hi! i'm a 21 yr old girl and a current senior at my university. i love lots of media and thought i should give writing a shot. i'm actually a business major and fashion minor, but enthusiast of almost all things.
⋆˚✿˖° masterlist - rules - more about me! ⋆˚✿˖°
i'll make a rules list soon, but know i won't ever write smut. the most i will get is pg-13. so if you send an ask or request please do not send anything about smut or topics akin because i will not answer!
do NOT feed my work into AI! you have all my work right here, just ask if you want more!
Summary: Gothams hit a massive blizzard. Somehow, Robin lands on your fire escape.
Content Warnings: medical procedure, stitches, mild cursing, mentions of animal abuse, Fatson Todd, blood, age difference, hurt/comfort, Shrimp.
Word Count:
3.9k
DUC Garden Del Vega
“The mayor of Gotham has released a statement encouraging residents to remain indoors and avoid unnecessary travel-“ the news anchor droned on about the blizzard that was on its way. You had seen harsh winters before, but never like the one they were calling for tonight: 2-3 inches of snow every hour for the next 14 hours. Originally, you were grateful to finally have a weekend off, but with the storm coming, you’d most likely be asked to come in unless some type of divine intervention happened. Not that you didn’t love being an ER nurse, but after so many extra weekend shifts for double pay…
Out of the living room windows, snow had started falling on your third-floor fire escape. Big fluffy flakes landed on the frozen metal as if someone had glued cotton balls to the railing. From where you sat bundled up on the couch, the TV became background noise. With an exasperated sigh, you forced yourself up and into the kitchen. Your cat, Shrimp, complained loudly about the interruption you caused during his nap.
Time dragged on as you preemptively meal prepped for the inevitable help texts. Before you knew it, it was 9:45 pm as you sealed the final container. Shrimp had wandered off somewhere else in the apartment. The fire escape was blanketed in at least ten inches of snow. Your phone vibrated, and the screen lit up with your charge nurse's name. The sight nearly brought you to tears.
“Hello,” you answered automatically, the word like sand on your tongue. Both of you knew what she was planning to ask.
“Hey! Do you wan-“ a sharp crash came from your fire escape. Curses and a loud hiss as if someone had broken an elbow.
“Hold up, let me call you back. I think someone just tripped down the fire escape.” Ending the call before she could protest, you placed it on the counter and made your way to the living room. Dark movement flashed by the window, only to slip as you came near.
Whoever it was was certainly not an adult—or not a very big one at least. Clicking the locks up, the window slid open smoothly. There, holding his right leg to his chest was none other than Robin. You’d caught glimpses of him and other vigilantes in the city at night, but never encountered one face to face.
“Hey, birdie, you okay?” An eyebrow quirked as you visually examined his potential injuries.
“I am fine!” He hissed back through gritted teeth. A long gash going up his right leg was left exposed to the elements through a tear in his suit. He seemed so young to be doing this type of work. “Do not call me that. I am not a pet.”
“You sure? Cause it looks like you need antiseptic and stitches from where I’m standing.”
“I am fine! I do not require assistance!” His face twisted in pain as he pulled his leg closer.
“I’m an ER nurse, promise I’m pretty good at stitching people up.” Your cat hopped up on the windowsill to peer out at the scene. You nearly made a joke about him finding a bird. “Look at you all nosy and shit.” Shooing him away from the open window only piqued the Robin’s interest. “Do you like cats?”
“Yes.” Blunt and straight to the point. An idea popped into your head after seeing his interest in your cat.
“I’ll make you a deal: you sit at the kitchen table and let me stitch your leg, and you get to spend the entire time attempting to keep his attention.” Frowning as if weighing his options carefully, he accepted the deal. Not without airing his grievances, of course. “Here.” Offering him a hand through the window only to receive a dirty look back.
“Alright, damn, little man.” You muttered as he hobbled to the kitchen table. In the apartment light, the full injury became clearer. Blood dripped with each limp across the living room carpet. What you thought had been just a long cut up his leg was much deeper, heading up to his thigh just above his knee. Nursing mode took over as you walked ahead of him to clear off the table. The pain he tried to hide escaped in small grunts as he moved. “I need you to sit here for a moment, okay? Keep your leg like this.”
You guided him to a chair and gently propped his leg up. You left for a brief moment to grab two pillows and several clean towels. From the other room, his grumbles were just barely audible. The last items you grabbed were your first aid kit from your nursing bag, a change of clothes, and a very round Red Hood plushie your younger brother had left when he visited you earlier that week.
“Okay, I am not going to ask you for any personal information. Do you understand?” He nodded, glaring at you as you laid out the towels on top of the table. “All I need to know is how you received your injury and if you are injured anywhere else.” Placing a pillow on each end of the table, you move to crouch by him. “I’m going to help you up, okay? When you get on the table, I need you to lie flat on your back while I adjust your leg to where I need it to work.”
“Fine, and then do not touch me.” He grumbled, you held in a laugh at the situation cause honestly, you understood. Even you hated admitting you needed help.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Lifting him as comfortably as you could, he eased onto the table without further injury. Once his head was on the pillow, you positioned his leg on the other one. You shared your name and the hospital you worked at with him in an attempt to make him less on edge. A perplexed look crossed his face as you handed him the plushie. With a small pair of scissors, you cut away at the suit's fabric right above the wound. “I need to cut the rest of this part of your suit so I can work, okay? Can you tell me how you got injured?”
Gloved hands slid surgical paper under his propped leg. He examined the plushie as he spoke. “I fell. A piece of broken railing caught my leg around the fifth floor until I managed to swing myself outside your window.” His face contorted as I tried carefully to adjust his leg to face the kitchen light.
Steady bleeding but not spurting everywhere. Bottom lip in his teeth as he held in the pain from where you pressed around the wound, checking for arterial involvement. You were checking his capillary refill when his voice interrupted.
“Your taste in toys is abysmal. I assumed you were too old for them.”
A low chuckle breached your lips at his comment, and you gave in to distracting him. “It’s my brother’s, you look about the same age as him. He’s a big Red Hood fan. Thought you might like having something to hold while I clean you up.” You spoke casually to him, though out of the corner of your eye, you could see him biting his lip as you rinsed the long gash with distilled water. “Also, if you are around my brother’s age, I’m not too much older than you. I’m only in my twenties. I can assure you I won’t be placed in a museum yet. I’m going to dry you off and then apply an antiseptic. I need to make sure there’s no debris left in the wound.”
Explaining every step became second nature. You found working with kids was far easier than most adult patients. Then again, most children were accompanied by their parents and didn’t need to be held in nine-point restraints.
“I do not need you to explain everything. I am not a child.” He argued, yet seeing him hold the stuffed toy to his chest said otherwise. In that moment, this stranger, who couldn’t have been older than twelve, reminded you so much of your brother. You almost forgot he was Batman’s sidekick, Robin.
“We might not be in a hospital, but you are still my patient, and so I will treat you with the same safety and HIPAA protocols I would there.” As if on cue, your phone started to vibrate. The caller ID showed that the hospital staffing coordinator's office was calling. Your eyes rolled as you finished spreading the antiseptic around his wound. Pulling off your gloves, you answered the call on speaker, signaling the boy to stay quiet. “Hello.”
“Hey, it’s Ana in the staffing coordinator's office. Sarah’s in charge and wanted me to give you a call and see if you’d be able to come in for double pay tonight?” Ana was far too perky for 10:15 at night.
“I can’t tonight, I’m really sorry. I have my little brother for the night since my mom got called into work across town.” Lie after lie, but it’s not as though you could up and leave Robin on his own. Your responses to each question she asked were well handled until she finally hung up.
“I am not your brother.” He said, glaring at you. Skepticism was written all over his face. The way he spoke made you think that he was trying more to convince himself than you. “How shameful of you to turn down work.”
“Such a shame, but it’s my first weekend off in two months, sooo,” you paused just as the first stitch was placed. “I’m perfectly fine not going in. Besides, there’s a robin in need of some assistance.”
“I am not an injured zoo animal.” His leg tensed under your hands as each suture pulled tight. You had started at the deepest part above his knee, wanting to close it up before anything else. The fear of sepsis or something else that might go deep enough to nick the artery was overwhelming. You’d never be able to look your little brother in the eye again if Robin bled out on your fire escape or in your kitchen. Though the laceration wasn’t deep enough to be life-threatening, an infection would change that. It had missed the femoral artery by nothing more than luck and divine intervention. When he bit down, another ache and pain; you had to apologize for not having pain medication to give him.
Mumbles that sounded a lot like “that fucking hurt” reached your ears. You tried not to smile at his irritation, but seeing him hold onto the Red Hood plushie for dear life was adorable.
“Did you hit or get injuries anywhere else? No broken toes, fingers?” You question without looking to him, stopping the sutures to clean up more blood.
“No. Nor do I need—that hurt!” His voice shot up an octave as you resumed the stitches below his knee. His tawny flesh mangled where the metal sliced. The way he cried out made you flinch; it broke your heart that he was in pain, and there was nothing you could do but keep causing it.
“I know, bug, it’s gonna hurt for a moment, and then it’s gonna be all better.” One of the older nurses always spoke to her patients that way. Hell, she’d even spoken to you that way. Pet names, you’d learn, do wonders to soothe patients. The same pet name you had called your brother when he needed comfort. “You’re doing so great for me, we’re almost done. I promise.”
As if he’d perfectly timed it, Shrimp hopped into the chair Robin had previously sat in. His front paw was up by the boy's head in an attempt to figure out who he was. The boy froze, holding his hand out to the little gray creature. “His name’s Shrimp.”
“Why?” He asked, his demeanor shifting completely. Softer as if worried he might scare the cat off.
“That’s what he looked like when I found him. A shrimp. An ugly, tiny shrimp. But now he’s a happy fat shrimp.” Your nonchalant attitude towards the cat caught him a bit off guard.
“But he is gray, not orange.” The look he shot you telepathically asked if you were stupid.
“He was orange when I found him. Let’s see,” you spoke thoughtfully, thinking back to the day you brought that small, terrified cat home. You were halfway down the boy's calf, almost done. “Do you remember a year ago, when those people on 8th and 3rd street got busted for a dog-fighting ring? The one where they rescued twenty dogs, and the people were sentenced for ten years?”
You didn’t have to look away to know he was nodding. Shrimp lovingly rubbed his head against the boy's hand, sneezing as he did so. “I found him in the alley where they had been using the cats and smaller dogs as bait. That’s why his eyes are missing.”
He scoffed incredulously as if offended by the entire situation. “And you named him Shrimp? How tone deaf-“
“I had to find humor in the situation. When I took him to the vet, he had severe infections in his eye sockets, open wounds, and, without an owner, they were going to put him down. So I said his names Shrimp, I found him, I’ll pay for him, and I’m going to take him home after.”
There was a strange silence that followed. Shrimp’s purring filled the void of discomfort and mutual understanding. “You saved his life?”
“Yes, everyone and everything deserves a chance, and it wasn’t his fault that happened to him.” He held the plushie closer to his chest as Shrimp continued to assault his hand with licks. “Try not to feel too bad for him. He’s still a little shit at the end of the day.”
“You allow him to roam freely.” The boy paused as if debating what was appropriate to say next. “He appears well fed.”
The comment made you snort. Your attempt to focus on his wound was now perturbed by memories of Shrimp’s last vet visit. “Yeah, he’s a bit rotund.”
Silence filled the apartment once more. Ragged, steady breathing along with Shrimp’s purring and the occasional hiss from the boy—there were no further questions. As you neared his ankle with the final stitches, you braced yourself for him to kick you with his good leg. A situation you had found yourself in more times than you could count. Only the kick never came. Your gaze drifted over to him. One fist clenched at his side as the other strangled the red hood plushie. Shrimp kept licking at the tears sliding down his temple.
Giving the stitches another look over as you snipped and tied the last one above his ankle, you wiped up any remaining blood. Carefully, you applied antiseptic and gauze to the long wound before wrapping his leg completely.
“Listen,” you spoke calmly as you did on the many occasions you tried not to parent your little brother. Cleaning and packing up the first aid kit and your nurse bag, you tossed your gloves in the trash. “This isn’t an overnight injury. You cannot leave here alone, you cannot go out fighting anyone. I’m not kicking you out, I just need to know someone knows you are safe.” Gesturing to the blizzard that’s packed on over a foot of snow. “I’m going to give you my phone, call someone, okay ?”
Handing him your phone, you realized he’d now been in your apartment for two hours. He reluctantly accepted the device; maybe it was pride, perhaps shame for anyone to see him like this, but it broke your heart. “After you call, I have clothes for you to change into.”
He nodded without retort, pushing the numbers on the dial pad until he held the phone against his ear. “Pennyworth?” Through the phone, you could hear “Master Damian, where are you?” As you gathered your brother’s sweatpants, t-shirt, and hoodie. Giving him a bit of privacy while on the phone, you placed the clothes in the bathroom before walking back out.
His phone call had ended. Your phone was placed back on the table. “I’m going to help you get to the bathroom, okay? I will not be going in with you, but if you fall or slip and need help, let me know. I’ve put clothes on the counter for you.” You explained that you moved Shrimp from the area and wrapped one of the boy’s arms around your shoulder to help him up. “When you’re done, I’m gonna put you on the couch and hand you the remote. I’ll wrap up your suit for you.”
You could see it. The way he wanted to argue and protest against your demands. Helping him move to the bathroom was a tedious, slow task with your only goal to ensure the stitches didn’t rip. Once to your destination, you flipped on the light and allowed him to steady himself using the door frame and countertop. You closed the door behind him before heading to the living room, where Shrimp had made his bed on the couch.
“You really like having a new friend, huh?” You asked, looking at the chubby gray cat who flicked his tail at you. Quickly, you adjust the cushions and grab new pillows to help prop the boy’s leg up. Upon hearing the bathroom door open, you looked back to find him maskless and peeking out at you. “I’m coming.”
You repeated the technique of letting him use you as a crutch. Helping him at a steady pace towards the couch. Once he was comfortable, head rested by Shrimp, you covered him in a blanket and gave him the remote. “I need to clean up the table, but call me if you need anything.”
Back in the kitchen, you grabbed an unopened bottle of water and placed it in front of the boy. As if you were fully on shift, you grabbed his suit from the bathroom sink and wrapped it tight in a gallon ziplock bag. A trick one of the older nurses taught you. Placing the bag on the kitchen counter, you finally gathered up everything on the table. From the sound of it, you assumed that Shrimp had managed to crawl on top of Damian.
“You are…far heavier than you appear.” Damian’s words drifted to the kitchen. His feigned annoyance gave way to something softer. “You would be far more effective if you possessed sight. Your survival instincts are questionable.” You nearly missed it with how quietly he spoke. “Tt. I suppose you are not terrible.”
