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!
sitting around a drinking sake with steph, cass, babs, and the girls crew turns into a drunk call to a certain person.
aka: jason todd picks you up and you chatter drunkenly with him, and hang off of his biceps. a girl can dream.
tw: female reader in mind! drinking & getting drunk!
"no- because like, why would you everrr uhh post something like that," the slurring in your voice is gentle, almost like a breeze or sunshine against the ocean waves. even if you are holding onto stephanie, a pre-game gone into jackbox girls night and giggling into fits of drunken laughter.
the wine flows almost more than the positivity, even if you are all making fun of ex's and such. "i don't know!" stephanie says, almost at the same level you are, curled into each other as you both giggle over a photo thats blurring back and forth of tim. making fun of him is healthy, and easy. mostly easy.
"steph, what if- like...we called one of yourrr brothers, my one of yours," it's so slurred, and the rest of the girls are in their own worlds. barbara and raven are talking about some meeting that happened earlier in the year. kori and cassandra are bonding over how much easier it is to understand people by actions than words.
while you and stephanie are being mature twenty somethings, making fun of ex's and trash talking. so what.
"your one of mine? you have- uhhh what? one of mine?" she mumbles, her blonde curls going in and out of your fingers. her apartment light showing off her dimples perfectly.
you and jason have been...more of a secret than anything. or at least more lowkey. only barbara knows, because she practically set you two up 'on accident'. like putting both of the most controversial vigilantes in a room who both love literature wasn't a setup.
"jay!" you exclaim, louder than you mean. wine stained lips, pupils enlarged, but happy, smile on your face that's louder than your words. you didn't plan on getting tipsy- or drunk, so you didn't exactly tell him about this plan.
you can see barbara clock the situation faster than you could say 'oracle' as she calls him up, but your mind doesn't comprehend it, as you immediately tell steph and whoever else that want's to listen about jason. how strong and handsome and kind and everything else he is.
he's there in less time than you expected, walking into stephanie's apartment and apologizing for interupting girls night. which you respond to with a resound 'yeah!' even if seconds ago you said you were missing him.
your body language is languid, about as fluid as the jello shots you had earlier. attempting to stand up, which felt slow to you, but somehow he caught you quickly. dizzy, but he's so handsome. handsome enough to make you feel even warmer, and more blurry than you did before.
"we trashed- uhmn trashhh trashed, tim." you say, not very cognisant, but happy, smile on your face as you try to tell jason what's been happening as he chats with barbara quickly to try to get an estimated amount of drinks. he moves his eyes to ask steph, but she's already asleep, drunk and happy too.
your finger pokes his face, as if checking that he's real, leaning onto him like a kid who just discovered a playground. a soft 'mhn' leaves you, warm, feeling him up very unintentionally in front of his sisters and his co-workers. awkward, but sweet in a weird way.
"jayyyy yeah and i sooo thank you for pickingg us- me up," you hick, gently, at least some words are forming right, even if your eyes are glossed over.
"come on baby, let's get you home," is said, and the world moves fast and slow, somehow getting home in seconds yet hours. you remember the car ride, and the singing but it also feels like it happened in a blink.
"i think your sisters are sooo prettyy, i made steph laughh and she said that i uh, i'm funny. but i knowww so totally know i'm funny, haha," you slur, stumbling into your apartment and taking off your shoes.
clingy to independent, like she's trying her best. even if she's practically using the couch like it's her body weight and crutch. he laughs, just a little, not at you, but the situation.
"yeah baby? she did?" he asks, tone warm, in a way that makes your skin feel warmer than it already does.
"mmhnn i feel happy," she says, sappy, as she leans into him, blinking slowly up at his soft eyes like a cat. her hands gripping onto his belt loops, and giving an attempted kiss to his cheek. it lands on his jawline but that's okay. he strokes your hair, giving your temple a kiss as he says something about a headache in the morning. swooping you off your feet and into bed.
you don't remember how you got changed, and swaddled against jason, but your cheeks are still warm, your body curled into his as you commit his face to memory, even drunk. a soft "i love you jayjayjay," leaves your lips, hands finding his chest and using his body like a stuffed animal. falling asleep fast, like it's a race you are trying to win against him. drool and all, but he's happy you are safe. whispering gentle truths about you as you sleep.
