-stricken and completely in love. Without sounding too sappy.
Here goes everything.
Your hands move up, they’re even shaking. You can see the rise of Jason’s brow. His fingers reach for yours for a second, as if he’s instinctively searching for your touch. You grip his collar. A small glint in his eyes—dim white against sea-green—tells you he already knows exactly what you’re planning. Your heart is pumping—you can feel it in your throat, your temples, your fingertips. His eyes drop to your mouth. Just for a second.
You stop an inch away. Close enough to feel his breath on your lips. Close enough to see the tiny scar through his eyebrow.
“Hi,” you whisper.
“Hi,” he says back.
Your hand moves away from his collar, finds the belt loops of his jeans. The denim is soft from wear. You’re stalling. You know you're stalling. He knows you’re stalling. He doesn’t call you out on it. Thankfully, or you would have melted on the spot.
Your breathing has changed—shorter now, shallower. You can hear your own blood rushing through your veins. He hasn’t changed at all. Or maybe it has. Maybe you just can’t tell because he's better at hiding it.
You kiss him.
It’s quick and soft. More like an answer to his small kiss just above your brow. Your lips brush his, and for a second you think about pulling back—about pretending that was it, that's all you wanted.
His hand cups your jaw—
—Knocking.
The sound of knuckles on glass breaks you out of your daydream. You snap your head away from the lock. The sound is coming from upstairs. Your eyes trail to the stairs, which lead to the reading room.
Your feet move without thinking. You can feel the dried paint of the wooden rail as you ascend the stairs. Each step is in tandem with your beating heart. It feels as if it might jump out of your chest at any minute.
You’re sure it’s Jason behind that window. If he wanted, he could just enter; it is left unlocked just for times like this. Though he never misses a beat to tell you to lock it, for safety, he says. You don’t feel too worried, considering there aren’t many people like him breaking into bookstores through the second-floor window.
You stop at the step just before the last one before you walk into the line of sight of the window. Your hands find your cheeks, and the skin is hot under the touch. You hope the flush isn’t too obvious. You straighten your blouse, and the silk fabric is soft to the touch.
You finally step into the reading room.
There’s a small shadow of a man outside the window. You can make out a red helmet. His hip-holster is loose around his hips.
Jason tilts his head expectantly. You can feel the weight of his gaze even through his helmet.
“Knock knock,” even through the modulated voice, you can feel the amusement dripping off his voice.
You snort and step to the window. Jason tilts his head. Only now do you notice the rain droplets on his leather jacket. The cold must be seeping into the suit.
“You know it’s open, right?” You open the hatch. “Or do you like being in the rain like a wet cat?”
Jason steps into the room. He chuckles, the modulated voice only making the sound even deeper. It sends a strange feeling to your stomach. You try not to look at his helmet.
“Are you going to warm me up then?”
“You haven’t been back for at least a second, and you’re already talking nonsense.”
He pulls off his helmet.
The sound of air rushing out—that pressurized hiss—always makes you flinch a little. Jason, of course, has noticed. He usually waits until you’re not looking or turns away fully. But tonight he does it right in front of you, like he wants you to see.
His hair is damp. Curls sticking to his forehead. There’s a smudge of something dark across his cheekbone—not blood. You’ve learned the difference over the months that you’ve been with him. Over the times you’ve stitched up his wounds. His lips are chapped from the cold.
“You’re staring again, sweetheart.” He says, the endearment rolling off his tongue a little too sweetly.
“You have something on your face.”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t wipe it off. “Rooftop gravel. Very fashionable.”
You want to reach out and brush it away. Your fingers twitch at your sides. Instead, you take a step back and gesture vaguely at the reading room—the mismatched armchairs you’ve rearranged, the stack of books you pulled from the shelves earlier, the blanket draped over the back of the chair you always sit in.
“I set up,” you say. “For—you know. The reading thing.”
“The reading thing,” Jason repeats. His mouth does that small curl. “You mean the date you suggested?”
“I mean the date I suggested, yes.”
He looks around the room slowly. Takes in the fairy lights you strung up last week that you told him were for “ambiance” and not because you thought he’d look good in warm lighting. He takes in the pile of books you’ve set aside for him—the Zola, the Arendt, and a battered copy of something you found in the back that made you think of him.
His gaze lands on the small table between the chairs. There’s a mug on each side. You made tea an hour ago. It’s definitely cold now.
“You made me tea,” he says.
“I made us tea; it’s probably undrinkable at this point.”
“You made me tea,” he says again, his tone is softer than you can stomach.
Your face heats. “It’s really not a big deal, Jason.”
“It is.”
He says it so simply. You can’t muster up anything to say. His tone is so light, as if it’s so easy for him to admit it all. As if you haven’t been spiraling for the past two hours about whether this was a stupid idea, whether he’d even show up, whether he’d rather be out there—doing whatever he does—than sitting in a cramped reading room with you and your dog-eared paperbacks.
“You’re doing the thing with your fingers.”
You look down. You’re twisting the hem of your blouse between your thumb and forefinger, rolling the silk into tight little knots.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He crosses the room in three strides. He’s not crowding you, though he’s close enough that you can smell the rain on his jacket, the gunpowder you’ve learned to recognize, something underneath that’s just him. “I’m here. So you can stop checking the clock.”
“You—” Your voice cracks. “You noticed that? You were watching me!”
“Guilty.” He raises his hands in surrender. “Couldn’t resist. Can’t believe a man could feel jealousy over a pen, though.”
It takes you a minute to connect the dots, but you remember the leaking pen from downstairs and how you’d been chewing on the end of it. You were distracted, waiting for him. You had no idea he was outside watching.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You rest your hands on your hips, trying to seem as controlled as you can.
You hope the heat in your cheeks has dissipated by now.
Jason tilts his head. He’s closer than ever. The smell of rain and gunpowder has surrounded you. It’s mixing in with the aroma of old book pages, worn at the edges—all of it is getting to your head.
He’s so close.
His eyes have a dim light in them, just like that night. You could get lost in them. Only one step remains between you—close enough that your chests could almost touch. He’s waiting for something—a tell, a sign. Permission to move closer and finally—
Screw it.
You can’t always be so afraid to take what you want. Your nails dig into your palm. Your lips thin. Everything feels too much, but you can’t stop thinking about how his lips felt that night. You don’t want to stall. You don’t want it to be soft and quick.
“You’ve got something on your mind?” he asks, but you feel the teasing tone in his voice.
“You’re so annoying.”
“You didn’t think that last night when you basically manhandled me by my collar,” he tuts, “though, I’m not complaining. I like it when you take charge.”
“Oh my god,” you groan. “Shut your mouth. Now.”
“But I thought you liked my mouth,” he chuckles, but the noise is cut short when you grab his jacket by the collar. His eyes are wide. There is a small sparkle in them, like he’s waiting for something. “Are you going to shut me up then?”
God damn him.
You don’t think. You just move.
His collar twists under your fingers—leather soft at the edges. You pull him towards you. Your touch isn’t gentle. It’s not like that first night, more like the way you wanted to but couldn’t quite manage.
Jason makes a sound. Something caught between surprise and approval. His hands find your waist like instinct, but he doesn’t pull you closer. He doesn’t take over. He’s waiting for you—letting you take charge.
Your lips crash into his.
You try to let him know how much you missed him in the way his bottom lip catches between your lips. I’ve been thinking about this for hours, and stop teasing me, and I want you all at once. You feel the slight chapped roughness, the warmth underneath, the way his breath hitches slightly.
His fingers flex against your hips.
You tilt your head, change the angle, kiss him harder. Your heart is slamming against your ribs—not from anxiety this time. Not from fear. Something hotter. It makes your knees feel unsteady, and your grip tightens.
When you finally pull back, just an inch, his eyes are still closed.
“Jason,” you whisper.
His lashes flutter. That sea-green gaze finally finds yours, darker than before, pupils blown wide. His lips are parted, slightly reddened.
You did that.
“Okay,” he says, voice rougher than a moment ago. “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
His hands slide from your waist to your back, pulling you into him until there’s no space left—chest to chest, his heartbeat thrumming against yours. His forehead drops to rest against your own.
“Okay,” he repeats, softer now, “so that’s what you were thinking about.”
You laugh breathlessly. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
So you do.
Your mouth finds his again—slower this time, but no less certain. His hands press flat against your spine, anchoring you against him. You can feel every ridge of his knuckles through the thin silk of your blouse. You can feel the way his breath changes when you scrape your teeth against his bottom lip.
This is what you wanted. Not the anxious, heart-pounding version of yourself that checks clocks and twists fabric. Just this. Just him. Just the solid weight of his body and the way he groans, low in his throat, when you tug at his hair.
“—copy, Hood, do you read? We’ve got a situation in the Bowery—”
Jason freezes.
You freeze.
The voice—tiny, distorted, unmistakably Nightwing—continues crackling through the helmet that’s still sitting on the floor by the armchair.
“Jason. I know you can hear me. Oracle’s picking up chatter about a weapons deal going down in twenty. You want in or not?”
You stare at the helmet. The helmet stares back. It has no face, obviously, but somehow it still manages to look judgmental.
“You left your comm on,” you whisper.
“I left my comm on,” Jason says flatly.
“Hello? Earth to Little Wing—”
“I’m going to kill him,” Jason says, but there’s no heat in it. He just sounds exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that comes from having siblings who never know when to shut up and interrupt at the worst moments.
“Did you just say you’re going to kill me? Because I definitely heard that. And I feel like that’s an overreaction to me asking about—”
“Dick.” Jason’s voice is sharp now. “I’m busy.”
A pause.
Then, slowly, in the most aggravatingly cheerful tone you’ve ever heard, “…Busy doing what, exactly?”
Your face is on fire. You can feel the heat creeping down your neck, up to your ears. You bury your face in Jason’s chest—partly to hide, partly because if you don’t hold onto something, you might actually sink through the floor.
Jason’s arm comes around you automatically. Even while he’s glaring at his helmet like it personally offended him.
“That’s none of your business,” he says.
“It sounded like you were—”
“Finish that sentence, and I’m telling Bruce about the time you got stuck in the Batcomputer’s ventilation shaft.”
“…respecting your privacy, I was going to say respecting your privacy. Geez.”
“Get out of my comms.”
“Technically, they’re Batman’s comms—”
“Dick.”
“Fine, fine. But you’re missing the weapons thing. Also, Tim says hi. And Damian wants to know why you haven’t come to family dinner in three weeks.”
Jason’s jaw tightens. You feel it more than see it—the muscle jumping beneath his skin where your cheek rests against his shoulder.
“Tell them I’m busy,” he says.
“With whom in particular? Since, you know, I have to be thorough—”
“Goodbye, Dick.”
He reaches down—not letting go of you, just stretching—and flicks something on the side of the helmet. The comm goes silent.
The room feels different now. Still warm, still soft with fairy lights and cold tea, but charged with something new. It makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.
“Your family,” you say into his chest, “is insane.”
“That’s one word for it.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. His face is flushed, and it’s really flushed. The tips of his ears are pink. You’ve never seen Jason Todd blush before.
“Oh my god,” you say. “You’re embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed.”
“Your ears are red.”
“The room is warm.”
“It’s November.”
Jason stares at you. You stare back. A beat passes. Two. Three.
Then you both start laughing. His forehead drops to your shoulder. Your fingers tangle in his damp hair. The helmet sits on the floor like a very expensive, very nosy third wheel.
“They’re going to ask,” you say when you can breathe again. “Aren’t they?”
“They’re going to be insufferable.”
“Should I be worried?”
Jason lifts his head. His eyes are bright—not with the hard edge you sometimes see, but with something softer.
“No,” he says. “They’ve never seen me like this before.”
“Like what?”
He doesn’t answer. Just kisses you again—softer this time, almost careful—and when he pulls back, he’s smiling.
“Like… I’m not sure… happy, I suppose?” he says.
Your heart stops.
Then it starts again, twice as fast, and you think: Okay. Maybe anxiety and this can exist in the same body. Maybe that’s allowed.
“Your tea,” you say finally, “is definitely cold by now.”
“I don’t care about the tea.”
“The weapons deal—”
“Can wait.” His thumb traces your cheekbone. “You can’t always be so afraid to take what you want, right?”
You swallow. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair’s overrated.”
He pulls you back into the armchair—your armchair, the one he’s claimed as his own—and reaches for the stack of books you picked out. The Zola is on top. He opens it to the first page.
“Read to me,” he says.
“Jason—”
“The weapons deal can wait, sweetheart. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
And because you’re tired of being afraid—of the clock, of the knocking, of wanting things too much—you take a breath, open your own book, and begin.
⋆˙⟡ extra notes: the titles are inspired by olivia dean’s album “the art of loving”, basically there will be at least 10 parts following each song. also, i apologize about the tag list, if anyone wants to be either added or removed just send me a message.
mentions/tw: angst at first but fluff in happy ending i pinky promise, mentions of having sex, established marriage, flashback in the beginning of the story, hal is in a coma and reader is waiting for him to wake up, lots of tears, guys what else should i add
(first story for this week's roster is complete! i wrote this with needy by ariana grande playing ughhhh my beautiful gorgeous stunning magnificent hal jordan my fav green jolly rancher pls put a ring in my finger also i lowkey feel like i didn't really follow the request and i realized it after i wrote it so apologies :( )
rings were important in hal’s life. one ring gave him the power to save others and the universe, the other gave him you, mrs jordan
you could remember his proposal like the back of your hand— both of you naked under the sheets, covering your tired and sweat covered bodies. hal came back after two weeks of being away and showed how much he missed you that night, always a man who acts
you were resting your head on his chest while his arm was around your shoulders, making sure you were closer than ever. you forgot what you and hal were talking about, but it was a kind of pillowtalk that would always having you laughing with hal grinning and adding more onto the joke
then, both of you would sigh at the same time before taking in the comfortable silence and just quietly embracing each other’s touch
hal would then break the silence, but softly. “do you know how loud space is?” his sudden question and change of topic would make you blink and turn your head to silently watch him stare at the window in front of you both that the night sky illuminated from
“everyone thinks its quiet but its not” he whispered. “its just… endless”
hal’s gaze goes to meet with yours and it was gentle. his arm slid from your shoulders as he got up from the bed, making you blink once again in confusion as you sat up and cluched the sheets to your bare chest. he opened the nightstand besides the bed and brought out the velvet box
“i’ve been everywhere. and no matter how far i go, this is the place i call home” hal confessed and the sheets dropped from your hands as they went to cover your gaping mouth in shock. “hal..” you whispered in disbelief, tears forming in your eyes
“you’re the place i land when im done being brave” his voice dropped and there was nothing but the raw, honest truth in his eyes. he shifted and gets on one knee— still naked, by the way— bumping the nightstand on the way
“… sorry”
a choked laugh left your lips while tears were flowing from your eyes, and hal just exhales sharply like he was preparing his entire life for this.
“i can’t promise i’ll always be here” he mentioned honestly. “but i promise i’ll always come back.” and the four words left his lips. “will you marry me?”
and boom, the rest is history— you were now officially mrs jordan. but you weren’t stupid, you knew what you would sign yourself up because you just didn’t just married hal jordan, you married green lantern
so when barry knocked on your door and told you that hal came back unconscious from an intergalactic mission with the justice league, you immediately forced him to take you to hal
since you were one of the spouses of the founding members, you had some sort of clearance in the watchtower with your own zeta tube code— which explains how you were in the med bay, sitting besides hal’s bed and watching him softly breathe, waiting any moment for him to wake up and give you that stupid grin of his you loved. he was out of his green lantern uniform, gauze covering his bare chest with a large yet almost faded bruise on his shoulder
the doctors said that it was almost fatal and that thanks to the little power his ring had, all the vital points were protected. but before you could even breathe in relief, they mentioned that he’ll be in a coma for a few days because of the heavy hit he took
for days, you were sitting besides his bedside with your hand on his, waiting for him to wake up. barry tried convincing you to breathe and leave the room, you refused. diana brought food for you and gently urged you to eat, you didn’t and left the plate untouched. john stewert and clark would both come to visit hal and tried to convince you that hal wouldn’t want you to stay here until he woke up, you argued back by saying that you were his wife and you would be the first person he’d want to see when awake
day 4 and hal still didn’t wake up. your face looked exhausted, your eyes were red and swollen after crying again yet there was bags of tiredness under them, yet your hands didn’t leave his as you were mindlessly tracing his wedding ring that was placed in the same hand as his power ring
and you remembered— the memories of hal telling you about that ring, how he got it and how his ring made him able to do things he could only imagine to do— protect people, protect the planet, and protect the universe. and he’d add on by saying that with or without the ring, he’d protect you no matter what
“please...” your voice cracked, now taking hal’s hand into both of your hands and laying your forehead on top of his palm. “let him come back…” tears started to flow from your eyes once more. you didn’t know who you were pleading to, maybe the ring? maybe god? maybe the universe? you didn’t know, but you hoped that your message got through to anyone or anything
“hal, baby come back to me…” you bit your bottom lip, trying to silence your sobs as tears fell from your face and landed on his bed. you just wanted him at home besides you, watching top gun maverick besides you and telling you on how he would fly the jet much cooler than tom cruise, telling you about his latest mission and how guy almost let the villain slip away, anything, just anything
you don’t know who heard you or what heard you, but a small groan left hal’s lips before his eyes started to flutter open and his hand twitched in yours. you widened your eyes and picked up your head before a choked laugh left your lips, quickly wiping your tears and smiling in disbelief but mostly in relief as you placed his hands down. “oh my god— hal”
he slowly turned his head to your direction, hearing still slightly muffled and vision still groggy and unclear from who was sitting besides him but he could make out a female figure besides him, making him slowly turn his head away
“im married” was the first words he spoke from his hoarse throat before another groan left, now feeling the results from his wounds. “and my wife can throw a killer uppercut” he added as a warning
another laugh left your voice but with the warmth that was lacked in your voice ever since you were besides hal. “you idiot, i am your wife” the tears that were leaving your eyes were now turned into happy tears. hal turned his head back to you as hearing and vision started to clear up. and when the mysterious women turned out to be you, his eyes softened as a weak, almost dazed grin formed on his lips. “hey beautiful”
you let out another choky laugh. “hi handsome” you sniffed. “how’d you feel?”
“better cause my wife is a sight for sore eyes” he tried to get up but a hiss of pain left his lips as you got up, your hands gently on his chest to stop him. “easy there—“ you spoke as he reluctantly laid back down on the bed. “you’ve been in a coma for almost four days now”
hal’s eyes slightly widened. “four days?”
you nodded with a sigh leaving your lips as you sat back down. “yeah, and you scared me for nearly four days-- world record.” a small laugh left hal’s dry throat, yet it was a sound you missed so so much. you let out a sharp exhale, wiping the tears from your eyes and telling yourself to get it together, that you didn’t need to cry because hal was now awake
his smirk slowly faded into a soft smile, taking your other hand onto his. “hey, hey— im back, yeah?” his voice was gentle and that just made you nod with a tender smile and tears threatening to come back. “don’t scare me like that again”
“not scaring you wasn’t written in our vows”
“i mean it, jordan”
“uh huh— now come here, mrs jordan” hal opened his arms and you didn’t hesitate, you got up from your chair and laid down besides him, about to put your head on his chest like you always did before another hiss of pain left his lips and that immediately made you remember and instead, just laid your head on his collarbone and murmuring a small sorry
his arms slowly and carefully wrapped itself around your shoulders, like they always did before hal turned his head to give you a kiss on top of your head. “what did i do to deserve you…” he murmured to himself, but you caught his words and chuckled. “i tell myself that everyday”
that made both of you laugh before it died into a small sigh, now laid together and enjoying each other’s touch and warmth. how you enjoyed it, how hal enjoyed, how the both of you enjoyed it together— like the good old times
day eight of @/pinksplace & @/wildflowersandvibranium galentine's collab <3
wally west x fem! reader go on a wine tasting tour
Wally had known this was a bad idea, but you’d practically begged him, insisting it would be a cute date idea. And, well, you hadn’t been wrong, the scenery was gorgeous, and you were dressed up in a pretty sundress that made it increasingly difficult to keep his hands to himself.
You were more than a few drinks deep at this point, making the most of all the wines on offer until you were a giggly, buzzed mess, clinging to his arm gleefully. It’s not even 1 pm yet, and you’ve already breezed past tipsy as Wally tries to hand-feed you some of the cheeses the establishment’s prepared in a pathetically futile attempt to sober up the tourists.
Playfully, you nibble on his fingertips with a half-lidded gaze that has him wanting to smash his head into the table to ward off the horny thoughts. “Christ, woman.” He mutters as you beam at him, all innocent like, and Wally feels his chastising remark disappear at the sight of you backlit by the morning sun.
You’ve always been beautiful to him, but seeing you like this, smiling just for him, with his ring sitting pretty on your left hand, has you looking absolutely radiant. It has him wanting to kneel before you, his goddess, as he worships at your altar.
“Wally-Woo, you have to try this one!” You gasp, holding out the latest sample of Moscato as you clumsily try to bring it to his lips. The silly nickname makes his heart skip a beat. If any of his friends heard it, he’d never live it down, but coming from you, like all things, it’s endearing, adorable. Knowing you’d be upset later if you spilt the drink on the nice shirt you’d bought for him, he takes the glass from you, making a show of tasting the wine as you giggle at him.
“It’s nice, baby. Sweet, just like you.” He winks, as your giggles increase, head ducking down in flustered embarrassment.
Adorable.
The tour continues like that, with you clinging to him, laughing at all his jokes with unrestrained joy. The world doesn’t exist outside your little bubble. No heroes or villains, no costumes or world-ending threats to worry about, nothing but the two of you absorbed in each other under the Tuscany sun, matching rings glinting in the light.
It’s by some miracle of god that you’re still coherent when you make it back to your hotel, still holding onto him and smiling as he helps put you down for a nap. He’s leaning down to help take off your strappy sandals when you suddenly cup his cheek, leaning down to kiss his forehead as you mumble, “Wally, you don’t even realise how drunk I am right now.”
He snorts, finally getting your damn shoes off, as he swings your legs up onto the bed, “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea, babe.”
“Hmm, you’re so pretty, I love you thiiiiiiis much!” You exclaim, throwing your arms out wide.
“Oh yeah? Well, I love you to the moon and back,” he climbs in next to you, grin never dimming as you roll to face him.
“Well—Well I love you times infinity!” You exclaim, smug in your perceived victory, before your eyelids start to droop sleepily. Watching fondly as you settle, Wally pulls you to rest on his chest, fingers stroking soothing motions on your back.
“I doubt there’s a universe in existence where I don’t love you, and if there is, then I pity the poor fool who claims to be Wally West, because there is no me without you.” Wally thinks you’ve fallen asleep, too sleepy to register his whispered declaration before you turn, pressing a kiss to his chest.
“There’s no me without you either, so no going anywhere I can’t follow, ok?”
A lump forms in his throat, and though he fights back the tears, his response still comes out choked as he wonders how he could ever be so lucky as to have you. “Ok.”
pairing: ex!dick grayson x afab!reader, endgame!wally west x afab!reader
summary: you knew that moving on from a breakup would hurt, you just didn't expect your ex, dick grayson, to move on so soon and publicly to boot. little did you know that someone was watching out for you and is willing to do anything to make you smile.
content: ex! dick grayson, asshole dick grayson, angst, hurt, wally comforts you, banter and flirtation with wally, pining wally, observant wally, self-deprecation talk, wally fully believes in the power of food being healing, love confession,
wc: 7.1k
heart to heart valentine collection | buy me a coffee | general masterlist
There was a time when Dick Grayson fit into your life as if it had always been waiting for him.
You remembered it in fragments, the way memories tended to surface when you didn’t invite them.
Moonlight through your bedroom window, pale and soft, painting his bare shoulders silver as he lay on his side facing you. The city hummed beneath the tower, distant and alive, while the two of you existed in your own quiet world. His hand rested at your waist, thumb tracing lazy circles as if he had nowhere else he needed to be. As if there wasn’t a city that demanded him, or a symbol stitched into his suit that he carried even when it wasn’t on his chest.
You remembered laughing until it hurt. The kind of laugh that pulled a sound from your chest before you could stop it. Dick always loved that laugh. He used to say it made everything feel lighter, like for a moment the weight of being Nightwing slipped off his shoulders.
You mornings together was your preferred way to start the day. Sharing burnt toast and strong coffee, others were spent with gentle hands and bandages after missions. Conversations whispered into skin, secrets exchanged in the dark that felt safe simply because they were yours.
You remembered thinking, This is it. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
The memory shattered the moment you opened your eyes.
The tower ceiling stared back at you, sterile and unfamiliar. Your room felt too quiet now, too empty. His jacket wasn’t draped over the chair anymore. There was no warmth lingering in the sheets, no sleepy voice teasing you for staying up too late.
That life belonged to another version of you.
And Dick Grayson belonged to someone else.
The last mission had been brutal — not the worst you’d ever faced, but draining in a way that left exhaustion sitting heavy in your bones. You worked well with the team, always had, but something felt… off.
It took you longer than you cared to admit to realize why.
Dick was there, and fought and covered civilians. He moved with the same precision he always did. He checked in over comms, just like he did with everyone else.
But he wasn’t fighting with you.
There was no familiar pressure at your back, no instinctive trust that someone was watching your blind spots because you watched theirs. No silent coordination born from knowing how the other person moved, thought, or reacted. You didn’t realize how much you’d relied on that unspoken connection until it was gone.
He hadn’t abandoned you. You knew that. He still cared — as a teammate. As a friend?
But the space between you felt cavernous. And fighting alone, even in a crowd, felt lonelier than you expected.
You stood under the spray of the shower longer than necessary, letting the water pound against your shoulders, hoping it would wash the memory of the mission, and the announcement that came after, from your mind.
Everyone had been so happy for them, Dick and Kori. Official. Public, almost aggressively so.
The way she glowed at his side, radiant and unapologetic in her affection. The way his smile came easy around her, unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen directed at you in a long time. They looked good together, like couple that belonged on the front page of a magazine or whispered about in awe.
It shouldn’t have hurt. You were broken up, and this was inevitable.
But your heart didn’t seem to care about logic.
You shut off the water, wrapped yourself in a towel, and stared at your reflection until the redness around your eyes faded enough to pass as exhaustion instead of heartbreak. You dressed quickly, deliberately. If you stayed in your room too long, you’d think too much.
You just needed food. Something solid, something normal.
The common room lights were dimmed when you stepped inside. Late evening, the tower winding down, and for one fleeting moment, you thought you might be safe.
Then you saw them. Kori sat curled against Dick on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, her laugh bright and unrestrained as he murmured something into her ear. His arm was slung easily around her shoulders, fingers resting at her waist like they’d memorized the shape of her already.
Arms that had once held you. Something in your chest twisted painfully.
Dick’s eyes lifted instinctively, catching yours across the room. For a split second, something flickered there — surprise, maybe guilt — but you didn’t give him the chance to figure it out.
You turned on your heel and headed back the way you came. You didn’t hear him call your name. You didn’t want to.
“Hey— wait up.”
Wally’s voice cut through your thoughts like a jolt of electricity, familiar and grounding. You slowed but didn’t stop, side-eying him as he fell into step beside you.
“You wanna hang out?” he asked lightly. “Maybe grab a snack? Get outta the tower for a bit?”
You huffed out a breath, arms crossing instinctively as you kept walking. “This isn’t because you feel bad, right?” you said. “I know this has got to be awkward for you.”
While Dick had insisted on keeping it quiet about any kind of relationship the two of you had, Wally was the exception to the rule. So while the rest of the team had no clue about any history between you and Dick, Wally has insider information. It wouldn’t be a far guess to say that he might just actually pity you, which is why you couldn’t help but ask. Not that you were really in a position to refuse a friend anyway.
Wally stopped short enough that you were forced to glance back at him.
“No,” he said immediately, cutting you off before the words could sink too deep. His tone was gentle, but firm. “It’s not about that.”
He jogged a step forward, falling back into stride beside you. “I can’t get a late-night treat with my friend and teammate now? And if it coincidentally means we leave the tower for a bit,” he added with a shrug, “well… who cares?”
He nudged your shoulder with his own, just enough that you stumbled slightly before catching yourself.
A small smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. You sighed, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Fine,” you said quietly. “But you’re buying.”
Wally grinned, flashing you a wink as he turned toward the exit. “Wouldn’t dream of letting you pay.”
And for the first time that night, as the tower doors slid open and the cool air brushed against your skin, it felt like you might be able to breathe again.
⚡︎𓅩
You noticed it without meaning to. You’ve been trying to give the happy couple their space, but it seems like the universe is determined to keep shoving them into your face. So, of course, you notice Kori’s new fashion accessory.
Dick’s jacket was draped over Kori’s shoulders. It sat heavily on Kori’s shoulders, the fabric too large for her frame, sleeves hanging past her wrists as she laughed at something Dick murmured under his breath. The emblem on the back curved with her movement, catching the light as she shifted closer to him. Dick didn’t even look down when she tugged it tighter around herself — his arm came up automatically, settling at her waist like the two gestures belonged together.
Like this was normal, like it had always been allowed. Your fingers tightened around your cup.
It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a jacket. A piece of fabric. Something practical, something replaceable.
But it wasn’t. Not to you.
The memory came without warning.
You were still flushed from the mission, sweat cooling too quickly against your skin as you stepped into the hallway outside the lockers. Your hands trembled faintly as adrenaline bled off, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Dick stood beside you, already half out of his suit, laughter soft as he recounted something stupid Roy had said over comms.
You’d been cold.
You remembered hesitating before reaching for his jacket, fingers brushing the sleeve tentatively. “Hey,” you’d said lightly, trying to keep it casual. “Can I—?”
He’d looked down, surprised. Not upset, not angry, just…caught off guard.
“Oh,” he’d said, gently pulling it back before you could fully shrug it on. “Careful.”
You’d laughed, embarrassed. “What?”
“I just—” he’d smiled apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want you to accidentally rip it or stain it or something. You know how that suit fabric is.”
You remembered nodding immediately. Too quickly.
“Oh. Yeah. Of course,” you’d said. “That makes sense.”
He’d kissed your temple instead, warm and familiar, arm sliding around your shoulders like that was supposed to make up for it.
At the time, you’d believed him.
You’d told yourself he was being practical. Protective or possessive even. That it didn’t mean anything deeper than caution and habit. You’d told yourself love didn’t need symbols, that the way he held you when no one was watching mattered more.