Approximately four to five minutes later, there was a knock at your front door. The boy, Damian, as you’d heard over the phone, seemed unfazed by the sound, as if he was expecting it. Taking a deep breath, you moved to answer the knock. Subtle bickering could be heard from the other side as you opened the door. There, in the hall, were two men who, you guessed, were around your age. Both are tall with dark hair. One with blue eyes who gave you a charming smile. The taller one with green eyes who looked you up and down in a perplexed manner. You assumed it had to do with the blood on your clothes.
“I’m assuming you’re here for the kid?” You asked, glancing over them, taking in their body language.
“Yes,” they said unanimously. Stepping aside, you let them, carefully watching every move they made. It seemed they were still bickering through whispers with each other when they walked in.
“He’s in the living room. Might wanna cut your shit, stress is the last thing he needs.” Closing the door behind them, you walked back into the kitchen. You grabbed the boy's suit, handing it back to him before returning to finish wiping down the table.
As you did, the two men whispered loudly with the boy in your living room. Arguing over what to do with you and whether you could be trusted. With an exasperated sigh, you looked at the trio.
“Hey.” Three heads turned to face you. “I performed a medical procedure tonight. That makes him my patient. And I’m not at liberty to discuss my patients.”
An awkward tension filled the apartment as the older men looked at you. You could see Damian trying not to laugh at the fact that you yelled at them. The blue-eyed man apologized awkwardly as something seemed to have caught the green-eyed one’s attention.
“Is that me?” He looked at Damian while pointing at the plushie.
“I am also deeply disturbed.” The boy said. Rolling your eyes with a chuckle, you carried the towels and pillows to your in-unit laundry room. It was really your only requirement when you moved out of your mom’s home. Back in the kitchen, you grabbed a pen and paper, calling to ask if the more responsible of the two would come over to you.
“I’m writing down exactly what I did, what the injury is, and what needs to happen.” You said as if speaking to a parent about their child. “He’ll need crutches and to be seen by a primary care provider. He’ll also need rest, actual rest with his leg elevated and cleaned throughout the day. Do you understand?” Handing the blue-eyed man the paper as you asked.
“Yes, and thank you.” He spoke kindly, but you could tell he wanted to leave as quickly as possible. “You’re not-“
“I do not care. It’s really not my business.” Of course, you knew who they were. Gotham tabloids made it impossible not to know Bruce Wayne’s sons. You felt that as long as you didn’t name it, then you wouldn’t have a follow-up appointment with Batman himself. “One last thing,”
Standing, you moved hastily to a hall closet, pulling out one of your jackets and returning to the blue-eyed man. Shoving the jacket towards him as you spoke. “This is for him to take. I gave him a change of my brother’s clothes, but a hoodie won’t do much to keep him warm. I don’t need this back either.”
Muttering came from your living room, something about the boy turning off his comms and not responding. The plushie was tucked against Damian’s ribs the entire time. The man in front of you took the jacket hesitantly, unsure if you actually were harmless. With another quiet thank you, he grabbed the other two and ushered them out of your apartment.
Suddenly, the emptiness settled in. The only evidence of the boy being there was left in red on your carpet. Head in your hands, you took a deep breath. The weight of everything crashing down on you finally as you sat at the table. Nearly two in the morning now, snow covered any traces of the boy on the fire escape. Forcing yourself up, you locked the front door and headed to the bathroom. After a long shift, scrubbing everything away in boiling water was always a good solution.
After an eternity, you wrapped yourself in a clean towel before heading to your room. That’s when you noticed, there on the couch, the Red Hood plushie was gone. Maybe it was the stress, maybe the fact that three vigilantes had been in your apartment, or maybe just that it was 2:30 in the morning. Tears welled in your eyes as you laughed at the missing plushie. After the events that played out that night, going to bed with a good laugh might just be what you needed.
—————————————————————————
@delavegaaaaa Do NOT REPOST, FEED TO AI OR PLAGIARIZE MY WORK. This is my only blog. I lost internet for 12hours the day I wrote this because of a massive blizzard and now it’s 80 fucking degrees in March. Stop using AI.
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 ✷ established relationship. domestic arguments. fluff & angst. financially reckless behavior. independent!reader. morally gray income sources. soft!red hood. bickering. slightly clingy jason. implied violence. criminal interrogation. protective behavior. unhealthy coping mechanisms disguised as acts of service. rich boyfriend problems.
Dating an independent woman, Jason had learned, was an exercise in chronic frustration. Not the exhausting kind—the kind that settled warm beneath his ribs, irritating and addictive in equal measure. The kind that made him want to grind his teeth one second and kiss her stupid the next. Because loving y/n was easy. Christ, it was the easiest thing he’d ever done. Existing around her, however, was another story entirely.
She refused help with the same ferocity Jason usually reserved for gunfights and emotional repression.
And that was saying something.
Jason liked taking care of people. It was buried somewhere deep beneath the violence, the sarcasm, the helmet, the terrifying reputation, and the lifetime’s worth of anger issues, but it was there. Raw and instinctive. He liked memorizing what people needed before they asked for it. He liked patching wounds, carrying heavy things, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, checking locks twice before bed. Maybe it came from a childhood where nobody took care of him properly. Maybe it came from being Robin once upon a time, before the world had split him open and rebuilt him meaner. Whatever the reason, taking care of someone he loved felt as natural to him as breathing.
Unfortunately for him, y/n would rather throw herself into oncoming traffic than accept assistance gracefully.
Which was deeply inconvenient considering Jason Todd had money now. Not respectable money, obviously. Not “stocks and mutual funds” money like Bruce. Jason’s finances existed in a morally gray area populated by terrified drug lords, black-market deals, confiscated cash, and the occasional envelope Bruce shoved into his hands disguised as “mission funding” when they both knew it was guilt money.
Jason accepted all of it without shame.
And when he got a girlfriend? Jesus Christ.
He immediately developed the overwhelming urge to spend every cent on her.
Not in an obnoxious way. Not because he thought she couldn’t survive on her own. If anything, y/n surviving independently despite Gotham actively trying to eat people alive was one of the things he admired most about her. She worked herself ragged, paid her own bills, handled her own problems, and carried herself with this stubborn, infuriating pride that made Jason want to simultaneously shake her and marry her.
But he loved her. Of course he wanted to make her life easier.
Apparently that made him public enemy number one.
Every single attempt at paying for something turned into a war of attrition.
Coffee dates were the worst. Jason would buy their drinks with the smug satisfaction of a man fulfilling his divine purpose as a boyfriend, only for his phone to buzz ten minutes later.
Y/N SENT YOU $10.00
Jason would stare at the notification with pure resentment.
Once, after their fourth argument about it that month, he’d deliberately paid for dinner while she was in the bathroom, thinking he’d finally outsmarted her.
The next morning she’d transferred him exact reimbursement down to the tax.
Psychotic behavior.
Another time, he’d tried being direct about it.
“You know normal girlfriends let their boyfriends spoil them,” he muttered while leaning against her kitchen counter.
Y/n, sitting cross-legged on the counter eating a banana with the confidence of a woman impossible to embarrass, looked unimpressed. “Normal boyfriends don’t source their income like Batman’s most wanted.”
“That’s hurtful.”
“That’s accurate.”
Jason narrowed his eyes before pulling a thick stack of cash from his jacket pocket and tossing it onto the counter beside her. “Take it.”
She glanced at the money, then at him, then back at the money. “I don’t want your guilt money from your daddy.”
“It’s not guilt money,” Jason corrected immediately. “It’s drug money.”
Y/n stared at him slowly, banana halfway to her mouth, looking genuinely uncertain whether she should kiss him or book him a therapist.
Jason had shrugged like that clarified everything.
Because to him, honestly, it did.
Then there were the bills.
God, the bills argument nearly killed him.
It had been late evening, rain tapping softly against the apartment windows while Gotham drowned itself in neon and smog outside. Y/n’s apartment wasn’t terrible, but it was small in that distinctly Gotham way—thin walls, unreliable heating, pipes that screamed like dying animals whenever someone showered. Jason practically lived there anyway despite technically owning a much nicer place. Mostly because he preferred her cluttered little apartment over any penthouse money could buy.
She was sprawled on top of him on the couch, wearing one of his hoodies and soft sleep shorts, her cheek pressed into his neck while he worked on his laptop balanced precariously against her lower back. One of his arms rested around her waist automatically, hand underneath the hoodie, fingertips tracing absent patterns against her skin while he typed with the other hand.
“Ugh,” she groaned suddenly into his throat. “My landlord is up my ass about rent.”
Jason’s fingers paused over the keyboard instantly.
“How much?”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“You were gonna offer money.”
“I was gonna offer money.”
She made a triumphant sound against his skin. “Exactly. Denied.”
Jason clicked his tongue in annoyance, shifting slightly beneath her. “Baby, I basically live here anyway. Let me help with bills.”
“No.”
“You’re working doubles.”
“I’ll survive.”
“You shouldn’t have to survive,” he muttered.
That made her lift her head slightly. Her expression softened around the edges when she looked at him, because no matter how much they argued about this, she knew where it came from. Jason wasn’t controlling. Wasn’t condescending. He wasn’t trying to own her.
He just loved hard. Recklessly. Like a man who never learned moderation.
“I wanna do things myself,” she said quietly. “I need to prove I can.”
Jason looked at her for a long moment.
Most people saw anger first when they looked at him. Violence. Volatility. But underneath all of that, Jason understood pride better than almost anyone. Understood what it meant to claw your own survival out of the dirt with bloody hands. Understood how humiliating dependence could feel.
So instead of arguing, he just sighed softly through his nose and kissed the top of her head.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”
Which should’ve worried her.
Because when Jason Todd stopped arguing, it usually meant he’d already decided to do something significantly worse.
The next afternoon, while Jason was in the middle of interrogating a weapons trafficker, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
He glanced at the caller ID and immediately smiled beneath the Red Hood helmet.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
“You paid my fucking rent?”
Jason leaned casually against the damp brick wall beside him while the criminal tied to the chair whimpered quietly in the background.
“For the next six months, yeah.” He checked his gun lazily. “Oh, and your car’s in the shop. Your brakes sounded like a dying walrus. Figured I’d get them replaced.”
There was silence on the other end.
Then came one long inhale that positively radiated fury.
Jason grinned harder.
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Yeah?”
“You are insane.”
“You still love me though.”
“I’m considering arson.”
“That’s my girl.”
The line went dead with an aggressive beep.
Jason stood there for another second staring at the phone in his hand, helpless affection spreading warm through his chest before he could stop it. The kind that made him feel seventeen again. Human again. Soft in places he usually kept armored shut.
If anyone ever saw the look on his face right now, Jason would actually have to kill them.
With a sigh, he slid the phone back into his jacket and finally turned toward the terrified criminal still zip-tied to the chair in the abandoned warehouse.
“You know,” he muttered while pulling another zip tie tighter around the guy’s wrists, “I buy one woman six months’ rent and suddenly I’m the bad guy.”
The guy had apparently developed a death wish.
“F-females,” he laughed nervously, sweat dripping down his temple. “Am I right?”
Jason’s smile vanished instantly.
Gone was the lovesick idiot paying for brake repairs. This was the man criminals whispered about in panic.
Jason grabbed the chair sharply, yanking it forward until the man nearly choked on his own breath.
“That,” Jason said quietly, “is my girl you’re talking about.”
The criminal went pale.
“And trust me,” Jason continued, voice calm in the way that scared people most, “you do not wanna disrespect the woman willing to date me voluntarily.”
“R-right. I’m sorry. Sorry.”
Jason stared at him another second before sighing heavily and releasing the chair.
jason todd and birthdays are complicated. he has two birthdays, even if he denies it. both of which he wants to be ignored, however your birthdays? he goes all out for, in his perfect way.
he gets streamers (dicks idea) and makes imperfect patterns on the ceilings, a perfect cake that was paid for via bruce’s card, the most silly and thoughtful gifts, on top of the best day you never even knew you needed.
having more thoughts about italian-american! jason as your boyfriend.
italian-american! bf jason is a hometown hero, the alley’s son, bowery’s baby boy, little italy’s prince regent. everybody knows exactly who red hood is — because who else but their jason would grumble fuckin’ stunad or madonna santa under his breath while masked up mid patrol — but nobody says anything. they just shrug when he comes to the deli or the pizza joint or the garage with his bike and its questionable damages.
italian-american! bf jason pays for this dearly. he goes out with you one time, now the whole neighborhood is calling you his girl. you come in for a ham and cheese with some chips and a soda? oh hey, i know you! jay’s girl, right? that italian takeout place you like to frequent? oh! don’t even worry about the wait, i’ve got you— hey, mikey! hurry up on that thing for jay’s girl, will ya?
“so i’m your girl now, and everybody just knows this?”
“honest to god, i never told any of them all that.”
“right...” he never hides the little smug smile on his face when it happens though.
italian-american! bf jason who does not play about a good chicken parm. he’s a simple man. will not have any discussion related to his constant intake of chicken parm, that’s between him and god.
italian-american! bf jason whose conversations you can’t help but eavesdrop on out of sheer intrigue. he goes over easy, you think when he's in his side of gotham with people who know him and talk like him.
“how come you always do your face like that?” the guy behind the bar counter, who you’d cone to now know as another of jason’s many cousins, asked. “screwin’ it up all sour and messing up the pictures like it’s a funeral and not a wedding.”
you turned the photograph over in your hands, a rare occurrence of groomsman jason in all his glory, hair parted neat and eyes bright in a fitted suit. but his lips were curved in near distress, hands folded over his front like a shy maiden.
“didn’t you see that fuckin’ thing choking me?” jason finally huffed next you. “was too busy playing hide the salsiccia from the wedding party to say cheese.”
the whole bar erupted into a guffaw.
italian-american! bf jason whose jaw drops one evening when he realizes he might be a little bit of a bad influence where linguistics is concerned.
“you landed on my property, doll,” jason pointed at the board. “i let you get by the last two times, but you gotta pay up.”
“jay...”
“no, nuh uh, not happenin’,” he shook his head firmly. “this isn’t just monopoly, this is business. serious business.”
“but jason!” you pouted, blinking slow.
“do not look at me with those puppy dog eyes,” he huffed, turning his head away to side-eye you. “now pay up, sweetness.”
“well that’s too bad,” you stared him down. “i got stugots.”
his head whipped around. “i beg your fuckin’ pardon?”
“stugots,” you repeated, motioning with two hands to and from your lap. “that’s what i got. you know? like, i owe you stugots, which means you can suck my—”
“woah, now!” jason raised a hand to stop you. “who taught you that? where are you hearing this from?” his eyes widened in utter shock. “matter of fact, what kinda company are you even hanging around?”
“you.” you shrugged. “i heard it from you.”
“like hell you did,” he grumbled under his breath. “it’s those tv shows you keep watching with those... mafia guys.”