"pretty girl," he says, kiss against your forehead as his big hands play with your hair. "thank you for trusting me," he whispers, kiss right beside your right ear, and a soft whine of a response from your sleeping self.
he texts barbara to ask how many drinks you had so he can plan for tomorrow. until then, he makes sure you don't stir, reading a book to you before sleep takes over him too.
i haven't written a drunk character before, but i get giggly and happy so i wanted to do something i can't really relate to but that was fun! thank you faye webster for the title inspo and song lyric in this. my hero actually.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: jason wants to tell you his secret identity- but can't. what if you leave? or you hate him? he's completely unaware that you're red hood’s n1 fan
<𝟑: tysm for requesting! i hope its what you wanted :)
Jason has never felt this bad while eating a burger. He bites into the juicy centre and swallows. He looks at you. You're sitting across from him, happily devouring your meal.
The small kitchen table is nicely set; dim overhead lighting, the bouquet of flowers Jason brought arranged in a vase, and plates piled high with chips and splatters of ketchup. This is his favourite part of the entire week— date nights with you— and he's ruining it with his ugly thoughts.
He forces himself to bite through the crunchy lettuce. It's useless. It tastes like cardboard tonight.
"Jay?" You ask between bites. "Are you okay?"
No. His stomach feels tied in knots, and he wants to tell you he's Red Hood. He desperately does. But he's terrified you'll leave.
Every time he opens his mouth to utter those simple words, his mind supplies your replies.
You've been lying to me? Your eyes are glossy, your chin quivering. Or— I can't date someone like you. Except instead of sadness, you look disgusted. Afraid.
You set your burger down on your plate and reach for his hand, only to rethink it at the last second.
Jason's heart sinks.
"You've been even more broody than usual."
He smirks. "Broody? Is that even English?"
"Ha-ha." You chew the inside of your cheek. "If you want to talk, I'm here."
You're so good to him. So patient and kind that Jason half-expects to wake up and find he'd simply dreamed you into existence.
But you're real. And you choose to be with him. Jason can't risk losing you— not for anything in the world. He'll make it work. He always does.
Jason's eyes soften. "I will."
Eventually.
You happily talk about the book you're reading, and Jason chimes in with comments here and there. Your eyes are bright as you gesture animatedly. "That's totally not the point."
Jason offers his evidence. "It is.” He smirks. “Maybe you should check if we even read the same book."
You laugh and take another bite of your burger, but grease slides through the bottom bun and lands right on your jumper.
You drop the burger onto your plate with a grimace. "Shit. It was new."
Jason is already offering you his napkin. You dab at the stain, but it refuses to come out. You groan.
"Please grab another jumper from my closet. I have to clean this."
Jason is already on his feet, a stupid smile tugging at his lips. "You’re not wearing anything underneath?"
You cross your arms and look him dead in the eye.
"Aye aye, Captain."
He knows his way around your flat. Blindfolded, he could find any room perfectly. The only problem is whenever he’s been there, you were er— preoccupied. Or you were already sleeping in bed.
So when he finds two identical closets, he freezes. He calls your name down the hall, but you don't answer. New mission: Find You a Clean Jumper. He can do this.
He opens the first closet. And is immediately blinded by red.
You have an entire closet dedicated to Red Hood. Okay— and your winter coats kept in a box at the bottom. But still.
There are a bunch perfectly folded shirts, figurines, plushies, hoodies, trinkets… There’s more but that’s what he sees first.
"Jay?" You call. "Everything okay?"
Uh... maybe? He's stunned. First, that there's this much merch of Red Hood. He didn’t know he was even half-popular. Second, that you own it. Is this some elaborate setup? Are you making fun of him?
"Oh." You're standing in the doorway, balancing your weight from one foot to the other. A small crease appears between your brows. "Maybe... you should close the closet."
He doesn't. "You're a Red Hood fan?"
Your frown deepens. "Don't laugh, okay? He's just... amazing."
"Wait." Jason blinks. "You think I'm mad? Or weirded out?"
"Yeah?"
He laughs. "No, no. Just surprised."
His large hands gently pull you closer. "Why do you even like the guy?" His heart is beating fast in his chest.