Now, watching Kori wear it openly and proudly, you understand. It had never been about stains, or rips, or carelessness.
It had been about visibility. He hadn’t wanted the team to know.
Not fully, not unmistakably. Not in a way that couldn’t be explained away as a coincidence or convenience. Loving you had lived in private spaces, in shadows, in rooms with doors closed and lights low.
Kori wore his jacket in the middle of the room. No hesitation or apology.
Dick didn’t flinch or glance around. He didn’t look uncomfortable. He just let it happen.
Something inside you sank quietly. It wasn’t jealousy — not really. None of this was Kori’s fault. It was clarity. The kind that arrived too late to change anything, but early enough to hurt.
You’d spent so long being careful with him. Making yourself smaller. Accepting less because you thought that was the price of loving someone who carried so much weight.
And now you saw it plainly.
He hadn’t been protecting the jacket.
He’d been protecting the story he told everyone else.
You took a slow sip of your drink, gaze drifting away before the ache could sharpen further. Across the room, Dick laughed at something Kori said, his hand resting on her back without thought.
You didn’t look again.
Because you didn’t need to.
You finally understood what you’d lost — and what you’d never really had.
But now there’s Kori tugging the jacket tighter around herself, smiling up at him. Dick’s hand rested at her waist without hesitation, easy and familiar.
You swallowed and turned away.
“Hey.”
Wally’s voice cut in gently, and you startled just enough to feel silly about it.
“Sorry,” you said automatically.
“For what?” he asked, already grabbing a drink from the fridge and sliding it toward you. “Existing in the same room as… people?”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that.”
He followed your gaze, took in the scene, and then looked back at you — really looked. The slight tension in your jaw. The way your shoulders had drawn in on themselves.
He didn’t comment. Instead, he leaned against the counter beside you. “You eat yet?”
“No.”
“Cool,” he said, nodding once. “Same. Tragic, honestly.”
You smirked. “You say that every time.”
“And every time it’s true.”
The banter was familiar and easy. It helped more than you wanted to admit.
⚡︎𓅩
It happened again a few nights later.
You were on patrol, moving across rooftops, when a familiar neon glow caught your eye. A café window, warm and inviting, steam fogging the glass.
Dick sat inside, with Kori across from him, chin propped in her hand as he spoke, eyes bright with attention. He smiled in that open, unguarded way — the one he used to reserve for late nights with you, when the world felt smaller.
Your feet slowed before you could stop them.
“Don’t,” you muttered to yourself.
Wally, your new patrol partner, ran back towards you when you saw you were stuck, having noticed immediately. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly, forcing your pace to pick up again.
He glanced through the window, understanding dawning. The rest of the patrol passed in near silence.
Not the uncomfortable kind. Just… quiet. The city stretched out beneath you in a scatter of lights and distant sirens, wind rushing past as you and Wally moved from rooftop to rooftop. Normally, he filled the air with commentary, bad jokes, half-finished thoughts that tumbled out of him faster than he could filter them.
Tonight, he didn’t. He stayed close, matching your pace, eyes scanning the streets while occasionally flicking sideways to check on you. You appreciated the lack of pressure more than you could say.
By the last stretch of your route, your feet were aching, and your shoulders felt heavier than they should have.
Wally let out an exaggerated groan.
You blinked, glancing over. “Are you dying?”
“Slowly,” he said, hand dramatically over his heart. “Tragically. From starvation.”
“You ate before patrol.”
“And, why are you keeping track of that? Who are you, my doctor?”
You snorted softly. “I feel like that’s more like a dietician.”
“Come on,” he said, nudging closer. “There’s this place I love. Best late-night snacks. Open all hours. We could swing by?”
Spend the night replaying the scene you saw, or hang out with Wally? An easy choice. You shrugged, the effort minimal. “Sure. Why not?”
His eyes brightened. “Really?”
“It’s food,” you said. “You don’t need to sell it.”
“Excellent.” He paused. “Can I carry you?”
You raised a brow. “Excuse me?”
“Just for speed,” he clarified quickly. “We’ll get there faster. Less walking. You look, don’t take this the wrong way, tired.”
You hesitated — then nodded. “Okay. Yeah. That’s… fine.”
He grinned. “Great.”
He barely gave you time to brace before he scooped you up, one arm under your knees, the other steady at your back. The city blurred into streaks of color and light, the wind cool against your face, his grip solid and careful.
When he slowed, you felt the shift immediately.
You glanced around — and frowned.
“This is the tower.”
“Mm-hmm.”
You looked up at him. “Wally.”
“Yes?”
“This is your room.”
“Correct again.”
You stared at him, unimpressed. “You said favorite snack spot.”
He opened the door and gestured grandly inside. “Yes. My favorite late-night snack spot. It has everything I love and is open at all hours.”
He stepped inside, smug as anything, heading straight for the kitchenette.
You stood in the doorway for a beat, then followed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Effective, I’d argue,” he countered, rummaging through a cabinet. “There’s a difference.”
He tossed you a packet of something chocolate-coated, a bag of chips, and a water bottle. “Here.”
You caught it. “What is this?”
“Protein bar, allegedly. I have to be a good influence and provide something nutritious.”
You squinted at the label. “This is barely food.”
“Manners, that is no way to treat a gracious host.”
You laughed despite yourself and wandered closer as he grabbed a couple more things.
“So,” you said, leaning against the counter. “Why do you get a whole suite with a kitchenette, anyway?”
He puffed up slightly, raising three fingers. “Seniority. Pension. Hero benefits.”
You give him a deadpan stare. “You’re in your twenties.”
“Mentally? I’m at least seventy.”
You laughed again, softer this time.
He shrugged, more genuine now. “Actually, it’s the speed thing. Easier to have my own stuff than accidentally blow up the communal kitchen at three in the morning. Trust me.”
“That makes sense,” you admitted.
He nodded. “See? Practical.”
He turned and promptly fumbled the protein bar, dropping it against his chest where it smeared something sticky and dark across the front of his suit.
“Oh— come on,” he groaned. “Rude.”
He peeled the top half of the suit down in one smooth motion.
Your brain…just kinda…stopped.
His skin was warm gold under the lights, muscles defined in a way that made no effort to be subtle about the work they did. Broad shoulders, strong arms, a chest that made your thoughts go pleasantly blank.
You were aware, distantly, that you were staring.
You were also aware, slightly less distantly, that you had stopped breathing.
“Uh.”
His eyes flicked up and caught yours.
Something shifted between you, like the air before a storm breaks. The room seemed to shrink, narrowing to just the space you both occupied. Your skin prickled with awareness, heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears.
His eyes darkened slightly, pupils expanding as they held yours, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed. His chest rose with a slow, deliberate breath, like he was trying to steady something inside himself. Neither of you moved, caught in that fragile moment where possibility hung suspended, electric and dangerous.
Then there was a knock, and the door slid open before either of you could react.
Roy leaned in, eyes immediately taking in the scene: you standing far too close, Wally shirtless, snacks scattered, the air very clearly Not Normal.
“Well,” Roy drawled, leaning against the doorframe, grin slow and wicked. “What’s happening here?”
You and Wally looked at each other.
Whatever had been building between you snapped — not gone, just… scattered.
You both started talking at once.
“It’s not—”
“He just—”
“We were just—”
“He spilled something—”
“She was tired—”
You stopped and blinked before closing your eyes and taking a step back.
“Goodnight,” you said flatly, and turned and walked out.
Behind you, you heard Roy’s laugh and Wally’s very distressed, “Roy—!”
You didn’t stop walking until you were back in your own room.
And only then did you sit on your bed, heart racing, face warm, and whisper quietly to yourself:
“Oh no.”
⚡︎𓅩
It wasn’t just that Dick was affectionate. It was that he was affectionate everywhere.
The tower’s common spaces had always been neutral ground — places where masks slipped just enough to breathe, but not enough to expose anything fragile. Or at least, they used to be. Now, it felt like every room carried the echo of something you no longer belonged to.
You saw it in passing moments first.
Dick’s hand was resting at the small of Kori’s back as they walked down the hall, guiding without thinking. Fingers brushing her wrist when he laughed, lingering just a second longer than necessary. The way he leaned into her space openly, shoulder pressed to hers, head tipped close as if the rest of the room didn’t exist.
You tried not to stare.
You tried not to remember how many times you’d reached for him like that and felt him subtly shift away. How often he’d murmured, “Later,” or “Not here,” as if affection were something private, something that needed to be rationed carefully.
You had told yourself it wasn’t rejection.
You had told yourself he was just cautious. Guarded. That loving him meant understanding the weight he carried.
Now he laughed freely, loud and unrestrained, pressing a kiss to Kori’s temple without hesitation as she teased him about something trivial. The room reacted; smiles and easy acceptance, and something inside your chest tightened painfully.
You looked away, but reflections betrayed you.
In the glass of a display case, you caught the way his arm curved around her waist, familiar and intimate. You saw the way she leaned into him, trusting and unafraid, his hand settling there as it had always belonged.
You felt… smaller.
Not jealous — not exactly. Just painfully aware of how much you’d minimized yourself to fit beside him. How gently you’d loved him, careful not to ask for too much, careful not to make him uncomfortable.
Careful not to be a burden.
It hurt in a way that was dull and sharp all at once, like pressing on a bruise you hadn’t realized was there.
You busied yourself with gear checks, adjusting straps that didn’t need adjusting, focusing on routine. Anything to avoid watching the way he touched her so easily.
When the mission call came through, you welcomed it with something like relief.
Action was easier than feeling.
—
The mission was chaotic from the start.
Smoke and shouting as more concrete collapses.
You moved without thinking, instincts honed from countless hours in the field. When the opening appeared, you took it — pivoting, feinting, striking with precise timing.
Dick, however, followed through perfectly.
Your move.
The mission ended successfully. The team gathered for a quick debrief, adrenaline still buzzing.
“Nice work, Nightwing,” Roy said. “That move saved our asses.”
Dick smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Figured I’d try something new.”
Your stomach dropped. You stared at the floor, jaw tight, pulse roaring in your ears.
Wally looked at you, really looked, and saw it. The stiffness in your posture. The way you folded inward.
He remembered Dick talking about that move months ago. How impressed he’d been, how proud.
“Hey,” Wally said softly, stepping closer. “You wanna grab food? Before Roy demolishes everything edible in a five-mile radius?”
You blinked, pulled from your thoughts. “What?”
He hooked an arm around your shoulders, not tight, not claiming — just there. “Come on. I’m starving, and you look like you could use a break.”
You hesitated, eyes flicking toward Dick without meaning to. He was already being pulled into conversation, attention elsewhere.
Wally noticed, he always did.
“Hey,” he murmured, nudging you gently. “I got you.”
You exhaled slowly, tension easing just enough to let you move.
“Fine,” you said. “But if you eat my fries—”
“Whoa, whoa,” he laughed. “I’m not a monster.”
As you walked away together, Dick glanced up, catching sight of you leaving — Wally’s arm around your shoulders, your head tilted toward him as he animatedly complained about Barry.
Something twisted in his chest that he steadfastly ignored. For the first time since he could remember, you didn’t look back.
⚡︎𓅩
The tower’s living room was loud in a comfortable way.
Soft music hummed from speakers tucked somewhere out of sight, low enough to blend into the background rather than demand attention. Someone had stretched out across the couch like they planned to stay there all night, boots kicked off without ceremony. Laughter drifted freely, unguarded, the kind that only existed on nights when no alarms screamed, and no one was counting down the minutes until the next emergency.
It should have felt safe.
You stood near the edge of the room, a warm mug cradled between your hands, letting the noise pass through you instead of into you. You nodded when someone glanced your way. Smiled when it was expected. You were present in the way one learned to be present when absence would be noticed.
Dick stood across the room, Kori sat beside him, close enough that her thigh pressed against his, his jacket draped over her shoulders like a promise.
“Dick,” Kori said brightly, nudging his arm. “Tell them the joke you said the other night.”
You couldn’t stop yourself from focusing on the conversation, despite knowing that it would most likely lead to your heartbreak again.
Dick blinked, looking slightly confused. “What—?”
“The one about the—” she laughed, waving her hand vaguely as she was unable to continue the background details. “The story. It was funny.”
The room leaned in, anticipation flickering easily from face to face.
Dick’s eyes flicked toward you.
Just for a second.
Your breath catches, afraid of what that look might mean. You didn’t move, you didn’t react. You simply lifted your mug and took a slow sip, gaze unfocused, fixed on nothing in particular.
“Oh,” Dick said, a chuckle slipping out as understanding clicked into place. “That one.”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Okay.”
And then he told it. Your story.
Your voice, stripped of its softness. Your timing sharpened for laughs instead of honesty. A moment that had once lived quietly between you and a close friend — something vulnerable, something shared late at night when trust sat heavy and real between you — reduced to a punchline.
You remembered that night with startling clarity.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, lights low, the two of you laughing so hard you’d cried, a mixture of grief and laughter. How you’d confessed something small but meaningful about a close friend long since gone.
A moment you shared because you had felt safe only because of who you were telling it to. How you’d smiled afterward, warmed by the certainty that it mattered, comforted by your companion, and wanting them to carry this treasured memory with them too.
Now it was just… content.
A story told without context. Without care. Dick told it well; he’s a great storyteller.
The room erupted in laughter.
Someone wiped tears from their eyes. Someone else shook their head, already repeating the best part under their breath.
You stood perfectly still.
You felt it happen inside you, the moment something disconnected.
It was subtle, like a wire loosening, like a door closing softly instead of slamming. The ache didn’t spike. It emptied. The warmth drained out, leaving behind a numb, hollow space where feeling had once lived.
You didn’t laugh or flinch. You didn’t even look at him. You simply… stopped being there.
And it was almost as if Dick felt it.
Not immediately, but as the laughter stretched on, something in his chest began to tighten, an unease threading through the easy moment. His eyes found you again, instinctively searching for the familiar reaction he’d always been able to count on.
A smile or an eye-roll.
That look you used to give him; fond, conspiratorial, like the two of you shared something just beneath the surface.
Instead, he found nothing. Your eyes were distant, polite. Empty in a way that felt wrong and hurt.
Gone.
The laughter faded unevenly, as if people sensed the shift without understanding it. Dick’s voice trailed off at the end of the story, landing awkwardly in the space that followed. He shifted, tugging at the hem of his sleeve, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands.
His gaze locked with yours.
For half a second, memory surged: moonlight through your bedroom window, your laughter muffled against his neck, the way you used to look at him like he was home.
Then he saw it. The absence.
Whatever fragile thread still connected you, whatever hope he’d held that you could exist in each other’s lives without pain, disintegrated in that instant. Like paper catching flame, burning faster than he could reach for it.
Your eyes slid away.
You turned your body slightly, a subtle motion that somehow landed heavier than any argument ever had.
Dick’s heart stuttered.
“Hey—” he said suddenly, pushing himself upright, already stepping toward you. “Wait—”
He didn’t get the chance, because Wally was already there.
Not rushing or dramatic, despite the way Dick was experiencing it. He didn’t insert himself into the moment or raise his voice. He simply appeared at your side, like he’d been standing just outside the edge of your world, waiting for the exact second you needed a way out more than you needed answers.
Dick saw him before he registered anything else.
Saw the way Wally angled his body slightly toward you, shielding you from the rest of the room without making a show of it. Saw the way his expression softened when he looked at you; not concern exactly, but familiarity. Understanding.
Wally didn’t touch you right away; instead, he held out his hand.
Open and patient, a clear invitation, not a demand.
“Come on,” Wally said quietly, leaning in just enough for you to hear him. His voice didn’t carry—it wasn’t meant to. “You promised me a rematch.”
You blinked, eyes unfocused at first, like you were surfacing from somewhere far away.
“I did?” you asked, voice faint but steady.
He smiled, small and easy, the kind of smile that came from shared moments instead of charm. “Mm-hmm. Loser buys snacks.”
Dick took a step forward, his mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Because you were looking at Wally now.
And then — without hesitation — you reached for him.
Your fingers slid into his hand naturally, like muscle memory. Like this was something you’d done before, something your body recognized even if your heart hadn’t fully caught up yet. Wally’s hand closed around yours with quiet certainty, thumb brushing your knuckles once in a way that was achingly gentle.
Dick’s breath caught hard in his chest.
That wasn’t a first touch. It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t careful. It was familiar. It was the kind of intimacy that came from repetition — from trust built slowly, from presence earned over time.
And suddenly, Dick understood.
This hadn’t started tonight. This hadn’t even started recently.
While he’d been absent in all the ways that mattered, someone else had been showing up. Someone else had been learning the shape of your silences, the weight of your tiredness, the moments when you needed to leave before something broke.
Wally turned slightly, guiding you with him. You followed without looking back. The room seemed to tilt.
Dick stood frozen, watching your joined hands swing gently between you as you walked away — not hurried, not dramatic — just decided.
You weren’t running from him. You were choosing something else.
The doors slid shut behind you with a soft hiss, sealing the sound of laughter and music inside.
Dick remained where he was.
For the first time, it wasn’t heartbreak that settled into his chest.
It was understanding.
He hadn’t just lost you romantically. He had lost access to you; to your touch, your reactions, your presence in his life. The loss wasn’t theoretical anymore.
It was real and it was final.
⚡︎𓅩
The hallway was quiet, the door sliding shut behind you with a soft hiss that felt louder than it should have.
You walked a few steps before realizing your hand was still in Wally’s.
The warmth of it grounded you. Steady and real, pulling you back from the numbness that had settled over you moments before. Your fingers tightened briefly before you let go, clearing your throat as you slowed to a stop.
“Sorry,” you murmured. “I think I spaced out back there.”
Wally stopped immediately. “No worries,” he said easily. “Happens.”
You leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly as the adrenaline — emotional, not physical — began to ebb. The quiet wrapped around you, gentle and forgiving.
“Hey,” you said after a moment, trying for lightness. “You know you don’t have to… rescue me every time, right?”
He tilted his head. “Rescue?”
You gestured vaguely behind you. “You know. The dramatic exits. The timely distractions. You going full hero mode around me all the time must be exhausting.”
You smiled, small and self-deprecating, like it was a joke you’d rehearsed enough times to make it sound casual.
Wally didn’t smile back.
Instead, his expression softened into something serious and intent in a way that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.
“Hey,” he said gently, stepping closer just enough to keep your attention, not that he didn’t have it already.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk about yourself like you’re a problem I have to manage.”
You blinked.
“I don’t mind,” he continued, voice quiet but steady. “Not for a second. I’m not tired, I’m not obligated. I’m here because I want to be.”
His gaze held yours, unflinching.
“I care about you,” he said simply.
The words landed softly, but they knocked the breath from your lungs all the same.
Something shifted in your chest. Warmth bloomed where there had only been emptiness before. Gratitude, yes — but something else too. Something that made your pulse stutter, that made you see him differently all at once.
You looked at him, really looked, and felt it. Wally, who was looking at you intensely, saw it the second it reached your eyes.
His breath hitched, just barely. A slow smile spread across his face; not triumphant or smug, simply tender. Like he’d been hoping for that look without expecting it.
For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. Then Wally straightened slightly, clearing his throat.
“So,” he said, voice deliberately lighter. “Snacks?”
You laughed, the sound real and surprised, and nodded. “Yeah, snacks.”
“Good,” he said, already turning. “Because I’m starving, and I refuse to have this moment derail my nutritional needs.”
You fell into step beside him, the silence between you no longer empty; just full of things neither of you were quite ready to name yet.
And for the first time in a long while, the ache in your chest didn’t feel like something you had to carry alone.
⚡︎𓅩
The debrief room was louder than usual.
People talked over one another, adrenaline still buzzing from a mission that had gone better than expected. Roy leaned back in their chair, boots propped on the table. Garth was already arguing over credit for a distraction that hadn’t actually been planned.
You sat near the end of the table, tablet balanced against your knee, half-listening while scrolling through post-mission data. This part always felt strange—being surrounded by people dissecting a fight that already felt distant, like it belonged to another version of you.
“…and honestly,” Wally said suddenly, voice cutting through the noise, “the whole thing only worked because she spotted the second location before anyone else did.”
The room quieted. You looked up, startled.
“Wait,” Donna said. “You found it?”
You opened your mouth to clarify, but Wally, already committed, kept going.
“Yeah,” he said, gesturing vaguely in your direction. “She basically mapped the entire pattern on the fly. I mean, she could probably predict weather systems if she wanted to.”
You stared at him.
“No, I can’t,” you said quickly, cutting in before the attention could crystallize into something heavier. “Obviously, the weather’s gotten to Wally.”
A few chuckles rang out through the room before the looks shifted back to Dick and Cyborg for finishing details. The room relaxed again, conversation sliding easily back into overlapping voices and half-formed jokes. Someone changed the subject. Someone else complained about paperwork.
Wally blinked, realization dawning, a sheepish expression on his face. “Okay, yeah, that was—”
“—dramatic,” you finished dryly, smiling as you shrugged. “I just noticed something off in the data. Anyone could’ve.”
Crisis averted. Or so you thought.
You leaned slightly toward Wally and mouthed, What the fuck?
He winced, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Yeah,” he murmured back, lowering his voice and leaning into your space. “Sorry, I got carried away.”
You raised a brow as if to say ‘oh really?’
“But,” he added quickly, earnest now, “you were great. If you hadn’t caught that second location, we would’ve screwed the whole mission.”
You laughed quietly, the sound warm and genuine, and reached out without thinking—your fingers brushing his knee in an easy, familiar gesture.
“Next time,” you said softly, “try not to make me sound like a wizard.”
“No promises, Dumbledore,” he replied, grinning.
The exchange was small, casual, and comfortable.
It didn’t slip past Dick.
He watched it from across the table—the way you leaned toward Wally without hesitation, the way you touched him like it was nothing, the way Wally’s attention never wavered from you. There was no tension or uncertainty in it.
Just ease.
The meeting wrapped up a few minutes later, chairs scraping as people stood and filtered out in loose groups. You gathered your things and fell into step beside Wally, already mid-conversation about something inconsequential.
“Hey.”
Dick’s voice made both of you stop. Wally turned, surprised but not uncomfortable. “What’s up?”
“I’ll catch up with you later,” you murmur to him, touching his arm to grab his attention. You could think of 50 other locations you’d rather be than in the same conversation with just Dick and Wally.
He nodded immediately. “Yeah. Definitely.”
You smiled at him, soft and unguarded, before heading off down the corridor.
Wally watched you the entire time, only turning away once you disappeared around the corner.
“Feels like it’s been a while since we’ve hung out,” Dick said, attempting casual. “Just us. You know?”
Wally considered that for a moment. “Yeah,” he said honestly. “It has, sorry about that.”
Dick’s shoulders loosened slightly. “It’s fine, I’ve been busy too. I was thinking maybe we could—”
Wally grinned, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “Yeah, with her. Don’t really wanna disappoint her, so I gotta head out now. But we’ll definitely hang out soon! Maybe we’ll do a boys’ night!?”
Before Dick could respond, Wally was gone—a red blur vanishing down the hall in the direction you’d gone.
The room didn’t stay quiet. Someone snorted. “Wow.”
Roy leaned back against the table. “You guys notice how often those two hang out now?”
“On missions, too,” Donna added thoughtfully. “They’re always paired.”
Cyborg chimed in, teasing. “Guess Dick and Kori really inspired love to bloom around here.”
Laughter followed, but Dick didn’t laugh.
Something twisted sharply in his stomach, nausea creeping in slowly and unwelcome. The room felt too warm, too loud. He stared at the doorway where you both had disappeared, chest tight with a realization he hadn’t wanted to make.
Whatever was happening between you and Wally had been growing quietly—right under his nose—while he’d been elsewhere, assuming you’d still be there when he looked back.
He swallowed hard. For the first time, the loss didn’t feel only like heartbreak.
It felt like a consequence.
⚡︎𓅩
Another month passed.
It wasn’t marked by anything dramatic; no declarations, no lines crossed, no moments that demanded names. Just time, shared and unspoken and steadily meaningful.
You and Wally fell into a rhythm without ever acknowledging it as one.
Late-night patrols that stretched longer than necessary. Coffee runs that turned into conversations about childhood, fears, and things neither of you talked about easily. Sitting side by side on rooftops, legs dangling over the edge, watching the city breathe while the world felt smaller and calmer than it had in a long time.
You learned how he liked his coffee — sweet enough to be suspicious. He learned the exact way you went quiet when you were thinking too hard. You learned that he always ran faster when you were tired, and that he always positioned himself just slightly closer when you looked overwhelmed.
He learned when to joke, and more importantly, when not to. Somewhere along the way, you realized you felt… safe again.
Not the fragile kind. The steady kind. The night it finally happened was unremarkable in the best way.
Patrol ended early. The city was quiet, streets slick from earlier rain, lights reflecting like constellations below. You sat on the edge of a rooftop, boots resting against concrete, the cool air settling comfortably against your skin.
Wally stood nearby, stretching, then dropped down beside you with an exaggerated sigh.
“Wow,” he said. “Peaceful. Suspiciously so.”
You smiled. “Don’t jinx it.”
“Right. Sorry.” He mimed zipping his lips.
Silence settled — not awkward, not empty, just unsure as to how to start.
You glanced at him without thinking and caught the way he was already
looking at you.
Wally gave no indication he was startled; he just kept looking, something you couldn’t believe was obvious in his eyes. Your breath hitched before you could stop it.
Wally noticed. Something in his expression shifted. It softened, deepened, like he’d been holding something back and finally decided to stop.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
You turned fully toward him, giving him a small smile. “Hey.”
He rubbed his palms together once, nervous energy bleeding through despite his usual ease. “Can I… say something?”
Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. “You just did.” You couldn’t help yourself from saying.
The look Wally gives you makes you laugh and helps break the uncomfortable tension that was in the air. “I think this is one of those moments you told me about that isn’t right to joke.” He teases you, throwing back your argument you told him.
“Yeah,” you said, giving him a sheepish smile and a shrug. “Sorry, I was nervous.”
“Yeah, I get that.” He murmurs back to you. The nervous energy is gone, and instead, a tension lingers in the air. He looks you in the eyes, then awa,y before looking back and slowly leaning in. His arm reaches out and grabs your hand, holding it gently in his grasp, his thumb rubbing against your knuckles.
He took a breath before letting it out slowly starting.
“I’ve been trying not to,” he admitted with a small, self-aware smile.
“Because I didn’t want to mess anything up. Or rush you, or make things weird.”
Your chest tightened.
“But,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours, “somewhere between the third late-night snack run and the fifth time you fell asleep during movie night… I realized I was already way past that point.”
You laughed softly, more breath than sound.
“Wally—”
“I care about you,” he said, gently cutting in. “Not in a teammate way. Not in a ‘I’ll always have your back’ way — although, yeah, that too.” He swallowed. “I mean… I like you. A lot. And it’s more than friendship, and I didn’t want to keep pretending it wasn’t.”
The words settled between you, warm and terrifying and real. You stared at him for a long moment.
Then you exhaled, shoulders relaxing as if something you’d been carrying finally found a place to rest.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” you admitted quietly.
His eyes widened. “You were?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Because I’ve been trying to tell myself it was just comfort. Or gratitude. Or… anything but this.” You smiled faintly. “But it’s not, and it hasn’t been for a while.”
You looked at him fully now, letting him see it.
“It’s more than friendship for me, too, Wally.”
The relief on his face was immediate — bright and unguarded, like sunlight breaking through cloud cover. He laughed, soft and incredulous.
“Wow,” he breathed. “Okay. Wow.”
You laughed too, the sound lighter than it had been in months.
He hesitated, just for a second, then asked quietly, “Can I…?”
You nodded before he finished.
He leaned closer, his gaze unwavering. As he hesitated, breath hitching in the space between you, the air thickened with unspoken words. Then, with a soft determination, he closed the distance, pressing his lips against yours.
The kiss was tentative at first, a sweet brush that ignited a spark, before deepening into something more, a shared promise that lingered in the cool night air.
Neither of you rushed it because neither of you needed to.
The city hummed below, indifferent and vast, while something small and meaningful settled into place between you.
And for the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel like something to brace for.
It felt like something you were allowed to want.
⚡︎𓅩
a/n: everyone say thank you to olivia rodrigo for inspiring this! this was originally 3k and was like a little drabble, but then? i just? couldn't stop? and now we have this pretty little baby.
this fic could also be named "wally showing he cares by making sure you eat",
as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. here’s a kiss from me to you 💋
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dick grayson, jason todd, bruce wayne
synopsis: your boyfriend reveals to you his secret identity finally, just not in the way he would have liked... tags: established relationships, angst to comfort, miscommunication, assumptions of/illusions of cheating (dick and bruce), happy ending, language
a/n: back at it again with another fic i squirreled away lol no timmy this time, sorry tim drake enjoyers!! i couldn't think of a good idea for him;; hope y'all enjoy!!
Dick Grayson (wc: 2.7k):
You like to think of yourself as an understanding person. Someone who puts faith in their partner a hundred percent of the time. But there has to be a limit right? What you’re doing right now is rational right?
You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting on the floor of Dick’s apartment, staring blankly out ahead of you in questioning numbness as your inner thoughts compare notes. It comes and goes in waves. Sometimes the Doubter wins out, making your body move with a fueled rush to gather all your clothes, all your belongings you’ve left over as his place, cursing his name and your naivety as you try to make any evidence of you disappear.
And then, a little voice pipes up in the middle of you stuffing mugs wrapped in shirts into trash bags that freezes you on the spot.
“But Dick isn’t like that.”
And then you sit or you stand in the middle of his apartment, mind blank from overwhelming conflicting beliefs, for several minutes. Sometimes you silently cry, keeping your sobs down so as to not disturb the neighbors at such a late (or rather early) hour.
But right now the tears are dry on your cheeks, your thoughts have leveled out some but you were still indecisive. You start to turn your mind back, trying to recall if there was any proof of Dick’s cheating or if it was just your abandonment issues flaring up again.
Your relationship with Dick wasn’t perfect, but it was damn near close. You two had disagreements or communication issues that would be resolved in an evening. The worst fight you had was when Dick flaked on meeting your parents when they were in town. It wasn’t a big deal, just a light breakfast at a cafe or a lunch downtown sometime during the week they were visiting; something casual to introduce your family to the man you loved.
And he flaked all week. Each excuse was different to the point you weren’t sure why he bothered rescheduling if he was just going to not show up.