“jason,” you chuckled. “i heard you say it, verbatim. you say it all the time! like those hand things you swear you never do—”
“...what hand things?”
you pinched five of your fingers into an upwards point and made a slight shaking motion for emphasis. “cosa fai?” your voice came out deeper in an impersonation of him, eyebrows furrowed in feigned disbelief.
“‘sto cazzo...” he grumbled, mullimg the words over as if they were foreign to him. “i do not do that!”
“there you go saying the thing! stugots!” you laughed. “like tony soprano—”
“watch that mouth,” he leaned closer to you and you giggled. “i can’t believe this shit... we’re setting some serious rules in this house.” he looked at you and squinted. “no cursing.”
“i was only repeating what i heard—” you threw your hands up in mock surrender and he kissed the corner of your mouth.
“sei perfetta,” he whispered, kissing you again, this time for real and slower, sweeter than before. “but seriously, pay up you can’t just go landing on people’s properties and not paying your dues—”
“ma sei serio?” you pulled away to look up at him.
he roared with laughter. “do i look like i play about my money?”
italian-american! bf jason who still curses around you and still acts surprised when you repeat it back.
🗒️ i beg you forgive me if anything is incorrect , a friend who is a fan of the sopranos (i have never seen it) brought up stugots to me and i found it hilarious . also shout out to @distantlydreamingofwater for the spiderman-esque hc in the comments of the last one i loved it so much 💗 !!
the silent gifts | you know how some people don’t know how to react when they receive presents? jason doesn’t know how to act when he gives presents. like he’s so closed off in general that he gets really awkward when he does something nice for somebody, to the point where he’d rather not even be there at all when it happens. so as a sidestep, he just leaves little gifts for you in random places throughout your apartment. they’re never formally wrapped or fancy looking, usually just a plain box and your name or a heart written on top. you’d figured out pretty early on that he prefers the least amount of acknowledgment of it as possible—a forehead kiss and a whispered thank you the next time you see him is plenty enough for him.
his bookmark | jason doesn’t own any actual bookmarks. his style is much more to use any random piece of whatever that’s near to hold his spot in a book. but ever since you, he has one thing that he goes out of his way to make sure is always stuck in the middle of one if his books. a four-framed photo booth strip the two of you took when you went to the zoo last year. you can always find it poking out of his current book sitting on the coffee table or next to your bed. he likes the photo up top the best. you weren’t ready for the pictures and you were still gazing up at him, nothing short of lovesick. it makes him feel special. you’ve got your own copy kept folded into the center of your wallet. your favorite is the third photo because you’d managed to surprise him with a kiss to his jaw and he looks absolutely elated.
free bodyguard subscription | it’s so convenient! you don’t even have to ask him to free up time in his schedule to accompany you where you need to go in a dangerous neighborhood. half the time, you don’t even notice when it’s happening. some past-middle aged guy gives you an up and down? jason’s glare will take care of that before you even realize. when you go to the bathroom at the bar, he protects your drink with his life. he doesn’t even have to say anything for nobody to want to come within 3 feet of that scowl
physical empathy | one thing about jason is that he holds so much respect and value of you and your opinion that it makes him feel physically sick when you’re upset. specifically, if you’re crying. it will absolutely break his heart and send him into a anxiety-driven spiral until he can make it better. the feeling he gets when you’re upset with him isn’t unsimilar, though it wouldn’t be a stretch to call it much more intense. you could say absolutely anything when you’re crying bc of him and he will agree with you tenfold. yeah it was his fault, of course he’ll make it up to you however you want, you didn’t do anything wrong sweet girl
biased in your favor | good news if you’re a girlie that holds grudges but jason will keep a death grip on those for you. he doesn’t even need to know the reasons, if you don’t like somebody, he doesn’t either. he doesn’t know how or why but he trusts your intuition even more than his. also (and he refuses to believe that this part is unhealthy), he will always automatically believe that you’re right in any conflict with other people.
selfie folder | you have way more selfies of you in the middle of getting ready than you would’ve ever imagined. and it stems entirely from jason texting you, asking you how you’re doing, what’s going on, if you need anything…and you’ll tell him you’re just getting ready to leave, whether it be to work, a night with friends, or a date with him. every time without fail he’ll ask you to show him. he just thinks you look so good in the lighting in front of your dresser mirror and would hate to miss a chance to see your pretty face. and yes, of course he saves them into a special folder marked “💗” just for his girl
it’s that love they talk about on a sunday afternoon.
adoration practically leaks from jason todd’s pores, shining like rays of light on your skin, rejuvenating at every turn.
the kind of love that makes your heart feel warm and fluttery and it just radiates off of him easily. knowing what temperature you liked the house to be at or how you always toss your balled up socks in one corner of the room than the other.
jason is not the type to hide that he loves you and will remind you constantly.
he’s not passive about it and keeps it abundantly clear that the two of you are written in the stars for him. he’s like the embodiment of devotion because it’s fundamentally rooted in him to communicate and try to understand you more daily. he doesn’t assume anything, but he learns more and more.
he’s also the type of man to bring you flowers just because. at first it really is sweet. he brings them over on every date. then every time he makes an excuse to see you, he’s got flowers tucked away somewhere on his person even when you told him he didn’t have to bring it on every outing.
sometimes it’s just flowers he picks up on his way to get you, intricately picked and tied with a stem, like he really took his time choosing them. other times, it’s when he picks you up from work with a massive bouquet of snapdragons cause you said you liked them once. he’ll wait outside patiently, one hand in his pocket and the other gripping the flowers, biting the inside of cheek until you come outside. it’s always to see the smile on your face and the hint of surprise even when you knew it was coming.
he lives for that look.
when you call him drunk for the first time, having a friend phone him for you at a party you didn’t even want to go to, even then he brought a dozen roses. arriving to pick you up in under five minutes with a thin layer of sweat over his brow. he even apologized while he held your hair back when you threw up and continued while you drifted off asleep after he tucked you in.
“—seriously though, i would’ve brought a bigger bouquet but the store was closing and it was all they had so i just put the good flowers from the remaining together and—”
when you woke up in the morning with the flowers in a mason jar because all of the other vases you had were currently being used, you tried to tell him they were getting to be too much. the man claimed that’s nonsense and that there’s no such thing while continuing to softly sing whatever he was playing while cooking breakfast for when you woke.
then, he danced with you in the kitchen to distract you from protesting. but when he spun you and you groaned all groggy and hungover, he kept you close to his chest instead, humming the soothing tune. rocking the two of you back and forth in your dingy kitchen, shifting from either leg until you melted right into him. cheek pressed to his hard chest.
the music plays softly from the kitchen and he coos by your ear while he steadily dances you over to the couch with him, lyrics pouring from his love stricken lips.
“she looks just like an angel.” tucking your head into the crook of his neck while you bask in his warmth. still humming the same tune as he softly sings, “—when she walks across the room.”
it’s so easy to fall into him when he’s like this.
later in the week he thrifts you a dozen more vases that went with the decor of your house along with a couple extra trinkets he thought you’d like.
he keeps a photo of you from that morning in his wallet, tucked in his arms and mouth parted in sleep. he’s smiling with his head tilted just barely in the frame, though the focus is on you resting on his chest. next to it is a kiss you left when you saw it when pulled out his wallet, lipstick mark right on his cheek in the photo.
he actually got it laminated so your kiss never fades away.
when he slowly moves his life into your home from all the late nights he stays over, he insists on laying the rent and utilities just because he can. your name is on the lease but he doesn’t give a shit because he meant what he said when he told you what’s mine is yours.
he starts buying mundane things in pairs too because, “i couldn’t just buy one, they come in pairs, you can’t just split them up.”
he’s made any excuse to buy you things that remind him of you, and that meant a lot since he turned out to be more sentimental than you thought. jason would buy you pastries and chocolate with the cheesiest line like i thought of you because it’s sweet like you.
that’s how you knew i love you came in many forms with him.
at first he struggled with saying it so instead you see it in his actions. though the man is sentimental and the first time he says it and you repeat it right back, the hearts in his eyes expand and he slots your hand into his. jason never struggles to remind you after that time. the love that he drowns you in is the only kind you’d want to receive, and that’s just the kind of man he is. and jason todd is that type of man to do acts of service for you solely because he is capable without ever being told to.
you hate washing the dishes? that’s okay with him! jason has no problem wiping them down and scrubbing them clean.
“you know the saying, if life is a loop full of dirty dishes and laundry, all that means is it’s means a lifetime full of home cooked food and clean clothes.” humming gruffly while he scrubs, turning his head back to find you still staring like you’d fallen for him all over again and grin, “or something like that ma.”
and physical contact? he’s like velcro to your skin.
while you cook, his head is tucked between your neck and your shoulder while he’s pressed against your back. occasionally touching your hand and stirring for you.
even after having a long night and getting in after you, he’ll wake up with you for work and watch you get ready for the day. he’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and his hair disheveled. watching you with eager eyes as you do your skincare or dress yourself. it didn’t make you feel embarrassed because it wasn’t exactly lustful. it felt like he was burning the memory and ingraining you as the sole purpose of everything good in his life because that’s exactly what he’d tell you that you are.
or you could be sitting on the couch and watching television when jason decides it’s time to strike. just moments after coming home, he plops his full weight ontop of you and groans. you make a sound that resembled a cushion losing air but he just settles a leg between yours to take some weight off of you. he pulls your shirt up just enough for him to slot his head underneath and steal some of your warmth from your skin.
you complained that he’s gotta at least wash his face. told him he’s stretching the collar of your shirt out with his head when his hair pokes out to touch your chin. but slowly, you press a kiss against his lips, watching him deepen it before it gets sloppy and he starts to trail his way back down your neck. lower and lower before disappearing beneath the fabric. he groans cause you’ve got no bra on. when he rubs his face between your breasts and nuzzles until he’s comfortable, you gasp softly. the stubble on his chin rubbing against the sensitive skin, side to side until he stops to take a bite of the plush flesh.
you laugh when he settles. “did you just motorboat me?”
jason blows against your skin while he huffs and does it again to get you to squeal and shove him away just for him to grip onto you tighter.
“can’t a man just appreciate a work of art?”
a/n: idrk what this is but i love jason and he’s the cheesiest, loverboy to ever exist idc
⋆˙⟡ synopsis: when red hood stumbles into your shitty convenience store at 2 am looking for marlboros, you don’t expect him to come back—but he does, except now he’s jason, your cute regular.
⋆˙⟡ author’s notes: i’ve probably said this like fifty times, but i’m restarting my dcu taglist. i’ll make a proper post soon, but if anyone is interested you could leave a comment or send me an ask. even though there is a afab presenting picture in the moodboard, that does not dictate reader’s gender—i have always written gen!reader.
Your clenched hand bangs on the “OPEN” sign for the third time this night. One letter is always burnt out—the “O”, to be specific. As a result, the small convenience store you work for has the word “PEN” basically written on its front door. Let’s say it doesn’t naturally garner any paying customers after normal shopping hours. Well, any normal customers, that is. You’re pretty much desensitised to every stranger who walks through the door.
“Does this make my store look like we sell dirty magazines?” Your manager, an old lady whom you’ve just learned to call ma’am instead of her real name—Marjorie—barks your way before opening the door to finally head home.
How nice that she never stays around for the night shift. Fantastic choice of words to end her stay here for tonight, too.
“More like a stationery shop,” you say, trying to align the sign to the center of the door, “I’m not sure people expect us to be selling anything… mature at a convenience store. You know, with there being aisles full of groceries.”
“I’ll be damned if a stupid sign ruins the reputation of this store, do you hear me? This building has been in my family for generations.” She’s still pointing at you, even though she’s half out of the door. “Take care of the place, don’t forget to clean up.”
“Sure, ma’am.” You try your best to hold back the sarcasm in your voice, but it fails, and you receive a nasty side glare from the woman.
You groan, turning back on your heel to return to the counter. It’s made of old wood-grain, laminated. Already chipping at the edges. It sits catty-corner to the door so you can see both the entrance and the back aisle. Which you have to, since the cameras—inside and out—are definitely fake.
There’s an old-school bell on a spring, attached to the door. It announces every customer, loud and impossible to muffle. Hearing bells at two in the morning isn’t ideal, but the store runs on pure spite, and your rent needs to be paid somehow.
Speaking of the devil, you hear the bell ring.
You straighten your spine, mentally readying yourself for another of Marjorie’s scoldings. You wonder what you forgot to do now, or who will be the recipient of her wrath. Raising your head, you open your mouth to muster some kind of excuse for whatever she’ll throw at you, but you stop dead in your tracks.
The person who walks through the door isn’t the short, hot-tempered old lady you’ve been working with for the past few months.
No.
You first notice the blood. The way it’s still wet, clinging onto the helmet, which is in the same shade. A man whom you have never seen in person stands just a few feet away from you. A hip holster hangs off of him, with something metal shining under the unbearable fluorescent lights. You don’t have to guess. It might be a gun, or he might have a knife stashed in another holster you haven’t spotted yet.
You’ve seen freaks in this shop—the guy who tried to pay with a bag of loose teeth, the woman who screamed at the beer cooler for ten minutes. Some are even sort of endearing when you learn how to handle them.
But you haven’t seen Red fucking Hood. And you sure as hell don’t know how to handle him.
What the actual hell? Marjorie didn’t train you for this. There isn’t a “how to deal with a vigilante showing up” section in any manual.
You freeze on the spot. Your hands grip the cold counter. For a moment, you think of taking the energy drinks from the small cooler and just throwing them at the man so maybe, just maybe, he’ll find the attempt pathetic enough and let you go. You can hear him step closer. You’re sure the metal cans won’t save you now.
You take a single step back. You hit the cigarette wall behind you. Marjorie would kill you if she found the cigarette wall in a mess, but it won’t really matter if the man approaching you gets to you first.
God, he is bigger in person. What the hell does he even eat to look like that?
What are you even thinking right now?
It only takes him a few steps to reach the counter from the entrance. A small trail of dirty footsteps follows him, and you grimace at the drops of blood sticking to his boots. There’s a small… handle sticking out of a holster lower on his leg.
Oh, that’s where the knife is. Lucky you.
You swallow down the breath stuck in your throat as he stands in front of the counter. He looks everywhere but at you, eyeing the energy drinks beside you and the cigarette wall. Instinctively, you raise your hands in front of you, as if to show him you won’t try anything stupid, like throwing energy drinks at him.
You can swear you hear something like an amused scoff coming from underneath his helmet as he looks back at you.
So, he finds this funny, huh.
“I’m not going to bite your head off.” He speaks first, because you sure as hell won’t talk to him first. You doubt Marjorie would scold you for customer service when the customer is Red Hood himself.
“So the knife there is just for show?” The words escape your lips without your permission, and you regret it instantly.
“I do love a good accessory,” he clicks his tongue, as if he’s being hilarious.
He raises a hand, and you watch the way the leather of his gloves flexes. They’re dark in color, tactical, fitted, covering to his wrist. The fabric leaves a piece of his forearm exposed. Your eyes trail over the showing skin. There are a few scars littered on the surface, running down his arm like rivers.