You freeze for a second, making sure he really isn't judging you. "Well..." You smile. "I love how he protects Crime Alley."
And once you start talking, there's no stopping you.
"People always ignore how much he does for Gotham's poorest neighbourhoods!" The words tumble out, fast and certain. "Everyone thinks he's just angry, but he's actually incredibly compassionate."
"Uh... who is 'everyone'?" Is all Jason manages to ask. His brain has gone from a huge question mark to, excitement? He doesn’t know exactly. But he feels nice.
"The Red Hood subreddit, obviously."
The Red Hood... what? One corner of Jason's mouth quirks into a faint smile.
You're still looking up at him, rambling about everything you admire about Red Hood— not just what he does for Gotham, but who he is as a vigilante.
His mind is still plagued with anxious, ugly thoughts. But this... This feels like a hand reaching through his nasty thoughts and swatting them away.
"I'm Red Hood."
Your expression falls. Jason unconsciously takes a step back. The silence stretches eternally long.
"Why would you joke about that?" You ask quietly. "I genuinely like the guy."
Jason can breathe again. "I'm not that committed to a bit."
You cross your arms, smiling. "Suuure. And I'm Wonder Woman."
Jason drags a hand through his hair before pulling out his phone. After a few swipes through the family group chat, he finds the photo he'd been looking for.
He holds it out to you.
Your brows shoot up and your lips part. "No way..."
Jason's shoulders tense.
"You're serious."
"Dead serious," he deadpans. "I know..." he adds more quietly. "It's a lot."
You clap a hand over your mouth. "You're actually Red Hood!” Your eyes dart over him again. "That makes so much sense. Honestly, I was getting worried about your work schedule— I was this close to telling you to unionize."
"Yeah," Jason says, pretending to think it over. "Maybe we Robins should start a union."
Your shoulders finally relax. "But seriously." You look up at him, your expression softening. "This is a huge secret. Are you sure you want me to know?"
Jason gently rests his forehead against yours, his hands settling on your hips. "I trust you."
Your smile widens. "Great."
He immediately knows he shouldn't trust that tone.
"Now I can show you my shirt and helmet collection."
"Wait—"
Jason pulls back. "Helmet collection?"
"Mhm." You beam. "I have three."
Jason barks out a laugh. "Even I don't have three.”
summary: you love gaming, and d&d, and everything in between and he's...a classic literature nerd. a match made in heaven, sorta. fluffy!! no editing! just jason and you making a new d&d character.
tw: female reader, and new d&d character is talked about as female too!
"are you really naming your new character...that?" he asks, a rough huff as he peers over your shoulder. the lights in the apartment are dim, setting the scene for the new character in your campaign to be written. or attempted to be written.
"yes? is that a problem mr. hood?" you tease, eyebrow raising, dice at your left hand for stats, and pencil in your right. "you are acting like i just committed a felony, which is wild coming from you," a soft accusation, as the gummy pink eraser gets pointed at his chest.
"no- i just-" he stumbles, replacing the accusation with a soft kiss to your forehead, "ugh. stop. i'll stop judging," he teases right back, freshly shaven face nuzzling against your shoulder from behind.
"you better. next character could have her love interest named jackson dott or something." you say, sticking your tongue out at him, knocking your heads together lightly.
"creative," he deadpans, giving an eyeroll. he already knows before you two started dating, and the crush wasn't confirmed mutal, that there was possibly a character named after him in your past character. scratch out possible. there was. jay toddington. you never claimed to be a genuis, just- a girl with a crush, and now very hot boyfriend.
"shut up. says mr. steals his romantic lines from classic novels," you huff, ignoring his warmth behind you for the paper in front of you and scattered ideas on the paper. making a new character is a lengthly process, one that jason has been learning the past few days.
"you love it," he accuses, and your eyeroll paired with a soft reluctant smile is enough of an answer. his lips pressing a very gentle kiss against your temple, as if his warmth could make new creative ideas, and protect your brain against anything threatening.