But that was then. Dick had made up for it in spades by insisting you both go see your family in your old hometown one weekend and it was amazing. Your parents loved him (as who wouldn’t) and you got to show him where you grew up so far away from the grimness of Bludhaven.
Dick would miss a few dates here and there, but you never thought about it fully. Until one night when Dick was sleeping over at your apartment and you woke up to him missing. You rarely woke up in the middle of the night while Dick was over (he made sure you had no excuse not to sleep soundly after he was finished with you), but during a sudden cold snap through the city you woke up freezing cold and alone.
At first you waited, curling the comforter around you as you waited for your darling heater to return. But the longer you waited, the more the chill got to you, and the more the chill got to you, the more awake you became. It wasn’t long before you sat up, worried, you pulled on Dick’s sweater from the floor and padded around your cold apartment looking for him.
You checked the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen, and found no sign of him. You see that his phone is still connected to the charger by the bed but his shoes are missing from the front door. You try not to worry about it too much but in the end, you couldn’t return to sleep.
You heard the front door open sometime around four in the morning. You wait on top of your bed, waiting to see if your mind was playing tricks on you. But when you heard the jingle of keys hit the bowl by the door, you rushed to your feet.
You crashed into Dick’s warm body before he could even toe his second shoe off. His arms loop around you, his warmth seeping into the chill of your body from the cold and also from the lack of him. He mumbled softly with amusement as he petted your hair, “Well, hello to you too.”
As you pull Dick back towards your bedroom to return to sleep, you ask him where he went at such a late hour. He told you he had forgotten something at his apartment and didn’t want to wake you up over something so small. And you believed him, he was your Dick afterall.
Even though his apartment was only a few blocks up the street and he didn’t return with anything in his hand, you believed him. Because you loved him.
But then it kept happening.
For several nights, you would wake up to Dick missing and returning to your apartment hours later. Sometimes you would ask him where he went. He was always forgetting something at his apartment, always something small and different like his toothpaste or a change of underwear. Sometimes you would fake being asleep in your bed when he returned home. He would shower (in the dark as the lights would no doubt wake you up) then return to bed, curling an arm around your body as if he never left.
You wanted to press for more but you were more than aware about your own relationship issues. You had to trust that what Dick said was true even if your anxiety was fighting against you. You confided in your friends about it and they suggested a test.
Stay the night over at Dick’s apartment and see if he leaves in the middle of the night. If he does, it was all the evidence you would need that he was lying about where he was going for hours at a time.
And so you began to encourage the idea of spending the night at Dick’s apartment rather than yours. Your clever excuse was that you wanted to see Hayley more as your apartment didn’t allow pets. Which wasn’t a total lie. You loved Hayley to bits and loved taking her with you and Dick during dates to the park or a pet friendly restaurant.
Soon Dick’s apartment became a common location for late night movies and after-dinner sleepovers, rotating sporadically with your own apartment depending on where you two ended up and whose apartment was closer.
And while he still snuck out when he stayed at your apartment, Dick never snuck out of his. You always woke up in his arms with Hayley snugly curled in the gap between your legs. You would curl into his arms with a breath of relief, falling right back to sleep every time.
That was, until tonight.
When you woke up to Hayley whining at the door of the bedroom, gently pawing at the closed door. You sleepily sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you gently called out to her. She hurries over to you, tail wagging excitedly as you make your way out of the bed.
You notice Dick missing immediately but assume he was somewhere else in the apartment, accidently trapping Hayley inside the bedroom in his haste to close the door so the light from the living room didn’t disturb you.
You open the door, Hayley scampering out finally free from the bedroom and it takes you all of three seconds to realize the living room is dark. And empty.
And now here you sat, in the middle of Dick’s living room with two garbage bags full of belongings. Thinking about it only solidifies the obvious truth to you, Dick was lying to you. Whether or not he was cheating didn’t matter because he still lied and you weren’t going to make an excuse for him anymore.
“Baby?”
Your head snaps up. Dick is standing in his doorway, dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and baggy joggers. He barely gives Hayley any attention when she runs up to him excitedly, licking at his halfheartedly extended palm as his eyes flick over you.
You don’t look injured, or sick. But you’ve been crying and you’re not meeting his eyes. Dick swallows. He’s seen this before. His eyes flick to the garbage bags before he offers a light hearted joke, “Doing some late night cleaning?”
You don’t reply, just close the bag in your hand into a tight knot. You stand up slowly, a tied up bag in each hand. You struggle for a moment, wanting to keep your voice neutral and even as you say, “Take me home…please.”
The silence that follows your simple request is heavy with unspoken accusations and bending under the pressure of—not rage—finality. This wasn’t the first time a civilian he was dating broke up with him due to his work as a vigilante (though none of them knew that was the reason why). He tried fighting against it before, trying to get them to see reason but it always ended in an angry shouting match with flying accusations and a slammed door. So he started to just accept the break ups when they happen, shrug them off like they don’t matter—like they don’t carve a piece of his heart out every time.
For a while, he stopped dating civilians as it would only end in heartbreak for the both of them. But then he met you, completely by chance. Dick wasn’t usually a romantic, but your chance encounter was practically right out of a rom-com.
Catching the eyes of an attractive stranger across a busy intersection, their hearts skipping a beat as if their souls knew something they didn’t. The light changes, the moment the two of you would pass each other going in opposite directions, probably never to see each other again, was fastly approaching.
And Dick’s arm shot out, he grabs you before you leave his sight, as he desperately asks to buy you a coffee.
It’s been total bliss since then. Sure there were bumps and bruises, but God were you worth it. Dick never wanted to come home to someone more than you, he never felt safer than when he was with you. He loves you. So much it’s irrational considering the timeframe. He was happy at whatever pace you wanted to go, letting you lead in everything in the relationship.
He’s been wanting you to move in since the third date (highly irrational and very insane of him, according to Jason), so he was more than excited when you brought up staying at his apartment more. He made sure his schedule was clear whenever you were over so he could appreciate seeing you in his apartment, making yourself at home.
He had decided to reveal his secret identity to you once you officially moved in, whenever you were ready to make that step. He hadn’t decided yet if he was going to go the more fun or the more serious route when it came to telling you.
But now it looks like it won’t matter.
“I…” Dick struggled to speak, struggled to wrap his head around the reality he was seeing. A reality that only existed in his worst nightmares. He takes a step towards you, “Baby—”
“Dick,” he freezes as you take a step back, holding up your hand to stop him. Your tone carries a warning, though it wasn’t harsh—it still hurts. You don’t meet his eyes, “Please, just take me home.”
Dick can feel his heart racing, the bruises welting against his skin from patrol pulsing with dull pain in harmony. He shouldn’t have left. He should have ignored Batman’s call, should have told him to deal with the problem without him. He had tons of other wards, why’d it have to be him? And why did it have to be while you were here, waiting for him?
How long did you agonize and swirl in your thoughts before you started to pack everything? Or was it something you’ve been itching to do for a while now?
Dick takes a cautious step forward, “It’s not what you think—”
“How can it be anything else?” you accuse before you can catch it. You shake your head, you don’t want to fight or yell right now. You just want to keep yourself whole. Just for a little longer. “Just—take me home, please.”
“Can’t I explain myself first?” Dick argued. He steps in front of you when you try to walk around him, “Honey, please—”
“I’d rather not know, okay?” you snap back. You feel the tears start up again and you wipe at them before they can fall, “I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know who it is or why or where—”
“Baby, it’s not like that,” Dick says as he holds your arms. His hands slide upwards, up over your shoulders until he finally cups your face in his warm palms. He forces your eyes upwards, his gentle eyes pleading as he softly repeats, “It’s not like that.”
You sniffle, eyes scrunching up as you want to believe him. But how could you? The tears slip as you dejectedly reply, “What else could it be?”
When Dick leans in, you think he’s about to kiss you as a final goodbye, maybe whisper an apology of admission. But instead he presses his lips to your forehead, soft and long, as if trying to reassure you. He lets out a long exhale when he finally moves away, hands lingering on you for as long as he could before he goes to pull off his sweatshirt.
At first you go to cover your eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time Dick used his body to distract you long enough to win a petty argument and you weren’t exactly in the mood to be messed with. But you hesitate when rather than see the color of his skin, you see black. You lower your hands slowly as you stare at Dick’s exposed upper body, fully covered in neck to wrist tight black-blue spandex that clung to every curve of his body.
Your eyes fixate on the symbol on his chest. Wide and blue, shaped vaguely in a V with cut outs to imply wings—you know that symbol.
Everyone in Bludhaven knows that symbol.
Dick swallows, your staring in awed silence wasn’t exactly reassuring. He drops his sweatshirt to the wayside as he steps back in, his hands gently reaching for yours. You let go of the bags almost instinctively, letting them drop with a plop as your eyes continue to take in the electric blue of Nightwing’s insignia on his chest. Even as Dick’s hands intertwine with yours, you remain transfixed. Dick rubs his thumb up against your index finger in soothing strokes, his eyes never leaving your face, “I wanted to wait until you moved in to tell you.”
Your eyes shoot up to his face, eyes wide in surprise, “Moved in?” You feel your heart start to race, your hands tightening their hold on Dick’s, “You wanted me to move in?”
Dick lets out an airy laugh as he smiles with a tilt of his head, “Of course I do.” He tugs you forward, releasing your hands so they could rest on his chest as his hands came to rest on your hips. His eyes look down at your lips, “Since the third date, actually.”
Your heart thumps, “Really?”
Dick nods, his gaze transfixed on your face. He leans in to kiss you this time, and you melt so easily. It’s brief, a chaste little thing only meant to quell Dick’s urge for now. Even so, Dick pulls back reluctantly, his hand coming up to hold your face. His thumb gently rubs against the warm apple of your cheek and he says, “Would you like to sit down for a bit? I would like to tell you something.”
You find yourself nodding, eyes half lidded, “Yeah, anything.”
Dick kisses you again, unable to help himself. He was okay to do whatever you want to so he could keep you right here in front of him. He would have waited until you were both gray if you wanted. But after what happened tonight, you’ll have to forgive him when in two weeks time he gets down on one knee and asks you to marry him.
Jason Todd (wc: 2.6k):
Despite how Jason was with other people, he rarely ever fought with you. You were someone he chose, who he respected, who he loved. The most you two would do is bicker over small things or discuss (very passionately) about miscommunication and reassurances. But neither of you would ever label moments like that as “fights”, no matter how heated they were in the moment.
But this.
This was a fight.
“I can’t believe you’re defending him right now!” you shout mid-pace in Jason’s living room as said man was sitting on the couch, trying not to blow more of a fuse than he already has.
“I’m just saying,” Jason started, trying to remember to be calm about this despite how stubborn you were at the moment, “his intention was to–”
“I don’t give a fuck about his stupid intention, Jason! He fucking groped me,” you spat back, stopping to turn towards him.
“Putting a hand on your waist is not groping!”
“Oh sorry, were you the one that was touched? I didn’t think so!”
Jason ran a hand down his face, his eyes glaring off to the side in annoyance. Not at you so much as himself and his big fat mouth. The topic of this fight was an incident at a bar a few nights ago. Jason knew that you were out with friends that night but didn’t know where. So when his latest mission as Red Hood came to a head in a ten versus one above some dive bar in Crime Alley with shitty infrastructure, he was more than a little shocked that when the floor suddenly gave way and he ended up falling in the middle of a game of pool, that you were there. Literally feet away from him, slightly dusted in sawdust or asbestos or whatever was used as insulation, clutching a pool stick close to your chest in surprise in the middle of the quietest bar Jason had ever been in.
Immediately more concerned about you than himself, Jason ignores the pain in his back to flip over and address you with urgency, “Are you hurt?”
It’s only when his voice comes out modulated and he sees the surprised look in your eyes as you frantically shake your head that Jason remembers, he’s Red Hood right now. Even so, that fact didn’t stop him from launching his body to cover yours the second the smugglers he was fighting opened fire down at him below. He rolls the both of you under the pool table, screams and breaking glasses echoing all around you as the other bar guests frantically run for the exit. All Jason was thinking at that moment was how to get you out of there as safely as possible, his mind flicking through options and ideas in his head like a flipbook, meanwhile you were trying not to pass out from sheer fear and panic.
Because on the one hand, the sexy Red Hood grabbed you of all people to save and hide under a low pool table with and he wasn’t shy about personal space in the slightest. On the other hand, there were fucking bullets ricocheting everywhere. Not to mention you were pretty sure your boyfriend was never going to let you go out on your own ever again.
“You alright, sweetheart?”
You more felt Red Hood’s words than heard them, his chest rumbling and brushing against yours with each word due to the close confines. His elbows rested on either side of your head, the milky white eyes of his helmet staring blankly down at you. You couldn’t see the frantic searching of Jason’s irises as they looked over your face, searching for scratches, blood, bruises, anything.
You felt your heart start to pound when Red Hood leaned closer towards you, Jason leaning down to inspect a swipe of something dark against your cheek that he hoped wasn’t blood. You quickly place your hands on Red Hood’s torso right under his pecs (the only place you could reach since your arms were pinned under his hunk of a body, not because you wanted to) and turned your head to the side as you quickly, and quietly, spat out, “I have a boyfriend!”
Jason paused, the cute embarrassed expression on your face making him smile. He wasn’t obtuse, he knew Red Hood was considered a “sex god” by many civilians in and out of Gotham and from the few conversations you’ve had with your friends that he’s overheard, you thought so too. But the way you were rejecting Red Hood because you were dating him made his stomach twist up in knots. He couldn’t help the warm chuckle bubbling out of his throat.
Unfortunately for Jason, that warm chuckle sounded more condescending through the modulator to your untrained ears. And even though the words Red Hood said seemed harmless to Jason, they set off little red alarms in the back of your mind, “I think that’s the least of your concerns right now, sweets.”
The whole smuggler situation was resolved within twenty minutes, Nightwing was called in along with Spoiler to assist. Even though Jason was sure he could handle them on his own, he didn’t want to risk any harm to you and remained under the pool table as Nightwing and Spoiler took out the smugglers. Once the coast was clear, Red Hood offered you a hand to help you stand which you rejected. You could still feel the ghost of his hand that was on your side while you two waited out the skirmish. His hand rubbing up and down against your side in comforting strokes. Jason thought he was soothing you considering you were trembling under him and you responded well when he did it during horror movie marathons. But that was when he was Jason. Right now he was Red Hood and it was very uncomfortable for you. Not to mention conflicting.
The patterns felt too familiar, too comforting from a total stranger that it made your body react positively even though you knew the person touching you at that moment wasn’t your boyfriend. You felt guilt starting to swirl. Of course you thought Red Hood was hot, who didn’t?! But you were committed to a relationship with the sweetest, most romantic man you’ve ever met and you’d be damned if some handsy hero wanted to get fresh with you just because he saved your skin.
Even though you rejected his hand, Red Hood still put his hand over the edge of the pool table, something Jason usually did when you would crawl under the table to grab something you dropped. The action that usually invokes fluttering butterflies, now felt tainted when it was done by another man. You just wanted to get home and sleep, then rant about Red Hood’s handsy-ness to your boyfriend next you see him. You were all cleared to leave by Spoiler (no injuries outside of a rogue thin scrape from when a vigilante fell in the middle of your pool table) so you turned to start the walk home to your apartment.
Only to feel your feet lift off the ground when a strong arm wraps itself around your waist to drag you backwards into a hard warm chest, “And where do you think you’re going?”
That was the final straw for you. You hadn’t had to get aggressive with an unwanted man since usually Jason was intimidating enough to keep people back, so you were probably way harsher than you should have been. Then again, you were in the middle of a shoot out in your favorite bar just moments ago so maybe your violent shove was more than a little warranted.
You spun around, finger jabbed out towards, but no where near touching, Red Hood’s chest as you spat out, “Keep your fucking hands off me.”
Jason was stunned silent at the expression on your face. You never looked at him with such disgust and rage before. You spun around to start walking but Jason called after you, “Why are you being such a bitch?”
Okay, maybe calling you a bitch was a little harsh and Jason immediately regretted it. Even if you weren’t his romantic partner, he shouldn’t be calling any civilian a bitch after the night they just had. So you had every right to stop and spit back something just as harsh, “Why do you feel so entitled to fucking touching me? Oh, what, because you saved me from the mess you caused I should get on my knees and suck your fucking dick?!”
Jason stiffened in surprise, grateful for the helmet that hides his growing blush as it creeps up all over his face as his siblings snicker behind him. He bites back, “No! But you should at least be grateful!”
“For what? You doing your job?” you reply. You give an exaggerated bow, “Wow, thank you so much for saving me, Mr. Red Hood, sir.” You scowl, “Happy now?”
You turn to walk off only for Jason to scoff, annoyed. Usually you were kinda hot when you cursed people out, but right now you were being fucking unreasonable for no reason. In the end, Jason tightened his jaw before beginning to follow you. Even if you were mad at him, (for some reason) he wanted to make sure you got home safe after all that.
You, however, disagreed.
“Don’t fucking follow me!” you shouted over your shoulder.
“What, am I not allowed to make sure you get home safe?” Jason shouted back, exacerbated.
“I don’t want you to know where I live, pervert!”
“Pervert?!”
“Okay, Hood, how about I walk them home?” Nightwing suggested.
“Not a fucking chance,” both you and Jason say at the same time, the one thing you agree on but for different reasons.
For Jason, he didn’t want Dick finding out about his relationship with you (though at this point it might as well be out of the bag). Meanwhile, for you–
“I can walk my own damn self home just fine,” you respond.
Jason conceded, throwing his hands up in the air, “Fine, whatever. Get lost already.”
You flip him off, turning again to finally begin the walk home. Jason watched your retreating figure, his eyes never leaving your back, “Spoiler.”
“Follow ‘em, got it,” Stephanie replied, immediately shooting off her hook to follow your walk home from the rooftops.
“Can I ask–”
“No,” Jason snapped, silencing Dick for now as he turned his attention back to the smugglers that started this whole mess.
Jason only eased up when Stephanie told him that you made it home, but he relaxed when you texted him the same thing. Though when you added that you had a rough night, Jason felt a little guilty for being such an asshole to you. He was set on apologizing to you next time he saw you.
It was only when he saw you a few days later that he was reminded, again, that he was Red Hood to you that night and not your beloved Jason Todd as you recount everything Red Hood did to you that made you uncomfortable. Things that Jason thought were helpful, were actually creepy when it wasn’t him saying or doing it. And Jason felt awful for coming off like that, happy to let you rant about your terrible night out and how touchy Red Hood was despite you telling him you had a boyfriend (it was him but again, you didn’t know that). But when you started to insinuate Red Hood’s actions were more insidious than they were (because again, Red Hood was your boyfriend even if you didn’t know it), Jason couldn’t stop himself from jumping to his own defense.
The spark that started this whole fight to begin with.
“I can’t believe you’re actually defending this guy!” you shout, incredulous. “Meanwhile, if anyone so much as stares longer than a second at me, they deserve an elbow to the throat!”
“Hey I’m still working on that!” Jason replied, defensive. “They’re fucking sleazeballs with a staring problem. He beats up bad guys. Not exactly the same cloth here, babe.”
“Oh so because he’s a hero, he gets a pass is that right?” you snidely remark. “So if Nightwing gets all handsy next time I should just let him?”
Jason jumps to his feet, “Did he fucking touch you? Because I swear to God–”
“No you fucking idiot,” you snap, “It was an example. But how come you’re more upset about fucking Nightwing who’s all the way over in fucking Bludhaven, than you are about the fucking guy who is out in our neighborhood?!”
“I–That’s different!”
“How?!” you insist, “How is it different, Jason?! They’re both men, both heroes that save people, what makes it okay for Red Hood to feel me up but not Nightwing?!”
“Because he’s me, dammit!”
Silence overtakes the apartment. Jason can’t even look at you, hand running through his hair as he curses himself for letting it slip so easily. But what other option did he have? Jason knew realistically that he had to tell you, but he was putting it off for as long as he could. Because once you knew about him, you’d know everything. What he did as the Hood, that he died, that he came back. He was scared that you’d never see him the same. And it didn’t help that your opinion of Red Hood was soured very recently by his own inability to keep his hands off of you.
“That’s not funny, Jason,” you finally say.
Jason sighed. Denial. At least you weren’t shouting any more. Though, he probably preferred that over your quieter tone that lacked any tell of your true thoughts. He still couldn’t look at you, crossing his arms to protect himself, “I’m not joking.”
Another moment of silence. Until you punched him square in the arm.
“Ow!” the reaction was automatic, your knuckle was sharper than Jason was expecting and seemed to be the worst part of the punch. Though he’s seen you scrap in a bar fight before, you could definitely punch harder than that, “What was that for?”
“You asshole, why didn’t you say anything?!” you hissed, no true anger in your words or stance. If anything you looked…embarrassed. “I said all that fucked up shit about you. You should have just told me it was you.”
Jason stared in disbelief, “You’re not…” He wasn’t sure what he was expecting your reaction to be. Anger? Betrayal? Disgust? “You’re not mad?”
“Of course I’m not mad,” you said. “I just wish you gave me a signal or something, I don’t know.”
Jason snorted, “Yeah next time I need to reveal my secret identity to you I’ll pinch your left hand.”
You slap his arm for teasing you, making him laugh as you roll your eyes, “God whatever, asshole.”
Jason entered your space, something he was careful to not cross when you two were fighting but now was craving it when he saw your smile. He gently took your hands, weaving your fingers together casually, his eyes never straying from your face, “You sure you’re not mad?”
You snort with a smile, “Of course not, Jay. If anything I’m relieved.” You give your entwined hands a tug, urging him to take a step closer as you look up at him with a knowing smile, “Shoulda knew it was you the whole time anyway. Only you could make my heart go stupid when you get your hands on me.”
“Oh yeah?” Jason replied, releasing one of your hands to loop an arm around your waist, pulling you even closer, “I make your heart go stupid, baby?”
“Mm hmm,” you hum, leaning into his warmth. His safety. “Only you, Jay.”
Jason leans down, his lips brush against yours. Soft like a rose petal. Romantic like a sonnet. Even as you try to urge him to kiss you more with a simple break in your lips, a silent invitation, he doesn’t go farther. Not yet. His lips touch yours slightly as he speaks.
“Only me and Red Hood, apparently.”
“Oh fuck off.”
Bruce Wayne (wc: 4.7k):
This conversation was a long time coming. In all honesty, it was way overdue. About three years overdue but who’s counting (the kids and Alfred, with the answer varying depending on who you ask). Bruce knew he liked you from the day he met you, he knew he loved you nine months into dating you, and he knew he wanted to be with you forever three years ago. The ring he bought for you was hidden in his home office in a drawer in his desk, easily found if you were to open it but you never did.
You respected his privacy too much to do that. Which was both a blessing and a curse. If you were just a little more curious, a little more invasive into his private life, maybe the secret that was preventing Bruce from popping the question for three whole years wouldn’t have been such an issue. But he never blamed you. Only himself was to blame for the fact that you refer to him as your boyfriend rather than your husband after five years of dating.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you with his secret, with his children’s secret. He knew that marrying the man who was Batman was a huge ask, bigger than being a parent to children who weren’t your own or the spouse to a man forever under a spotlight. You handled the other two with ease, even as your status as just a romantic partner. You treated his boys and girls with respect and guidance. Bruce has never seen Damian cave to an adult’s requests faster in his life. Even Jason was open to your words of advice even if he didn’t explicitly ask for any. You treated the press as nothing more than words on a page. Though in your own words, you never read gossip columns much anyway so why would you bother to now?
But those two things were softballs compared to the lead sphere that was Batman. But in a way, you were already living with Batman, you just didn’t know it. All the missed vacations or rain check dates, you never held it against him so long as he told you about them the second he knew he wasn’t able to commit anymore. You never questioned him, never asked for more than he was willing to give. It was a blessing really, to have a partner so independent and trusting, and Bruce was happy to keep it that way. Even if that ring were to never be used as he wouldn’t feel right asking for your hand without you knowing all of what you were getting into, he was content so long as you stayed by his side.
Then he worked with you, as Batman. And he fell harder for you than he ever had before. You worked as a forensic lead at Gotham PD’s crime lab, specialized in toxicology and chemistry as the best in your field. So it wasn’t surprising that Commissioner Gordan suggested you when Batman asked him to borrow a forensics expert for an on-going drug case. What Bruce should have done was keep you as far away from this case as possible as your life could be in danger because of it. But as he hit deadend after deadend, asking you for help became his only option.
At first, Batman would only meet you in your lab or workplace. But as the case further developed and culprits attacked your workplace trying to get to you, you had to be moved to the lab in the Batcave until the case was solved. You fit in like a missing puzzle piece they didn’t know they were missing, the Bats and Birds more than thrilled to have you in the cave alongside them even though you didn’t know it was them under the cowls and masks. You acted no differently than if you were with Bruce and his family out of uniform, your parenting instincts and humor making an appearance even in the most serious of circumstances.
It was as Batman was watching you in the lab, chatting with his wards as you worked and gently swatting Robin’s hand from touching the burette and ruining your titration, that he realized that you belong here. In the cave. With his wards. With him. With Batman. He wouldn’t lie and say he didn’t feel like you two have gotten closer since your stay in the Batcave began. Sometimes he would even catch you looking at him, only for you to quickly turn away and return to your work having been caught.
Once the case was over, it was obvious everyone else felt the same.
“Father, when will (L/n) return to the cave?” Damian asked him.
“When we require their expertise.”
“Hey B, is (Y/n) in today? I have some blood I want them to run,” Dick said with a bagged sample.
“You can run the sample on your own without their assistance.”
“(Y/n) would have laughed,” Tim lamented when his joke fell flat.
“They would have, yes, you’re still going with Robin.”
Bruce could take a hint, but it didn’t mean he was going to act on it. More often than not he’d find himself in the Batcave sitting in front of the Batcomputer with the ring box in his hands, opening and closing the lid repeatedly. That was how Alfred found him one evening after patrol, alone with his thoughts and your ring. Alfred approached, standing next to his master before saying, “Everyone has gone to bed for the night, Master Bruce.”
“Right, thank you Alfred,” Bruce responded absentmindedly, the soft click of the ring box closing and opening filling the silence that followed.
Alfred watched silently for a few moments before he said, “They would say yes, you know.”
“To Bruce Wayne,” Bruce agreed, clicking the box closed one final time. He envelops the velvet box in his palm, “To Batman? I have my doubts.”
“You say it as if those are two completely different men.”
“To (Y/n) they are.”
“Only because you refuse to tell them otherwise.” Bruce gives his oldest friend an unamused look that would pass as a pout if he wasn’t a man in his early forties. Alfred continued with a reassuring smile, “Master Bruce, in the five years that I have had the privilege of knowing (Y/n) as your partner, they have never once made me doubt their affection towards you. I believe that warrants a little risk, don’t you?”
Bruce contemplates for a moment. His eyes cast over to the dark and empty lab. He feels his chest warm at the thought of you working in that lab, helping him on cases, giving him first aid, being the support he needed when his back hit a wall. Bruce stands, shoving the ring box into his belt with one hand and pulling his cowl over his face with the other, “I won’t be long Alfred.”
“So you say,” Alfred said with a knowing smile, watching Batman hurry out, “Give (Y/n) my regards and congratulations.”
By the time Batman arrived at your city apartment, you were getting ready for work. You hadn’t showered yet, enjoying the early hours by yourself before getting your day officially started. Still dressed in a silk pajama pair that Bruce bought you two birthdays ago, hair still unkempt, you started brewing your cup of coffee. Batman watched from your highrise balcony, the morning light not bright enough to reveal his silhouette too clearly. His hand rested over the pocket on his belt. Batman doesn’t get nervous. He’s fearless and certain. Bruce on the other hand…
He taps on the glass before he can stop himself, fighting back a smile when you jump in surprise. You walk over quickly, you unlock the door and pull it open slightly to stick your head out, “Batman? Is everything alright?”
No. Everything was not alright. You looked positively radiant right now and it made the stoic bat stiffen at the realization–he could get used to seeing you like this. You two barely spent the night together outside of weekends away or the rare vacation, both too busy with work to spend the night in each other’s bed. Seeing you in such a domestic lighting, looking up at him with concern–God you were perfect.
Bruce swallowed, “May I come in?”
You nod, further opening the door to let the dark knight effortlessly glide into your apartment. Bruce has visited a few times before but he looked around anyway as his memories took over. That couch was where you introduced Bruce to the Fast and Furious franchise, a guilty pleasure you claimed to never share with anyone else before him. The coffee table where you fanned out several magazines that had Bruce as the front cover–an embarrassing discovery he was left alone to find when you were still getting ready for your third date. You still claim they weren’t yours.
Bruce’s eyes rested on the pictures on the wall, arranged in a style like a prized feature wall in a gallery. That wall was bare when the two of you started dating. Now it was overflowing with photos of your relationship. Couple pictures at beaches or restaurants. Group photos for the rare family vacation you always insisted they try to take. Some were just you and his kids. You and Damian at a school art show, you and Cass backstage at her performance with a bouquet in her hands, you giving a pep talk to Stephanie and Tim before a debate competition, several candids of Dick, Duke, and Jason both with and without you. It was all so touching, the evidence you had of how much you loved Bruce and his family. The evidence of how important you were to them.
“Is it another case?”
Batman turns, watching as you pour your creamer into your mug and mix it in. You use the spoon to taste, a habit Bruce found entertaining as even after thirty years you still couldn’t get the ratio exactly how you like it on the first try. You add a little more and put the creamer away, you pick up your mug and walk around the counter, “Should I pack a bag?”
Batman blinks out of the fond haze you put over him and walks deeper into your apartment, “No, that isn’t necessary.” He stops in front of you, “I’m not here for a case.”
“Oh,” you reply, surprised, “To what do I owe the pleasure of Batman's company?”
Your hand in marriage.
Batman waved away the thought, instead focusing on reciting the speech he had laid out in his head prior to his arrival on your balcony, “I have something to say to you.”
You nod, taking his serious tone in stride and placing your mug on the counter behind you to give him your full attention. Bruce takes a breath, “Your…assistance–expertise, on that drug case was instrumental to me–to us. And I wanted to thank you.”
You smile, “There’s no need to thank me, Bats. I was just doing my job.”