“You can drop your hands,” his voice breaks you out of your thoughts… about his arms?
“So, you aren’t suspicious or anything?” You drop your hands to your sides, “What if I—”
“You don’t scare me, sweetheart. It’s mostly the other way around.” He says the word “sweetheart” a little too easily. It almost sounds like honey rolling of his tongue. If he didn’t have a gun and knife strapped to him, maybe you’d even blush.
You hope you aren’t visibly blushing. The heat in your cheeks is your problem, not his.
“I could call the cops,” you challenge, a newfound confidence seeping into your words.
“And they’d definitely come here. After half an hour, give or take. But I’d already have taken what I came here for.”
Yep, he’s actually going to do something horrible. You thought Red Hood took care of criminals, not some cashier like you, who, yes, might have skimmed some dollars out of the cash register a few times. But that doesn’t warrant a visit from Red Hood himself. Your jaw tightens, while your hands clench. You’re sure your nails are digging crescents into your palm right now.
“And what would that be?”
If you’re going to be beaten up or robbed by Gotham’s most smart-mouthed vigilante, you’re not going down silent. Maybe you should scream. Just to make this harder for him.
He puts his other hand on his hip. For a moment, you think he’s reaching for his holster, but his voice from the helmet reaches you again.
“I want a cigarette.”
What.
“You want a what?”
Red Hood points a finger at the cigarette wall behind you. You follow the gesture to the Marlboros sitting in the middle row, just behind the locked glass screen. The “21+” sign is hanging on the screen with the paint already peeling off its surface.
He wants a fucking cigarette. And he’s saying all of this as if he didn’t just threaten you a moment ago.
“Seriously?”
“I am over twenty-one, if you’re wondering.”
“That’s not,” you groan. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
He shrugs. Throwing that energy drink can might have been an actual good idea.
“I can’t show you my ID, unfortunately,” he gives you a faux sigh through his helmet. Both of his hands are on his hips now, and you somehow calm down seeing that he’s not reaching for a weapon. “Secret identity and all. You understand, no?”
“You just had to mess with me, huh?”
“Couldn’t help myself.”
You turn your back slowly, still trying to keep an eye on him, all while letting out an annoyed huff. He mimics the sound of your sneer right back at you. You snap your head back at him. He, on the other hand, looks at one of the shelves, as if he didn’t do anything at all. You can feel something akin to a laugh building up in your body because he looks ridiculous, if you ignore the blood. His hands are on his hips, showing you he’s not going for his weapons. He’s looking away like a child caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
You open the cigarette wall with a turn of your keys. The glass screen moves, and you grab a single pack of Marlboros. You scan the pack in silence. It’s not like the heavy and tense silence from before, when he first walked through the door, bloody and intimidating. Now it feels like he’s actually a customer. A weird one, but it’s Gotham. You’re not surprised.
“Smoking is bad for you, y’know,” you say quietly, almost mumbling. Though he hears you anyway.
“You worried, sweetheart?”
“Oh, of course,” you answered with a raised brow, hoping the sarcasm was obvious in your voice. “Who else would walk in bloody in the shop just to buy cigarettes?”
He reaches for his pocket. Your eyes trail to his forearms again. You hadn’t noticed before, but the veins on his arms are barely visible. Though you can see the way they are indented in his skin, between the scars. He lays a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter. To his credit, the money at least isn’t bloodied.
“Next time at…” he looks at the clock on the wall behind you, the cracked glass shows that it’s eight pm now. “How does five sound?”
“If you don’t come with your accessories and blood, maybe. Just maybe.”
You hand over the cigarette pack to him. Your fingers brush his, and for a split second, his fingers freeze. It’s like he’s surprised and flustered by the contact.
“A deal breaker, then?” He lets out a cough before grabbing the Marlboros and taking a step back from the counter.
You tilt your head, trying to figure out in your mind what he looks like right now behind that helmet. His voice sounds hoarse. All because you touched him. Though he hasn’t expressed any discomfort yet.
“No,” you answer. “Not exactly…”
God, why is your stupid heart talking instead of your brain?
He perks up. You can see it in how his shoulders pick up. His grip on the cigarette pack changes; he’s now twirling it between his fingers.
Yep, you’re never leaving your apartment ever again.
He does have big hands, though.
“Five o’clock, then,” he says, like it’s already decided. Like you already said yes.
“I didn’t agree to anything.”
“You didn’t say no either, sweetheart.”
There it is again. That word. Dripping off his tongue like he’s known you for years. Like he has any right to call you that when you can’t even see his face.
He tucks the Marlboros into his jacket pocket. Takes a step back. Then another.
You should feel relieved. You are relieved. Probably.
“Same time tomorrow,” he says from the door. The bell hasn’t rung yet. He’s waiting. For what, you don’t know.
“Same blood?” you ask, because your mouth has officially divorced your brain.
He tilts his helmet. That same amused energy from before.
“Maybe less. If you’re lucky.”
The bell rings. He’s gone.
You stare at the door for a full ten seconds. Then, at the crumpled bills on the counter. Then at the trail of dirty footprints leading to the entrance.
Then back at the door.
What the hell just happened?
You grab the nearest energy drink can—not to throw, just to hold. The metal is cold against your palm. Your heart is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm.
And you hate yourself a little for already knowing you’ll be here at five o’clock tomorrow.
+++
“Wait, say that again,” Marjorie points at your face, as if you’re in the wrong. “A vigilante walked through my doors and threatened my employee?”
“He didn’t really threaten me,” you point out, but the exasperated look on the woman’s face makes you backtrack. “I mean, he looked scary. He didn’t lay a hand on me, though.”
Unfortunately.
You should have stayed home.
“You said he had a gun!”
“And a knife.”
“Oh, my god. And he smokes, too. Children these days.”
“I don’t think his smoking is the main issue here,” you move past the counter to the aisles.
You didn’t call Marjorie about what happened last night as soon as he had left. In her book, if something isn’t bleeding or broken, calling isn’t necessary. You cleaned the drop of blood from the counter and closed up last night. The streets felt just a tad brighter under the streetlights, knowing a certain vigilante might be looking out for you. Who knows, maybe he’ll appreciate the fact that you sold him the cigarettes without calling the cops on him.
Now you’re here, the next day. You’ve been buzzing around the shop all day. The sticky floors, even though you cleaned them yesterday, are still holding onto the grime. The fluorescent light bulb above the counter needed a few hits before it stopped flickering. You’ve been listening to the rattle of the beer cooler since you clocked in.
Marjorie’s incessant badgering about Red Hood unfortunately did reach your ears over the cooler’s rattle.
“Did he hurt you?” She asks again, and you, surprisingly, find the concern a bit endearing.
“Aw,” you coo, “you do care about me, Marj.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, idiot,” she scowls. “Who else would work for me if you died, or worse, quit?”
“No. He didn’t hurt me,” you deadpan. “He didn’t take anything. He paid for a Marlboro and took off.”
You haven’t mentioned the fact that he might visit again. You’re not planning on Marjorie finding out. She’ll leave in a few hours, and you will hang onto that stupid and foolish hope that a man whose face you’ve never seen will come to see you. You spent a few more minutes today in front of the mirror, too.
God, what are you doing?
“Marlboro?” Marjorie raises a brow. “He doesn’t even have taste. He should have gotten one of those… what are they called?”
“Yellow Spirits?”
“Yes, those.”
“You’re only saying that because they cost more.”
“If he’s bothering my employees, the least he can do is pay me.”
You bend down to the box near your feet. It’s full of some brand of cereal you can’t remember the name of. Something generic for an even more generic convenience store.
Marjorie approaches you near the aisle. Her brows are furrowed, and her wrinkles are even more pronounced today. The corners of her mouth are pulled into a thin line. As if she’s actually worried.
She starts digging into her pocket. You turn your head, curious about what she’s doing. She pulls out something that looks like a… taser?
“Marjorie, what is that?”
“Kid, we both know I don’t have the means to get you a gun,” she clicks her tongue, gesturing the taser your way, “but this should do the trick. It ain’t one of those harmless ones either. It packs a big punch.”
You grab the taser from her hand. It feels heavy in your grip. You imagine using it against anyone, though you don’t think you’ll be pointing it towards Red Hood anytime soon. First, stupidly enough, you hope he won’t give you a reason to use it. Secondly, you’re sure it won’t work against a man shaped like a mountain.
“Thanks, Marj,” you pocket the taser in your apron, the one Marjorie forces you to wear all your shift.
“It’s Marjorie,” she scoffs. “Now, I’ll get going. My heart cannot take another one of your ridiculous night stories. My poor knees need a break.”
As if she’s the one restocking.
She’s already half out of the door before you can even say goodbye. Not that she’d say it back. So much for her poor knees.
You turn back to the aisle. There are still a few more boxes unopened. The shop is relatively small one, so you’re not too worried about the amount of work waiting for you.
You look at the cracked clock near the register. There are a few minutes left before it strikes five. You bite your lip. There’s a strange feeling of impatience and exhilaration mixing in your stomach, all like a bad concoction.
This is how crazy people die in those superhero movies, all because they think that they’ve got a connection with a murder. You are very much that type of crazy person. It’s almost like Gotham has entirely changed you, making your eyes locked onto the door, awaiting a certain someone.
To your utter surprise, the bell rings. You feel your knees getting weak. You step away from the aisle that was blocking your way to the front door, half expecting Red Hood to show up and actually rob you or something; you’re not sure what people like him get up to.
Your heart is beating against your chest. There’s something deeply wrong with you. You consider running out the back door, but you’re already in the line of sight of the entrance.
He already saw you.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sweetheart.”
The “he” turned out to be not a bloodied costume-wearing vigilante, but your loyalest regular—Jason Todd. You still don’t understand why he keeps visiting. A small part of your heart hopes it’s because he finds the cashier, you, cute.
He’s wearing a black T-shirt. It’s cut off around the forearms. You see familiar faint scars. You’ve never asked Jason about them. He did notice you staring once, and he explained that he had had a few accidents with his motorcycle. Your heart pangs uncomfortably at the reminder of him being in pain. The shirt clings to his chest in a way that will not leave your mind this entire week. It rides up slightly around his waist, exposing just a small part of his skin. You can see the tattoos peeking out from underneath the fabric, just above the leather belt around his hips.
This is too much. Way too much for a full day shift.
Wow. Both him and Red Hood. That’s low. Even for you.
You feel a sense of disappointment, as if you were played by Red Hood. But it’s not like he owed you anything.
Jason tilts his head. A few of the white strands of his hair fall down on his forehead. They frame his face in an effortlessly handsome way, so much so that you want to punch the subtle grin off his face. You’re sure Marjorie would fire you for that, considering Jason is probably the only customer of this shop she actually likes.
“Jason,” you finally get the words past your lips, “it’s just you.”
“Just me?” he places a hand on his chest in faux hurt.
He steps into the shop. His gate is steady. In a way that is the opposite of yours. You’re sure you’re shaking like a leaf right now, gripping the bag of cereal even harder. You scold yourself mentally for freezing up like this.
You can see the way Jason’s face shifts. Maybe he noticed how off you are today. He’s always so perceptive, a trait you haven’t yet decided is stupidly attractive or attractively dooming for you. It reminds you of that one time you tried hiding a burn you had gotten in the shop from him, but he still noticed. He walked to the pharmacy across the street just to buy a weird cream you had never heard of, but you appreciated the gesture either way.
No one had really done that for you before. Not without expecting something in return.
He reaches you in just a few steps. You wonder how he moves so quickly. In a way that doesn’t tick you off either. He raises his hands, almost to show he’s trying to calm you down.
“You okay?” He asks, voice laced with concern. His tone is softer, too. Like cigarettes wrapped in velvet fabric.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I feel like a million bucks.”
Who even says that?
You cough, trying to clear your throat. With a tilt of your head, you gesture to the register. Jason follows your gaze. He lets out a small sigh and follows you to the counter.
“So,” you try to force your voice to sound chirpy. It seems wrong. “What can I get you?”
By the look on Jason’s concerned face, you’re sure he noticed the strain in your voice, too. The soft glint in your eyes makes your heart tighten. You can’t take your anger out on him. It’s unfair.
“Is there anything I can do?” Jason offers, and the guilt in his voice makes you want to crawl under the counter.
For a moment, you wonder why he’s so hell-bent on comforting you. Especially when he has nothing to do with your stupid infatuation with a vigilante. Well, you have a small crush on Jason, too, but the future you will be the one who unpacks that.
“It’s nothing,” you lie, already reaching for the yellow Spirits behind the glass. Your fingers fumble with the keys. “Rough night. You know how it is.”
“I don’t,” he says, leaning against the counter. His forearm brushes against the chipped wood. You watch the muscles shift under his skin. “But I’ve got time if you wanna talk about it.”
“You’re buying cigarettes, not listening to me talk all day. This isn’t therapy.”
“Same thing, sweetheart.”
There it is. Sweetheart. The same word Red Hood used. Your brain short-circuits for half a second before you remember—Jason has been calling you that for months. Way before last night.
It doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself. It’s just a word.
“You’re staring,” Jason says, amused.
“I’m obviously glaring,” you correct, shoving the yellow pack across the counter. “There’s a big difference.”
He doesn’t reach for the cigarettes. Instead, he tilts his head—and there. That’s the same tilt. The same one Red Hood used when he found you funny. Your stomach flips.
“You glare at all your customers like that, or just me?”
Two can play that game.
“Just the ones who show up at five o’clock looking like that.”
“Like what?”
You gesture vaguely at all of him. The arms. The chest. The stupid white streak in his hair.
“Like you just walked off a movie set.”
Jason’s grin spreads slowly. You feel heat pool up in your stomach. Suddenly, it feels like you’re back to last night. As if he is again, right in front of you, and you’re not sure how to handle this. How to handle Jason and Red Hood.
God, you’re going to hell. If there’s even one.
“So you have noticed.”
‘I notice when my regulars change their look,” you say, deflecting. “New shirt?”
“This old thing?” He plucks at the fabric, tugging on it a bit too harshly. You wonder if he’s nervous. “You like it?”
Jason—to your surprise and amusement—sounds actually nervous. The idea that you can fluster him lights your skin on fire.
“I liked the leather jacket better.”
“Noted.”
He’s still not taking the cigarettes. He’s just looking at you. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The same way Red Hood looked at you—like you were interesting. Like you weren’t just another cashier.
“You’re doing it again,” you say.
“Doing what?”
"Looking at me like I’m hiding something. Which I am definitely not."
Jason laughs. It’s low, warm, and it does something stupid to your chest.
“Maybe you are hiding something,” he says. “You’re harder to figure out than most.”
“That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received.”
“It’s not backhanded,” he says, and you can get drunk on the flustered tone of his voice. “I’m just bad at words.”
“You’re a regular. You come here three times a week. I’ve learned that you’re not bad at anything.”