"i do," you admit, feeling a bit soft as you hum, motioning him to sit beside you as you continue to brainstorm. curling into him as soon as he's sat, letting jason play with your hair and read the being worked upon backstory.
suddenly the character isn't just yours, it's jason's too as you form her. he asks questions about the world, you answer and read out things the dm has given you. you tell him about your past character, how you want something new but familiar, he tells you about novels you could base them off of. soft lighting covering his face as the blanket of his warmth covers your heart and mind, brainstorming in the safety of his intelligence combining with your wisdom.
you decide that night that every character from now on will have a version of him with them. even in the fictional roleplay world, you don't want to live without him. even if he has a silly name like jace johntodderson or jackson dott.
yes this is based off of my d&d character currently having her boyfriend be named jackson todd, no i will not take accountability for how much i love him too.
ALSO sorry for the long long break, i didn't loose creativity but i lost time to the void (college!)
Mr. Goodreads and Miss Letterbox || Jason Todd x reader
— Both of you just shared your love for books/films in social media, but your followers saw the potential of an amazing power couple. What happens when you find out about the ship and decides to check Jason's account?
!!: smau + a narrated part. fem!reader. not use of y/n. bookstagramer!Jason x cinephile!reader. Pictures are from Pinterest. enemies to lovers-ish (not really???)
[dc masterlist]
yourusername
liked by 101.344 people
photo dump of the last week of June 🌷
Watched Obsession yesterday. You guys know I don't usually watch horror movies in the cinema, I prefer to watch them at home, safe and cozy, but I've been hearing lot of mixed opinions about this film and I couldn't wait to finally watch it myself. I would rate it with 4 stars because it was really good and extremely disturbing. As always, you guys can find my complete review (with spoilers) in my letterboxd!!
-💋
comments:
user1 Just came from reading your letterboxd review and I agree with everything you said ♥︎ liked by the author
user2 Haven't watched the movie and never will, because I hate this genre, but I loved reading your review ♥︎ liked by the author
user3 If she has a boyfriend, he either has to be another film-obsessed freak or someone who is the total opposite of her, like someone who argues the book a film is based of is way better, even if it isn't
⤷ user4 there's this guy here whose user is @/j.todd who makes content about books and I believe they were made for each other, even if they haven't met yet 🙂↕️
⤷ user5 OMGGG JASON YESS THEY WOULD BE PERFECT TOGETHER
⤷ user6 now this gotta be my new favorite ship
j.todd
Liked by 412.802 people
Normal People by Sally Rooney. 3 stars. I can't deny Sally Rooney is a very talented author, and the start of the book was very powerful and entertaining. However, the ending disappointed me (complete review in my Goodreads). I can't consider Normal People a bad book, it was beautifully written and didn't feel boring, but it's not one of my favorites.
comments:
user1 Normal People is one of my top 3 favorite books but I agree with some of your points in your Goodreads review
user2 ONLY 3 STARS???
user3 love me a man who reads, is he single?
⤷ user4 get in line
⤷ user5 hope he is so he can date my beloved @/yourusername
user6 I'm finishing Normal People, but I kinda agree with you, It's a really good book, but I can't give it more than 4 stars
yourusername
liked by 98.864 people
Can you guys believe I never got to watch Wuthering Heights in theaters when the movie came out? (I still did the trend with the poster and my husband Jacob Elordi). Either way, I watched the movie yesterday night and I have a few comments on it. Over all the movie gets 3 stars and I'm being generous. I haven't read the book but the film was... something else... I have a lot of things to say about this so you guys can go read my review in letterboxd (contains spoiler)
-💋
comments:
user1 I loved the movie wdym 😭😭
user2 kinda weird for you not to watch a movie the second it's out on theaters
⤷ yourusername I know right? but I was very busy when the movie came out, and when I finally got time to go watch it it had already been removed from theaters
user3 Jacob Elordi the man you are
⤷ user4 idk he gives me weird vibes
user5 I love your reviews, they are so complete and so well written ♥︎ liked by the author
user6 nah guys have you seen Jason's post? This can't be coincidence
⤷ user7 this can either be coincidence or they know each other
⤷ user8 maybe they know about the ship and are just messing around with us
user9 you should read the book
⤷ yourusername not my thing lmao
j.todd
liked by 726.997 people
Haven't had much time to read this past weeks, so I figured I could talk about a book I read a while ago, that I really enjoyed, and never posted my review here.