Bruce paused at the nickname. He’s heard you say it before, even giving you explicit permission when you panicked about being too friendly to the vigilante the first time you said it. You said it so casually, so effortlessly; with an inflection Bruce was familiar with when you spoke his own name. Batman cleared his throat, “Yes well, there was something else.” You waited patiently as Bruce gathered himself, his hand going to rest on his belt over your ring. “You see, during your stay in the cave I–we grew fond of your presence there. If anything, your absence now is more noticeable. Almost…” his eyes catch yours, you’re hanging onto every word, “irritating.”
“I’m sorry,” you can’t help mumbling, your heart speeding up against your better judgement. “I didn’t mean to cause such an upset.”
“Quite the contrary,” Batman disagreed. He steps closer, your back digs into the counter but you don’t dare to look away. Almost like you can’t help it. “If anything, you revealed something that I have been struggling with for quite some time. And now that I know what it feels like to have someone like you by my side, I am ready to risk everything for a chance to feel it again.”
Your eyes flick over his face. They flick down to his lips, betraying the tension you feel that you try to cover up with intense eye contact, “I don’t understand.”
But of course Batman noticed. He noticed everything. His hand comes around your neck, your breath stutters. His thumb brushes against your jaw, “I want to lay my heart bare to you, my love. Reveal all its scars, all its pain–I want you to be a part of my life, all of it.”
When your eyes betray you again, he leans in. Batman captures your lips softly in his, tenderly. He’s kissed you so many times but this time felt different–real. Like he was able to shred the masks he wore in front of you for so long, able to feel the fresh breeze your presence gave him directly onto his naked skin. You kiss back almost instantly, the slight gasp of surprise melts with the tension of your body. You meet his lips with pliant acceptance, as if giving in to temptation.
When he pulls away to continue at a different angle, he feels your hands on his chest and a small push as your head turns away from him and you mumble, “...I think you should go.”
He doesn’t understand. You were kissing him back–you accepted him. Didn’t you?
You refused to look at him as he wordlessly moved away. The way you were holding yourself, the quiver in your lips–you were upset. But why? What did he do wrong? What could he say to change everything back to the way it was? Or was that your last gift to him–to Bruce, your final kiss goodbye?
Batman turned away with a mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
You didn’t move, even after he left your balcony and disappeared into the early morning sky you were frozen in place. Your fingers shake as they brush against your lips, the guilt and shame swirling into a nauseous spiral in your stomach. You weren’t a cheater. You never looked at another person outside of Bruce no matter the missed dates or neglected nights alone, you never strayed. And yet all it took was a stoic hero of the night to sway your steadfast heart. A few weeks on a case with him and five years went down the drain like it was nothing. How could you look Bruce in the eyes now? The kids? Alfred? You had kissed someone who wasn’t Bruce Wayne.
And you liked it.
There were many downsides to raising wards to be brilliant detectives. Any surprise parties were spoiled before the cake could be made. Outings to escape rooms were practically children’s riddle books. And any information intended to be hidden would be found out within the day. Bruce was experiencing that last downside when he finally left his room to try to pretend his heart wasn’t broken this morning to grab something to eat. Preferably something sweet. And cold. With cookie dough chunks in it.
Bruce didn’t even make it past opening the freezer before Damian sidelined him with a question, “What did they say, Father?”
Bruce played dumb, turning his head towards Damian and trying to look as pleasantly neutral as possible, “What did who say?”
“(L/n),” Damian elaborated. Bruce shut the freezer door, opting for a bottle of water instead. Damian watched his father as he walked past, “You did ask them for their hand in marriage, correct?”
“Where did you hear that?” Bruce deflected.
His youngest followed him out of the kitchen, hands clasped behind his back as they walked, “My sources must remain anonymous.” Meaning he was just taking a guess. “You are planning on asking, correct?”
The usual response of “Yes, of course, when the time is right” died in Bruce’s throat as he hesitated. Was there even a point in asking after you sent him away this morning? Could Bruce even assume that you two were dating anymore? Did you break up with him or did you just need time to process everything?
“Father?”
Shit. Bruce hesitated for too long, now Damian was suspicious. And if he was suspicious, he’d start prying. And Bruce really didn’t need his ten year old son to start digging around in his love life. Again. He also didn’t want Damian or any of his children to despise you for your choice. Bruce hoped that even if this was the end, that you’d still be a guiding light to them when he wasn’t able to be. Bruce turned to his youngest, catching Damian’s hard gaze that was softened at the edges with worry. He put a hand on Damian’s head, ruffling his hair, “Sorry, my thoughts got away from me there. Don’t worry about that, okay?”
And with that, Bruce walked away, leaving Damian to disobey his father’s words.
It took you over six hours to gather the courage to come to Wayne Manor and tell Bruce what happened this morning. At first, you were going to just sweep it under the rug and forget about it. But it didn’t sit right with you for long. You don’t think you could pretend that everything was fine to Bruce’s face and you certainly didn’t want him to find out on his own later. So you decided to just tell him, the sooner the better. You had already called off work that morning (there was no way you were going to work after that) and after hyping yourself up for hours, you managed to get yourself in front of the manor and knock on the door.
Now all you had to do was wait.
And then confess to the love of your life that you kissed another man.
On second thought maybe you should go home–
The door opened, revealing Duke as he poked his head out to check who it was before he opened it further upon realizing it was you, “Oh! (Y/n)! Hi!”
“Hi Duke,” you say with a smile, feeling a little more at ease that it wasn’t Alfred. Out of all the children Bruce took under his care, Duke was the one who made you the least nervous to be around when you were first introduced. So it was a blessing that he was the one who answered the door, “Is Bruce in?”
“Oh yeah, he’s somewhere around here,” Duke said as he held the door open for you to enter, “C’mon in, I’ll help you find him.”
It didn’t take long for the pair of you to find Bruce after hearing a slightly heated muffled conversation coming from one of the parlor rooms. Duke opened the door in the middle of the conversation.
“I beg of you to drop this,” Bruce said.
“So we can’t be worried about you?” Dick asked, arms crossed.
Only Bruce and Dick are standing, the rest of the family scattered around in chairs and couches as if watching a play. You think you spy popcorn in-between Tim and Stephanie.
“I’m not saying you can’t be worried, I’m just not ready to discuss it,” Bruce replied.
“Father is deflecting again.”
“Damian–”
“You asked me to help keep you accountable,” Damian argued. “You asked all of us to.”
“Yeah, B, what’s so bad that you can’t tell us?” Jason asked.
At that moment, Tim spotted you and he elbowed Stephanie, who saw you standing there too. She beamed, waving her hand excitedly, “Oh hey (Y/n)!”
At the mere mention of your name, Bruce stiffened. Immediately all the detectives in the room zeroed in on Bruce like hawks spotting a mouse in the grass. You were none the wiser, Bruce’s reaction too subtle for untrained eyes to spot. You begin to pick at your nails, “Hi Steph, um, if you all aren’t too busy, may I borrow Bruce for a moment?” You pause, “Alone?”
The eyes that flicked to you, flicked right back to focus on Bruce, waiting for a reaction, a tell. Bruce was stiff as a board. He knew his children were studying him, trying to gauge from his reaction (or lack thereof) what you wanted to speak to him about alone. Everyone knew that an alone talk could only mean something bad. Everyone could see you were nervous, hesitant even. This was quickly spelling out to be a bad conversation.
“If you’re busy–”
“No,” Bruce was quick to say. He turns towards you finally, his smile not reaching his eyes like it usually does and it forms a pit in your stomach. He knows. Bruce walks towards you, “No, it’s fine. It must be important for you to come all this way.”
He notices your fidgeting fingers, a habit from your youth that you still haven’t broken despite being well into your late thirties now. Bruce instinctively reaches out to gently pry your hands apart. Then he hesitates. He hesitates for a little too long before his hand drops. When he looks at you, he doesn’t catch your eyes, “Shall we go to my study?”
You can only nod, your stomach twisting in on itself. It only eases just a little when Bruce puts a warm hand on your back. Higher than usual as if you were a colleague rather than his romantic partner, and he leads you out of the parlor room into his study.
Bruce doesn’t say a word as you both enter, closing the door behind you and opting to stand behind his desk by his chair as you stand on the opposite side. The invisible wall of tension now having a physical form as pregnant silence filled the space. You start picking your fingers again.
“What was it you wanted to discuss?” Bruce asked, the silence eating away at him just as much as the sight of you so anxious in front of him.
Rather than jump into your own issues, you couldn’t help thinking about the conversation you walked in on and instead asked, “Are you alright?”
Bruce is surprised, he doesn’t bother trying to hide his surprise from you, “I…I suppose. Why?”
You shrug, “The children have very strong intuitions. If they are worried about you, you must have something troubling you.” You caution a small smile in his direction, “They get that from you, I believe.”
That makes Bruce give a small laugh, a matching smile rising on his face at your compliment, “I wouldn’t be so sure. Even I can be wrong sometimes.”
My intuition certainly failed when it came to you.
Bruce frowned at the bitter thought, pushing it away to instead press the conversation forward, “I’m fine, though, I assure you. So please, tell me what’s on your mind.”
You pause, trying to gather the right thing to say, the right way to explain without so much pretext he may not even want to know. When you finally stop picking your fingers and gather your resolve, Bruce tenses. His hand digs into the mahogany wood of the desk, bracing himself for the break up that would ruin him for the rest of his life.
You raise your head, shoulders back, and blurt out, “I kissed Batman.”
Bruce blinks, his hand relaxing immediately in surprise.
I would think so, I was there, he couldn’t help thinking. Confused, he echoed your statement back to you as if to make sure that was the confession you meant to say, “You…kissed Batman.”
You nod once, still steadfast in your declaration despite the pounding in your chest at your false bravado, “Yes. And I liked it.”
That got the tips of Bruce’s ears starting to turn red. He shouldn’t be so flustered but the way you said your confession so confidently…was really fucking cute. When he didn’t respond, you started to explain everything. You explained that Batman brought you on a case and you had to stay in his Batcave for your own safety. During those weeks, you couldn’t help being fond of the masked hero but you knew it couldn’t be anything more than fondness, after all you loved Bruce–still do! Your heart never swayed from him, you reassured many times as you explained how your heart swayed away from him. Bruce brought his hand towards his mouth, trying to cover the embarrassingly sickly sweet smile that was worming onto his face. You were still so serious but Bruce couldn’t help smiling at the absurdity.
You had no idea that Bruce was Batman. For the past six hours and twenty-seven minutes, Bruce was agonizing over losing you because he was Batman when this whole time you genuinely had no idea. In your defense, he wasn’t exactly explicit in his reveal (he wasn’t explicit at all, he’s so used to his children’s observation skills that he forgot you were normal) and all subtly was lost to you. Even the pet name that he calls you all the time wasn’t obvious enough for you.
It was midway through your apology that Bruce let out an airy laugh. You stop dead in your tracks, staring at Bruce with confusion and mild offense, “Are you laughing?”
“I–” he couldn’t stop the small chuckle as the situation was just too silly. He was sure if you were in on it, you’d be laughing too. But Bruce was a little bit of a menace so he wanted to hold on to the reveal as long as possible, “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you, my love.”
“Then what are you laughing at?” you ask, any guilt and shame you had was soon replaced by mild annoyance, “You think it’s funny that I kissed another man? That I cheated on you?”
Oh it was all too tempting to respond with something akin to, “you cheated on me with myself” but the look on your face was just too beautiful. The crossed arms, the slight furrow of your brows, the annoyance in your eyes that barely masked the guilt that still swarmed inside–now was the moment. It wouldn’t be the most romantic one, far from it. But it was the moment Bruce thought, yeah, this is it.
Bruce couldn’t help smiling as he reached for his desk drawer and pulled it open with a, “My love, there’s something I’d like to ask you–” His smile faltered. The ring was gone. It wasn’t in the drawer where it always was.
“Ask me what?”
Bruce’s head snapped up like a child caught in the cookie jar, your concern waning with each second as your patience grows thinner. His eyes flicked to the grandfather clock behind you. His belt!
“Just a moment, my love,” Bruce said as he hurried around to the clock, leaving you sputtering in confusion as he opened it and revealed the passageway hidden behind it. He rushed down the stairs, “I’ll be right back.”
“What?! Bruce!”
“Stay there!”
Of course you weren’t going to stay there, your boyfriend just revealed a secret passageway behind a grandfather clock that you’ve seen for five years without a hint of suspicion. Not to mention he was acting strangely. First with the laughter while you were confessing that you kissed Batman, and now he was frantically searching for something. He could really be confusing sometimes which made it hard not to be annoyed with him when he got like this, often hurrying away in the middle of a date after you mention something off-handedly.
As you walked down the smooth stone steps, your annoyance was replaced by awe. Who knew that such a large underground was hidden underneath the manor. You couldn’t help the thought about the risk to the house, would it fall in one day with all the children, Bruce, and Alfred still inside? The hypothetical safety concerns came to a screeching halt when you reached the bottom of the steps. Your eyes flick around quickly, taking every familiar thing and putting them together like a puzzle.
The Batmobile. The Batcomputer. The dinosaur. The many Batman suits. The giant penny. Bruce rifling through a Batman suit trying to get to his belt. The training grounds. The equipment laid out messily on a table. The lab.
You stare at the lab. The very very familiar lab. It all dawns on you very quickly.
“Oh my God.”
You turn to look at Bruce, he pauses under your gaze. Batman’s belt clutched in one hand, your eyes honing in on the velvet box in the other.
“Oh my God.”
a/n: i tried to keep each of them even but bruce's just got away from me;; hope y'all still liked it anyway!!
divider credits (in order of appearance): @lobster-graphic @cursed-carmine @/enchanthings @strangergraphics-archive
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You get kidnapped and branded by the joker on christmas. The bat-family sees Jason unravel.
word cnt. 14.6k
cw ›››› torture, branding, suicidal language, violence, blood, gore
Something is wrong.
Jason feels it like a pressure change—subtle, almost polite—but it crawls under his helmet and settles behind his eyes. It hasn’t clicked, not cleanly. Not yet. He hasn’t asked. Hasn’t said a word through the harbor sweep, through the cold iron stink of saltwater and oil and Christmas rot. A small job. The kind that should feel easy. The kind that still manages to choke the air out of his lungs anyway.
Everyone’s moving like the night might shatter if they stop.
Tim keeps choosing his words too carefully, syllables slowed and smoothed like he’s sanding down sharp edges. Dick’s doing that thing where he smiles first and speaks second—but the timing’s off, the warmth a fraction too late, like a recording lagging behind the video. Damian watches Jason more than the perimeter, eyes sharp, calculating, guarded. Stephanie hasn’t joked once. Not even a cheap jab to him, not even under her breath. That alone feels wrong enough to tilt the world sideways.
Bruce didn’t come.
That absence is loud. A hollow where a presence should be, echoing through comms and instinct alike. The Cave, he’d said. As if that explained anything. As if Bruce ever sits things out without a reason that claws.
Cassandra says nothing—but she’s closer. Close enough that Jason can feel her awareness like static along his spine. When the group splits, she falls into step beside him without discussion, without a glance. Just there. Solid. Protective in a way that feels less like trust and more like vigilance. As if she’s guarding him.
That’s when unease really sinks its teeth in.
Bruce didn’t need all of them.
Didn’t need six sets of boots scraping concrete, six heartbeats crowding the same dark. Dick alone could’ve dismantled this whole thing with half the effort. Hell, Jason himself could’ve wrapped it up fast and bloody and been home already. Instead, they’re stacked together, overlapping, slowing each other down like they’re afraid to let him out of their sight.
He agreed because no one argued about his presence. Because no one questioned whether he was needed. Because the silence around that decision felt intentional.
That should’ve been his first real warning.
Between two groups of thugs, he had ducked behind a row of shipping containers, Gotham’s lights bleeding gold across the black water. He had pulled out his phone and called you, already rehearsing the apology in his head. Late for presents. Again. You’d tease him, pretend to scold, maybe force him to wrap some gifts for your co-workers.
You didn't answer.
Probably a bath, he told himself. You’d mentioned one. Candles. The fancy bath salts you bought. Something soft to push the cold out of your bones. The thought settles him, briefly. He sends a text instead—short, careful. An apology. An I love you so much that he doesn’t overthink, because with you, he never has to.
You always know what he means.
The phone stays quiet in his pocket.
No buzz. No vibration brushing against his thigh like it usually does, grounding him, tethering him back to something warm and real. He told himself it’s nothing. That you’re relaxed, distracted, asleep. That the night is just heavy, that Gotham is doing what Gotham always does—making ghosts out of shadows and dread out of coincidence.
Still.
When he looks back at the others, he notices the way Dick avoids his eyes now. The way Tim’s gaze flicks to Jason’s pocket and away again. The way Damian’s jaw tightens when Jason shifts his weight, like he’s bracing for impact. Cassandra meets his eyes once—just once—and there’s something there that twists low and sharp in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.
Knowing. Jason doesn’t ask. He doesn’t press.
But the harbor feels too quiet, the night stretched thin and listening, and for the first time since he sent that text, a cold, irrational thought curls in his gut—
That whatever is wrong didn’t start here.
And that somewhere far from the water, far from the mission, something precious has already slipped out of reach.
“That was the last of them,” Jason says, voice rough through the helmet, as Tim finishes cinching zip-ties around the final goon and anchors him to a rust-flaked shipping container. The plastic bites down with a sharp click that echoes too loudly across the concrete. The man mumbled insanities through spit.
The harbor exhales around them—cold wind off the water, carrying brine and diesel and something rotten that’s been sitting too long. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in jaundiced gold and long, distorted shadows that stretch and tangle at their feet. The concrete is damp beneath Jason’s boots, slick with mist and old oil, the kind of surface that never really dries no matter how many ‘sunny’ days Gotham pretends to have.
“We should do another check around the harbor,” Dick says.
He’s already kneeling, already breaking the man's phone in half with practiced efficiency, grinding it into the concrete with his heel until the screen spider webs and dies. He doesn’t look up when he says it. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t even sound casual about it.
Jason lifts an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. His gaze slides to Damian automatically—because Damian is usually the first to shoot an idea like that down, sharp and impatient and blunt as a blade.
Instead, Damian just mutters, “Tim could be wrong.”
Mumbles it. Like he’s afraid the words might carry.
That alone sends a small, unpleasant chill up Jason’s spine.
Tim doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bristle. He straightens from the goon and dusts his gloves together, eyes flicking—not to Jason—but to Stephanie. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory.
“Do you want to take the gates with me?” Tim says, too smooth. Too rehearsed. “Jason and Dick could go along the—”
“What?” Jason cuts in before he can finish, blinking once. “You two were perched on the gates the entire op. What’re you talking about?”
The wind gusts harder, rattling loose chains and setting a tarp snapping somewhere down the dock. Water slaps against concrete pylons in a slow, hollow rhythm.
Jason suddenly feels like the sound is counting something down.
“It wouldn’t hurt to double-check,” Tim says, rising to his feet.
He still won’t meet Jason’s eyes.
Jason’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, the concrete cold and unforgiving through the thinning soles of his boots, and for a split second his mind drifts—unbidden—to you. To the warmth of your kitchen lights. To the way you’d probably be halfway through setting out plates by now, humming something low and off-key, waiting for him in that way that makes him want to claw his soul out and hand it over to you.
The thought lands soft, intimate, grounding—and then slips through his fingers when he remembers his phone, silent and heavy in his pocket.
“…You guys don’t need me for that,” Jason says, firmer now. There’s an edge to it, something protective and stubborn. He already has plans. A timeline. A promise he intends to keep. “Seriously. If you want to sweep again, even one person could—”
Dick finally looks up.
It’s just a glance, quick and loaded, the kind Jason’s learned to read over a lifetime of almosts and unsaids. Cassandra shifts closer at the same moment, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence steady and deliberate. Jason doesn't think she's ever willingly touched him in his life. Stephanie opens her mouth like she’s about to say something—anything—then closes it again.
The harbor feels tighter suddenly. Smaller. Like the stacks of containers have leaned in, hemming them closer, their corrugated sides looming like silent witnesses. The wind cuts sharper off the water, needling through the seams of Jason’s jacket, and somewhere deep in his chest, that pressure builds again.
Jason turns fully to Damian.
“Kid, I swear to God, tell me what—”
Damian snaps at the exact same moment Cassandra moves. Her hand closes around Jason’s shoulder, firm and sudden, fingers digging in through armor like she’s trying to anchor him to the concrete before he does something irreversible. The contact is intimate in a way that feels wrong, alarmed.
“How the hell should I know? They didn't tell me—” Damian bites back, voice sharp, flaring too fast, too hot.
“Damian!” Dick hisses, the sound cutting through the night like a blade dragged too quickly from its sheath. He’s already moving, stepping between them without quite committing to either side, hands up in a placating gesture that lands closer to panic than calm. He turns to Jason almost immediately, words tumbling over each other. “Come on, dude, let’s just go check the security towers and—”
“That’s going to take another hour,” Jason cuts in.
The words come out flat, but there’s steel underneath. He shrugs Cassandra’s hand off—not rough, but final—and reaches into his pocket. The harbor lights blur for a second as his fingers close around his phone, the familiar shape of something that connects him to you grounding him. It’s 10:20. He knows that without looking but checks anyway. He’s been counting the minutes since the mission dragged past its supposed end.
“I had plans,” he says, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “Let me at least—”
The batarang whistles through the air.
Jason barely has time to register the movement—Damian’s arm snapping forward, wrist precise, expression tight and furious—before metal slams into his hand. The impact jars up his arm, sharp and biting, and the phone slips free, spinning once before it hits the concrete.
Crack.
The screen fractures instantly, a spiderweb of dead glass blooming beneath the sodium lights before the device skids to a stop near Jason’s boot. The harbor seems to hold its breath. Even the wind falters, the water’s slap against the pylons momentarily muted, as if the night itself is listening.
Jason stares down at it.
At the dark screen. On the way his reflection breaks apart in the shattered glass.
Jason’s gaze lifts slowly from the ruin at his feet.
It settles on Dick.
“Call Bruce.”
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut anyway—clean, controlled, edged with something that’s starting to slip. Dick falters under it, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Jason’s face. The harbor lights stutter overhead, one of them buzzing like it’s about to give out, bathing Dick in a sickly gold that makes him look younger.
Guilty.
“What, you gonna tattle?” Dick says, trying for levity and missing it by miles. His laugh lands wrong, brittle against the cold. “C’mon, Damian's just in a mood. I was going to surprise you with burgers but I thought the kid would spill. I’ll buy you a new phone, okay? Just—”
“Call Bruce,” Jason repeats.
This time it’s a hiss, dragged out through clenched teeth, something feral and fraying around the edges. The wind picks up again, slicing between the containers, rattling loose metal and carrying the sharp tang of rain that never quite falls in Gotham. Jason turns his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes find Cassandra.
She hasn’t moved. She’s watching him like she’s afraid he might break.
“…He’s busy,” Cass says.
Her voice is barely there. Smaller than usual. Soft enough that Tim, standing a good ten feet away, doesn’t hear it at all. The words dissolve into the night almost as soon as they leave her mouth, swallowed by wind and water and distance—but Jason hears them. Every syllable.
Busy.
Something inside him tightens, winding down to a thin, dangerous thread.
His hand comes up to his comm without conscious thought. He adjusts it once, fingers steady despite the way his pulse thuds too hard, too fast. The harbor seems to lean in again—the stacked containers looming like watchful giants, the river below churning black and endless.
Gotham breathes around him, damp and unforgiving.
“B,” Jason says.
Sharp. Precise. A single syllable fired into the dark like a flare.
Static answers him. Wind whistling through steel corridors. The distant cry of something alive and miserable echoing off the water. No voice. No correction. No irritation crackling back through the line.
Just silence. It stretches. Pulls thin. Grows teeth.
Jason exhales through his nose, a humorless breath that fogs faintly in the cold air. He thinks of you again—too vividly now. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you always pick up, even when he thinks you shouldn’t. The way silence has never belonged between the two of you.
His jaw locks. Fuck this shit, I should be at home with her.
Jason moves before anyone can stop him—before anyone even realizes he’s decided something.
He’s across the concrete in three long strides, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirror Gotham’s jaundiced lights in broken pieces. Damian doesn’t flinch when Jason grabs his comm. Doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t protest. That, more than anything, makes Jason’s teeth grind.
He clicks the emergency signal to the Batcomputer—once, twice, a break, two clicks hard enough that it hurts his thumb—then rips the comm free. His helmet follows, clattering against the concrete with a hollow, echoing crack that ricochets between the shipping containers. The sound feels too loud, too exposed. Jason presses the comm to his bare ear, cold metal biting into skin.
No one stops him.
Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Stephanie. Cassandra watches with that same quiet intensity, hands flexing like she’s bracing for impact. They stand there and let it happen, like this is how it was always meant to go—like they’ve already accepted that Jason finding out is inevitable, but telling him would be worse. Like this is some twisted test, or penance, or family tradition he never agreed to.
The harbor hums low and restless. Wind slides through steel corridors, rattling chains, carrying the stink of oil and brine and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham feels awake in that way it only does when something bad is already in motion.
“Robin?” Bruce’s voice cuts through the static, sharp and immediate. Too immediate. There’s an edge to it Jason hasn’t heard in years—tight, almost nervous, parental. “Robin, what’s wrong?”
Jason almost laughs.
Instead, his mouth twists.
“I’m going home, old man,” he hisses, already turning away from Damian. “What was this? Ya trying to tire me out, or did you get mind-controlled again? ‘Cause everyone here apparently likes you enough to not tell me the truth.”
“Jason—”
“Red Hood,” Jason snaps, the correction coming fast and mean. He bends, scoops his helmet up by the chin guard, and starts walking toward the exit between the containers where the harbor opens up to the road. “What happened to keeping hero names on comms? Or are you the only one allowed to break rules tonight?”
“Red Hood, just give me—”
“It’s a lousy gang!” Jason shouts, voice tearing loose now, bouncing off steel and concrete and dark water. “They don’t even crack the top twenty. Damian could’ve done this shit by himself.”
He doesn’t look back, but he knows they’re following him. He can feel it—the weight of their footsteps, the way they trail just close enough to intervene if he breaks. Later, it’ll hit him why Tim made sure every single goon was double zip-tied, wrists biting white beneath plastic. Insurance.
Tim knew Jason would find out.
Knew none of them would be coming back to clean this up.
“Red Hood—”
“Merry Christmas, B,” Jason cuts in, bitter and sharp as broken glass. “Please don’t call.”
“JASON—”
Bruce’s voice snaps through the comm like a gunshot, dragging Jason straight back into another life, another night, another version of himself that answered to that tone. “She’s in danger. And if you want any chance of seeing her again, get to the Batcave—”
The line goes dead.
Not static. Not interference.
Bruce cut it himself.
Jason stops, because there's only one person he could be talking about to send all five of them with him.
The harbor seems to lurch, the world tilting just enough to make his balance feel theoretical. The wind howls between the containers, louder now, like Gotham exhaling something foul and satisfied. Water slaps hard against concrete pylons below, relentless, counting seconds Jason no longer owns.
Slowly—too slowly—he turns.
He looks at them. At Dick’s pale face. At Tim’s clenched jaw. At Damian’s rigid stillness. At Stephanie, eyes bright with unshed panic. At Cassandra, whose gaze is already on him, steady and mournful, like she’s watching something crack.
They look at him like he’s glass.
Like he’s a bomb they’re waiting to defuse—or clean up after.
Jason doesn’t give them the chance.
“Fuck all of you,” he spits, the words coming out broken and small despite his best efforts.
Then he runs.
Out of the harbor. Out of the sodium lights and rust and the weight of too many eyes. Jason runs like Gotham itself is on his heels, boots striking concrete in a brutal rhythm that drowns out thought—or tries to. The city stretches around him in jagged silhouettes and wet stone, skyscrapers looming like blackened ribs against a low, churning sky. Clouds hang heavy and swollen, bruised purple and gray, threatening rain they never quite release. Gotham loves the anticipation of pain more than the act itself.
His blood is loud in his ears. Too loud. Every heartbeat punches through his ribs, frantic and unforgiving, as if his body already knows something his mind refuses to accept.
Toward the manor. Toward answers.
Toward the awful, creeping certainty settling into his bones that whatever Gotham has taken this time, it didn’t take lightly—and it didn’t take something he can afford to replace.
He takes the shorter way.
Fire escapes. Rooftops slick with mist. Narrow alleys that smell like old rain and older sins. He vaults gaps without slowing, coat snapping behind him like a torn banner, the city blurring into streaks of shadow and light. This route cuts close to your place. Too close. He doesn’t consciously choose it; his body does, muscle memory dragging him along a path his heart has memorized better than any map.
And then—
Mid-leap, suspended between one rooftop and the next, he sees it.
Your building sits quiet against the skyline, dark in a way it never is. Your lights are off. All of them. The windows—your windows—are shattered, glass glittering weakly under the city’s glow like fallen stars. The balcony rail is smeared with something darker than shadow.
Blood.
The word doesn’t form. Not fully. His brain skids around it, refuses to give it weight. At most, he tells himself, you’re hurt. Something small. A cut. A scrape. A stupid accident that looks worse than it is. You’ll laugh it off when he gets there, scold him for worrying, tell him he’s being dramatic again.
Because you’re untouchable.
That’s the rule his mind has always clung to. Gotham can drown him in filth and violence and rot, but you—you—are clean. Untarnished. Something soft the city hasn’t learned how to bruise yet. You exist outside its reach, outside its hunger. Gotham takes things like Jason. It breaks people like him. It doesn’t get to put its hands on you.
It can’t have you.
Because if you’re hurt—if you’re really hurt—then everything Jason has built inside himself caves in at once. Every fragile structure, every careful compromise, every promise he’s made to stay standing for you. There’s no version of the world where you’re broken and he survives it intact.
He lands hard, barely absorbing the impact before he’s running again, lungs burning, throat raw. The manor rises ahead of him through the trees like a dark monument, windows glowing warm and oblivious against the night. Too slow. The gates are too slow. The doors are too slow.
Jason doesn’t bother.
He barrels straight for a ground-floor window and drives his elbow through it without hesitation. Glass explodes inward, sharp and screaming, biting into skin. He doesn’t feel it—not really—until he’s inside, boots skidding onto the polished floor, breath tearing out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.
Blood runs freely down his forearm, drips onto the pale carpet in dark, blooming stains.
It looks wrong there. Violent. Out of place, just like the blood on your balcony.