His eyebrows go up. “Anything?”
Shit.
“I meant—talking. I meant talking.”
“Sure you did.”
He finally takes the cigarettes. His fingers brush yours—deliberate this time. You’re sure of it. His hand lingers for half a second, in a way that’s longer than necessary.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.
“You’re already here today.”
“And?”
You stare at him. He stares back. The fluorescent light buzzes. The beer cooler rattles. Somewhere outside, a car alarm starts wailing.
“You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?” you say.
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
“Fine. Same time tomorrow.”
“Good.”
He tucks the yellow pack into his back pocket. No jacket today means you can see the outline of his wallet, the curve of his—
Stop it.
But he’s totally doing this on purpose.
Jason steps closer to the counter. You can see the faint freckles dotted across his pale skin. There’s a light scar running down his cheek. You wonder how a motorcycle accident could do all of this. You know he’s hiding something from you. For a second, you wonder what it would feel like to count his freckles and trace the scar.
You can see the muscles in Jason’s shoulders flex as he leans over the counter. His hand reaches for his other pocket. He takes out a lighter you haven’t seen before. A raised cross spreads across its surface, darkened in the grooves.
He places it on the counter between you, sliding it toward you.
You pick it up. It’s heavier than you expected. Warm from being in his pocket. Your thumb traces the engraving. Along the edge of the metal, barely noticeable unless you know to look, a Latin phrase is etched in fine, precise lettering—worn just enough to suggest it is carried often, turned over in someone’s hands.
“What’s this say?”
“Something stupid that I got when I was nineteen.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Light it up for me?”
You look up. “What?”
“The cigarette.” He pulls the yellow pack from his back pocket—when did he grab that?—and taps one out. Holds it between his fingers. Doesn’t move to light it himself, just looks at you. “You’ve got the lighter.”
“You have hands.”
“And you’re holding it.”
The fluorescent light makes his eyes look greener than usual. Or maybe that’s just the angle. Or maybe you’re hallucinating because of what is happening right now.
“You want me to light your cigarette,” you say slowly, “over the counter. In the middle of my shift.”
“I want a lot of things,” he says. “Right now I’m just asking for a light.”
Your heart is doing something stupid. Your hands are definitely not shaking as you flick the lighter. Once. Twice. On the third try, a flame catches.
Jason leans in, closer than he needs to. His fingers brush yours as he brings the cigarette to the flame. His eyes don’t leave yours. You can’t take your gaze off the sea-green color of his eyes.
The cigarette catches. He takes a slow drag. Exhales away from your face—polite, even now—and the smoke curls up toward the flickering lights.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
He picks the lighter off the counter. His fingers linger over yours again.
“Same time tomorrow? Actually, I might be a little late.”
“You’re already here today.”
“And?”
You can’t think of a single clever thing to say. Your brain is full of smoke and green eyes and the weight of a silver lighter that’s no longer in your hand.
“Fine,” you manage. “Same time tomorrow.”
“Good.”
He tucks the lighter back into his pocket. The cigarette hangs from his lips. He’s halfway to the door when you call out.
“You forgot your cigarettes.”
He glances at the yellow pack still sitting on the counter. Then back at you through the smoke.
“No, I didn’t.”
The bell rings.
He’s gone.
+++
The next night is different. The fluorescent lights are too rough on your eyes. The counter is too cold. The rattling of the beer cooler is too loud. Marjorie didn’t drop by today either. You find yourself missing her incessant badgering, even if it does get a bit too much sometimes.
You feel lonely.
Ridiculous.
Maybe it’s because Jason didn’t show up today, and you’ve been staring at the front door like a kicked puppy. You’ve been lied to by him and Red Hood two times already. Or maybe, you’re just a fool to think that either of them would actually show up for you.
You sigh, leaning your elbow over the counter. The cold surface bites at your skin, but you don’t really care. Your thoughts are buzzing in your head nonstop. It’s all like an ambience you want to shut out.
The bell rings.
Your head snaps up, eyes trailing to the door.
A man walks in. Average height. Average build. Grey hoodie. Jeans that don’t quite fit right. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold—or against something else. You can’t tell. His face is the kind you’d forget five seconds after looking away.
Nobody, you think. Just another nobody.
You straighten up anyway, because Marjorie might not be here, but her voice lives in your head rent-free. “Don’t slouch,” she’d say. “Makes you look like you don’t care. Customers can smell apathy.”
“Evening,” you call out, forcing something pleasant into your voice.
He grunts. Doesn’t look at you. Wanders the aisles like he’s searching for something. You watch him pick up a bag of chips. Put it back. A candy bar. Put it back. A Gatorade—blue, the electrolyte one—he holds onto that one.
His hands are shaking.
Late at night, you tell yourself. Long shift. You shake too, sometimes, when you’re running on three hours of sleep and bad coffee. Don’t judge him too quickly. Just mind your own business.
He walks to the counter. Sets the Gatorade down. The bottle thuds against the laminate—harder than it needs to.
“That everything?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the bottle.
“Sir?”
He looks up.
And there it is. That thing in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. He’s not looking at you like a customer—he’s looking at you like you’re not even there.
“Two eighty-nine,” you say, voice smaller than you want it to be.
He reaches for his pocket. Pulls out a crumpled five. Smooths it on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times. His fingers are pale and knuckles white.
You make a change and slide it across. He doesn’t take it.
“Sir? Your change.”
He blinks and pockets the money without counting. “Thanks.”
Then he walks to the door.
Good, you think. He’s leaving. You were wrong. He’s just some guy.
He stops at the door and doesn’t turn around. He keeps just standing there. His one hand is on the frame. The bell is hanging inches from his head.
A cold feeling, like a wretched thing crawls up your spine. Lock the register, you think. Your keys are in your pocket. Lock it. Call—
He turns around.
The Gatorade is still on the counter, just as he left it.
He walks back, and not slow this time—fast. His footsteps don’t echo—they thud. Every step is a warning call.
“I changed my mind,” he says.
“About the Gatorade?”
“About all of it.”
His hand goes to his waistband.
You know before you see it. Before he pulls it out. You know.
The gun is small and black. It’s the kind that fits in a waistband without printing. God, how did you not see it before? He holds it at his side, not pointing it at you yet—but the threat is there.
“Open the register,” he says. His voice isn’t flat anymore; it’s shaking.
A scared man with a gun is worse than an angry one.
Your hands go up automatically. “Okay,” you say. “All right. I’m opening it.”
Your fingers find the keys in your apron. You don’t look away from him. Never look away from the gun.
The register drawer slides open with that familiar ka-ching that’s never sounded so loud before. Now it rings out loudly in your ears over the deathly silence.
“Take it,” you say. “It’s all there. I’m not going to stop you.”
He steps closer, and the gun comes up. It’s pointed at your chest now.
“The safe,” he says. “Open the safe.”
“I don’t have the code. The manager—she doesn’t give it to the night shift. I swear.”
His jaw tightens. His finger moves to the trigger.
This is how I die, you think. In a convenience store that says “PEN” on the door, and just for a register with maybe two hundred dollars in it.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I’m not. Please—”
He reaches across the counter. Grabs your arm, and he grabbed it hard. His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise.
“Then you’re gonna call her. Right now. And you’re gonna get the code.”
“She won’t—she’s asleep, she’s old, she won’t—”
He yanks and pulls you halfway across the counter. Your hip slams into the edge. Pain shoots up your side.
“I said call her.”
Your head hits something on the way down. The corner of the register, or the counter edge. You’re not sure. All you know is white-hot pain and then warm wetness dripping into your hair.
The bell rings.
You barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.
But he does.
The robber turns. Just for a second. Just long enough to see who walked in.
And then he’s not holding you anymore. Because someone else is holding him.
Red Hood moves like water, like something that was never human to begin with. Your eyes can’t even catch up with his movements.
One second, he’s at the door. Next, his hand is wrapped around the robber’s wrist, twisting until you hear something crack. The gun clatters to the floor. The robber screams—a high, wet sound that barely registers in your foggy brain.
You’re on the ground. When did you fall? The linoleum is cold against your cheek. Sticky, too. There’s blood in your eyes. Your blood. From your head.
Oh, you think. That’s not good.
Red Hood doesn’t say a word—he just moves. A punch to the gut. An elbow to the back. The robber crumples like paper, gasping for air he can’t catch. Hood pins him to the ground with a knee to the spine.
You try to push yourself up. Your arms won’t cooperate. They’re shaking. Everything is shaking.
“Stay down,” Hood says. His voice is modulated. But there’s something underneath it. “Don’t move your head.”
You blink. The world swims. The fluorescent lights blur into halos. You can see his boots—heavy, and splattered with something dark—stepping over the robber’s body, coming towards you.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Look at me.”
You try. Your eyes find the helmet. The white lenses. The shine of blood—not his, not his—on his chest plate.
“There you go,” he says. His voice is softer now. The modulator can’t hide that. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
“You came back,” you slur. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.
“Of course I came back.” He crouches down. His gloved hands hover over you, like he wants to touch but doesn’t know where it’s safe. “I said five o’clock, didn’t I?”
“You’re late. So fucking late.”
A sound from under the helmet—a laugh, a broken one. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”
Something falls from his jacket. A glint of silver. It skids across the floor and stops near your outstretched hand.
The lighter.
The silver one. The engraved one. Jason’s.
Your brain snags on it like a needle on a record. That’s—that’s his. That’s the one he put in your hand. The one you flicked. The one that was warm from his pocket.
“That’s,” you start, but the words won’t come. Your vision is going dark at the edges. “That’s Jason’s.”
Hood goes very still.
“Jason,” you repeat, because it’s the only word that matters. “You’re—you’re him. You’re—… oh my god.”
“Don’t,” he says. His real voice. The modulator must have cut out. Or maybe your ears are just giving up. “Don’t talk. Just stay awake. Please.”
You try. You really do. But the dark is pulling at you, soft and heavy, and the last thing you see is the lighter—silver and warm and his—sitting on the dirty floor between you.
The last thing you hear is his panicked voice.
“Stay with me. Don’t—shit. Stay awake. Please.”
Then nothing.
+++
The beeping is the first thing you hear.
You can barely find the strength to open your eyes. Your eyelids feel too heavy. There’s a sterile smell around whatever room you are currently in.
The walls are stark white. They stretch unbroken except for the occasional monitor, its screen blinking in steady, indifferent rhythms. A faint antiseptic smell lingers in the air, sharp and clean, threaded with something metallic beneath it. The bed sits at the center, too narrow, sheets pulled tight.
And, you’re in it.
You look to the side of the bed. There’s a small table near you. On top of it, there is a small card. You try to raise your hand, and it’s a miracle you manage to. You grab the card and open it. Your eye recognizes Marjorie’s handwriting.
Get well soon, kid. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, not much an old lady like me can do. You take all the time you need while you’re at the hospital. The GCPD will investigate this even if I have to break down their door. Call me when you’re ready to talk.
— Marj.
You knew she cared about you. Too bad you had to survive a robbery to get proof of that.
Fuck.
You got robbed. Almost shot at. Just for a few hundred dollar bills and a safe you don’t even know the code to.
You thought you were going to die.
Until he showed up.
You push yourself off the bed. The room spins. Your head throbs. You press a hand to your forehead and feel the bandage there, rough against your fingertips. Stitches. Great.
You look around. You’re in a private room. How the hell did you get a private room? Marjorie can barely afford to keep the store’s lights on. Maybe the hospital made a mistake. Maybe you’re in the wrong bed. Maybe—
The window.
There’s something at the window.
A shape, dark against the night sky. You’re on the third floor—you remember that much from the ambulance ride, the stretcher, the paramedic with kind eyes telling you to stay awake, honey, stay with me—
The shape moves.
A tap, glass against knuckle.
You squint. Your vision is still blurry, but you’d know that silhouette anywhere—the shoulders and the faint movement of dark curls.
Jason is standing on the fire escape.
He doesn’t come in. Just stands there and watches you.
You should be scared. You were scared the first time. But now? Now all you feel is something warm and stupid blooming in your chest.
You reach over and fumble with the window latch. Your fingers are clumsy—the head injury, probably—but you get it open. Cold air rushes in. Gotham smells like rain and exhaust and something that might be smoke in the distance.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says. You can hear the exhaustion underneath.
“You’re not supposed to be on a fire escape,” you shoot back. Your voice comes out hoarse. “Looks like both of us are starting this conversation in horrible ways. But I could scream, and they’d drag you out of here.”
“You wouldn’t,” he tilts his head, like he’s daring you to try.
He could probably cover the distance between you in a second. He’d have his hand over your mouth before you could even let out a squeak.
Why are you imagining his hand on your mouth right now?
“Are you gonna come in?” you ask, trying to get your mind out of the gutter. “Or are you gonna stand out there all night like a creep?”
His hair is a mess—curls sticking up everywhere, the white streak catching the dim light from the monitors. There’s a cut on his cheekbone, fresh. Dark circles under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. He’s wearing the same black shirt from before, the one cut off around the forearms, and you can see the scars now with new eyes. You’re sure the scars are not from a motorcycle.
“You look like shit,” you say.
He laughs. “You’re one to talk.”
“Fair.”
He climbs through the window, but doesn’t sit on the bed—stands near it, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets. The jacket is different tonight. You wonder if he’s wearing anything like armor underneath it. Or maybe, tonight, he’s just your Jason, not Red Hood. Or maybe both. They have always been the same. You were just too blind to see it.
“The lighter,” you say.
He goes still.
“It fell out of your pocket. During the fight. I saw it.”
Jason stares at you. Something passes over his face—fear, maybe, or relief. You still haven’t quite figured that one out, yet.
“I know,” he says.
“Is that how you wanted me to find out? Or did you just get sloppy?”
He flinches. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. You were bleeding. You passed out. I—” He stops. His jaw tightens, as if he’s chewing on words he can’t bring himself to say.
“You what?”
“I panicked.” The words come out rough. Broken. “I don’t panic. I don’t. But you were on the ground, and there was blood in your hair, and I thought—I thought you were—” He can’t finish the sentence.
You reach out. Your hand finds his. His fingers are cold—from the fire escape, from the night, from whatever he was doing before he got here. You hold on anyway.
“I’m not dead,” you say.
“I can see that. And you’re not good at bedside manners.”
“So stop looking at me like I’m gonna disappear. Plus, I’m the one in the hospital bed. If anyone has to work on their bedside manners, it’s you.” You jab a finger in his chest. The skin behind the fabric of the jacket feels like a wall.
Definitely not the time to be thinking about his chest.
He looks down at your hands. Then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. The tension cracks.
He doesn’t talk right away. Instead, he pulls his hand around you—gently, like he’s afraid of hurting you, and reaches into his jacket pocket. When his hand comes back out, he’s holding the lighter.
The silver-engraved one. He turns it over in his fingers.
“I came back for it. After the ambulance took you. It was still on the floor.”
“So you didn’t come to see me?”