Wuthering Heights gets five stars from me. It's impossible to sum up everything I love about this book in here, so I suggest you all to go and read my review in Goodreads. But it's darkness, and poetic story has made this book one of my ultimate favorites.
P.S: I don't usually mark classics, so I just decided to post some photos I took this month.
comments:
user1 WE GOT JASON'S FACE REVEAL BEFORE GTA VI
user2 blah blah blah proper name place name backstory stuff
user3 que sí quesito que sí
user4 whatever you say handsome
user5 just here to say that @/yourusername just posted her review of the movie
⤷ user6 idc if they know each other or not, they're my parents
⤷ user7 They would be the perfect couple istg
⤷ user8 mr. Goodreads and miss letterbox, straight from a romcom
⤷ user9 they're married in my head
yourusername
liked by 101.344 people
photo dump of this week before I got sick
Rewatched one of my favorite movies because I couldn't get out of bed and I'm so happy I finally get to talk to you guys about it. Dead Poets Society is my favorite movie of all time, hands down, no hesitations. A masterpiece. It's poetic, it's beautiful, it moves you and it's genuinely the only movie that has made me cry. As always you guys have my complete review in my letterboxd (with spoilers, just in case there's people that haven't watched it yet, in that case I'm so sorry).
-💋
comments:
user1 get well soon queen ♥︎ liked by the author
user2 so you got sick, that's why you were so active on social media lately
⤷ yourusername I'm so bored
user3 Dead Poets Society really is THE film
user4 getting sick in July, what's in Gothams air?
⤷ yourusername the real question is: what isn't in Gotham's air?
⤷ user5 WAIT are you from Gotham???
⤷ user6 one step closer to her and Jason meeting each other and falling in love
j.todd
liked by 611.135 people
Found the Dead Poets Society book in my local library and, since I never watched the movie and the book is short, I decided to read it. It gets 3 ½ stars. I found it quite plain and, although I think the story is moving, I'm not sure the book captured the feelings that well. Also, some of the characters were quite questionable. Either way, you guys can find my full review on Goodreads.
P.S: I think I like this photo dump thing, I might keep doing it.
comments:
user1 I think the same as you Jason, now lets kiss
user2 @/yourusername and him using their post's captions like letter, they're made for each other. She sings it with a kiss, and he uses P.S.
yourusername is this the guy chat??
⤷ user3 ariana what r u doing here????
⤷ user4 you really don't know the meaning of being nonchalant, don't you
⤷ user5 so this is the level of boredom you reach when sick
yourusername You should really watch the movie, you would rethink those 3 ½ stars you've just gave to my favorite story of all time
⤷ j.todd I don't think the movie would be much more different from the book, taking into account that the book came out after the film.
yourusername
liked by 99.056 people
Pride and Prejudice. 1 stars. Review in letterboxd.
-💋
comments:
user1 okay she's mad
user2 miss ma'am are you alright?
user3 Jason and her might not be dating after all
⤷ user4 idc this has potential for a enemies to lovers
⤷ user5 I think they should kiss, that would fix everything
user6 idk what happened, but please come back and be normal
j.todd we both know that movie is not 1 star movie
⤷ yourusername have you watched it?
⤷ j.todd no, but I've read the book and I know pride and prejudice is not a 1 star story
⤷ yourusername adaptations aren't always loyal to the original source
⤷ j.todd you really are annoying
⤷ yourusername I suggest you read my review on letterboxd
⤷ j.todd I did and it only says "fuck you Jason"
⤷ yourusername fuck you Jason
⤷ user7 this is like seeing my parents divorcing again
When did you think this was a good idea? Maybe when you saw an opportunity to prove you were right about your favourite movie. That the story changed completely by watching it rather than reading it.
You knew Jason hadn’t liked that one star you had given to Pride and Prejudice. You saw in his goodreads that it was one of his favourite books and decided to watch the movie and give it a low rating just to piss him off. Surprisingly, it worked, because he talked to you after seeing your post.
And now, waiting for him to arrive at your house, you kept checking the time, fixing yourself, walking around—doing anything to calm yourself down—because you had invited a handsome man to your house without thinking it through first.