Jason stares at it for half a second too long, chest heaving, and something in him splinters quietly—because now he knows. The city has already touched you and it has never, not once, let go without breaking something in return.
Jason doesn’t slow down in the Cave.
The platform is still lowering when he’s already moving, boots striking metal too hard, too fast, the sound ricocheting off stone and steel. The Batcave yawns around them—vast and echoing, all cold water and colder rock, computer screens throwing pale blue light across jagged walls. The waterfall roars like it’s trying to drown the night itself, a constant, punishing noise that usually steadies him.
Tonight it only sharpens the edges.
Bruce turns at the last possible second. His eyes flick first to Jason’s face, then to the blood smeared down his arm, dripping steadily onto the pristine metal floor. Bruce’s mouth tightens. Not in anger. In calculation. In fear he refuses to name.
Jason shoves him.
Hard.
Bruce’s back slams into the Batcomputer console, screens rattling, data stuttering for half a heartbeat. A lesser man would’ve been airborne. Bruce Wayne could have thrown Jason across the Cave without effort—could have ended this in a clean, controlled second.
He doesn’t.
Jason knows he won’t.
“Where is she,” Jason spits, the words tearing out of him raw and shaking. His hands fist in Bruce’s cape, knuckles white, trembling despite the strength coiled beneath them. The fabric bunches beneath his grip like it might rip if he pulls any harder. “Where is she?”
Bruce lifts his hands slowly, carefully—not in surrender, but in containment. Like approaching a live wire. His voice, when he speaks, is measured to the point of pain.
“…Jason.”
The name alone is an attempt. An anchor. Bruce is already running scenarios, already gauging angles and exits and how much damage Jason could do if this slips another inch. He knows Jason’s tells. Knows the way his breathing has gone uneven, the way his eyes are too bright, too fixed. Knows this isn’t rage yet.
This is terror.
“Don’t,” Bruce says quietly. Not commanding. Pleading, buried deep beneath control. “Just—listen to me.”
Jason laughs once, short and broken, the sound scraping his throat raw. “No. You don’t get to slow this down. You don’t get to prepare me.”
Bruce swallows. “…Joker—” he begins.
And the world fractures.
The word lands heavy and obscene between them, fouling the air of the cave like poison gas. Joker. The name crawls under Jason’s armor, past muscle and bone, straight into the place where you live inside him.
Suddenly, you’re not untouchable.
You’re not the one clean thing Gotham never got its hands on. Not the soft place Jason runs to when the city claws at him too hard. Not the warmth in his bed, the light in his kitchen, the voice that says his name like it belongs to something human.
You’re not safe.
You’re not distant.
You’re not protected by the simple, impossible belief that the worst things in the world know better than to touch you.
You’re real.
You’re fragile.
You’re reachable.
Jason’s grip tightens without him meaning to, breath hitching violently in his chest. His mind fills with images he refuses to finish forming—broken glass, blood on pale surfaces, your windows shattered open to the night the same way his chest feels split open now. He thinks of your hands. Your laugh. The way you look at him like he’s something worth keeping.
And now—
Now you’re the blood he’s already wearing.
The blood he’s going to feel soaking into his gloves tonight.
Bruce sees it happen. Sees the moment Jason slips past anger and into something far more dangerous. His own heart lurches, sharp and traitorous. This—this is what he’s been afraid of since the second he knew Joker was involved. Not Jason lashing out blindly.
Jason focused.
Emotional.
Unanchored.
“Jason,” Bruce says again, softer now, steady as bedrock despite the fear tightening his chest. “I need you to stay with me. I need you here. Because if you go out there like this—”
Jason’s eyes snap back to him, glassy and feral and devastatingly alive.
“If I don’t go,” Jason says hoarsely, “she dies.”
“If you go,” Bruce says, low and sharp, the words cutting through the roar of the Cave, “you die—and you could lose her at the same time.”
The Batcave hums around them, fluorescent light washing the rock walls in cold blue, computer screens flickering with restless data. The waterfall crashes endlessly behind Bruce, mist clinging to the air, dampening everything it touches. It feels like the Cave is breathing—slow, heavy, watchful.
Bruce moves closer and grips Jason’s jacket with both hands, fingers clutching the leather like it’s the last solid thing in the world. He holds on the way a man holds a ledge he’s already slipping from, hoping friction alone might be enough to keep someone from falling.
It isn’t.
“Where is she,” Jason says.
His voice is flat. Too controlled. His eyes have already left Bruce, already slid to the Batcomputer, to the glowing map littered with red and yellow pings like open wounds across Gotham’s body. Each marker pulses faintly, alive and accusing.
He doesn’t notice his siblings closing in—Dick’s careful steps, Tim’s rigid stillness, Damian hovering sharp and coiled like a drawn blade.
“She’s alive,” Bruce says quickly, desperately. “She wasn’t the only one—at least four other children and three women—”
Jason turns his head.
The look he gives Bruce is devastating in its emptiness. Eyes glassed over, jaw set too tight, brows drawn together like the world has narrowed to a single, unbearable point.
“Do you honestly think I give a damn about them right now?”
The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. They land heavy, obscene in their honesty, and Bruce’s grip tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening against Jason’s jacket.
“I know you don’t,” Bruce snaps back, frustration bleeding through control. “Which is why I didn’t tell you she was taken. Because we need a plan that keeps everyone who was captured safe—”
“At the risk she dies in the process?” Jason cuts in.
Then—he stills.
Something shifts. His hands loosen, falling away from Bruce’s cape as if the fabric has suddenly burned him. His gaze slides, sharp and intentional, and locks onto Tim.
“How long,” Jason says.
The question is steady. Solid. Frighteningly calm.
Tim swallows and flicks a glance at Bruce—a silent check, a plea, a habit Jason has seen a thousand times. Jason shoves Bruce’s hand aside and crosses the distance in two strides, grabbing Tim by the shoulders, fingers digging in through armor.
“Don’t,” Jason hisses, thumbs pressing hard, grounding, painful. “Don’t look at him.”
The words aren’t just for Tim. They’re for Jason too.
He vaguely registers Dick saying his name, Stephanie’s voice tight with panic somewhere behind him, but it all dissolves into a dull ringing as he stares down at Tim. Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He meets Jason’s gaze head-on.
“How long,” Jason repeats. “Where.”
Tim exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when delivering bad news. “Two hours,” he says quietly. “Warehouse two blocks from Crime Alley. Behind that busted playground.”
Crime Alley.
The name echoes through the Cave like a curse, sinking into Jason’s chest and blooming outward, cold and malignant. Of course it’s there. Of course Joker chose that place—layers of history piled atop rot, a shrine built from other people’s pain.
Jason releases Tim slowly, hands trembling now, control finally beginning to crack.
Two hours.
Two hours of you alone with the man who taught Gotham how to laugh while it kills.
The Batcomputer hums on, indifferent. Gotham’s skyline glows faintly on the monitors—jagged towers under a bruised sky, rain finally starting to smear the camera feeds, streaking the city in gray. Somewhere out there, windows are broken. Somewhere out there, that cashmere scarf he wrapped and placed under your tree stays un-wrapped.
Jason understands then—with a clarity so sharp it almost feels merciful—that plans are a luxury meant for people who still believe time is something they own.
Time has never belonged to him.
Because you—you—aren’t alone. You’re trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didn’t rearrange Jason’s insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Joker’s sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.
And the last one standing is never the strongest.
It’s the smallest.
Those kids would by dying before you do.
Jason’s breath stutters, just once.
“Jason,” Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when he’s terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. “Don’t make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.”
For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jason’s head goes quiet.
Not peaceful—focused.
Everything narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like he’s trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jason’s heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.
“If you even try, Bruce,” Jason says.
He doesn’t look at him when he says it. He can’t. The name comes out wrong in his mouth—too raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly can’t stop seeing. He hopes—distantly, uselessly—that he isn’t glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isn’t anger.
Just pure desperation. His last attempt, his last shot.
“Ill fucking shoot myself. I’ll make sure you know it’s your fault,” Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I’ll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, I’ll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, I’ll wait a month. I’ll do it.”
He swallows.
Because that’s the only thing that’s ever worked. The only language Bruce Wayne never ignores.
Dick moves fast—too fast—grabbing Jason’s arm where it’s still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.
Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.
“Would you be this still?” Jason yells back. “If that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of her—would you have left me there for the police to find? Again?”
The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.
Again.
Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brother’s grip falter, fingers loosening like they’ve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dick’s face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knife—not because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.
“This,” Jason snaps. “This is why none of you fucking knew about her.”
He looks at all of them now—really looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt.
“If you can’t even see me beyond a mistake you made,” Jason says, voice hoarse, “there was no way you wouldn’t have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.”
The words leave him hollowed out.
Then he’s gone.
The Cave swallows the echo of his footsteps, leaving only the roar of the waterfall and the hum of machines that suddenly feel pointless. No one moves to stop him. No one even tries.
It takes Tim a full minute to cross the platform and reach the Batcomputer, fingers hovering uselessly over keys he knows by heart.
It takes Cassandra four times as long to find a part of Bruce that still moves—some small, human place in his arm or shoulder that isn’t locked rigid like a man bracing for an explosion he knows is already ticking down.
Dick follows Jason’s trail almost immediately. And Damian follows Dick.
You don’t remember the last five hours.
They’re gone—hollowed out—like someone reached into your head and scooped the time away with a careless hand. The last thing you have is small and warm and ordinary: the coffee table between the couch and the window, set for two. Plates aligned just so. The new glasses you bought with Jason on that stupidly perfect thrift-store date, thin and elegant and impractical. You’d laughed about them, about how easy they’d be to break. Jason had pretended to scold you, fingers warm around yours as he tugged you toward the bookshelves, already stacking paperbacks in his arms like treasure.
You’d bought homeware. A vintage mirror with a gold edge, slightly warped, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is.
Jason always said you needed better locks. You realize it numbly.
He always said it gently, like a suggestion instead of a warning. Like he was talking about replacing a lightbulb or buying better coffee. You brushed him off every time, smiling, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, telling him Gotham wasn’t that bad. That you were fine. That you were safe.
And you were right. You always are.
Because an extra lock wouldn’t have stopped the man with the red smile.
It wouldn’t have stopped hands tangling in your hair, fingers tight and merciless as he dragged you across your rug, skin burning where it scraped against the fibers. It wouldn’t have stopped the way your mirror shattered when he slammed you against it, glass singing as it broke, your own reflection splintering into a hundred terrified pieces that stared back at you with wide, unbelieving eyes.
It wouldn’t have stopped the way he looked at you.
He crouched in front of you like this was intimate. Like this was a secret. His smile stretched too far, paint cracked and smeared, eyes bright with something wrong and delighted and ancient.
Joker tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an insect pinned to cork.
“Here’s the other lovebird,” he murmured, voice lilting, almost fond. “Ohhh… how cute you are.”
You remember thinking—absurdly, desperately—that Jason would hate that word. That he’d bristle at it, roll his eyes, pull you closer just to prove a point. You remember the ache of missing him hitting harder than the pain at first, your mind reaching for him the way it always does when the world goes wrong.
Jason would know what to do.
Jason would make this stop.
The thought is a comfort even now, curled tight in your chest, fragile but stubborn. You cling to it as the man stands, as one of the shadows behind him passes up an old, rusted crowbar. The metal is pitted and dark, flaking with age and something older still. It smells like iron and damp and rot.
It doesn’t take a lock to stop that.
It doesn’t take a security system to stop the sound your bones make when he brings it down.
The pain comes in blinding flashes—white-hot, nauseating, wrong. Your legs scream before you do, nerves lighting up in protest, your body trying to fold in on itself, trying to protect something already broken. You taste blood, copper and thick, your teeth chattering even as your throat burns raw from crying out.
Through it all, you think of Jason.
Of his hands—gentle despite their strength. Of the way he says your name like it’s something precious, something he’s afraid to drop. You think of his laugh, low and surprised, the way he softens when it’s just the two of you and Gotham can’t see him. You think of the books still stacked on the table, waiting to be read, of the glasses that shattered just like the mirror did.
Of how he warned you.
Of how he would be here already if he knew.
The room feels wrong—tilted, smeared with shadow, the air thick and sour. Blood pools where it shouldn’t, dark against your floor, soaking into the rug you picked out together. The city hums outside your broken windows, indifferent and vast, neon bleeding into the night like nothing is wrong at all.
You breathe when you can. You hold onto Jason’s name like a prayer you’re afraid to say out loud.
Because if he comes—when he comes—you need to believe there will still be something left of you for him to find.
Your consciousness returns in fragments, drifting in and out the same way you remember nights with him. Not clean breaks. Not mercy. Just gaps.
A void of sleep.
Jason easing your window open like the city might hear him, hands raised in mock surrender, voice low and careful. I didn’t mean to wake you… shh… go back to bed. The mattress dips, familiar weight settling beside you, warmth bleeding into your back.
A void of sleep.
Jason in your bathroom, the light too bright, the mirror fogged. Gotham’s blood and grime rinsed down the drain while he rubs his hair dry with one of your soft, ridiculous pink towels. He smiles at you through the doorway, sheepish and fond, promises he’ll be there in a second. He always is.
A void of sleep.
Jason shifting beside you, breath warm against the delicate skin beneath your ear. His arm tightens in his sleep, possessive without knowing it, like even unconscious he’s afraid the world might take you if he lets go. He murmurs your name—broken, reverent.
A void of sleep.
White hands. Cracked paint. Fingers threading through your hair, slick and tangled with blood. The touch is intimate in the worst way, scalp burning as he hums—no, sings—a childish tune about robins, voice lilting and wrong, laughter bubbling beneath it like rot under sugar.
A void of sleep.
Concrete tearing at your skin as you’re dragged, knees bouncing, spine jolting with every crack in the ground. A van door yawns open, metal teeth waiting. A child sobs near your ear, small and hiccuping. A woman screams at the child to shut up—panic sharp and desperate—until a gunshot rings out like punctuation. The woman goes silent. The child doesn’t. The word mommy repeats, thin and broken, drilling into your skull.
A void of sleep.
You wake choking on pain.
Your body is bound to a chair, wrists cinched tight, ankles screaming. Barbed wire coils around you like something alive, biting deep with every involuntary twitch. The metal is rusted, flaking, cruel—tearing skin open in ragged kisses that burn and throb and never quite stop bleeding. Your legs are numb in places, screaming in others. You can feel blood soaking into fabric, sticky and cooling as it trails downward.
He’s in front of you.
Smiling.
Head cocked, eyes bright with interest, like you’re a puzzle he’s just started enjoying. He steps closer, crouches until he’s eye-level with you, hands clasped together as if in prayer.
“You do love your sleep, don’t you?” he says, voice almost gentle.
Your vision swims. The room smells like iron and oil and damp concrete. Somewhere nearby, something drips steadily—water, or blood, or both. The walls feel too close, the shadows stretching and curling like they’re listening.
“The other birdy,” he continues, grinning wider, “wouldn’t even sleep if I cracked his skull. Such a shame.” He sighs theatrically, tapping the barbed wire with one gloved finger, delighted by the way you flinch. “I suppose I’ll have to find a way to keep you awake.”
Through the haze, through the pain, one thought stays stubbornly intact.
Jason is coming.
And you cling to that like a lifeline, even as the horror closes in, even as the night tries to peel you apart—because if you let go of that belief, if you let the void take everything—There will be nothing left for him to save.
You can’t see farther than four feet in front of you.
Anything beyond that dissolves into smears of color and motion, the edges of the room bleeding into one another. When you try to focus, your vision tilts violently, the world pitching sideways as warm blood slips down from your temple, sticky and insistent. It drips into your eye, blurring everything further, each blink making it worse. The ceiling swims. The walls breathe.
He notices.
Of course he does.
He steps into what little clarity you have left, face snapping into focus like a nightmare finally deciding to be seen. His hand comes up fast, fingers prying your jaw open with impatient familiarity. Something chalky presses against your tongue.
You gag immediately.
Your throat spasms around his fingers, saliva thick and useless as panic claws up your chest. Your head jerks instinctively, barbed wire biting deeper in protest, fresh pain flaring white-hot along your wrists and ankles. He doesn’t pull away. He shoves the pill back, past your tongue, past your resistance, until your body betrays you and swallows.
You choke.
Tears spill from your eyes, hot and humiliating, streaking through the grime on your cheeks. Your lungs burn as you suck in air in sharp, broken pulls.
Jason, you think, distantly, desperately. The name is a reflex now. A prayer you don’t dare say out loud.
His hand withdraws at last.
Then—
Smack.
Your head snaps to the side, vision exploding into sparks. Before you can react—
Smack.
The second strike lands harder, ringing through your skull, teeth clacking together as pain blooms anew. The world steadies just enough to be cruel about it.
“That’ll keep you awake, birdy,” he croons, pleased.
Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and trapped. Already you can feel it—the way the haze pulls back just a little too much, the way your thoughts sharpen against your will. Your eyelids burn, heavy but refusing to close, nerves screaming as the drug seeps in and denies you even the mercy of darkness.
“Now.”
He leans back into his own chair like this is a rehearsal, like he’s bored of waiting for his cue. The legs scrape loudly against the concrete, the sound sharp enough to hurt. He reaches forward and adjusts the camera in front of you with careful precision. A small red light blinks every few seconds—steady, patient. Watching.
“We’re going to make a deal, okay?”
You don’t answer.
Your eyes refuse to cooperate, swimming uselessly as you blink through blood and tears. Every attempt to focus sends a wave of nausea through you, the room tilting, your pulse roaring in your ears louder than his voice. Your jaw trembles. Your tongue feels thick, wrong in your mouth.
“Okay?”
Nothing comes out.
The barbed wire strung cruelly across your throat digs in deeper with every breath you take, a quiet reminder that sound would cost you skin. Air hisses past your teeth in shallow pulls. You can feel your heartbeat there, fluttering and frantic against metal.
His smile thins.
He stands.
The rusty crowbar tightens in his grip as he rises from a stupid, bright orange folding chair—out of place, obscene against the filth of the warehouse. He steps into frame, then closer, until the camera, until you, are all that exist. He hooks two fingers under your chin and lifts your face, forcing your eyes up.
“Answer.”
You try.
Your mouth opens. Nothing happens.
All you can see is him—cracked white makeup creasing around his eyes, green hair greasy and limp, age showing in the lines around his mouth where smiles have lived too long. He smells like oil and metal and something sour beneath it all. The warehouse stinks of rust, damp concrete, old fuel. It crawls into your lungs.
And then—
You hear it.
A sound that doesn’t belong to him.
Crying.
Your head turns slowly, painfully, vertebrae protesting as the wire shifts against your throat. The movement costs you another sharp breath. Your vision blurs again—but this time, shapes resolve.
A cluster of bodies huddled together against a dented equipment container. Two teenage girls with their knees pulled tight to their chests, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Four little boys wedged between them, shaking, hands bound too tight, mouths open in silent sobs like they’ve already learned screaming doesn’t help.
Something in your chest caves in.
You don’t even see the crowbar move.
The impact comes out of nowhere—white-hot, brutal. The hooked end of the bar slams into your shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, metal biting deep as it pierces flesh. Pain detonates through you, ripping the air from your lungs. He yells as he does it, manic and delighted, like the violence startled even him.
Your body jerks against the restraints.
Barbed wire bites deeper. Blood spills warm and fast down your arm, soaking into your sleeve, dripping to the floor in thick, uneven drops. Your vision fractures, stars bursting behind your eyes.
You clamp your teeth down hard on your lip to keep from screaming.
You taste iron immediately—sharp and overwhelming—as skin breaks beneath your bite. Tears spill freely now, blurring everything, mixing with the blood already clinging to your lashes. It burns. It hurts. Your whole body shakes with the effort of staying quiet.
Behind you, the crying gets worse—fractured, panicked.
“Okay,” you choke out.
The word scrapes your throat raw on the way out, barely more than a breath. It tastes like blood and rust and surrender.
Immediately, the pressure is gone.
The crowbar pulls free with a wet sound that makes your vision white out, pain screaming down your arm as the hooked metal tears away from muscle and skin. You shudder hard, a broken gasp ripping out of you despite your best effort to swallow it down.
He steps back like a magician deciding on the next trick.
Then he leans in again—careful, deliberate—and pats at the wound where the bar pierced you. Not gentle. Never gentle. His palm presses just enough to make you flinch, fingers smearing warm blood across your torn clothes.
“See?” he says brightly, turning slightly so the camera gets a better angle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Your breath comes shallow and fast, chest stuttering against the wire. Every inhale sends a fresh bloom of pain through your shoulder, the edges of it pulsing in time with your heart.
His hands come up next.
Dry. Cracked. Too warm.
He grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs pressing at your jaw as he tilts your head from side to side. The movement drags the skin of your neck against the barbed wire, a searing, intimate pain that makes your eyes flood instantly.
“What a dumb dumb birdy you are,” he croons, affectionate in the way predators are. “It’s okay. Joker can teach you.”
Your body trembles uncontrollably now. Your fingers spasm uselessly against the wooden arms of the chair, nails scraping shallow grooves into the surface. You can feel blood slicking your palm and you don't even want to think about how you got hurt there too.
He releases your face.
Pats your head once.
The gesture is almost worse than the violence.
“Now,” he says softly, pleasantly, “say thank you.”
Your vision swims. The room feels too loud, too close. Somewhere behind you, one of the children sobs so hard it turns into hiccupping gasps. You swallow around the wire, throat burning.
You look up at him with shaking eyes, lashes heavy with tears and blood. Your mouth opens. Your lips quiver.
“Thank—” Your voice breaks completely. You force it back together, dragging the word out of yourself like it’s being pulled through glass. “Thank you.”
His smile spreads slow and satisfied, stretching the cracks in his makeup wider.
“Good birdy,” he coos, pleased. “So much more compliant than your love bird already!”
“Now—” Joker announces, voice lifting into a theatrical lilt, like he’s stepped beneath a spotlight instead of flickering warehouse fluorescents. He turns toward the camera, gives it a jaunty little nod, then looks back at you, grin splitting wider. “I was gonna let you go for some cash. Thought your little boy bird might get scared shitless—just a fun little bonus, really—buttt—”
He drifts away from you, footsteps light, almost playful. You can’t turn your head far enough to see what he’s doing. The wire bites when you try. Your vision pulses, dark at the edges.
Then—
A scream.
Sharp. High. A girl’s voice.
It cuts off halfway through, collapsing into a thin, broken cry that echoes far too long in the hollow space of the warehouse.
Something in you fractures.
Joker reappears at your side, breath brushing your ear, laughter bubbling out of him like it’s a private joke the two of you share. “Got lucky with a rich bitch on the road,” he cackles, delighted. “Gotham really does keep on givin’.”
Your stomach twists violently. You taste bile. The crying behind you swells again, panicked and animal, and you can feel your own body trying to fold in on itself despite the restraints, like if you curl inward hard enough you might disappear.
His hands slide to your throat and at the same time your eyes land onto his hands. Diamond earrings.
He ripped her earrings out of her ears.
Before you can flinch at the sight of pieces of skin in his open hand, he yanks.
The chain snaps free with a sharp tug, metal biting into your skin as the necklace tears away. You gasp, the wire at your neck punishing you for it, and the sudden cold where the chain used to rest feels obscene—too exposed. You feel lucky that you took off your earrings when you were doing your hair.
He dangles it in front of the camera, letting it glint under the harsh light, gemstones smeared faintly red from your blood. “This could go for a couple hundred too!” he sings. “Ohhh, how delightful!”
He leans closer, eyes alight, savoring every tremor that runs through you. “At least one of the birdies knows how to decorate their nest. Found a few rings at your place as well.”
Joker pockets the necklace with a satisfied hum.
“Well, now that I don’t need the money,” he croons, voice lilting, playful, like he’s deciding which joke to tell next, “what should I do with you?”
His fingers drag along your cheek again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to bruise. His touch leaves heat behind, a crawling sensation that makes your stomach revolt. You feel contaminated where he’s touched you, like your skin is remembering something it shouldn’t.
“…I’ll give you more,” you whisper. Your voice fractures around the word, splintering into something pitiful and thin. “However much you want—just—”
“Oh, I don’t need money.”
The change is instant. His tone drops, sharp and venomous, and when he leans in his eyes are blown wide and empty, pupils swallowing the green like oil slicks. A hawk spotting movement. A blade finding flesh.
“I was looking for some fun, love bird,” he hisses. “You can’t give me that?”
You whimper around the grip on your jaw as his fingers tighten, nails biting into your skin. The wire at your throat digs deeper when you gasp, its teeth kissing something vital. Pain blooms hot and bright, stars bursting behind your eyes.
“Jason— Jason will—”
He doesn’t even flinch at the name.
Maybe that’s mercy.
His fingers move higher, rough and invasive, smearing through the makeup you’d put on hours ago with careful hands. The eyeshadow burns as it’s ground into your skin, sweat and blood turning it into a dark, ugly paste. His thumb drags through the faint blush on your cheeks, erasing it like it was a mistake.
“How pretty you are,” he murmurs, almost tender. “I do makeup on myself too, you know.”
Then his hands leave you entirely.
He grabs his own face, fingers digging into the cracked greasepaint, stretching the red grin wider, tearing at the corners until the white creases and flakes. For a second you think you see real skin underneath—white, lined, angry. Horrid.
“Do you like mine?” he asks brightly. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
Your mind blanks.
Your eyes flick helplessly to the camera instead—the blinking red light pulsing steadily, patiently. Recording. Waiting. You try to speak, to say yes or no or anything that might stop what’s coming, but your throat locks around the wire and all that comes out is a wet, useless sound.
Then—
“Very pretty!”
The voice is behind you.
Too young.
A teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her voice trembles, thin and frantic, the words tumbling over each other. “So—so pretty—”
You feel something inside you tear open.
She’s trying to survive. You can feel that hope radiate off of her. The hope of throwing words into the dark and praying it lands somewhere safe.
Joker’s head snaps toward her.
His eyes narrow, sharp and wrong, smile freezing into something predatory. “You think so?”
There’s a frantic nod you can hear more than see—the quick intake of breath, the shuddering little sob that follows.
Joker bends down.
The crowbar scrapes loudly as he lifts it, metal screaming against concrete. You catch a glimpse of it as he moves past you—rusted, pitted, darkened in places where it’s already been used tonight.
Then he’s gone from your line of sight.
The scream that follows is immediate and unbearable.
It’s not just pain—it’s shock, terror, the sound of someone realizing too late that they were wrong. The metal wall amplifies it, throws it back at itself until it feels like the warehouse is screaming with her.
There’s a wet, sickening crack.
A sound like meat hitting concrete.
“Why don’t we match?” Joker coos from behind you, voice light and delighted. “I did one side, now the other!”
The crowbar hits again.
You hear bone give this time—feel it in your teeth, in your chest. Her scream fractures into something animal, then into choking sobs, then into a raw, bubbling sound that makes bile rush up your throat.
Your own crying breaks free, ugly and uncontrollable. Your body jerks against the restraints, fingers cramping, nails tearing uselessly into the wood of the chair. Hot tears spill down your face, mixing with blood, dripping off your chin in thick, dark drops.
The camera’s red light blinks again.
Once.
Twice.
It taunts you by matching every sound that breaks out of you.
Every gasped sob, every wet, hitching breath. The camera’s red light blinks in time with your chest, like it’s learned your rhythm, like it’s decided to breathe with you instead of for you.
And then the Joker comes back.
You smell him before you see him—iron-thick blood, old rust, sweat gone sour. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, fingers shining under the warehouse lights. The crowbar hangs loose in his grip, darker now, clotted, strands of hair caught cruelly in its curve.
He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, like he’s talking to a child.
“Well,” he hums thoughtfully. “I can’t give you her look, can I?”
Your vision swims. You can’t stop shaking. Tears slide down your face in hot, unstoppable streams, carving clean paths through blood and grime. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes out—just a broken, animal sound that folds back in on itself.
His smile twitches.
“What should I do with you?” he asks softly. “Hm?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. You just cry harder, chest stuttering against the wire, throat raw and burning.
That seems to irritate him.
He clicks his tongue, disappointed, and lifts the crowbar. The cold metal taps against your cheek once—tap—just enough to make you flinch violently. He pauses, head tilting.
“Oh—”
His eyes light up.
“Oh yes, that’s wonderful! Oh—” He erupts into laughter, sudden and explosive, clutching his stomach as if the joke is too much to bear. Spit flies from his mouth, warm and disgusting as it lands in your hair, streaking through blood-matted strands. “Oh, isn’t my brain just splendid?”
He straightens, still laughing, wiping his eyes like he’s genuinely amused. “You bats are all poetry, I say—pure poetry!”
Then he turns.
Walks away.
His footsteps fade, echoing hollowly through the warehouse, until there’s only the hum of the lights, the distant crying behind you—and the camera.
You’re alone.
One last sob claws its way out of your throat, wet and choking. Blood follows it, dribbling down your chin, splashing darkly against your chest. You force your eyes open, drag them upward, lock them onto the camera.
You don’t know who’s watching. You don’t know if anyone is.
Your voice comes out steadier than it has any right to be.
“How—”
“Shut up!” someone whisper-yells behind you, frantic and terrified. “There’s other men!”
Your mouth snaps shut.
And the red light keeps blinking.
The metal door slams open with a shriek of abused hinges, the impact shuddering through the warehouse floor and straight up your spine. Dust rains down from the rafters in a thin, dirty veil, catching in your hair and sticking to the blood already drying there.
He’s laughing before you even see him.
Not distant laughter—close. Moving. Each step accompanied by a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across concrete. His cackle ricochets off the shipping containers, off the steel beams, off the low ceiling that traps the sound and forces it back into your skull.
A little boy cries out behind you as Joker passes him. A sharp, panicked sound that fractures into a sob and then cuts off abruptly, like someone clamped a hand over his mouth.
The air grows hotter.
Through the warped reflection in the camera lens, you see it clearly now: a long metal bar burning red-hot, so bright it hurts to look at directly. Heat ripples distort the image around it, the glow painting the walls in feverish streaks of crimson. The smell hits you next—burning iron, scorched metal, something faintly organic beneath it that makes bile crawl up your throat.
Joker taps the brand against the concrete behind you.
It doesn’t clang.
It hisses.
The sound is sharp and alive, like meat on a skillet. Tiny sparks spit outward where it kisses the floor, leaving blackened scars in the cement. The red glow doesn’t dull. Doesn’t cool. It stays furious and bright, as if fed by something endless.