He gives you a look. That look, the one that says you know exactly why I’m here.
“I came to see you,” he says. “I’ve been out there for three hours.”
“Three hours?”
“You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”
You stare at him. This man. This impossible man. Buys cigarettes from you three times a week. Calls you sweetheart like it’s your actual name. Climbed through your hospital window at—what, two in the morning?—just to make sure you were okay.
“You’re an idiot,” you say.
“I’ve been told.”
“A stupid idiot.”
“Also been told. Also, stupid and idiot are synonyms.”
You grab his wrist. Pull him toward the bed. He stumbles—actually stumbles, like you’ve caught him off guard—and ends up sitting on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell the smoke on his jacket and the gunpowder. It’s intoxicating. It reminds you of the time his nose was almost brushing yours as you lit his cigarette.
“You’re staying,” you say.
“I can’t—”
“You can. The nurses don’t come in until six. That’s—” you glance at the clock on the wall, the one with the cracked glass that reminds you of the store, “—four hours. You’re staying for four hours.”
“Four hours,” he repeats.
“And then you’re gonna come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And you’re gonna keep coming back until I’m out of here. And then you’re gonna come to the store. And you’re gonna buy your stupid yellow cigarettes or the Marlboro ones, I don’t care. And you’re gonna let me light them for you. With your lighter. And you will ask me out on a date. Preferably not one that starts in a convenience store.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s a lot of demands for someone who just woke up from a concussion.”
“I’m very good at multitasking.”
He laughs again, and it’s louder this time.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Okay. Four hours. And I will take you out on that date.”
He doesn’t leave after four hours. Instead, he stays until the sun comes up.
The nurses find him there in the morning— asleep in the visitor’s chair, his hand wrapped around yours, the silver lighter sitting on the bedside table.
They don’t ask questions. Thank god.
This is Gotham, after all.
⋆˙⟡ taglist: @coffeelovingreader @cherryseascns @yuunarii-arii @simpingmyassoff (if anyone wants to be added or removed please let me know).
Jason wants to know why his girlfriend doesn’t sing around him + dancing together in the kitchen. reader who can’t sing well/has a bad singing voice basically. #projecting time cause i’ve literally programmed myself to not sing around people🫶 this is SO self indulgent so jay gets a little ooc towards the end like SERIOUSLY 😭
Singing draws Jason to the kitchen, fresh out of the shower, hair still damp as he runs a towel through it, a thin dark grey shirt stretched across his upper body and sweatpants around his lower, his skin moist as steam from the bathroom following him as he softly exists the bedroom, padding softly without a sound.
Music plays through a cheap speaker, one that you had an unreasonable attachment to, insisting that music just sounded better from it. The music blasted through the kitchen, not too loud to disturb the neighbours but just loud enough to be satisfying to sing along, and sing along you did.
Your voice was free, in a way Jason had never heard before, loud and unrestrained as you sang along to one of your favourite songs. You were off-key, considerably so, and your voice broke every so often, you’d loose your breath mid-lyric, taking a breath before continuing on. All as you didn’t register Jason leaning against the doorframe.
It was one of the small things that tugged at Jason’s brain during his quiet moments, when he was left alone with his thoughts and you weren’t there to reassure him. You loved music, not only did you voice it but there was always music playing in the apartment, either in your headphones or through the speaker.
Whenever Jason was around, you’d mumble the words along, not singing, just your lips silently moving with the pleasant sounds but never singing. Anytime it was just you, he’d hear your voice through the walls but you’d stop the moment you heard his footsteps. You’d smile when you see him, brightly and with love, and go back to just mumbling along.
Even now, the only reason you were still singing was because you were distracted with throwing spices into the pan in front of you, whatever dinner you were cooking up. Jason’s arms were crossed across his chest, such a loving smiles stretched across his lips. Goodness, even if you were the worst singer on the planet, Jason would listen to you screech for hours and days, because all he wanted to do, was to see you free and happy.
You continue singing without care, bringing up the spatula to act as a microphone as you swayed your head to the music and sang your heart out. Then, you caught the slightest movement across the corner of your eyes that causes your entire body to jump backwards. “Fuck!”
“Just me, baby.” Jason holds his hands up defensively, that lovesick smile still pressed on his lips. “Oh my gosh!” You exclaimed, your hand clutching your chest at the fright he gave you. You knew your boyfriend was a vigilante but you never got quite used to how silent his presence was.
Jason holds his hands up still defensively as he pushed off the door and moved through the space, turning to corner to stand behind you. You don’t glare up at him, but glance up nervously like he would say something.“Sorry, princess. ‘M sorry.” Jason apologises again into your ear and his hands surrounded your waist, hugging you from the back as you continued cooking.
You turned your head, pressing a kiss to his cheek, you could feel the dampness on his skin. You lean back just a moment and look at him with a crease between your eyebrows but Jason just…smiles at you. You press another kiss, on the same spot then turned back to the pan.
You continue to hum along to the song as you sway and Jason sways with you. He presses a kiss to your head, warm arms around you and a comfortable atmosphere settled in the kitchen. The song switches as it ends, another song you adored by the same artist, a song that even Jason knew the words to because of how much you played it.
“Why do you stop singing the moment I show up?”
Jason’s soft question startled you slightly, your hand pausing just a moment before you continue stirring. It was your turn, you and him took turns cooking alternate days and it was your turn. He presses another kiss to your earlobe. “Hm?” You prompt him to explain.
“You sing so much, you love singing. But you stop whenever you hear me around. Why?” Jason asks, voice soft to not overpower the music, both of your bodies still swaying. You stay quiet for a few moments, collecting your thoughts and honestly trying not to cry. “‘Cause I sound bad.” Is what you settle on finally.
“No, you don’t.” Jason counters immediately, causing you to snort a laugh as the blatant lie, the sounds in turn causing Jason to frown. “Do not lie to me.” You retort. You loved to sing, but you knew since you were younger that you didn’t sounds quite nice when you did. So you stopped in an audience.
“Okay. You don’t sound bad to me.” Jason whispers again, his voice slightly gravely in your ear. The tips of your lips quirk up as you shake your head. “Nothing about me is bad to you.” You weren’t wrong. You’d never felt so loved, the unconditional nature of Jason’s love unnerved you sometimes.
“Mhm. Exactly.” Jason agreed. The song in the background dips into a calmer tone, a jazzier turn and Jason takes that as a sign to pull the spatula away from your hand, despite your playful chuckle of his name, and he turns you with his gentle calloused hands on your waist, pulling you away from the stove and into a dance.
You giggle, you’ve done this exact dance with him about a hundred times maybe as he spins you and pulls you back into close embrace. Jason leans down, pressing his lips to yours as you smile into the kiss. “You could sound like a velociraptor and I’d still think it’s the most beautiful song in the world.” He murmurs right against your lips without pulling away.
“Fuckin’ loverboy.” You murmur back as you both continue swaying and moving around the kitchen in dance, stealing kisses between musical beats. “Yeah…Your loverboy.” Jason drawls
ᯓ★'s P.S. almost cried as i wrote this and oh my gosh it got SO self indulgent at the end omg forgive me.
don't forget to comment and reblog if you enjoyed!
← ゛masterlist ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆
taglist꩜ .ᐟ ALL WORKS @hepprine, @apollos-notes, @cenna-luna, @solasyra, @vanillakirstein, @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12, @lovehadlovelost, @buckybarnesismyhusband, @xxreyofsunshinexx, @amandjslpz, @punkrockrr, @artisticmindsunite-blog, @freakkay09, @champagnesbiggestproblem, @shazzark, @winchesterslullaby, @bat2nsignia, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @arfemiz
ALL DC WORKS @indigoscribe, @t1mbits, @coastalcowgirlie, @uxavity, @jaydennicole, @shadowviolets, @athenxt, @soggywhore, @rayaofstarlight, @madi-iii, @kekeanna266, @skin2bone111, @fanficboysarebae, @willow-vixen, @fairyspcll, @mathpotstew, @thesunshoe
JASON TODD WORKS @avengingangel14, @cherrylicious03, @the-ultimate-quokka, @drdeathifying, @queenofviolenceandnerds, @rainystrangerwasteland, @caterppillar, @profoundgreenturtle, @celestills, @only-dot-nicky, @sirenoftheeast, @s0zzbat, @vampiranne, @kiraflowersworld
just imagine drunk cigs with jason, him putting the cigarette in your mouth, friends laughing as the beer and cheap cocktails flow through you. you’re heart bustling as your knees hit his own, sat on his lap, you don’t remember how you got there. his warm body heat against the outside cold, a small party full of friends. little breaths against him, as you sip your drink and laughter fills your lungs more than the smoke. every breath is cherished as it’s another moment with him.
Summary: You just finished your first read of what soon becomes your favorite book series, and now you have to beg your gothic literature obsessed boyfriend to read a young adult fantasy trilogy.
Pairing: Jason Todd x Amazonian!Reader
Word Count: 3.3k
Content Warning: Fluff, crack fic, small bantering, maybe a little cheesy, chill bf/dramatic gf dynamic, cursing, second person, no use of y/n, the folk of the air SPOILERS
A/N: This is for this request from @inesvisible !!! Thank you so much for it, i had WAY too much fun writing this. As always I hope you enjoy
•───────•°•🕮•°•───────•
The book closes with a thud in your lap. Head in your hands you begin mumbling versions of “ohmygod” and “holy shit” under your breath repeatedly.
From the other side of the couch, your boyfriend lifts his gaze from his book with a cracked spine and raises an eyebrow at you. An amused smile creeps onto his face as he watches you digest the last pages of your book. It might be a little odd, but Jason always enjoyed watching you read.
The reading dates you would set up were some of his favorites. You’d make cookies, tea, light a couple of candles, and the tv echoed with a soft jazz of whatever hour-long animal crossing video you’d found on YouTube (from what you’d told him, they made you feel less lonely). You’d never get more than two pages in until you started making faces, the expressions that would cross your features made him feel like he was reading the book with you. At some points you’d start mumbling the scenes to yourself without realizing. It was such a stark contrast to how Jason read; he typically needed complete silence to focus, maybe a lamp next to him, and he wouldn’t move from his spot on the couch for hours on end. He’d have one pen, possibly a highlighter to annotate if he was feeling colorful.
The only thing you both had in common while reading was how immersed you both got. The tea would cool to a lukewarm temperature, Roku City would cast a purple hue across the living room long after the YouTube playlist ended, the world could be ending outside, but you would both still be on the couch. The only interruption of the night being when you reached across the small expanse of the couch, in order to push his reading glasses back up the bridge of his nose when they’d slid down too far.
It was perfect.
“Did you enjoy your book baby?” His voice not quite succeeding in hiding the amusement of your reaction.
Your hands pause momentarily from wiping down your face and meet his painfully green eyes, awe painted across your cheeks. “It. Was. PERFECT.” He knew right then what was about to happen. So, he shut his own book delicately placing the pen between the pages and sat cris cross on the couch waiting for the inevitable rant that followed every one of your books. “Jason, I can’t even put into words how fantastic this trilogy was- I want to read them all again already.”
He snorted while watching you flail your hands around while explaining the plot. His eyes momentarily glanced down to the unassuming cover. You paid no mind to his drifting eyes and continued explaining how a human girl became the queen of the fae, something about not wanting to kill a snake because it was actually her husband, how she killed it and actually got her husband back, and how the main character finally got some form of peace in the end. He nodded along cataloguing every word that left your mouth.
“Jason you don’t get it,” apparently his small nods and hums wasn’t the response you were looking for tonight. “All she wanted for the three books was power, it’s all she worked toward. She would never make deals with the faeries, she never trusted them, never did anything to sacrifice her power. But when he turns into a snake, she starts begging to any higher up to bring him back.” He watched your hands brush through the roots of your hair, testing to see if that will help you conceptualize the brain altering series you just finished. “She says she’ll make any bargain- that she would even resign from her position as the queen to get him back. Do you know how insane that is for her to admit? It’s not out of character exactly, but that level of desperation. Oh my goodness it was life changing, that level of yearning is so ugh.”
He smiles at your recollection of the novel. You always spoke so much more passionately than him, the way your eyes sparkled after you finished a story rivaled every masterpiece in the Louvre. Jason always admired how you wore your heart on your sleeve. Despite to what he’d admit, you were both emotionally driven, but you were the only one who was proud of it.
“Jay, you have to read it.”
That brought him right back to earth.
Now, Jason is always taking book recommendations, but he had his lane and he liked to stay in it. He knew what genres he liked, what he enjoyed; so, he very rarely experimented outside of it.
“Baby…” he draws out the nickname, and you don’t even let him finish. Crawling over the mess of blankets on the couch, you sit up on your knees in front of him.
Hands clasped together your head is looking down and he’s trying to bite back the nervous grin at your display. “Please Jay, pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseeeeeee.”
He sighs out your name, and you look up at him hopefully. “You know I prefer reading classics.” Convincing him to read YA fantasy was going to be a difficult task, but you weren’t going to give up yet.
Dropping your hands you frown at him. His eyes narrow at the expression, he knew your tactics. “No-” was all he got out before you dropped the bomb.
“If you don’t love me just say that.”
He groaned and threw his head back. “C’mon don’t get like that.”
“I’m just stating the facts, Jason.” He brings his gaze back to yours, with a painting on his features that couldn’t be described as anything but unimpressed. Propping an elbow on the back of the couch you sigh in mock devastation while resting your head on your hand. “What’s a girl supposed to believe when her boyfriend won’t even read a book for her.”
He pursed his lips at the obvious manipulation. At his reaction, you stand from the couch. He tries to grab your arm to pull you back in, but you wiggle out of his grasp. It didn’t matter how much he worked out or that he was double your size, his strength was always going to be child’s play to you.
You pick up your book from where it fell on the floor, and your name falls from his lips like a plea.
That’s when it hit you.
You’re not entirely sure why that made it click, but you knew how to convince him to read the book. Turning away from him with a smirk, you walk the seven steps to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
His eyes are on your back the whole time. You hum for a moment before announcing, “No Jason I get it, it’s fine.” Alarm bells started ringing in his head, t levels of passive aggressiveness you could reach needed to be studied. That’s when you turn back to look at him, leaning against the kitchen counter, book still in hand. “But I’m sure if Diana asked, you would have finished them by tomorrow.”
His jaw practically unhinged at your statement with a scoff of disbelief.
When you were first introduced to his family a couple of months ago, his brothers teased him relentlessly. At first, you weren’t quite sure why they were poking fun at him with the fact that he was dating Wonder Girl. The general assumption was just that this is how brothers act, and you were the first girl he had brought home.
But after one too many comments about being Wonder Girl, you turned to Jason and asked a question that was supposed to be just for the two of you. Unfortunately for Jason, Dick heard. He practically howled when he heard you ask about why his siblings had a Wonder Girl obsession. Bruce did try to calm him down but it was no use; Dick had grown a shit-eating grin with a red-faced Jason threatening him from across the table. That’s when he betrayed his deepest secret.