Of course you had stalked his account. It hadn’t been until recently that he had started posting pictures of himself, at first all of his posts were the cover of the exact book he had read and then photos of some phrases highlighted. The man was truly a romantic. He mostly read romance novels, but his favourites were the classics.
You couldn’t help but wonder if he had checked your account too. You posted photodumps more regularly, your account was almost your online diary, so he knew how you looked.
While you were drowned in your own thoughts, Jason had arrived at your building. It was a funny coincidence that you lived in the building right across from Jason’s, and somehow you hadn’t known about each other’s existence until you decided to appear in his comments section.
Jason swallowed hard before knocking on your door. You opened it, with your hands shaking and your heart pounding aggressively on your chest. Jason was tall—way taller than you had imagined—and he looked like he had come straight out of Fight Club. His leather jacket, a worn black cotton t-shirt, and dark jeans were a very simple outfit—but combined with his piercing greenish-blue eyes, a fading bruise near his right eye, and a white streak on his hair? That man was breathtaking.
From Jason’s point of view you were a sight too. He had seen your posts, he knew how you looked, but in person you had a magnetic energy that no one could ignore. The only reason for him accepting your proposal, of coming to your house to watch a film, was because he found you attractive. He saw the opportunity, took it and he didn’t regret anything.
“Hi,” he said.
His voice woke you up from your trance. You moved to the side, letting him into your apartment.
“I’m Jason, I thought we should introduce each other properly. You have a nice house by the way.” He looked around, scanning your living room and kitchen with detail, like he wanted to find something. “You have a lot of movie posters.”
“Ah! yes. If you ask the correct people that work in the cinema they give one to you for free,” you explained, guiding Jason to your living room.
The movie was already paused on your TV, ready to be watched. Two bowls filled with buttered popcorn sat on the tea table, one for Jason and the other one for you. Once you were settled in the sofa you pressed play.
You couldn’t deny that the first few minutes of the movie were awkward. Jason sat rigid on one end of the couch, looking attentively to the TV, paying attention to everything that happened in the movie. You, on the other hand, kept drifting your gaze from the movie to Jason, to see his reaction, to make sure he liked it.
And when the scene of the party came, you whispered: “Now look at Knox, poor boy, he didn’t do anything wrong.”
Jason looked at you, smirked, and then turned his attention back to the film. “Well yes, but he still kissed her, and she has a boyfriend,” Jason remarked.
“He kissed her on the head,” you defended.
“Still, that’s not cool and she’s unconscious, I would’ve reacted the same way Chet did.”
And that started a friendly discussion between the two of you. You never stopped talking since then, commenting on everything about the movie, Jason criticizing it—just to see your offended expression—and you refuting everything he said, like you were the director herself. And when the movie ended, you kept talking and talking, until it was past midnight and Jason got a message from someone and told you he had to leave.
“It’s not a three star story,” you insisted, walking Jason to the front door of your house.
“Four stars,” he rated. You opened your mouth offended.
“Four and a half,” You suggested.
“I think I’ll have to watch it again to see if you’re right,” he smirked, walking out of your apartment. “Thanks for the date, it was nice.”
“It was not…” But Jason had left before he could hear what you had said.
It might not have been a date, but you had enjoyed Jason’s company, and something inside of you told you that you were going to see each other again, very soon.
six months later
j.todd
liked by yourusername and 457.901 more
Sorry I haven't posted in a while, I've been re-reading Pride and Prejudice with my girlfriend, and she's a slow reader, but it was fun to see her reaction to everything that happens in the book.
You guys already know this is my favorite book and my review has been up on Goodreads for a while, but you guys have my review of the movie in letterboxd, if you would like to read it.
comments:
user1 HES GOT A GIRLFRIEND
user2 I'm the girlfriend guys chill
user3 his girlfriend just won in life
yourusername I'm not a slow reader????? classics are hard ♥︎ liked by the author
⤷ j.todd whatever you say doll
⤷ user4 THEY'RE TOGETHER
⤷ user5 MY PARENTS ARE BACK TOGETHER
⤷ user6 this means they're now officially dating right?