Whatever fragile hope you were clutching evaporates in that moment, leaving you hollowed out, lungs burning as you exhale something that feels like your last prayer.
He’s behind you in the next second.
Joker’s hand comes out of nowhere, clamping over your mouth, palm slick and hot. The copper taste floods you as his fingers press into your cheeks, nails digging in just enough to hurt—just enough to remind you that restraint is a choice he’s making. Your head is forced back, neck screaming as the wire saws deeper, the barbs biting into tender skin.
“Would you like to match your birdy?” he murmurs.
His voice is serene. Gentle. Almost affectionate.
He angles the brand around the arm of the chair so you can see it clearly. The letter is unmistakable now, its edges glowing white-hot, heat radiating off it in suffocating waves.
A ‘𝙹’.
Your body reacts before your mind can—your stomach convulses, gagging against his hand, breath stuttering uselessly through your nose. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s already shrinking away from what’s coming.
“We’re going to make the deal now,” he coos.
In the camera’s reflection, you can see his eye—wide, bright, utterly focused on the blinking red dot. Performing. Enjoying the audience if there even is one.
“You either get a matching look…” The brand drifts closer, close enough that the heat kisses your cheek, nerves screaming in anticipation, sweat instantly breaking out along your spine. “…or you tell me who you hate.”
His hand peels away from your mouth.
Air rushes in too fast. You choke on it, coughing hard enough that the wire grinds into your throat, pain blooming hot and blinding. Your voice comes out shredded. “Who… who I hate?”
“Who put you here?” he hums thoughtfully, as if the answer delights him. “It wasn’t me.”
The brand pauses, hovering inches from your skin. You can feel the heat burrowing inward, like it’s already memorizing you.
“Why do you think I found you?” he continues lightly. “Do you know how sloppy he is?”
Silence stretches, thick and oppressive.
You stare at the glowing red letter, your mind drifting somewhere distant and numb to survive. Absurdly, irrationally, you think of Jason’s helmet—the same violent red, the same defiant color. You wonder if he’s thinking of you right now. If he can feel this, somehow.
“Tell me who you hate.”
The words don’t just reach you—they enter you, heavy and cold, sinking past bone and settling somewhere deep and irreversible. They press the air flat, make the warehouse feel smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in to listen.
He stands before you in all his wrongness, and up close there is nothing theatrical left. The Joker’s makeup has melted into something corpse-like, white cracked and flaking into the grooves of his face as though his skin is trying to shed it. The red smile is no longer a grin so much as a wound, smeared unevenly, darker where blood has mixed in, the corners dragged downward by age and use. His hair hangs limp, green dulled to the color of mold, clinging to his scalp in greasy strands. His eyes are too bright—glass-bright, feverish—never still, never soft, reflecting the warehouse lights like knives.
The space around you hums with misery. The concrete beneath your feet is slick with blood and oil, cold seeping up through the chair and into your bones. Shipping containers loom like coffins, their metal sides scarred and rusted, shadows pooled so thick between them it feels like something could step out at any moment. The air reeks—burnt iron, old sweat, copper, rot—and every breath feels like inhaling something alive and hostile.
You look at the camera.
That red eye blinks steadily, rhythmically, a heart that isn’t yours. It sees the way your chest shudders, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the bindings, the way your body is already bracing for pain it knows is coming. Your thoughts drift, slow and exhausted, slipping through your hands like water you can’t quite hold.
You think of Jason.
Not the helmet. Not the blood. But his hands—warm, callused, careful when they touch you. The way he looks at you like the world might soften if you stay. The way he says your name like it’s something solid.
You could say his name now.
You could offer it up like a sacrifice and pray that this monster believes in deals, that you might walk out of here broken but breathing. You could lie and hope he lets you go.
Or you could say Jason’s name and watch Joker’s smile vanish as he switches off the camera and kills you quietly, preserving this horror to show your sweet boy later.
Or you could stay silent and take the brand—feel your skin burn, your body marked, watch the ecstasy bloom in Joker’s eyes as he claims you like an object he’s improved.
None of them feel survivable.
Something inside you twists—not courage, not bravery, but love sharpened into something desperate and ugly and defiant. You gather what spit you can in your blood-wet mouth and turn your head as far as the wire allows.
You spit in his face.
It lands wet and unmistakable, dragging a slow line through the cracked white paint, cutting through the red smile like an insult carved in flesh.
For a heartbeat, everything freezes.
The Joker goes utterly still, his expression emptying out in a way that is far more frightening than his laughter. Then his eyes widen, pupils dilating, fury flaring bright and feral—pleased.
You lean forward, neck screaming as the wire bites deeper, and you whisper because your voice will not survive being louder.
“You know,” you murmur, breath shaking despite everything you do to steady it, “he’s never mentioned you before.”
His breath stutters.
“You must not have left quite an impression.”
It’s a lie. A reckless, transparent lie.
You have lived in Gotham long enough to know exactly what he is—his name written in blood across the city’s history—but lies can still cut, and you see it land. You see the way his smile stretches wider, hungry and thrilled.
You’ve given him a reason.
A reason to prove himself.
A reason to keep you alive.
A reason to make you hurt longer.
His hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back violently. Your neck slams into the barbed wire, spikes tearing in with a wet, intimate sound that makes you sob despite yourself. Warm blood spills down your throat, choking you, slicking your chest.
Then the brand descends.
The heat is indescribable—ancient, total, a pain so vast it consumes thought itself. Your flesh screams as it burns, the smell of seared skin rising thick and sweet, smoke curling upward as the letter is carved into you slowly, deliberately. Your body arches uselessly against the restraints, every nerve on fire, and the sound that leaves you is not a scream so much as something torn out of your soul.
You hate that he hears it. And when that drug denies you the void of sleep you so desperately need, you allow yourself to think numbly as the man pulls it away that at least Jason can't dwindle his appearance anymore.
Your tears stripe down your cheeks, burning as they touch your skin.
We match. You think numbly, Atleast we match.
He strokes over the brand with more delicacy than he has ever had in this whole nightmare, mumbling, “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”
When you wake again, it’s to the weight of tears landing on your face—warm, uneven drops that pull you out of the dark in slow, reluctant pieces. For a moment you don’t know where you are. The world rocks gently, like it can’t decide whether to keep moving or stop altogether. There’s the low hum of an engine beneath you, vibration traveling through bone and bruised muscle, and the smell of old leather surrounds you—worn, familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.
Leather is good.
Leather is not acid.
Leather does not burn your lungs on the way in.
“Hurts,” you mumble, the word barely surviving the journey out of your throat. You offer it up like an apology, like a peace offering, half-expecting pain to answer you back.
Instead, the crying breaks harder.
It comes undone above you, raw and ugly, and through the haze you realize you aren’t lying flat on concrete, waiting for the Joker to press a cinder block to your stomach. Your body is stretched across someone, your legs draped over another set of knees, your weight distributed carefully, reverently, like something fragile that might shatter if shifted wrong.
An arm is braced beneath your neck, steady and strong, keeping your head from lolling, and your cheek presses into a leather jacket that smells unmistakably like gun oil, sweat, rain—
Jason.
The knowledge hits softer than it should, cushioned by exhaustion and shock, and when your eyes finally manage to open, everything swims. Light smears at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, but his face is there anyway, hovering close, carved with terror and relief and something so naked it almost scares you more than the warehouse did.
“Am I in heaven?” you mumble.
He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a sob and isn’t quite a laugh, choking on it as his chin trembles. “You don’t even believe in heaven.”
“Well,” you murmur, trying—and failing—to pull your mouth into something that resembles a smile, “what else could you be?”
Your jaw burns when you speak. Everything burns. It feels like your body has been filled with broken glass and lit from the inside, and you’re dimly aware of warm liquid slipping from your mouth, darkening the leather beneath your cheek every time you breathe wrong. You hate that you’re staining him. You hate that you can’t stop.
“I’ll kill him,” Jason whispers, like a prayer he’s been holding onto with both hands. His fingers shake as they brush your hair back, careful to avoid places he knows are hurt. “I’ll kill him. I promise.”
“Can I have hot chocolate first?” you mumble. The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else. “I bought that expensive kind… from Finland. Asshole knocked it all over my carpet…”
Jason’s breath fractures completely at that. He nods too hard, tears spilling freely now, dropping onto your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll buy you hot chocolate. I’ll buy you all of it.”
Somewhere near your feet, another voice cuts in, low and strained with concern. “Hey, Jay—breathe—”
Jason doesn’t hear them. Or maybe he does and simply can’t afford to listen. His chest is rising too fast beneath you, breaths sawing in and out like he’s drowning on dry land, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the green in them shifting with every frantic blink.
Or maybe that’s just your vision still failing you. That would make sense. The powder. The smoke. The way light hurts now.
“Stop crying,” you murmur weakly. “I can’t die with you looking like that.”
That breaks him.
His face crumples completely, grief spilling over into something fierce and desperate as he bends closer, forehead almost touching yours. “Good,” he chokes. “Fuck you. I’ll cry even more, so–so stay with me, yeah?”
“No,” you whisper, your voice scraping raw against your throat. “Wanna sleep.”
“You slept an awful lot,” he snaps, but there’s no anger in it—only terror wearing sharp edges, only love clawing its way out however it can.
“Well,” you murmur, your voice thin but soft, like you’re afraid of startling him, “You show up in my dreams an awful lot.”
That does it.
Whatever fragile control Jason had left fractures clean through. He folds over you instinctively, shoulders caving as he tries—fails—to hide the sound of it. His breath comes apart against your hair, his forehead dipping close to your temple like if he presses himself near enough, he can keep you here by force alone. You feel the tremor of him through your whole body, every hitch of his chest echoing in your ribs.
You smell blood on him then. Copper and iron, sharp beneath the leather and sweat and rain. For a distant, numb second you think it’s yours again—until the scent is too heavy, too layered.
Oh.
Was this—
“Did I interrupt family bonding?” you whisper.
Your lips barely move. The words slip out half-asleep, half-dreaming, and they earn you a startled huff from somewhere behind you. Jason doesn’t answer. He can’t. His arms tighten instead, one hand splayed carefully at your back like he’s afraid even breathing too hard might hurt you more.
A voice comes from the seat behind, dry and unimpressed, because Jason is currently incapable of speech and whoever has your legs resting in their lap is rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.
“If this is what you think family bonding is, you’ll fit right in.”
“Damian, be quiet,” another voice snaps.
“She’s the one shamelessly flirting with him in front of all of us, Tim” Damian continues anyway, undeterred. “And Father isn’t even saying anything, so—”
“Well she’s the one dying!” Tim blurts, voice cracking sharp with fear.
Jason chokes on the words that come from Tim’s mouth, breath stuttering hard, and a deeper voice cuts in from the front seat—controlled, measured, holding itself together by sheer will.
“She’s not going to die, Tim.”
“I want hoya bellas on my grave,” you interrupt softly.
Jason lets out a broken sound that might have been a laugh in another universe. He shakes his head over you, forehead brushing your hair, and through your blurry vision you think you catch a gloved hand popping up behind him in a solemn thumbs-up.
“Got it.”
Another voice joins in from the front, exasperated and strained. “Cassandra, she’s not being serious.”
“I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like something he’s trying to carve into reality. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His thumb strokes your hair away from your forehead again, impossibly gentle, avoiding the places he knows hurt, the places he doesn’t want to know at all.
“I’m gonna sleep now,” you murmur. It takes effort to shape the words. The dark is getting heavier again, tugging at you, warm and deep. “Can one of you give Jason water?”
“Hey—” Jason breathes, panic flaring sharp as his voice cracks. “Hey, no—no, no, no, stay with me, come on—”
But you’re already slipping.
Your eyes flutter closed despite him, despite the warmth of his arms, despite the way his heart is racing beneath your ear like it’s trying to outrun fate itself. His glove comes off hurriedly and you feel his bare fingers press to your pulse, grounding himself in the steady beat there, in the fact that it’s still happening.
After a few minutes, Dick leans forward and taps Jason’s shoulder gently, offering a water bottle. His uniform is torn and scorched like the rest of them, a thin cut bright against his cheek, but his voice is soft when he speaks.
“Drink.”
Jason doesn’t look up. He doesn’t let go. He just nods once, tight and shaky, eyes fixed on you like if he looks away for even a second, the world might take you again.
He forces himself to take a full gulp of water, the plastic bottle crinkling loudly in the too-quiet car, his throat working like it has to remember how swallowing goes. His hands are still shaking when he passes it off to Tim.
“Hey, I don’t need any—”
Jason looks at him.
Not sharp. Not angry. Just steady in a way that leaves no room for argument, the kind of look that says do this or I will fall apart next.
Tim takes a long swig immediately. Somewhere in the background, Damian lets out a low, satisfied cackle.
The digital clock on the Batmobile reads 4:00 a.m.
The numbers glow cold blue against the dark interior, reflected faintly in the windshield like a second set of eyes staring back at them. Gotham outside is hollow and half-dead at this hour—streetlights flickering, rain-slick asphalt stretching endlessly, buildings slumped together like they’re exhausted too.
Bruce’s voice is calm as he calls Alfred, clipped and precise, already listing supplies like this is something he can control if he names enough of it out loud.
Jason doesn’t listen.
He keeps his focus on you.
On the shallow rise and fall of your chest. The warmth is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. On the way your weight settles into him like it belongs there, like it always has. One hand stays firm at your neck, holding you upright because you need it—because you need him steady, and that knowledge anchors him harder than anything Bruce could ever say.
You need him here. You need him present. You need him not to break.
He knows that, because once—once—that was all he ever wanted too.
And that’s the cruel part of it.
Because the weight of you in his arms has only ever meant safety. Home. Sleep curling warm and heavy in his bones. His body doesn’t know the difference between holding you safe and finally being allowed to rest.
Jason Todd passes out with his forehead dipping gently toward yours, his grip loosening only by a fraction, like even unconscious he’s afraid to let you go.
The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is Tim’s voice, sharp with panic and disbelief.
“Dude—what the fuck—”
“Hold his head up—don’t let him fall on her!” Bruce barks from the front, voice cracking sharp through the Batmobile like a snapped cable.
All at once, everyone moves.
Damian fists the back of Jason’s T‑shirt, knuckles white as he yanks him upright with a strength born of panic he’d never admit to. Dick stretches impossibly from the passenger seat, arm braced awkwardly as he cups the back of Jason’s head, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid one wrong angle will shatter him. Tim presses a steadying hand to Jason’s chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm, grounding him the way he’s learned to do with bombs and brothers alike.
Jason is dead weight. Heavy. Still clinging to you even in unconsciousness, his arm slack but stubborn around your shoulders, like muscle memory alone refuses to let you go.
The Batmobile hums on, tires slicing through wet streets, Gotham blurring past in streaks of sodium light and rain-slick concrete. The city feels distant now, muffled, like it’s holding its breath with them.
“…Did someone check if the Joker was—uh—breathing?” Stephanie asks from the back, her voice small in a way it rarely ever is.
She hadn’t stayed for the end. Her job had been triage—getting the kids out, shouting orders, dragging civilians through blood and broken glass while the rest of them stayed behind in the warehouse with the laughter and the screaming. She’d smelled the aftermath on them when they regrouped. She didn’t need details then but...
Bruce doesn’t look back. His hands tighten on the wheel.
“Jason didn’t hit any vital points,” he says quietly, like he’s reciting a report he’s already memorized. “Just… ah—”
“Carved his face like a jack‑o’‑lantern,” Damian supplies, entirely too calm. “Heated up a crowbar to do it too. Very effective.”
There’s a beat of silence.
The city lights flash over Bruce’s face—old stone and deep eyes that are hollowed by relief he doesn’t let himself feel yet.
“…Yeah,” Bruce exhales, short and rough. “That.”
The Batmobile keeps moving.
Jason breathes.
You breathe.
And for now, that’s enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.
You wake up in bed.
Not the thin, borrowed kind your body has learned to tolerate at your apartment, but something deep and indulgent—clean sheets tucked tight, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle you instead of swallowing you whole. The pillow beneath your cheek feels stupidly expensive, cool and smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and something old and comforting, like cedar and money and quiet hallways that echo.
For a moment, you think you’re dreaming again.
Then you feel him.
Jason is asleep beside you, solid and unmistakable. You don’t need to move—you can’t really anyways—to know it’s him. The arm wrapped around your waist is heavy with familiar strength, protective even in unconsciousness. His hair brushes against your arm every time he breathes, soft, tickling your skin in a way that makes your chest ache.
He’s breathing.
That fact alone nearly undoes you.
God. You really need to raise your standards, you think hazily. You’re reduced to this—listening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, and already you want to curl into him and coo like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.
Then you see Bruce.
He’s standing near the bed, still as a statue, watching you with the careful intensity of someone afraid to spook a wild animal. It takes effort to focus on his face, your vision dragging itself into clarity inch by inch.
When you try to lift your head—manners resurfacing before sense—your body protests sharply.
Bruce moves instantly.
“Hey, hey—no,” he murmurs, hands gentle but firm as he presses you back into the mattress. “Relax. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Your head sinks back into the pillow, and the moment stretches. You swallow thickly before managing a small, hoarse sound of politeness.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Jason—”
“Hasn’t told you much about me,” Bruce finishes for you, a faint, tired chuckle slipping out. “That’s alright. I just need you to sleep right now.”
You glance downward as best you can, feeling something sharp dig into your side.
“…I can’t sleep if your son’s elbow is in my ribs.”
Bruce blinks.
Actually blinks—surprised enough that it breaks through the carefully assembled calm. “Ah—” he starts, then reaches for Jason, trying to rearrange him with the same precision he uses on everything else.
It doesn’t work.
Jason huffs in his sleep, a low, irritated sound, and somehow manages to make it worse—his arm tightening, his leg hooking over yours possessively, like you’re something he’s afraid the world might steal back if he lets go.
Bruce freezes.
You mumble, exhausted but soft, “It’s alright. I’m sure he hasn’t slept… I’ve gotten quite a lot, so…”
Bruce looks like he wants to argue. His jaw tightens, then loosens, the fight draining out of him. He exhales and sits back in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.
“It’s the 26th,” he says quietly.
Oh.
You missed Christmas.
What a shame.
After a moment, Bruce speaks again, and his voice is heavier now—careful, deliberate, like every word costs him something.
“I… want to apologize to you.” His fingers interlace, knuckles whitening. “I knew you’d been taken. And I didn’t tell him. Possibly… he could have been there sooner. But I needed to make sure the others would be saved as well.”
“Well,” you murmur, the word barely more than breath, “I don’t exactly blame you for that.”
It isn’t forgiveness exactly—nothing so grand—but it’s honest, and it lands heavier than anger ever could.
Bruce doesn’t relax. If anything, his shoulders pull tighter, like he’s bracing for a blow that never quite comes. He’s spent his whole life learning how to de‑escalate men with guns, gods with vendettas, cities with teeth—but you unsettle him in a quieter, more dangerous way. You’re calm. You’re lucid. You’re something Jason had threatened to shoot himself for.
He clears his throat, trying to give you something solid, something measurable. Facts are safer.
“Jason… got him,” Bruce says carefully. “Badly. I think—” He hesitates, eyes flicking once toward Jason like he’s checking for movement. “I think the Joker may be blind now. Or at least permanently impaired.”
“You let him?” you ask.
Still no accusation. Just a soft, stunned curiosity, as if you’re piecing together a story you were never meant to survive.
Bruce nods. Once. The motion costs him. “I did,” he admits. “But I—”
“Then that’s enough,” you whisper, interrupting him gently, like you’re afraid the words themselves might hurt. “Jason will realize that too.” Your lashes flutter; exhaustion tugs at you like a tide. “I mean… he probably won’t. He’ll still try to kill him.” A faint, crooked exhale. “But you did everything you could yesterday.”
Your gaze drifts—not to Bruce, but to Jason. To the way his arm is still locked around you, even in sleep. To the stubborn set of his jaw, the crease between his brows that never fully smooths out anymore.
“Thank you,” you add quietly. “For finding me.”
That’s when Bruce goes still.
Not rigid. Not defensive.
Still.
Because he’s been looking at you, yes—but now you realize he hasn't been looking you in the eye while he speaks. His eyes have been caught in one place, drawn there again and again like a bruise you can’t help but press.
Your cheek.
The skin there is angry beneath the bandage’s edge—raw, faintly swollen, discolored in a way he winced at while he bandaged it. Bruce didn't let anyone else tend to it, not even Alfred.
Because this was a wound he inflicted, one that he needed to tend to.
“It’s still fresh,” he says, softer now, stripped of the Bat and the rules and the fear. Just a man speaking carefully around something fragile. “I’ll get you better medicine. The pigment should fade.” A pause. His voice lowers. “I can’t promise about the texture.”
You don’t look away. You don’t flinch.
“That’s okay,” you say.
And Bruce doesn’t know if you mean the scar, or the pain, or the fact that you’ll carry this forever—but Jason shifts in his sleep then, brow tightening, arm drawing you closer like he sensed the weight of the moment and refused to let it settle on you alone.
Bruce watches that. Watches how Jason anchors himself to you without waking, how his breathing steadies when yours does, how it pauses even in sleep when yours hitches.
“He loves you a lot.” Bruce mumbles.
“...And you too Mr.Wayne.”
jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) :@justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree,
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You get kidnapped and branded by the joker on christmas. The bat-family sees Jason unravel.
word cnt. 14.6k
cw ›››› torture, branding, suicidal language, violence, blood, gore
Something is wrong.
Jason feels it like a pressure change—subtle, almost polite—but it crawls under his helmet and settles behind his eyes. It hasn’t clicked, not cleanly. Not yet. He hasn’t asked. Hasn’t said a word through the harbor sweep, through the cold iron stink of saltwater and oil and Christmas rot. A small job. The kind that should feel easy. The kind that still manages to choke the air out of his lungs anyway.
Everyone’s moving like the night might shatter if they stop.
Tim keeps choosing his words too carefully, syllables slowed and smoothed like he’s sanding down sharp edges. Dick’s doing that thing where he smiles first and speaks second—but the timing’s off, the warmth a fraction too late, like a recording lagging behind the video. Damian watches Jason more than the perimeter, eyes sharp, calculating, guarded. Stephanie hasn’t joked once. Not even a cheap jab to him, not even under her breath. That alone feels wrong enough to tilt the world sideways.
Bruce didn’t come.
That absence is loud. A hollow where a presence should be, echoing through comms and instinct alike. The Cave, he’d said. As if that explained anything. As if Bruce ever sits things out without a reason that claws.
Cassandra says nothing—but she’s closer. Close enough that Jason can feel her awareness like static along his spine. When the group splits, she falls into step beside him without discussion, without a glance. Just there. Solid. Protective in a way that feels less like trust and more like vigilance. As if she’s guarding him.
That’s when unease really sinks its teeth in.
Bruce didn’t need all of them.
Didn’t need six sets of boots scraping concrete, six heartbeats crowding the same dark. Dick alone could’ve dismantled this whole thing with half the effort. Hell, Jason himself could’ve wrapped it up fast and bloody and been home already. Instead, they’re stacked together, overlapping, slowing each other down like they’re afraid to let him out of their sight.
He agreed because no one argued about his presence. Because no one questioned whether he was needed. Because the silence around that decision felt intentional.
That should’ve been his first real warning.
Between two groups of thugs, he had ducked behind a row of shipping containers, Gotham’s lights bleeding gold across the black water. He had pulled out his phone and called you, already rehearsing the apology in his head. Late for presents. Again. You’d tease him, pretend to scold, maybe force him to wrap some gifts for your co-workers.
You didn't answer.
Probably a bath, he told himself. You’d mentioned one. Candles. The fancy bath salts you bought. Something soft to push the cold out of your bones. The thought settles him, briefly. He sends a text instead—short, careful. An apology. An I love you so much that he doesn’t overthink, because with you, he never has to.
You always know what he means.
The phone stays quiet in his pocket.
No buzz. No vibration brushing against his thigh like it usually does, grounding him, tethering him back to something warm and real. He told himself it’s nothing. That you’re relaxed, distracted, asleep. That the night is just heavy, that Gotham is doing what Gotham always does—making ghosts out of shadows and dread out of coincidence.
Still.
When he looks back at the others, he notices the way Dick avoids his eyes now. The way Tim’s gaze flicks to Jason’s pocket and away again. The way Damian’s jaw tightens when Jason shifts his weight, like he’s bracing for impact. Cassandra meets his eyes once—just once—and there’s something there that twists low and sharp in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.
Knowing. Jason doesn’t ask. He doesn’t press.
But the harbor feels too quiet, the night stretched thin and listening, and for the first time since he sent that text, a cold, irrational thought curls in his gut—
That whatever is wrong didn’t start here.
And that somewhere far from the water, far from the mission, something precious has already slipped out of reach.
“That was the last of them,” Jason says, voice rough through the helmet, as Tim finishes cinching zip-ties around the final goon and anchors him to a rust-flaked shipping container. The plastic bites down with a sharp click that echoes too loudly across the concrete. The man mumbled insanities through spit.
The harbor exhales around them—cold wind off the water, carrying brine and diesel and something rotten that’s been sitting too long. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in jaundiced gold and long, distorted shadows that stretch and tangle at their feet. The concrete is damp beneath Jason’s boots, slick with mist and old oil, the kind of surface that never really dries no matter how many ‘sunny’ days Gotham pretends to have.
“We should do another check around the harbor,” Dick says.
He’s already kneeling, already breaking the man's phone in half with practiced efficiency, grinding it into the concrete with his heel until the screen spider webs and dies. He doesn’t look up when he says it. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t even sound casual about it.
Jason lifts an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. His gaze slides to Damian automatically—because Damian is usually the first to shoot an idea like that down, sharp and impatient and blunt as a blade.
Instead, Damian just mutters, “Tim could be wrong.”
Mumbles it. Like he’s afraid the words might carry.
That alone sends a small, unpleasant chill up Jason’s spine.
Tim doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bristle. He straightens from the goon and dusts his gloves together, eyes flicking—not to Jason—but to Stephanie. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory.
“Do you want to take the gates with me?” Tim says, too smooth. Too rehearsed. “Jason and Dick could go along the—”
“What?” Jason cuts in before he can finish, blinking once. “You two were perched on the gates the entire op. What’re you talking about?”
The wind gusts harder, rattling loose chains and setting a tarp snapping somewhere down the dock. Water slaps against concrete pylons in a slow, hollow rhythm.
Jason suddenly feels like the sound is counting something down.
“It wouldn’t hurt to double-check,” Tim says, rising to his feet.
He still won’t meet Jason’s eyes.
Jason’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, the concrete cold and unforgiving through the thinning soles of his boots, and for a split second his mind drifts—unbidden—to you. To the warmth of your kitchen lights. To the way you’d probably be halfway through setting out plates by now, humming something low and off-key, waiting for him in that way that makes him want to claw his soul out and hand it over to you.
The thought lands soft, intimate, grounding—and then slips through his fingers when he remembers his phone, silent and heavy in his pocket.
“…You guys don’t need me for that,” Jason says, firmer now. There’s an edge to it, something protective and stubborn. He already has plans. A timeline. A promise he intends to keep. “Seriously. If you want to sweep again, even one person could—”
Dick finally looks up.
It’s just a glance, quick and loaded, the kind Jason’s learned to read over a lifetime of almosts and unsaids. Cassandra shifts closer at the same moment, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence steady and deliberate. Jason doesn't think she's ever willingly touched him in his life. Stephanie opens her mouth like she’s about to say something—anything—then closes it again.
The harbor feels tighter suddenly. Smaller. Like the stacks of containers have leaned in, hemming them closer, their corrugated sides looming like silent witnesses. The wind cuts sharper off the water, needling through the seams of Jason’s jacket, and somewhere deep in his chest, that pressure builds again.
Jason turns fully to Damian.
“Kid, I swear to God, tell me what—”
Damian snaps at the exact same moment Cassandra moves. Her hand closes around Jason’s shoulder, firm and sudden, fingers digging in through armor like she’s trying to anchor him to the concrete before he does something irreversible. The contact is intimate in a way that feels wrong, alarmed.
“How the hell should I know? They didn't tell me—” Damian bites back, voice sharp, flaring too fast, too hot.
“Damian!” Dick hisses, the sound cutting through the night like a blade dragged too quickly from its sheath. He’s already moving, stepping between them without quite committing to either side, hands up in a placating gesture that lands closer to panic than calm. He turns to Jason almost immediately, words tumbling over each other. “Come on, dude, let’s just go check the security towers and—”
“That’s going to take another hour,” Jason cuts in.
The words come out flat, but there’s steel underneath. He shrugs Cassandra’s hand off—not rough, but final—and reaches into his pocket. The harbor lights blur for a second as his fingers close around his phone, the familiar shape of something that connects him to you grounding him. It’s 10:20. He knows that without looking but checks anyway. He’s been counting the minutes since the mission dragged past its supposed end.
“I had plans,” he says, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “Let me at least—”
The batarang whistles through the air.
Jason barely has time to register the movement—Damian’s arm snapping forward, wrist precise, expression tight and furious—before metal slams into his hand. The impact jars up his arm, sharp and biting, and the phone slips free, spinning once before it hits the concrete.
Crack.
The screen fractures instantly, a spiderweb of dead glass blooming beneath the sodium lights before the device skids to a stop near Jason’s boot. The harbor seems to hold its breath. Even the wind falters, the water’s slap against the pylons momentarily muted, as if the night itself is listening.
Jason stares down at it.
At the dark screen. On the way his reflection breaks apart in the shattered glass.
Jason’s gaze lifts slowly from the ruin at his feet.
It settles on Dick.
“Call Bruce.”
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut anyway—clean, controlled, edged with something that’s starting to slip. Dick falters under it, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Jason’s face. The harbor lights stutter overhead, one of them buzzing like it’s about to give out, bathing Dick in a sickly gold that makes him look younger.
Guilty.
“What, you gonna tattle?” Dick says, trying for levity and missing it by miles. His laugh lands wrong, brittle against the cold. “C’mon, Damian's just in a mood. I was going to surprise you with burgers but I thought the kid would spill. I’ll buy you a new phone, okay? Just—”
“Call Bruce,” Jason repeats.
This time it’s a hiss, dragged out through clenched teeth, something feral and fraying around the edges. The wind picks up again, slicing between the containers, rattling loose metal and carrying the sharp tang of rain that never quite falls in Gotham. Jason turns his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes find Cassandra.