Jason Todd’s childhood crush was Diana.
That’s when it clicked. Apparently, he was obsessed with Wonder Woman and Dick had to hear all about it in his early days as Nightwing. Alfred even pulled out a picture of Jason in a Wonder Woman sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, he couldn’t have been over than nine. He was missing one of his front teeth, but that didn’t stop him from smiling like he’d won the lottery. The photo was probably the cutest thing you’d ever laid your eyes on, Jason doesn’t know it, but Alfred gave you a copy of the picture. It’s treasured, hidden behind the photo framed on your nightstand.
His crush on Diana was the most innocent secret, and Jason had acted like someone had uncovered a body he’d hidden. He was nothing short of mortified when you found out, but behind the deep flush and scars on his cheeks you saw his freckles. A small ounce of evidence that the eight-year-old boy who became Robin was still there behind the years of cruelty.
There at that dining table, watching his family tease him, felt like a scab was healing. Because here, Jason Todd was more than just the Robin who once stared death in the eye. He was more than the child who watched the world fail him. He was the boy who let himself believe in magic again and allowed himself to fall in love.
Yet as much as you loved him, you never let him forget about his crush. It was most likely why he didn’t tell you or wanted you to find out. This was your favorite fact about him, and you used it against him constantly. It got to the point he made you agree to a truce where you wouldn’t bring it up anymore. He had actually begged you, dropped down onto his knees and all.
He knew you never meant it in a serious way. It was just really funny to you that he had a crush on your Diana, and the fact that he was embarrassed about it made it that much better. There was really no shame in having a crush on her either, it was a prepubescent rite of passage. It was harder to name people who didn’t have a crush on her at some point.
His eyes narrowing at you brings you back to the moment, “you said you wouldn’t use that anymore.”
“Yeah well, my word isn’t worth much.”
There’s a wrinkle in between his eyebrows from the confusion. “What the hell is that supposed to mean.”
Raising your arm with the book in hand, “you’d get it if-” you chuck the book at him. “You read the book.” The paperback hits him square in the chest and he catches it with his left hand, keeping it there for a second.
He rolls his eyes, but there’s a smirk he’s trying to hide. He never thought he’d get this life- to have someone who would laugh and read with him. He never believed he’d be gifted someone who would be soft with him despite all his rough edges.
Had it been anyone else, he would’ve told them to fuck off and forget about the book. For all his vices, his one virtue was that he could never deny you anything. He supposes that’s why he resigns to the idea. He was already picturing the smile on your face when he’d ask you about it. He could draw the way your eyes would shut from smiling so wide from memory.
So, with a deep sigh he throws his head back and mutters, “Fine, but I’m only reading the firs-”
Before he can even open his eyes or finish the sentence, your arms are wrapped around his head.
Your head was buried in the crook of his neck and the force from which you shot yourself across the room made him fell back into the couch. His hand instantly went to cradle the back of your head, with the other rested on your back as you laid on top of him.
You stayed like that momentarily, just lying there holding each other. The scent of your floral perfume felt like a breath of fresh air in the Gotham pollution he was accustomed too. Then after a second of him being able to breath again, all the air in his lungs is robbed from him as you prop yourself up over him. When he looks up at you, he thinks he can finally die happy. The way your hair falls around your face, the remnants of a laugh on your lips, the way you look incandescently happy behind your eyes- it was as if he was falling in love all over again.
“You’re going to love it, I promise.”
He gives you an “mhm,” since it was all his brain could manage to put together. He knew he would find some joy in it, even if he ended up not being fond of the book. If anything was tied to you, he would love it. It may not be his genre of choice, but he would find you in between the pages and that was enough.
•───────•°•🕮•°•───────•
As the days passed you could tell he was slowly getting more and more into the book. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, he was invested. You could tell by the little comments he’d give you as he read. He would pause in between reading and give you an inquisitive look if you were near, or he would shoot you a text or call. It made you laugh with every development from the first book.
“This Locke guy is giving me weird vibes.”
“Are you sure about Cardan? He’s kind of a dick.”
“Why won’t Madoc just let her be a knight? It’s not that serious.”
The updates he was giving you from the first book made you remember how much you’d forgotten.
“Dain’s bad news isn’t he?”
It was frustrating how easily he could decipher books and predict what are supposed to be shocking twists. There was Bruce to thank for that.
The call came in while you were watering your plants in your apartment.
“Madoc killed the royal family?”
The shock in his voice made you laugh.
“I told you, you’d enjoy it.”
He scoffed on the phone.
The next time you saw him he had finished the book. It was just a night for both of you to relax together after a long week. You weren’t sure of the specifics, but you knew he and Bruce were trying to crack down on something down at the Iceberg Lounge. He was burning himself out slowly but surely. And in a last-minute effort to give him a break, you planned one of your famous “wind down nights” with him.
He was currently lying on top of you and letting out soft moans into your neck while you played with his hair. For all his tough guy act, he really did love coming home and getting to just be an unapologetic version of himself with you. He didn’t have to be Robin, Red Hood, Bruce Wayne’s ward, he was just Jason.
And for the first time in his life, he knew that was enough.
“You can admit you liked the book y’know” Your voice came out breathless while his arms tightened around your waist.
He does nothing but hum into your frame. Shaking your head, you shift your head slightly and pull at the roots of his hair so that he can actually see you. Giving him a knowing look, he sighs in resignation.
“Yeah I thought it was good.” He mumbles.
You snort. “Wow I didn’t know it would be such a sacrifice to admit you liked something that wasn’t published a minimum of a hundred years ago.”
He sticks his tongue out at you in response.
A small huff of laughter escapes you, before you kiss his nose. “I saw you swipe the second book anyway. I knew you liked it regardless of what you said.”
“Then why make me say anything?”
“Because I wanted to hear you say that I was right.”
He rolls his eyes with no malice behind them. “I always tell you you’re right.”
Shrugging your shoulders, a sly grin grows on your face. “Still nice to hear.”
Then after a shake of his head, he leans in. The kiss was slow but passionate, full of everything he never had to say, that he was completely and irrevocably yours.
When he pulls away he’s got a wicked look in his eye.
“I think of you often, I can’t stop.”
It was a quote from the book- meant to be endearing you’re sure. But you can’t stop yourself from cringing at him.
“Oh my god,” you push him while you scrunch your nose and he laughs like he got the reaction he wanted. “You’re so cheesy you know that right.”
“Only for you baby.” He mutters retaking his place in the crook of your neck. “Only for you.”
•───────•°•🕮•°•───────•
Bonus:
“Stop moving your going to mess it up.”
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” He mutters while looking at your work.
His left hand is held in between both of yours. Your hunched over the bed while the brush of the black nail polish paints his nails.
“Jason It’s Halloween,” you mumble while focusing. “It’s not exactly unheard of to do a couple’s costu- There!” You pull away as you finish the final stroke.
He looks ever the part of the High King and you can’t help but snort.
“What’s so funny?”
“Well, it’s a little ironic no?” At the blank look on his face you decide to specify. “Well in the books Cardan is one of the fae and Jude is mortal. And well, I’m the Amazonian and you’re the human.”
“Is that one of the reasons you liked the book? It reminded you of us?”
“I mean a little bit, Jude reminded me of you though.”
There was an incredulous look across his face. “Really?”
“Yeah,” the answer was honest as it spilled from your lips. “When I first met you, you had the same distrust for the world which was warranted- for both of you. Then slowly, you started letting people into your circle and you actually became someone you were comfortable with. You see the same growth from Jude through the three books, and it reminded me of you.”
He looks stunned, as if he was watching you unlock the inner workings of his mind. You didn’t want to freak him out too much with the psychoanalyzing, so you dropped a little joke.
“You’re both also freakishly hot.”
He knew what you were doing. You’d done it more times than he could count. You had a habit of saying something funny when the air got to serious at a time that might not be appropriate. Yet, he couldn’t ignore what you said.
You’d seen him. He had been recommended so many books over the course of his life, but no one had shaped the recommendation because they saw a version of himself in a book. It was something he never knew he wanted. The version of himself that you were referencing wasn’t one he necessarily loved, but it still made his heart flutter. To know that someone saw every ugly nook and cranny there was of him and still chose to be with him at the end of the day. That someone would be there on the good days and the bad.
To know that someone loved him completely and blindly. He knew you loved him, but this made it feel like he was hearing it for the first time all over again.
He pulls you impossibly close to where you can taste his breath on your tongue,
“By you I am undone forever.”
•───────•°•🕮•°•───────•
A/N: Sooooooo this is my finally deciding that I’m going to do a reread of tfota.
steph who off-handedly mentions her time as robin in front of red hood once in the middle of a fight and he has no idea what she's talking about. when she regales damian—who's obsessed with the legacy of robin and his predecessors—he's just as surprised as hood. pure, genuine confusion, without a hint of malice. on her deathbed bruce told her of course you were robin. she only found out what his name was after he died. nobody ever brings up the fourth robin, the girl robin, in front of her except to berate her for being reckless and discourage her from being batgirl. tim was—is—furious that steph faked her death. she thought she was dead. her heart stopped. leslie wouldn't let her go back to gotham until she could move without fear of collapsing at any second. she still gets tremors, still feels overly cold no matter how warm it is. there were little girls she saved from muggings who looked up at robin with adoration in their eyes. nobody talks about steph being robin. batman held her hand when she died and promised her that her baby would be okay. steph is back and batman is dead. when she stands in the cave there is only one memorial for a dead robin. she can still perfectly remember the magical feeling of her first patrol by by batman's side, partners for once. steph doesn't know if bruce stayed by her side after her heart stopped, or what happened to her robin suit, which she hasn't seen since she last wore it. she doesn't know who to ask. she's not sure she wants to know the answer.
summary: roy harper — who has been crushing on you since forever — is finally brave enough to woo you. the problem? you have crippling anxiety and can't seem to understand why he wants to hang out with you so bad.
content: college au, gn!nerdy!reader x popular guy!roy, fluff, reader is anxious and oblivious, reader is mentioned to have hair long enough to be braided (but you could skip that part), the writer doesn't know how archery works and has never been to a ren faire </3
wc: 2.5k
a/n: this fic is the first chapter to a short multi-part story i came up for roy !! i just love the premise of a shy nerdy/geeky reader being paired up with an outgoing popular guy roy. please let me know if you want part 2 to come out sooner 😼 + thank u to the lovely @lechelovestoyap for beta reading this and listening to my yaps 🫦
As a college student, you've been confused about a lot of things. Staring at your study material for hours at a time, trying to comprehend what you're learning and feeling a sense of regret over choosing your major wasn't a rare occurrence — but that was the beauty of education, you always find an answer in the end, no matter how confused you started off.
But this? You're still confused about this.
You're not in Roy Harper's league — you've told yourself this multiple times tonight, but here he was, leaning against the house with his body facing yours, looking at you like you're some sorority girl guys like him seem to love. Why the hell was he talking to someone like you?
"Hey, y'listening?" He asked, his smile dropping just a little as he noticed your lack of enthusiasm.
"Yeah — Yeah." You stuttered, clearing your throat to compose yourself. "Sorry, it's just… the music here's too loud. There's too many people." It was why you retreated to the backyard in the first place, drinking your punch while you waited for your friends to tell you they were about to leave.
You're not meant for house parties, no matter how many times you try to go through them for exposure therapy. For one, you had no clue how to talk to the average college student outside of your own circle of nerds and geeks. Apart from that issue, no one ever wanted to talk to you, so you never had the chance to practice social interaction anyway.
Roy was an exception, for whatever reason.
He chuckled, nodding as he crossed his arms, his gaze still on you. You seriously just want to choke him and ask why he's here, giving you the time of day. "Yeah, damn right. Don't get me wrong — I like partying, but when everyone's making out and getting freaked out, I leave."
"Really?" As soon as that word comes out of your lips, you feel like a dickhead. Great! Now Roy goddamn Harper — one of the most popular guys on campus — was going to think you see him as some hedonistic asshole.
Thankfully, he just shrugged it off with that stupid annoying agitating definitely-not-charming smile of his. "I like to have fun, but I also like to be alone, y'know. Guys have social batteries too."
"Right," you said dryly, taking a sip out of your fruit punch.
At the sudden quietness, Roy's smile slightly dropped again. "Hey, y'know… If I'm bothering you—"
You immediately spat out the fruit punch you were drinking onto the grass. "Oh my gosh — No. I'm—" You paused, taking a deep breath to gather yourself, "Look, I appreciate your company. I don't want you to go away. I'm just… I'm really awkward, Roy."
He's staring at you with a raised eyebrow; you just continued talking. "I… uh, don't know how to talk to people. I have zero conversational skills. I swear I don't actually hate you or anything." I'm also confused why you're here with me instead of hanging with your friends, you wanted to say, but held back.
"Uh, no biggie." He eventually said, biting back a chuckle. Slowly, he straightened up, leaning closer to you. "What can I do to make you talk?"
You were left agape in genuine surprise. He seriously, seriously could not be this eager to talk to you. "I…" You blink a few times, looking at him as a smirk slowly appeared on his face, "I like talking about my interests, I guess."
His eyes darted down to your t-shirt for a second. It's an old, thrifted tee that just says TALK NERDY TO ME. It's not exactly party attire, but your other shirts were at the laundry. It was the only clean shirt you had left.
An imaginary light bulb lights up next to Roy's head after he read your shirt. "Well don'cha say." He mumbled before clearing his throat. Roy then bows down, offering you his hand. "I have a proposition. In an attempt of trying to crack open thy stubborn shell, I hereby am offering my esteemed companionship to the Renaissance Faire next weekend. Pray tell, what say you, my liege?"
You look at him like he's grown a second, radioactive head. "Roy...?"
"Please," he said, remaining bowed down.
You're trying to deny him, you really are. But unfortunately for you, he's successfully winning you over — it's cute, even though you wouldn't let yourself admit that. "…Fine." You sighed, crossing your arms. "How'd you know there was Ren Faire?"
He stands up straight again, giving you a bright smile. "My roommate's friend's a volunteer who's gonna be working there." He answered, "Thought you'd like going to some nerdy place like that."
Before you could answer with a smartass reply, a voice makes your body jump. "Hey!" The two of you turned around to see one of your friends — who was clearly a little tipsy — waving her hand at you. "We're gonna head home now!"
You gave her a nod before turning to face his smirking face again. "Of course I would." You said, rolling your eyes at him, "But since you're the one who's so insistent on getting to know me, you're driving me there."
Roy mirrored your eye roll, nodding his head, "Yeah, yeah. Sure thing, babe."
You gag, immediately punching his arm before walking towards your friends. "Yeah — don't even think about calling me that. You're not my type." You told him, meaning every single word … or at least you think so.
You could hear that low, resonant chuckle once again. "Fine." he said, slipping his hands into his pockets, "See you next week!"