She hasn’t moved. She’s watching him like she’s afraid he might break.
“…He’s busy,” Cass says.
Her voice is barely there. Smaller than usual. Soft enough that Tim, standing a good ten feet away, doesn’t hear it at all. The words dissolve into the night almost as soon as they leave her mouth, swallowed by wind and water and distance—but Jason hears them. Every syllable.
Busy.
Something inside him tightens, winding down to a thin, dangerous thread.
His hand comes up to his comm without conscious thought. He adjusts it once, fingers steady despite the way his pulse thuds too hard, too fast. The harbor seems to lean in again—the stacked containers looming like watchful giants, the river below churning black and endless.
Gotham breathes around him, damp and unforgiving.
“B,” Jason says.
Sharp. Precise. A single syllable fired into the dark like a flare.
Static answers him. Wind whistling through steel corridors. The distant cry of something alive and miserable echoing off the water. No voice. No correction. No irritation crackling back through the line.
Just silence. It stretches. Pulls thin. Grows teeth.
Jason exhales through his nose, a humorless breath that fogs faintly in the cold air. He thinks of you again—too vividly now. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you always pick up, even when he thinks you shouldn’t. The way silence has never belonged between the two of you.
His jaw locks. Fuck this shit, I should be at home with her.
Jason moves before anyone can stop him—before anyone even realizes he’s decided something.
He’s across the concrete in three long strides, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirror Gotham’s jaundiced lights in broken pieces. Damian doesn’t flinch when Jason grabs his comm. Doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t protest. That, more than anything, makes Jason’s teeth grind.
He clicks the emergency signal to the Batcomputer—once, twice, a break, two clicks hard enough that it hurts his thumb—then rips the comm free. His helmet follows, clattering against the concrete with a hollow, echoing crack that ricochets between the shipping containers. The sound feels too loud, too exposed. Jason presses the comm to his bare ear, cold metal biting into skin.
No one stops him.
Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Stephanie. Cassandra watches with that same quiet intensity, hands flexing like she’s bracing for impact. They stand there and let it happen, like this is how it was always meant to go—like they’ve already accepted that Jason finding out is inevitable, but telling him would be worse. Like this is some twisted test, or penance, or family tradition he never agreed to.
The harbor hums low and restless. Wind slides through steel corridors, rattling chains, carrying the stink of oil and brine and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham feels awake in that way it only does when something bad is already in motion.
“Robin?” Bruce’s voice cuts through the static, sharp and immediate. Too immediate. There’s an edge to it Jason hasn’t heard in years—tight, almost nervous, parental. “Robin, what’s wrong?”
Jason almost laughs.
Instead, his mouth twists.
“I’m going home, old man,” he hisses, already turning away from Damian. “What was this? Ya trying to tire me out, or did you get mind-controlled again? ‘Cause everyone here apparently likes you enough to not tell me the truth.”
“Jason—”
“Red Hood,” Jason snaps, the correction coming fast and mean. He bends, scoops his helmet up by the chin guard, and starts walking toward the exit between the containers where the harbor opens up to the road. “What happened to keeping hero names on comms? Or are you the only one allowed to break rules tonight?”
“Red Hood, just give me—”
“It’s a lousy gang!” Jason shouts, voice tearing loose now, bouncing off steel and concrete and dark water. “They don’t even crack the top twenty. Damian could’ve done this shit by himself.”
He doesn’t look back, but he knows they’re following him. He can feel it—the weight of their footsteps, the way they trail just close enough to intervene if he breaks. Later, it’ll hit him why Tim made sure every single goon was double zip-tied, wrists biting white beneath plastic. Insurance.
Tim knew Jason would find out.
Knew none of them would be coming back to clean this up.
“Red Hood—”
“Merry Christmas, B,” Jason cuts in, bitter and sharp as broken glass. “Please don’t call.”
“JASON—”
Bruce’s voice snaps through the comm like a gunshot, dragging Jason straight back into another life, another night, another version of himself that answered to that tone. “She’s in danger. And if you want any chance of seeing her again, get to the Batcave—”
The line goes dead.
Not static. Not interference.
Bruce cut it himself.
Jason stops, because there's only one person he could be talking about to send all five of them with him.
The harbor seems to lurch, the world tilting just enough to make his balance feel theoretical. The wind howls between the containers, louder now, like Gotham exhaling something foul and satisfied. Water slaps hard against concrete pylons below, relentless, counting seconds Jason no longer owns.
Slowly—too slowly—he turns.
He looks at them. At Dick’s pale face. At Tim’s clenched jaw. At Damian’s rigid stillness. At Stephanie, eyes bright with unshed panic. At Cassandra, whose gaze is already on him, steady and mournful, like she’s watching something crack.
They look at him like he’s glass.
Like he’s a bomb they’re waiting to defuse—or clean up after.
Jason doesn’t give them the chance.
“Fuck all of you,” he spits, the words coming out broken and small despite his best efforts.
Then he runs.
Out of the harbor. Out of the sodium lights and rust and the weight of too many eyes. Jason runs like Gotham itself is on his heels, boots striking concrete in a brutal rhythm that drowns out thought—or tries to. The city stretches around him in jagged silhouettes and wet stone, skyscrapers looming like blackened ribs against a low, churning sky. Clouds hang heavy and swollen, bruised purple and gray, threatening rain they never quite release. Gotham loves the anticipation of pain more than the act itself.
His blood is loud in his ears. Too loud. Every heartbeat punches through his ribs, frantic and unforgiving, as if his body already knows something his mind refuses to accept.
Toward the manor. Toward answers.
Toward the awful, creeping certainty settling into his bones that whatever Gotham has taken this time, it didn’t take lightly—and it didn’t take something he can afford to replace.
He takes the shorter way.
Fire escapes. Rooftops slick with mist. Narrow alleys that smell like old rain and older sins. He vaults gaps without slowing, coat snapping behind him like a torn banner, the city blurring into streaks of shadow and light. This route cuts close to your place. Too close. He doesn’t consciously choose it; his body does, muscle memory dragging him along a path his heart has memorized better than any map.
And then—
Mid-leap, suspended between one rooftop and the next, he sees it.
Your building sits quiet against the skyline, dark in a way it never is. Your lights are off. All of them. The windows—your windows—are shattered, glass glittering weakly under the city’s glow like fallen stars. The balcony rail is smeared with something darker than shadow.
Blood.
The word doesn’t form. Not fully. His brain skids around it, refuses to give it weight. At most, he tells himself, you’re hurt. Something small. A cut. A scrape. A stupid accident that looks worse than it is. You’ll laugh it off when he gets there, scold him for worrying, tell him he’s being dramatic again.
Because you’re untouchable.
That’s the rule his mind has always clung to. Gotham can drown him in filth and violence and rot, but you—you—are clean. Untarnished. Something soft the city hasn’t learned how to bruise yet. You exist outside its reach, outside its hunger. Gotham takes things like Jason. It breaks people like him. It doesn’t get to put its hands on you.
It can’t have you.
Because if you’re hurt—if you’re really hurt—then everything Jason has built inside himself caves in at once. Every fragile structure, every careful compromise, every promise he’s made to stay standing for you. There’s no version of the world where you’re broken and he survives it intact.
He lands hard, barely absorbing the impact before he’s running again, lungs burning, throat raw. The manor rises ahead of him through the trees like a dark monument, windows glowing warm and oblivious against the night. Too slow. The gates are too slow. The doors are too slow.
Jason doesn’t bother.
He barrels straight for a ground-floor window and drives his elbow through it without hesitation. Glass explodes inward, sharp and screaming, biting into skin. He doesn’t feel it—not really—until he’s inside, boots skidding onto the polished floor, breath tearing out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.
Blood runs freely down his forearm, drips onto the pale carpet in dark, blooming stains.
It looks wrong there. Violent. Out of place, just like the blood on your balcony.
Jason stares at it for half a second too long, chest heaving, and something in him splinters quietly—because now he knows. The city has already touched you and it has never, not once, let go without breaking something in return.
Jason doesn’t slow down in the Cave.
The platform is still lowering when he’s already moving, boots striking metal too hard, too fast, the sound ricocheting off stone and steel. The Batcave yawns around them—vast and echoing, all cold water and colder rock, computer screens throwing pale blue light across jagged walls. The waterfall roars like it’s trying to drown the night itself, a constant, punishing noise that usually steadies him.
Tonight it only sharpens the edges.
Bruce turns at the last possible second. His eyes flick first to Jason’s face, then to the blood smeared down his arm, dripping steadily onto the pristine metal floor. Bruce’s mouth tightens. Not in anger. In calculation. In fear he refuses to name.
Jason shoves him.
Hard.
Bruce’s back slams into the Batcomputer console, screens rattling, data stuttering for half a heartbeat. A lesser man would’ve been airborne. Bruce Wayne could have thrown Jason across the Cave without effort—could have ended this in a clean, controlled second.
He doesn’t.
Jason knows he won’t.
“Where is she,” Jason spits, the words tearing out of him raw and shaking. His hands fist in Bruce’s cape, knuckles white, trembling despite the strength coiled beneath them. The fabric bunches beneath his grip like it might rip if he pulls any harder. “Where is she?”
Bruce lifts his hands slowly, carefully—not in surrender, but in containment. Like approaching a live wire. His voice, when he speaks, is measured to the point of pain.
“…Jason.”
The name alone is an attempt. An anchor. Bruce is already running scenarios, already gauging angles and exits and how much damage Jason could do if this slips another inch. He knows Jason’s tells. Knows the way his breathing has gone uneven, the way his eyes are too bright, too fixed. Knows this isn’t rage yet.
This is terror.
“Don’t,” Bruce says quietly. Not commanding. Pleading, buried deep beneath control. “Just—listen to me.”
Jason laughs once, short and broken, the sound scraping his throat raw. “No. You don’t get to slow this down. You don’t get to prepare me.”
Bruce swallows. “…Joker—” he begins.
And the world fractures.
The word lands heavy and obscene between them, fouling the air of the cave like poison gas. Joker. The name crawls under Jason’s armor, past muscle and bone, straight into the place where you live inside him.
Suddenly, you’re not untouchable.
You’re not the one clean thing Gotham never got its hands on. Not the soft place Jason runs to when the city claws at him too hard. Not the warmth in his bed, the light in his kitchen, the voice that says his name like it belongs to something human.
You’re not safe.
You’re not distant.
You’re not protected by the simple, impossible belief that the worst things in the world know better than to touch you.
You’re real.
You’re fragile.
You’re reachable.
Jason’s grip tightens without him meaning to, breath hitching violently in his chest. His mind fills with images he refuses to finish forming—broken glass, blood on pale surfaces, your windows shattered open to the night the same way his chest feels split open now. He thinks of your hands. Your laugh. The way you look at him like he’s something worth keeping.
And now—
Now you’re the blood he’s already wearing.
The blood he’s going to feel soaking into his gloves tonight.
Bruce sees it happen. Sees the moment Jason slips past anger and into something far more dangerous. His own heart lurches, sharp and traitorous. This—this is what he’s been afraid of since the second he knew Joker was involved. Not Jason lashing out blindly.
Jason focused.
Emotional.
Unanchored.
“Jason,” Bruce says again, softer now, steady as bedrock despite the fear tightening his chest. “I need you to stay with me. I need you here. Because if you go out there like this—”
Jason’s eyes snap back to him, glassy and feral and devastatingly alive.
“If I don’t go,” Jason says hoarsely, “she dies.”
“If you go,” Bruce says, low and sharp, the words cutting through the roar of the Cave, “you die—and you could lose her at the same time.”
The Batcave hums around them, fluorescent light washing the rock walls in cold blue, computer screens flickering with restless data. The waterfall crashes endlessly behind Bruce, mist clinging to the air, dampening everything it touches. It feels like the Cave is breathing—slow, heavy, watchful.
Bruce moves closer and grips Jason’s jacket with both hands, fingers clutching the leather like it’s the last solid thing in the world. He holds on the way a man holds a ledge he’s already slipping from, hoping friction alone might be enough to keep someone from falling.
It isn’t.
“Where is she,” Jason says.
His voice is flat. Too controlled. His eyes have already left Bruce, already slid to the Batcomputer, to the glowing map littered with red and yellow pings like open wounds across Gotham’s body. Each marker pulses faintly, alive and accusing.
He doesn’t notice his siblings closing in—Dick’s careful steps, Tim’s rigid stillness, Damian hovering sharp and coiled like a drawn blade.
“She’s alive,” Bruce says quickly, desperately. “She wasn’t the only one—at least four other children and three women—”
Jason turns his head.
The look he gives Bruce is devastating in its emptiness. Eyes glassed over, jaw set too tight, brows drawn together like the world has narrowed to a single, unbearable point.
“Do you honestly think I give a damn about them right now?”
The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. They land heavy, obscene in their honesty, and Bruce’s grip tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening against Jason’s jacket.
“I know you don’t,” Bruce snaps back, frustration bleeding through control. “Which is why I didn’t tell you she was taken. Because we need a plan that keeps everyone who was captured safe—”
“At the risk she dies in the process?” Jason cuts in.
Then—he stills.
Something shifts. His hands loosen, falling away from Bruce’s cape as if the fabric has suddenly burned him. His gaze slides, sharp and intentional, and locks onto Tim.
“How long,” Jason says.
The question is steady. Solid. Frighteningly calm.
Tim swallows and flicks a glance at Bruce—a silent check, a plea, a habit Jason has seen a thousand times. Jason shoves Bruce’s hand aside and crosses the distance in two strides, grabbing Tim by the shoulders, fingers digging in through armor.
“Don’t,” Jason hisses, thumbs pressing hard, grounding, painful. “Don’t look at him.”
The words aren’t just for Tim. They’re for Jason too.
He vaguely registers Dick saying his name, Stephanie’s voice tight with panic somewhere behind him, but it all dissolves into a dull ringing as he stares down at Tim. Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He meets Jason’s gaze head-on.
“How long,” Jason repeats. “Where.”
Tim exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when delivering bad news. “Two hours,” he says quietly. “Warehouse two blocks from Crime Alley. Behind that busted playground.”
Crime Alley.
The name echoes through the Cave like a curse, sinking into Jason’s chest and blooming outward, cold and malignant. Of course it’s there. Of course Joker chose that place—layers of history piled atop rot, a shrine built from other people’s pain.
Jason releases Tim slowly, hands trembling now, control finally beginning to crack.
Two hours.
Two hours of you alone with the man who taught Gotham how to laugh while it kills.
The Batcomputer hums on, indifferent. Gotham’s skyline glows faintly on the monitors—jagged towers under a bruised sky, rain finally starting to smear the camera feeds, streaking the city in gray. Somewhere out there, windows are broken. Somewhere out there, that cashmere scarf he wrapped and placed under your tree stays un-wrapped.
Jason understands then—with a clarity so sharp it almost feels merciful—that plans are a luxury meant for people who still believe time is something they own.
Time has never belonged to him.
Because you—you—aren’t alone. You’re trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didn’t rearrange Jason’s insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Joker’s sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.
And the last one standing is never the strongest.
It’s the smallest.
Those kids would by dying before you do.
Jason’s breath stutters, just once.
“Jason,” Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when he’s terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. “Don’t make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.”
For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jason’s head goes quiet.
Not peaceful—focused.
Everything narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like he’s trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jason’s heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.
“If you even try, Bruce,” Jason says.
He doesn’t look at him when he says it. He can’t. The name comes out wrong in his mouth—too raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly can’t stop seeing. He hopes—distantly, uselessly—that he isn’t glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isn’t anger.
Just pure desperation. His last attempt, his last shot.
“Ill fucking shoot myself. I’ll make sure you know it’s your fault,” Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I’ll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, I’ll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, I’ll wait a month. I’ll do it.”
He swallows.
Because that’s the only thing that’s ever worked. The only language Bruce Wayne never ignores.
Dick moves fast—too fast—grabbing Jason’s arm where it’s still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.
Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.
“Would you be this still?” Jason yells back. “If that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of her—would you have left me there for the police to find? Again?”
The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.
Again.
Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brother’s grip falter, fingers loosening like they’ve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dick’s face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knife—not because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.
“This,” Jason snaps. “This is why none of you fucking knew about her.”
He looks at all of them now—really looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt.
“If you can’t even see me beyond a mistake you made,” Jason says, voice hoarse, “there was no way you wouldn’t have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.”
The words leave him hollowed out.
Then he’s gone.
The Cave swallows the echo of his footsteps, leaving only the roar of the waterfall and the hum of machines that suddenly feel pointless. No one moves to stop him. No one even tries.
It takes Tim a full minute to cross the platform and reach the Batcomputer, fingers hovering uselessly over keys he knows by heart.
It takes Cassandra four times as long to find a part of Bruce that still moves—some small, human place in his arm or shoulder that isn’t locked rigid like a man bracing for an explosion he knows is already ticking down.
Dick follows Jason’s trail almost immediately. And Damian follows Dick.
You don’t remember the last five hours.
They’re gone—hollowed out—like someone reached into your head and scooped the time away with a careless hand. The last thing you have is small and warm and ordinary: the coffee table between the couch and the window, set for two. Plates aligned just so. The new glasses you bought with Jason on that stupidly perfect thrift-store date, thin and elegant and impractical. You’d laughed about them, about how easy they’d be to break. Jason had pretended to scold you, fingers warm around yours as he tugged you toward the bookshelves, already stacking paperbacks in his arms like treasure.
You’d bought homeware. A vintage mirror with a gold edge, slightly warped, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is.
Jason always said you needed better locks. You realize it numbly.
He always said it gently, like a suggestion instead of a warning. Like he was talking about replacing a lightbulb or buying better coffee. You brushed him off every time, smiling, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, telling him Gotham wasn’t that bad. That you were fine. That you were safe.
And you were right. You always are.
Because an extra lock wouldn’t have stopped the man with the red smile.
It wouldn’t have stopped hands tangling in your hair, fingers tight and merciless as he dragged you across your rug, skin burning where it scraped against the fibers. It wouldn’t have stopped the way your mirror shattered when he slammed you against it, glass singing as it broke, your own reflection splintering into a hundred terrified pieces that stared back at you with wide, unbelieving eyes.
It wouldn’t have stopped the way he looked at you.
He crouched in front of you like this was intimate. Like this was a secret. His smile stretched too far, paint cracked and smeared, eyes bright with something wrong and delighted and ancient.
Joker tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an insect pinned to cork.
“Here’s the other lovebird,” he murmured, voice lilting, almost fond. “Ohhh… how cute you are.”
You remember thinking—absurdly, desperately—that Jason would hate that word. That he’d bristle at it, roll his eyes, pull you closer just to prove a point. You remember the ache of missing him hitting harder than the pain at first, your mind reaching for him the way it always does when the world goes wrong.
Jason would know what to do.
Jason would make this stop.
The thought is a comfort even now, curled tight in your chest, fragile but stubborn. You cling to it as the man stands, as one of the shadows behind him passes up an old, rusted crowbar. The metal is pitted and dark, flaking with age and something older still. It smells like iron and damp and rot.
It doesn’t take a lock to stop that.
It doesn’t take a security system to stop the sound your bones make when he brings it down.
The pain comes in blinding flashes—white-hot, nauseating, wrong. Your legs scream before you do, nerves lighting up in protest, your body trying to fold in on itself, trying to protect something already broken. You taste blood, copper and thick, your teeth chattering even as your throat burns raw from crying out.
Through it all, you think of Jason.
Of his hands—gentle despite their strength. Of the way he says your name like it’s something precious, something he’s afraid to drop. You think of his laugh, low and surprised, the way he softens when it’s just the two of you and Gotham can’t see him. You think of the books still stacked on the table, waiting to be read, of the glasses that shattered just like the mirror did.
Of how he warned you.
Of how he would be here already if he knew.
The room feels wrong—tilted, smeared with shadow, the air thick and sour. Blood pools where it shouldn’t, dark against your floor, soaking into the rug you picked out together. The city hums outside your broken windows, indifferent and vast, neon bleeding into the night like nothing is wrong at all.
You breathe when you can. You hold onto Jason’s name like a prayer you’re afraid to say out loud.
Because if he comes—when he comes—you need to believe there will still be something left of you for him to find.
Your consciousness returns in fragments, drifting in and out the same way you remember nights with him. Not clean breaks. Not mercy. Just gaps.
A void of sleep.
Jason easing your window open like the city might hear him, hands raised in mock surrender, voice low and careful. I didn’t mean to wake you… shh… go back to bed. The mattress dips, familiar weight settling beside you, warmth bleeding into your back.
A void of sleep.
Jason in your bathroom, the light too bright, the mirror fogged. Gotham’s blood and grime rinsed down the drain while he rubs his hair dry with one of your soft, ridiculous pink towels. He smiles at you through the doorway, sheepish and fond, promises he’ll be there in a second. He always is.
A void of sleep.
Jason shifting beside you, breath warm against the delicate skin beneath your ear. His arm tightens in his sleep, possessive without knowing it, like even unconscious he’s afraid the world might take you if he lets go. He murmurs your name—broken, reverent.
A void of sleep.
White hands. Cracked paint. Fingers threading through your hair, slick and tangled with blood. The touch is intimate in the worst way, scalp burning as he hums—no, sings—a childish tune about robins, voice lilting and wrong, laughter bubbling beneath it like rot under sugar.
A void of sleep.
Concrete tearing at your skin as you’re dragged, knees bouncing, spine jolting with every crack in the ground. A van door yawns open, metal teeth waiting. A child sobs near your ear, small and hiccuping. A woman screams at the child to shut up—panic sharp and desperate—until a gunshot rings out like punctuation. The woman goes silent. The child doesn’t. The word mommy repeats, thin and broken, drilling into your skull.
A void of sleep.
You wake choking on pain.
Your body is bound to a chair, wrists cinched tight, ankles screaming. Barbed wire coils around you like something alive, biting deep with every involuntary twitch. The metal is rusted, flaking, cruel—tearing skin open in ragged kisses that burn and throb and never quite stop bleeding. Your legs are numb in places, screaming in others. You can feel blood soaking into fabric, sticky and cooling as it trails downward.
He’s in front of you.
Smiling.
Head cocked, eyes bright with interest, like you’re a puzzle he’s just started enjoying. He steps closer, crouches until he’s eye-level with you, hands clasped together as if in prayer.
“You do love your sleep, don’t you?” he says, voice almost gentle.
Your vision swims. The room smells like iron and oil and damp concrete. Somewhere nearby, something drips steadily—water, or blood, or both. The walls feel too close, the shadows stretching and curling like they’re listening.
“The other birdy,” he continues, grinning wider, “wouldn’t even sleep if I cracked his skull. Such a shame.” He sighs theatrically, tapping the barbed wire with one gloved finger, delighted by the way you flinch. “I suppose I’ll have to find a way to keep you awake.”
Through the haze, through the pain, one thought stays stubbornly intact.
Jason is coming.
And you cling to that like a lifeline, even as the horror closes in, even as the night tries to peel you apart—because if you let go of that belief, if you let the void take everything—There will be nothing left for him to save.
You can’t see farther than four feet in front of you.
Anything beyond that dissolves into smears of color and motion, the edges of the room bleeding into one another. When you try to focus, your vision tilts violently, the world pitching sideways as warm blood slips down from your temple, sticky and insistent. It drips into your eye, blurring everything further, each blink making it worse. The ceiling swims. The walls breathe.
He notices.
Of course he does.
He steps into what little clarity you have left, face snapping into focus like a nightmare finally deciding to be seen. His hand comes up fast, fingers prying your jaw open with impatient familiarity. Something chalky presses against your tongue.
You gag immediately.
Your throat spasms around his fingers, saliva thick and useless as panic claws up your chest. Your head jerks instinctively, barbed wire biting deeper in protest, fresh pain flaring white-hot along your wrists and ankles. He doesn’t pull away. He shoves the pill back, past your tongue, past your resistance, until your body betrays you and swallows.
You choke.
Tears spill from your eyes, hot and humiliating, streaking through the grime on your cheeks. Your lungs burn as you suck in air in sharp, broken pulls.
Jason, you think, distantly, desperately. The name is a reflex now. A prayer you don’t dare say out loud.
His hand withdraws at last.
Then—
Smack.
Your head snaps to the side, vision exploding into sparks. Before you can react—
Smack.
The second strike lands harder, ringing through your skull, teeth clacking together as pain blooms anew. The world steadies just enough to be cruel about it.
“That’ll keep you awake, birdy,” he croons, pleased.
Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and trapped. Already you can feel it—the way the haze pulls back just a little too much, the way your thoughts sharpen against your will. Your eyelids burn, heavy but refusing to close, nerves screaming as the drug seeps in and denies you even the mercy of darkness.
“Now.”
He leans back into his own chair like this is a rehearsal, like he’s bored of waiting for his cue. The legs scrape loudly against the concrete, the sound sharp enough to hurt. He reaches forward and adjusts the camera in front of you with careful precision. A small red light blinks every few seconds—steady, patient. Watching.
“We’re going to make a deal, okay?”
You don’t answer.
Your eyes refuse to cooperate, swimming uselessly as you blink through blood and tears. Every attempt to focus sends a wave of nausea through you, the room tilting, your pulse roaring in your ears louder than his voice. Your jaw trembles. Your tongue feels thick, wrong in your mouth.
“Okay?”
Nothing comes out.
The barbed wire strung cruelly across your throat digs in deeper with every breath you take, a quiet reminder that sound would cost you skin. Air hisses past your teeth in shallow pulls. You can feel your heartbeat there, fluttering and frantic against metal.
His smile thins.
He stands.
The rusty crowbar tightens in his grip as he rises from a stupid, bright orange folding chair—out of place, obscene against the filth of the warehouse. He steps into frame, then closer, until the camera, until you, are all that exist. He hooks two fingers under your chin and lifts your face, forcing your eyes up.
“Answer.”
You try.
Your mouth opens. Nothing happens.
All you can see is him—cracked white makeup creasing around his eyes, green hair greasy and limp, age showing in the lines around his mouth where smiles have lived too long. He smells like oil and metal and something sour beneath it all. The warehouse stinks of rust, damp concrete, old fuel. It crawls into your lungs.
And then—
You hear it.
A sound that doesn’t belong to him.
Crying.
Your head turns slowly, painfully, vertebrae protesting as the wire shifts against your throat. The movement costs you another sharp breath. Your vision blurs again—but this time, shapes resolve.
A cluster of bodies huddled together against a dented equipment container. Two teenage girls with their knees pulled tight to their chests, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Four little boys wedged between them, shaking, hands bound too tight, mouths open in silent sobs like they’ve already learned screaming doesn’t help.
Something in your chest caves in.
You don’t even see the crowbar move.
The impact comes out of nowhere—white-hot, brutal. The hooked end of the bar slams into your shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, metal biting deep as it pierces flesh. Pain detonates through you, ripping the air from your lungs. He yells as he does it, manic and delighted, like the violence startled even him.
Your body jerks against the restraints.
Barbed wire bites deeper. Blood spills warm and fast down your arm, soaking into your sleeve, dripping to the floor in thick, uneven drops. Your vision fractures, stars bursting behind your eyes.
You clamp your teeth down hard on your lip to keep from screaming.
You taste iron immediately—sharp and overwhelming—as skin breaks beneath your bite. Tears spill freely now, blurring everything, mixing with the blood already clinging to your lashes. It burns. It hurts. Your whole body shakes with the effort of staying quiet.
Behind you, the crying gets worse—fractured, panicked.
“Okay,” you choke out.
The word scrapes your throat raw on the way out, barely more than a breath. It tastes like blood and rust and surrender.
Immediately, the pressure is gone.
The crowbar pulls free with a wet sound that makes your vision white out, pain screaming down your arm as the hooked metal tears away from muscle and skin. You shudder hard, a broken gasp ripping out of you despite your best effort to swallow it down.
He steps back like a magician deciding on the next trick.
Then he leans in again—careful, deliberate—and pats at the wound where the bar pierced you. Not gentle. Never gentle. His palm presses just enough to make you flinch, fingers smearing warm blood across your torn clothes.
“See?” he says brightly, turning slightly so the camera gets a better angle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Your breath comes shallow and fast, chest stuttering against the wire. Every inhale sends a fresh bloom of pain through your shoulder, the edges of it pulsing in time with your heart.
His hands come up next.
Dry. Cracked. Too warm.
He grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs pressing at your jaw as he tilts your head from side to side. The movement drags the skin of your neck against the barbed wire, a searing, intimate pain that makes your eyes flood instantly.
“What a dumb dumb birdy you are,” he croons, affectionate in the way predators are. “It’s okay. Joker can teach you.”
Your body trembles uncontrollably now. Your fingers spasm uselessly against the wooden arms of the chair, nails scraping shallow grooves into the surface. You can feel blood slicking your palm and you don't even want to think about how you got hurt there too.
He releases your face.
Pats your head once.
The gesture is almost worse than the violence.
“Now,” he says softly, pleasantly, “say thank you.”
Your vision swims. The room feels too loud, too close. Somewhere behind you, one of the children sobs so hard it turns into hiccupping gasps. You swallow around the wire, throat burning.
You look up at him with shaking eyes, lashes heavy with tears and blood. Your mouth opens. Your lips quiver.
“Thank—” Your voice breaks completely. You force it back together, dragging the word out of yourself like it’s being pulled through glass. “Thank you.”
His smile spreads slow and satisfied, stretching the cracks in his makeup wider.
“Good birdy,” he coos, pleased. “So much more compliant than your love bird already!”
“Now—” Joker announces, voice lifting into a theatrical lilt, like he’s stepped beneath a spotlight instead of flickering warehouse fluorescents. He turns toward the camera, gives it a jaunty little nod, then looks back at you, grin splitting wider. “I was gonna let you go for some cash. Thought your little boy bird might get scared shitless—just a fun little bonus, really—buttt—”
He drifts away from you, footsteps light, almost playful. You can’t turn your head far enough to see what he’s doing. The wire bites when you try. Your vision pulses, dark at the edges.
Then—
A scream.
Sharp. High. A girl’s voice.
It cuts off halfway through, collapsing into a thin, broken cry that echoes far too long in the hollow space of the warehouse.
Something in you fractures.
Joker reappears at your side, breath brushing your ear, laughter bubbling out of him like it’s a private joke the two of you share. “Got lucky with a rich bitch on the road,” he cackles, delighted. “Gotham really does keep on givin’.”