You tousled your hair a little to give it a more worn out look. You made sure the braids were intact — hopefully strong enough to last the entire day. After making sure your hair looked good enough, you stepped in front of your mirror, shifting your focus to your outfit. You're dressed as a wee traveller, clad in linen fabric that came in beige and other earthy tones. Your clothes were accessorized with a potion belt, a satchel, and the coolest thing you own — a hooded cape.
As a finishing touch, you took out the fake elf ears you had stored in your drawers. You finally look like someone straight out of some random D&D campaign. Perfect for your day at the ren faire.
Despite the feeling of nervousness that came from the thought of hanging out with Roy, you're excited. It's been a while since you've dressed up for an event you actually like. As you were busy with your touch-ups, your phone buzzed.
[9:47 am] Roy Harper: Hey hey hey
[9:47 am] Roy Harper: I'm outside!!!
You take one last look at yourself, taking a deep breath.
You're going out with Roy Harper. It's not a big deal.
When you walked outside, you saw him leaning against his car. Roy's wearing an old off-white shirt, tucked into a pair of tight brown pants with matching leather boots. A red leather vest compliments the brown tones and his orange hair — you could tell he put in a lot of effort to look cool.
Your eyes widened in admiration when you saw the quiver on his back. The arrows were peace-tied, and the bow you just noticed he'd been holding was strung with yarn. "Do I look cool or what?" He grinned, taking a step back to let you judge his outfit.
You feel your earlier nerves calm down a little. Maybe there was a nerdier side of Roy that you never knew existed. "…Yeah. You look cool, Roy." You smiled softly.
He reciprocates the smile, feeling a little giddy at your compliment. "Anyway," Roy walks over to the door of the passenger side of his car, opening the door for you. "Let's go."
As soon as you hear a medieval rendition of Shakira's Hips Don't Lie being blasted on the hidden speakers, you feel like yourself again.
The Renaissance Faire is the same as it ever was. People were dressed as if they were storybook protagonists — from elven rogues clad in black with sheathed daggers, to knights with shining armour that would've taken months to finish, everyone put in tons of effort into their appearance. There were even some who painted their skin a different colour, attaching prosthetics to cosplay as an Orc or a Tiefling.
While you were busy walking around, searching for the artisan marketplace, Roy's left walking a few steps behind you. His eyes and mouth remained slightly agape as he took in the surroundings and the lively atmosphere of the fair — he felt like he's been dropped straight into Middle Earth.
"You good?" You asked, seeing the way he slowed his steps.
"I'm in tip-top shape." He answered, turning around and walking backward as he took in his surroundings. "That guy's costume is sick!"
"It sure is," you agreed, putting your hand on his biceps to pull him away. When your fingers wrapped around the muscle, you swore you lost your breath. Of course it's hard — you're well aware of the fact that he's built, but feeling the muscle for yourself? It made your legs weak for just a second.
When you reach the art markets, you're already sure that you were gonna spend the next few hours walking in circles here. You bit your lower lip, thinking of what to purchase. More dices? Cool looking overpriced crystal necklaces? Handwoven baskets for you to hold as you skip through an imaginary enchanted forest?
As you looked around, you found a stall that sold sparkly dice sets that were perfect for your growing collection. While the starry resin captivated you, Roy got a little sidetracked.
"Thank you!" you chirped, taking your new dice set from the seller. After you kept it in your pocket, you noticed a growing crowd near the archery range. From a distance, you could hear the crowd gasp in sync, eagerly watching the landing point of the arrows.
You'd planned to watch from a far, having no interest to be pushed around and swept up by the enormous crowd. However, you immediately pushed those plans aside when you saw him, standing at the far edge of the archery range, the last contestant in line.
Roy was now holding a longbow you assumed he rented prior to the competition. His focused face lit up as soon as he saw you push past the crowd, trying to get a better look at him. He gave you an excited wave, feeling the thrill of having you watch him compete.
It's his turn now. The earlier excitement evaporates in a millisecond; Roy's in focus mode once again, taking a deep breath before he draws his arrow, narrowing his eyes to get a clearer shot.
You're unsure of what to expect; was Roy even sure of what he's doing?
Slowly, the archer breathed out, letting go of the arrow and putting your worries to rest. "BULLSEYE!" the announcer cheered, jumping with excitement. The crowd erupted in applause, no doubt fueling Roy's already-large ego.
You're left breathlessly grinning, looking at Roy with nothing but pure shock written on your face. "What?!" you squealed, pushing your hair back in disbelief. Roy just shrugged, giving you a smirk.
Then it was the second round. It was fifteen yards away now. Some of the lesser skilled archers earner lower points, missing the bullseye by a far distance. Roy, however, never ceased to impress you and the crowd.
Once again, he hits bullseye. He keeps the smirk on his face as the roar of the crowd temporarily deafens him with their cheers. Roy brushed off some imaginary dust from his shoulder before turning to face you again. You were the only person in the crowd he wanted to see.
You're biting your nails when the last round comes. The target was now twenty five yards away, with Roy's points almost being tied with another archer's. You felt as though the game went by too quickly, with most of the contestants earning lower points because of the distance.
The other archer's arrow lands a centimeter or two away from the bullseye, still accumulating a good amount of points. As the audience's attention focused on Roy, the atmosphere suddenly felt heavy — as if Earth's gravitational pull suddenly doubled.
You could hear your heart palpitating as you watched Roy pull the arrow back.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Let go.
Thud! bullseye!
You jumped so high you almost ripped your pants. "Let's go!" You whooped, your legs immediately moving to run over to him. "Dude, you were amazing!"
"Was I?" he jested, grinning so brightly his teeth could've blinded you. "But that was nothing, though."
You punched his arm, making him let out a short 'oof!' "Stop trying to be humble, you sound stupid." You snorted, watching him rub his arm with a playful pout. He's bad at concealing his own excitement about the win.
Roy was awarded his prize money not long after, alongside a cheap plastic gold medal. He smirked, nudging you to show off the held the medal up. He was always vying for your attention; it was both endearing and annoying. You just rolled your eyes, pulling out your phone to snap a picture of him.
Deep in the adrenaline of triumph, the two of you had a celebratory drink at the 'tavern' nearby. "On the house," the bartender, a man painted green, said, "You did a real good job, winner."
"Thanks, man." Roy smiled, taking the drinks from the counter and bringing them over to you. "Conyberry Mead, said to be the go-to drink for celebratory occasions."
"Oh really?" You raised an eyebrow as you took a sip out of your drink.
"No. I made that up," he said bluntly, sitting down next to you. "I did pretty well, huh?"
"Of course you did," you replied, putting the tankard down on the table. "You don't need to hear me tell you that."
He laughed, shrugging nonchalantly. "Of course I didn't. I just wanted to hear you say it."
You kick his shin, making him laugh again. The two of you were then caught up in conversation, discussing other activities you could do together. Suddenly, loud and upbeat bardic tunes drifted in from outside, lively enough to halt your conversations, and loud enough to capture your attention.
In the town square, couples danced together joyously, their arms linked as laughter rippled through the air. At the sides, the crowd clapped in time with the beat — you could already feel your body mindlessly swaying to the song.
While you watched them dance, you felt Roy's gaze on you, his eyes wordlessly asking a question you already knew. "Please?" He pleaded, reaching out to tug your arm like a child asking for a toy.
"Well," you took a deep breath, pulling him towards the dancing crowd, "Guess I should give the winner some sort of prize."
Your arms linked, and the two of you immediately began dancing to the beat, spinning and twirling. You were the loudest pair there — bursting out into fits of laughter whenever you almost stepped on each other's feet. The clapping crowd urged you on while the music seemed to get louder. The two of you were in your own worlds now, laughing and pushing each other around as if you were the only people there.
In the midst of spinning in circles, you couldn't help but think that maybe Roy's not as bad as you thought he was. He's successfully rolled a natural twenty on your charisma check.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: while in a bookshop, Jason gets accused of being a performative male
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none, fluff, crack, pre-established relationship, Jason is down bad, 1.4k words, not proofread
It was a slow Sunday morning: Gotham’s sky, for once, wasn’t painted in a charcoal grey, but rather in a pale blue. The day felt dense in the way Sundays always do, dreading the moment it's Monday every hour that flies by. For those two reasons, you and Jason decided to get out of your shared apartment.
Your arm was linked around his, his hands inside his leather jacket, while you talked your mind off he scanned your surroundings. The flowers were beginning to bloom on the occasional naked tree, two or three scattered along the pavement— Gotham isn’t Metropolis, trees aren’t something you assume to see in the city. It was a bit chilly still but bearable, less traffic than usual but more people out on the streets. That made Jason slightly tense. More people meant more risks.
“And you wouldn’t believe what he said."
“I have a feeling I will.”
You rolled your eyes with a smile, stretching your neck to momentarily rest your head on his bicep. “Smartass.”
Jason’s heart stops for a split second. You. Your warmth pressed directly against his. Your sweet perfume invades his nostrils and he swears it makes him more brain dead than any fear gas or Joker toxin ever. He knows your touch, of course he does. He’s memorised it like scripture, harking back on it on patrol or whenever you’re not together, really. Jason knows you’re naturally a very touchy person, and he also knows you reign it in for him. It used to make him feel… wrong. Like an impostor amongst the rest of the people, someone normal could be touched without tensing or feeling sick afterwards. You should be with someone whom you can constantly be skin to skin with. But you and him talked— many times— and things changed… gradually.
Now your touch doesn’t make his heart beat faster because he’s unwhole and can’t process it like the rest of people, Jason has realised it's because of a very simple reason; he has the biggest, most pathetic, crush on you. Really, he’s as bad as a teenager with the way he acts around you. Great. Todd. Shot, stabbed, blown up, resurrected— and taken out by a crush.
You perk your head up again, a smile spreading across your face. “Oh look! It’s that matcha place Steph sent me the link to.”
Tucked between two large buildings, is a much smaller one with a bright green awning, scribbled in white in a loopy cursive is the name of the shop— a terrible matcha pun. From here he can see through the clear windows; green plants, most of the tables are taken and there is a pretty long cue. Great, loads of people and a confined space.
“Let 's go.”
You raise one of your brows. “You sure?”
He slips his hands out of his pocket and brushes a circle on your wrist, he keeps it back again. “I’ve never tried it.”
An hour later you and Jason decided you needed more books for your home library— and there’s a local bookshop you’ve been dying to show to him. The place isn’t as gaudy as the matcha shop— he’s still carrying his drink, you two haven’t stopped somewhere to drink it in peace yet— but it has its own charm.
You immediately drag him towards the back of the shop, ignoring the set up tables with new releases and not sparing a glance to the big group of people near the set up sofas.
“Ooh they’ve added new editions.” You move your eyes up and down the bookcase. Your arm suddenly isn't around his anymore. You look back at him. “Anything caught your interest?”
Jason looks at the bookcase again and realises this must be the classics section, there’s a bit of everything; from the Brontë’s to Dickens to Tolstoy and so many others. The book spines call out to him, all in a different measure. A familiar title, the pop of colour for a Jane Austen book to a black and white edition for a more somber looking edition. Jason is dumbfounded for a second.
“Careful, you’re drooling.”
Jason snaps his eyes away, “smartass.” He mirrors your words from before.
You smile and then you make his heart burst out his chest. You get on your tip toes (Jason crouches slightly to give you a better access) and press your sweet lips against his. He’s like a putty under your touch. He slots one hand against the left curve of your waist, bringing you closer.
You break the kiss, your eyes fluttering for a second. (He also makes you feel like a putty). “I’m going to go check the romance books.” You look back at the case. “I won’t interrupt any longer.”
That makes him grin, and before he can think too much about it, he’s pressing a kiss against your forehead like who presses a promise on skin.
Jason assumes it’s been less than five minutes. Five fucking minutes alone was too much to ask, because someone— for some reason— is tapping his back.
He slowly lifts his eyes from the dustjacket of a book (A Room Of One’s Own, if you have to know) and slowly turns around. He can feel when you’re around, and this is clearly not you.
A guy, slightly shorter than him with longer hair, a totebag, cable headphones hanging around his neck and a matcha on one hand is smiling brightly at him.
“Can I help you?” Jason’s tone is not exactly inviting.
The guy’s grin gets even wider as he looks at Jason up and down. Jason is ready to go get you and bolt from this bookshop and people with grinning problems.
“Yeah, guys! He 's the winner!”
The group you and Jason saw at the entrance now flock near Grinning Guy, all dressed in different variations of him.
“Congrats! You won the performative male competition.”
Jason thinks of about a thousand things.
“What the fuck?” Comes out.
“Dude,” comes a voice from the small crowd, “you can stop acting now.”
Jason blinks slowly.
“Uh oh,” comes another voice, “I think this guy is genuine.”
Grinning Guy’s grin diminishes a little. “Huh, sorry dude. We saw you with a matcha and picking up Sylvia Plath— and when you came in, you and that girl were talking about Clairo.”
“My girlfriend.” Is all Jason says.
“Right, sorry for bothering you!”
The group mutter different things amongst each other, gradually leaving Jason alone again. All while he’s clutching his drink and the book. He eyes the first as if it had personally cursed him.
Yeah, you two are getting out of there.
“They thought I was a performative male!” Jason grumbles.
You laugh, slowly running your fingers through his hair. You two are resting on bed already, both cozied up in your pajamas and almost ready to go to sleep. Jason shuffles his head closer to your abdomen. His head is turning fuzzy, and the edges of his vision flicker with the threatening pull of sleep.
“Gothamites are a different breed,” he murmurs against your skin.
You humm. Your fingers halting midway through his scalp. You suppress a yawn. “I wonder who won the competition.”
POST CREDITS SCENE:
Jason’s phone buzzes on the breakfast table, he ignores it and proceeds to crack an egg open on the pan. The clear, thick substance hits the pan with a hiss. He takes the eggshell and goes to dump it in the bin. He yawns and stirs the pan with a wooden spoon. The phone buzzes again. With a groan he picks it up.
Dick has sent him a TikTok, okay, usual. He clicks on it— even if he’s probably going to answer that night or after patrol— grave mistake. It’s a video of him, more specifically at the bookshop. Someone from the crowd had recorded him and the whole situation.
He looks at the likes, then the views.
Oh god no, thousands of people had seen and liked it. Jason grumbles and runs his fingers through his hair. Is it too early to call Babs so she can scrub it off the face of the Internet? No, it absolutely isn't. This is a grade A emergency.
He checks the comments.
Mortal mistake.
theflashsreclgf i have very inappropriate things to say
metropolissuckz NEED THAT.
saveadragonrideatargaryen all night all day
notroyharper @yourusername you need to see this LMFAO
2faceishot my heart is broken. he has a girlfriend.
^ user9867 not if i can help it
scissorcityamazon Does someone have his @???
load more…
A new notification jumps, this time from the family’s group chat. And oh yeah, there it is, Stephanie had shared the TikTok.