Your stomach twists violently. You taste bile. The crying behind you swells again, panicked and animal, and you can feel your own body trying to fold in on itself despite the restraints, like if you curl inward hard enough you might disappear.
His hands slide to your throat and at the same time your eyes land onto his hands. Diamond earrings.
He ripped her earrings out of her ears.
Before you can flinch at the sight of pieces of skin in his open hand, he yanks.
The chain snaps free with a sharp tug, metal biting into your skin as the necklace tears away. You gasp, the wire at your neck punishing you for it, and the sudden cold where the chain used to rest feels obscene—too exposed. You feel lucky that you took off your earrings when you were doing your hair.
He dangles it in front of the camera, letting it glint under the harsh light, gemstones smeared faintly red from your blood. “This could go for a couple hundred too!” he sings. “Ohhh, how delightful!”
He leans closer, eyes alight, savoring every tremor that runs through you. “At least one of the birdies knows how to decorate their nest. Found a few rings at your place as well.”
Joker pockets the necklace with a satisfied hum.
“Well, now that I don’t need the money,” he croons, voice lilting, playful, like he’s deciding which joke to tell next, “what should I do with you?”
His fingers drag along your cheek again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to bruise. His touch leaves heat behind, a crawling sensation that makes your stomach revolt. You feel contaminated where he’s touched you, like your skin is remembering something it shouldn’t.
“…I’ll give you more,” you whisper. Your voice fractures around the word, splintering into something pitiful and thin. “However much you want—just—”
“Oh, I don’t need money.”
The change is instant. His tone drops, sharp and venomous, and when he leans in his eyes are blown wide and empty, pupils swallowing the green like oil slicks. A hawk spotting movement. A blade finding flesh.
“I was looking for some fun, love bird,” he hisses. “You can’t give me that?”
You whimper around the grip on your jaw as his fingers tighten, nails biting into your skin. The wire at your throat digs deeper when you gasp, its teeth kissing something vital. Pain blooms hot and bright, stars bursting behind your eyes.
“Jason— Jason will—”
He doesn’t even flinch at the name.
Maybe that’s mercy.
His fingers move higher, rough and invasive, smearing through the makeup you’d put on hours ago with careful hands. The eyeshadow burns as it’s ground into your skin, sweat and blood turning it into a dark, ugly paste. His thumb drags through the faint blush on your cheeks, erasing it like it was a mistake.
“How pretty you are,” he murmurs, almost tender. “I do makeup on myself too, you know.”
Then his hands leave you entirely.
He grabs his own face, fingers digging into the cracked greasepaint, stretching the red grin wider, tearing at the corners until the white creases and flakes. For a second you think you see real skin underneath—white, lined, angry. Horrid.
“Do you like mine?” he asks brightly. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
Your mind blanks.
Your eyes flick helplessly to the camera instead—the blinking red light pulsing steadily, patiently. Recording. Waiting. You try to speak, to say yes or no or anything that might stop what’s coming, but your throat locks around the wire and all that comes out is a wet, useless sound.
Then—
“Very pretty!”
The voice is behind you.
Too young.
A teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her voice trembles, thin and frantic, the words tumbling over each other. “So—so pretty—”
You feel something inside you tear open.
She’s trying to survive. You can feel that hope radiate off of her. The hope of throwing words into the dark and praying it lands somewhere safe.
Joker’s head snaps toward her.
His eyes narrow, sharp and wrong, smile freezing into something predatory. “You think so?”
There’s a frantic nod you can hear more than see—the quick intake of breath, the shuddering little sob that follows.
Joker bends down.
The crowbar scrapes loudly as he lifts it, metal screaming against concrete. You catch a glimpse of it as he moves past you—rusted, pitted, darkened in places where it’s already been used tonight.
Then he’s gone from your line of sight.
The scream that follows is immediate and unbearable.
It’s not just pain—it’s shock, terror, the sound of someone realizing too late that they were wrong. The metal wall amplifies it, throws it back at itself until it feels like the warehouse is screaming with her.
There’s a wet, sickening crack.
A sound like meat hitting concrete.
“Why don’t we match?” Joker coos from behind you, voice light and delighted. “I did one side, now the other!”
The crowbar hits again.
You hear bone give this time—feel it in your teeth, in your chest. Her scream fractures into something animal, then into choking sobs, then into a raw, bubbling sound that makes bile rush up your throat.
Your own crying breaks free, ugly and uncontrollable. Your body jerks against the restraints, fingers cramping, nails tearing uselessly into the wood of the chair. Hot tears spill down your face, mixing with blood, dripping off your chin in thick, dark drops.
The camera’s red light blinks again.
Once.
Twice.
It taunts you by matching every sound that breaks out of you.
Every gasped sob, every wet, hitching breath. The camera’s red light blinks in time with your chest, like it’s learned your rhythm, like it’s decided to breathe with you instead of for you.
And then the Joker comes back.
You smell him before you see him—iron-thick blood, old rust, sweat gone sour. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, fingers shining under the warehouse lights. The crowbar hangs loose in his grip, darker now, clotted, strands of hair caught cruelly in its curve.
He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, like he’s talking to a child.
“Well,” he hums thoughtfully. “I can’t give you her look, can I?”
Your vision swims. You can’t stop shaking. Tears slide down your face in hot, unstoppable streams, carving clean paths through blood and grime. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes out—just a broken, animal sound that folds back in on itself.
His smile twitches.
“What should I do with you?” he asks softly. “Hm?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. You just cry harder, chest stuttering against the wire, throat raw and burning.
That seems to irritate him.
He clicks his tongue, disappointed, and lifts the crowbar. The cold metal taps against your cheek once—tap—just enough to make you flinch violently. He pauses, head tilting.
“Oh—”
His eyes light up.
“Oh yes, that’s wonderful! Oh—” He erupts into laughter, sudden and explosive, clutching his stomach as if the joke is too much to bear. Spit flies from his mouth, warm and disgusting as it lands in your hair, streaking through blood-matted strands. “Oh, isn’t my brain just splendid?”
He straightens, still laughing, wiping his eyes like he’s genuinely amused. “You bats are all poetry, I say—pure poetry!”
Then he turns.
Walks away.
His footsteps fade, echoing hollowly through the warehouse, until there’s only the hum of the lights, the distant crying behind you—and the camera.
You’re alone.
One last sob claws its way out of your throat, wet and choking. Blood follows it, dribbling down your chin, splashing darkly against your chest. You force your eyes open, drag them upward, lock them onto the camera.
You don’t know who’s watching. You don’t know if anyone is.
Your voice comes out steadier than it has any right to be.
“How—”
“Shut up!” someone whisper-yells behind you, frantic and terrified. “There’s other men!”
Your mouth snaps shut.
And the red light keeps blinking.
The metal door slams open with a shriek of abused hinges, the impact shuddering through the warehouse floor and straight up your spine. Dust rains down from the rafters in a thin, dirty veil, catching in your hair and sticking to the blood already drying there.
He’s laughing before you even see him.
Not distant laughter—close. Moving. Each step accompanied by a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across concrete. His cackle ricochets off the shipping containers, off the steel beams, off the low ceiling that traps the sound and forces it back into your skull.
A little boy cries out behind you as Joker passes him. A sharp, panicked sound that fractures into a sob and then cuts off abruptly, like someone clamped a hand over his mouth.
The air grows hotter.
Through the warped reflection in the camera lens, you see it clearly now: a long metal bar burning red-hot, so bright it hurts to look at directly. Heat ripples distort the image around it, the glow painting the walls in feverish streaks of crimson. The smell hits you next—burning iron, scorched metal, something faintly organic beneath it that makes bile crawl up your throat.
Joker taps the brand against the concrete behind you.
It doesn’t clang.
It hisses.
The sound is sharp and alive, like meat on a skillet. Tiny sparks spit outward where it kisses the floor, leaving blackened scars in the cement. The red glow doesn’t dull. Doesn’t cool. It stays furious and bright, as if fed by something endless.
Whatever fragile hope you were clutching evaporates in that moment, leaving you hollowed out, lungs burning as you exhale something that feels like your last prayer.
He’s behind you in the next second.
Joker’s hand comes out of nowhere, clamping over your mouth, palm slick and hot. The copper taste floods you as his fingers press into your cheeks, nails digging in just enough to hurt—just enough to remind you that restraint is a choice he’s making. Your head is forced back, neck screaming as the wire saws deeper, the barbs biting into tender skin.
“Would you like to match your birdy?” he murmurs.
His voice is serene. Gentle. Almost affectionate.
He angles the brand around the arm of the chair so you can see it clearly. The letter is unmistakable now, its edges glowing white-hot, heat radiating off it in suffocating waves.
A ‘𝙹’.
Your body reacts before your mind can—your stomach convulses, gagging against his hand, breath stuttering uselessly through your nose. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s already shrinking away from what’s coming.
“We’re going to make the deal now,” he coos.
In the camera’s reflection, you can see his eye—wide, bright, utterly focused on the blinking red dot. Performing. Enjoying the audience if there even is one.
“You either get a matching look…” The brand drifts closer, close enough that the heat kisses your cheek, nerves screaming in anticipation, sweat instantly breaking out along your spine. “…or you tell me who you hate.”
His hand peels away from your mouth.
Air rushes in too fast. You choke on it, coughing hard enough that the wire grinds into your throat, pain blooming hot and blinding. Your voice comes out shredded. “Who… who I hate?”
“Who put you here?” he hums thoughtfully, as if the answer delights him. “It wasn’t me.”
The brand pauses, hovering inches from your skin. You can feel the heat burrowing inward, like it’s already memorizing you.
“Why do you think I found you?” he continues lightly. “Do you know how sloppy he is?”
Silence stretches, thick and oppressive.
You stare at the glowing red letter, your mind drifting somewhere distant and numb to survive. Absurdly, irrationally, you think of Jason’s helmet—the same violent red, the same defiant color. You wonder if he’s thinking of you right now. If he can feel this, somehow.
“Tell me who you hate.”
The words don’t just reach you—they enter you, heavy and cold, sinking past bone and settling somewhere deep and irreversible. They press the air flat, make the warehouse feel smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in to listen.
He stands before you in all his wrongness, and up close there is nothing theatrical left. The Joker’s makeup has melted into something corpse-like, white cracked and flaking into the grooves of his face as though his skin is trying to shed it. The red smile is no longer a grin so much as a wound, smeared unevenly, darker where blood has mixed in, the corners dragged downward by age and use. His hair hangs limp, green dulled to the color of mold, clinging to his scalp in greasy strands. His eyes are too bright—glass-bright, feverish—never still, never soft, reflecting the warehouse lights like knives.
The space around you hums with misery. The concrete beneath your feet is slick with blood and oil, cold seeping up through the chair and into your bones. Shipping containers loom like coffins, their metal sides scarred and rusted, shadows pooled so thick between them it feels like something could step out at any moment. The air reeks—burnt iron, old sweat, copper, rot—and every breath feels like inhaling something alive and hostile.
You look at the camera.
That red eye blinks steadily, rhythmically, a heart that isn’t yours. It sees the way your chest shudders, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the bindings, the way your body is already bracing for pain it knows is coming. Your thoughts drift, slow and exhausted, slipping through your hands like water you can’t quite hold.
You think of Jason.
Not the helmet. Not the blood. But his hands—warm, callused, careful when they touch you. The way he looks at you like the world might soften if you stay. The way he says your name like it’s something solid.
You could say his name now.
You could offer it up like a sacrifice and pray that this monster believes in deals, that you might walk out of here broken but breathing. You could lie and hope he lets you go.
Or you could say Jason’s name and watch Joker’s smile vanish as he switches off the camera and kills you quietly, preserving this horror to show your sweet boy later.
Or you could stay silent and take the brand—feel your skin burn, your body marked, watch the ecstasy bloom in Joker’s eyes as he claims you like an object he’s improved.
None of them feel survivable.
Something inside you twists—not courage, not bravery, but love sharpened into something desperate and ugly and defiant. You gather what spit you can in your blood-wet mouth and turn your head as far as the wire allows.
You spit in his face.
It lands wet and unmistakable, dragging a slow line through the cracked white paint, cutting through the red smile like an insult carved in flesh.
For a heartbeat, everything freezes.
The Joker goes utterly still, his expression emptying out in a way that is far more frightening than his laughter. Then his eyes widen, pupils dilating, fury flaring bright and feral—pleased.
You lean forward, neck screaming as the wire bites deeper, and you whisper because your voice will not survive being louder.
“You know,” you murmur, breath shaking despite everything you do to steady it, “he’s never mentioned you before.”
His breath stutters.
“You must not have left quite an impression.”
It’s a lie. A reckless, transparent lie.
You have lived in Gotham long enough to know exactly what he is—his name written in blood across the city’s history—but lies can still cut, and you see it land. You see the way his smile stretches wider, hungry and thrilled.
You’ve given him a reason.
A reason to prove himself.
A reason to keep you alive.
A reason to make you hurt longer.
His hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back violently. Your neck slams into the barbed wire, spikes tearing in with a wet, intimate sound that makes you sob despite yourself. Warm blood spills down your throat, choking you, slicking your chest.
Then the brand descends.
The heat is indescribable—ancient, total, a pain so vast it consumes thought itself. Your flesh screams as it burns, the smell of seared skin rising thick and sweet, smoke curling upward as the letter is carved into you slowly, deliberately. Your body arches uselessly against the restraints, every nerve on fire, and the sound that leaves you is not a scream so much as something torn out of your soul.
You hate that he hears it. And when that drug denies you the void of sleep you so desperately need, you allow yourself to think numbly as the man pulls it away that at least Jason can't dwindle his appearance anymore.
Your tears stripe down your cheeks, burning as they touch your skin.
We match. You think numbly, Atleast we match.
He strokes over the brand with more delicacy than he has ever had in this whole nightmare, mumbling, “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”
When you wake again, it’s to the weight of tears landing on your face—warm, uneven drops that pull you out of the dark in slow, reluctant pieces. For a moment you don’t know where you are. The world rocks gently, like it can’t decide whether to keep moving or stop altogether. There’s the low hum of an engine beneath you, vibration traveling through bone and bruised muscle, and the smell of old leather surrounds you—worn, familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.
Leather is good.
Leather is not acid.
Leather does not burn your lungs on the way in.
“Hurts,” you mumble, the word barely surviving the journey out of your throat. You offer it up like an apology, like a peace offering, half-expecting pain to answer you back.
Instead, the crying breaks harder.
It comes undone above you, raw and ugly, and through the haze you realize you aren’t lying flat on concrete, waiting for the Joker to press a cinder block to your stomach. Your body is stretched across someone, your legs draped over another set of knees, your weight distributed carefully, reverently, like something fragile that might shatter if shifted wrong.
An arm is braced beneath your neck, steady and strong, keeping your head from lolling, and your cheek presses into a leather jacket that smells unmistakably like gun oil, sweat, rain—
Jason.
The knowledge hits softer than it should, cushioned by exhaustion and shock, and when your eyes finally manage to open, everything swims. Light smears at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, but his face is there anyway, hovering close, carved with terror and relief and something so naked it almost scares you more than the warehouse did.
“Am I in heaven?” you mumble.
He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a sob and isn’t quite a laugh, choking on it as his chin trembles. “You don’t even believe in heaven.”
“Well,” you murmur, trying—and failing—to pull your mouth into something that resembles a smile, “what else could you be?”
Your jaw burns when you speak. Everything burns. It feels like your body has been filled with broken glass and lit from the inside, and you’re dimly aware of warm liquid slipping from your mouth, darkening the leather beneath your cheek every time you breathe wrong. You hate that you’re staining him. You hate that you can’t stop.
“I’ll kill him,” Jason whispers, like a prayer he’s been holding onto with both hands. His fingers shake as they brush your hair back, careful to avoid places he knows are hurt. “I’ll kill him. I promise.”
“Can I have hot chocolate first?” you mumble. The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else. “I bought that expensive kind… from Finland. Asshole knocked it all over my carpet…”
Jason’s breath fractures completely at that. He nods too hard, tears spilling freely now, dropping onto your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll buy you hot chocolate. I’ll buy you all of it.”
Somewhere near your feet, another voice cuts in, low and strained with concern. “Hey, Jay—breathe—”
Jason doesn’t hear them. Or maybe he does and simply can’t afford to listen. His chest is rising too fast beneath you, breaths sawing in and out like he’s drowning on dry land, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the green in them shifting with every frantic blink.
Or maybe that’s just your vision still failing you. That would make sense. The powder. The smoke. The way light hurts now.
“Stop crying,” you murmur weakly. “I can’t die with you looking like that.”
That breaks him.
His face crumples completely, grief spilling over into something fierce and desperate as he bends closer, forehead almost touching yours. “Good,” he chokes. “Fuck you. I’ll cry even more, so–so stay with me, yeah?”
“No,” you whisper, your voice scraping raw against your throat. “Wanna sleep.”
“You slept an awful lot,” he snaps, but there’s no anger in it—only terror wearing sharp edges, only love clawing its way out however it can.
“Well,” you murmur, your voice thin but soft, like you’re afraid of startling him, “You show up in my dreams an awful lot.”
That does it.
Whatever fragile control Jason had left fractures clean through. He folds over you instinctively, shoulders caving as he tries—fails—to hide the sound of it. His breath comes apart against your hair, his forehead dipping close to your temple like if he presses himself near enough, he can keep you here by force alone. You feel the tremor of him through your whole body, every hitch of his chest echoing in your ribs.
You smell blood on him then. Copper and iron, sharp beneath the leather and sweat and rain. For a distant, numb second you think it’s yours again—until the scent is too heavy, too layered.
Oh.
Was this—
“Did I interrupt family bonding?” you whisper.
Your lips barely move. The words slip out half-asleep, half-dreaming, and they earn you a startled huff from somewhere behind you. Jason doesn’t answer. He can’t. His arms tighten instead, one hand splayed carefully at your back like he’s afraid even breathing too hard might hurt you more.
A voice comes from the seat behind, dry and unimpressed, because Jason is currently incapable of speech and whoever has your legs resting in their lap is rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.
“If this is what you think family bonding is, you’ll fit right in.”
“Damian, be quiet,” another voice snaps.
“She’s the one shamelessly flirting with him in front of all of us, Tim” Damian continues anyway, undeterred. “And Father isn’t even saying anything, so—”
“Well she’s the one dying!” Tim blurts, voice cracking sharp with fear.
Jason chokes on the words that come from Tim’s mouth, breath stuttering hard, and a deeper voice cuts in from the front seat—controlled, measured, holding itself together by sheer will.
“She’s not going to die, Tim.”
“I want hoya bellas on my grave,” you interrupt softly.
Jason lets out a broken sound that might have been a laugh in another universe. He shakes his head over you, forehead brushing your hair, and through your blurry vision you think you catch a gloved hand popping up behind him in a solemn thumbs-up.
“Got it.”
Another voice joins in from the front, exasperated and strained. “Cassandra, she’s not being serious.”
“I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like something he’s trying to carve into reality. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His thumb strokes your hair away from your forehead again, impossibly gentle, avoiding the places he knows hurt, the places he doesn’t want to know at all.
“I’m gonna sleep now,” you murmur. It takes effort to shape the words. The dark is getting heavier again, tugging at you, warm and deep. “Can one of you give Jason water?”
“Hey—” Jason breathes, panic flaring sharp as his voice cracks. “Hey, no—no, no, no, stay with me, come on—”
But you’re already slipping.
Your eyes flutter closed despite him, despite the warmth of his arms, despite the way his heart is racing beneath your ear like it’s trying to outrun fate itself. His glove comes off hurriedly and you feel his bare fingers press to your pulse, grounding himself in the steady beat there, in the fact that it’s still happening.
After a few minutes, Dick leans forward and taps Jason’s shoulder gently, offering a water bottle. His uniform is torn and scorched like the rest of them, a thin cut bright against his cheek, but his voice is soft when he speaks.
“Drink.”
Jason doesn’t look up. He doesn’t let go. He just nods once, tight and shaky, eyes fixed on you like if he looks away for even a second, the world might take you again.
He forces himself to take a full gulp of water, the plastic bottle crinkling loudly in the too-quiet car, his throat working like it has to remember how swallowing goes. His hands are still shaking when he passes it off to Tim.
“Hey, I don’t need any—”
Jason looks at him.
Not sharp. Not angry. Just steady in a way that leaves no room for argument, the kind of look that says do this or I will fall apart next.
Tim takes a long swig immediately. Somewhere in the background, Damian lets out a low, satisfied cackle.
The digital clock on the Batmobile reads 4:00 a.m.
The numbers glow cold blue against the dark interior, reflected faintly in the windshield like a second set of eyes staring back at them. Gotham outside is hollow and half-dead at this hour—streetlights flickering, rain-slick asphalt stretching endlessly, buildings slumped together like they’re exhausted too.
Bruce’s voice is calm as he calls Alfred, clipped and precise, already listing supplies like this is something he can control if he names enough of it out loud.
Jason doesn’t listen.
He keeps his focus on you.
On the shallow rise and fall of your chest. The warmth is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. On the way your weight settles into him like it belongs there, like it always has. One hand stays firm at your neck, holding you upright because you need it—because you need him steady, and that knowledge anchors him harder than anything Bruce could ever say.
You need him here. You need him present. You need him not to break.
He knows that, because once—once—that was all he ever wanted too.
And that’s the cruel part of it.
Because the weight of you in his arms has only ever meant safety. Home. Sleep curling warm and heavy in his bones. His body doesn’t know the difference between holding you safe and finally being allowed to rest.
Jason Todd passes out with his forehead dipping gently toward yours, his grip loosening only by a fraction, like even unconscious he’s afraid to let you go.
The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is Tim’s voice, sharp with panic and disbelief.
“Dude—what the fuck—”
“Hold his head up—don’t let him fall on her!” Bruce barks from the front, voice cracking sharp through the Batmobile like a snapped cable.
All at once, everyone moves.
Damian fists the back of Jason’s T‑shirt, knuckles white as he yanks him upright with a strength born of panic he’d never admit to. Dick stretches impossibly from the passenger seat, arm braced awkwardly as he cups the back of Jason’s head, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid one wrong angle will shatter him. Tim presses a steadying hand to Jason’s chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm, grounding him the way he’s learned to do with bombs and brothers alike.
Jason is dead weight. Heavy. Still clinging to you even in unconsciousness, his arm slack but stubborn around your shoulders, like muscle memory alone refuses to let you go.
The Batmobile hums on, tires slicing through wet streets, Gotham blurring past in streaks of sodium light and rain-slick concrete. The city feels distant now, muffled, like it’s holding its breath with them.
“…Did someone check if the Joker was—uh—breathing?” Stephanie asks from the back, her voice small in a way it rarely ever is.
She hadn’t stayed for the end. Her job had been triage—getting the kids out, shouting orders, dragging civilians through blood and broken glass while the rest of them stayed behind in the warehouse with the laughter and the screaming. She’d smelled the aftermath on them when they regrouped. She didn’t need details then but...
Bruce doesn’t look back. His hands tighten on the wheel.
“Jason didn’t hit any vital points,” he says quietly, like he’s reciting a report he’s already memorized. “Just… ah—”
“Carved his face like a jack‑o’‑lantern,” Damian supplies, entirely too calm. “Heated up a crowbar to do it too. Very effective.”
There’s a beat of silence.
The city lights flash over Bruce’s face—old stone and deep eyes that are hollowed by relief he doesn’t let himself feel yet.
“…Yeah,” Bruce exhales, short and rough. “That.”
The Batmobile keeps moving.
Jason breathes.
You breathe.
And for now, that’s enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.
You wake up in bed.
Not the thin, borrowed kind your body has learned to tolerate at your apartment, but something deep and indulgent—clean sheets tucked tight, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle you instead of swallowing you whole. The pillow beneath your cheek feels stupidly expensive, cool and smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and something old and comforting, like cedar and money and quiet hallways that echo.
For a moment, you think you’re dreaming again.
Then you feel him.
Jason is asleep beside you, solid and unmistakable. You don’t need to move—you can’t really anyways—to know it’s him. The arm wrapped around your waist is heavy with familiar strength, protective even in unconsciousness. His hair brushes against your arm every time he breathes, soft, tickling your skin in a way that makes your chest ache.
He’s breathing.
That fact alone nearly undoes you.
God. You really need to raise your standards, you think hazily. You’re reduced to this—listening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, and already you want to curl into him and coo like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.
Then you see Bruce.
He’s standing near the bed, still as a statue, watching you with the careful intensity of someone afraid to spook a wild animal. It takes effort to focus on his face, your vision dragging itself into clarity inch by inch.
When you try to lift your head—manners resurfacing before sense—your body protests sharply.
Bruce moves instantly.
“Hey, hey—no,” he murmurs, hands gentle but firm as he presses you back into the mattress. “Relax. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Your head sinks back into the pillow, and the moment stretches. You swallow thickly before managing a small, hoarse sound of politeness.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Jason—”
“Hasn’t told you much about me,” Bruce finishes for you, a faint, tired chuckle slipping out. “That’s alright. I just need you to sleep right now.”
You glance downward as best you can, feeling something sharp dig into your side.
“…I can’t sleep if your son’s elbow is in my ribs.”
Bruce blinks.
Actually blinks—surprised enough that it breaks through the carefully assembled calm. “Ah—” he starts, then reaches for Jason, trying to rearrange him with the same precision he uses on everything else.
It doesn’t work.
Jason huffs in his sleep, a low, irritated sound, and somehow manages to make it worse—his arm tightening, his leg hooking over yours possessively, like you’re something he’s afraid the world might steal back if he lets go.
Bruce freezes.
You mumble, exhausted but soft, “It’s alright. I’m sure he hasn’t slept… I’ve gotten quite a lot, so…”
Bruce looks like he wants to argue. His jaw tightens, then loosens, the fight draining out of him. He exhales and sits back in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.
“It’s the 26th,” he says quietly.
Oh.
You missed Christmas.
What a shame.
After a moment, Bruce speaks again, and his voice is heavier now—careful, deliberate, like every word costs him something.
“I… want to apologize to you.” His fingers interlace, knuckles whitening. “I knew you’d been taken. And I didn’t tell him. Possibly… he could have been there sooner. But I needed to make sure the others would be saved as well.”
“Well,” you murmur, the word barely more than breath, “I don’t exactly blame you for that.”
It isn’t forgiveness exactly—nothing so grand—but it’s honest, and it lands heavier than anger ever could.
Bruce doesn’t relax. If anything, his shoulders pull tighter, like he’s bracing for a blow that never quite comes. He’s spent his whole life learning how to de‑escalate men with guns, gods with vendettas, cities with teeth—but you unsettle him in a quieter, more dangerous way. You’re calm. You’re lucid. You’re something Jason had threatened to shoot himself for.
He clears his throat, trying to give you something solid, something measurable. Facts are safer.
“Jason… got him,” Bruce says carefully. “Badly. I think—” He hesitates, eyes flicking once toward Jason like he’s checking for movement. “I think the Joker may be blind now. Or at least permanently impaired.”
“You let him?” you ask.
Still no accusation. Just a soft, stunned curiosity, as if you’re piecing together a story you were never meant to survive.
Bruce nods. Once. The motion costs him. “I did,” he admits. “But I—”
“Then that’s enough,” you whisper, interrupting him gently, like you’re afraid the words themselves might hurt. “Jason will realize that too.” Your lashes flutter; exhaustion tugs at you like a tide. “I mean… he probably won’t. He’ll still try to kill him.” A faint, crooked exhale. “But you did everything you could yesterday.”
Your gaze drifts—not to Bruce, but to Jason. To the way his arm is still locked around you, even in sleep. To the stubborn set of his jaw, the crease between his brows that never fully smooths out anymore.
“Thank you,” you add quietly. “For finding me.”
That’s when Bruce goes still.
Not rigid. Not defensive.
Still.
Because he’s been looking at you, yes—but now you realize he hasn't been looking you in the eye while he speaks. His eyes have been caught in one place, drawn there again and again like a bruise you can’t help but press.
Your cheek.
The skin there is angry beneath the bandage’s edge—raw, faintly swollen, discolored in a way he winced at while he bandaged it. Bruce didn't let anyone else tend to it, not even Alfred.
Because this was a wound he inflicted, one that he needed to tend to.
“It’s still fresh,” he says, softer now, stripped of the Bat and the rules and the fear. Just a man speaking carefully around something fragile. “I’ll get you better medicine. The pigment should fade.” A pause. His voice lowers. “I can’t promise about the texture.”
You don’t look away. You don’t flinch.
“That’s okay,” you say.
And Bruce doesn’t know if you mean the scar, or the pain, or the fact that you’ll carry this forever—but Jason shifts in his sleep then, brow tightening, arm drawing you closer like he sensed the weight of the moment and refused to let it settle on you alone.
Bruce watches that. Watches how Jason anchors himself to you without waking, how his breathing steadies when yours does, how it pauses even in sleep when yours hitches.
“He loves you a lot.” Bruce mumbles.
“...And you too Mr.Wayne.”
jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) :@justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree,
yeah, it’s not like sims are actually different heights or anything, but all my IRL jeans and shorts are always super high waisted on me always because i’m super short. so now my sims (and yours too !!!) can suffer and have absurdly high shorts for no reason…
3 pairs of shorts
a bunch of swatches tbh
female frames
base game compatible
umm you can’t rly see in the preview but the waist is flared a lil’
fits best with tucked in or accessory shirts !!!
credits: caelhinn for some of the swatches & me hehe
I'll never stop making high waist jeans and that's that. So it's a bunch of denim related bottoms for your sims' tushies.
What's included:
Dido Denim - is a set of cuffed straight, flared, and baggy jeans
Halima - is a long below the knee length skirt
Pippa shorts - is a pair of raw edge, low & high denim shorts
Dida Denim - is a pair of mid-rise denim with an elastic tie-band
for a grand total of eight items all together !!!
Details:
5 jeans, 2 shorts, 1 skirt
female frames
teen-elder
disabled for random
all lods 'n stuff
credits: caelhinn for the cotton jar palette
❗ Notes: In the preview picture above, the "Halima" skirt for some reason has a weird dark spot at the bottom which I assume is a shadow, rest assured it doesn't look that in-CAS/live mode but if there are problems let me know !!! ❗
Download 📂- [Patreon], freebs of course! - alt: [sfs]