⤷ user7 the ship became reality
⤷ user8 war is over
yourusername
liked by j.todd and 400.874 more
Yes, Pride and Prejudice did not deserve that 1, I'm sorry. My annoying boyfriend insisted on updating my letterbox review and on writing one in Goodreads about the book, so I forced him to download letterboxd, and he has written his very first review there!!
-💋
comments:
user1 the hardlaunch is crazy
user2 they both posted the same quote 😭
user3 they're perfect
user4 which book will be your next review about?
⤷ yourusername none 😊
user5 do we get an invitation to the wedding for introducing you to each other thanks to our ship??
j.todd ❤️
⤷ yourusername don't ❤️ me, you told me you weren't coming with me to the cinema this Friday
⤷ j.todd I promise I'll make it up to you ♥︎ liked by the author
⤷ yourusername good boy
⤷ user6 he's obsessed with her
summary: jason has no weaknesses. especially not that one bookstore keeper he visits every week. he merely needs new book recommendations, and you're the only person he's willing to trust. about the books, obviously. or jason todd falls miserably, pathetically in love with a bookstore keeper who insults him on first recommendation.
pairing: jason todd x fem! reader
You don't expect any customers tonight, not when Friday's are usually associated with activities more enthralling than a shabby bookstore that smells faintly of over-stewed tea. Your fingers itch to flip the signboard around to 'Closed', but they squeeze habitually around your mug instead. A brown rim has formed around the interior from the untouched tea left hours ago when sunlight still graced the shelves near the window seat.
Three minutes to closing, you decide to give the store the respectful grace of being a decent employee and waiting for the clock to strike eleven. At least, that's the excuse you give yourself. Your fingers tap lightly against the solid wood of the make-shift counter, a haphazardly placed desk shoved between shelves and boxes that are to be sent to the recycling center tomorrow. Your life is almost perfectly mundane.
The bell rings.
Almost, except for one sole factor. Your gaze shifts, your neck craning towards the door. Here, you thought your last visitor would finally break the pattern. It's certainly not Margery, a lady who thinks herself the most important customer to this small establishment, always inventing new cons in a skewed attempt to bargain for more free books as gifts for her many nieces and nephews.
This visitor carries a scent of smoke, broad shoulders stretching out a worn, leather jacket. Even from your skewed view, half his back turned towards you, he's gorgeous as he always is. Almost out of place, body stiff as his gaze glances past the stained glass stickers pasted onto the windows, shading the jagged line over his cheek in reds and blues. A familiar, brute tension stuffed into his posture, shadows striking his skin. Smaller, faint scars litter his jawline, and one prominent jagged line is carved into his cheek.
Your secret visitor, who brings in the scent of iron, faint bruises across his cheek on some nights, that goes by the name, Jason.
"Here I was thinking your terrorising finally came to an end." Your voice echoes, a teasing tilt laced in its croak from hours of going unused. "It's nearly closing hour, Jay."
Despite the limp that accompanies his gait, clearly wounded somewhere beneath his large frame and thick layers of clothing, his own smirk greets your gleam of teeth. "Couldn't end a shit week without a recommendation."
Your heart skips, like the quick traitor it is. You feign a casual expression, as if you didn't have his next read hidden under your stack of orders you've yet to shelf.
"Bringing in blood to the floorboards again?" You raise a brow, gaze flickering to where his boots left imprints on the scratched-up wood.
"Nah." His smirk widens, stopping before you. "Wouldn't want you making use of free labour again to mop the dust off this place."
"Wouldn't be too difficult if we didn't have to use bleach, genius."
He shrugs, looking down at you with a pleased expression. "Useful skills I teach you, all without a price, sweetheart." His voice rolls over you like thunder, a low gravel for that mocking nickname he picked out for you like you're the only person he's ever given it to.
Your neck cranes to meet his gaze. "Right, next time I need help cleaning blood trails, I'll call my favourite potential vigilante."
"Oh, so I'm a favourite now?" His brow raises.
"You're so full of yourself." Your bite holds no mark, softening in its edge when your fingers trace over his next recommendation stuffed between the stack of new donations. Dragging it out, you hold it out with held breath.
It never gets easier, the silent exchange. The anticipation, the brief few seconds of waiting as his gaze assesses your pick. It had started out exactly like this, and like some idiotic, preening teenager—you had hoped with every right choice you made, it might heighten the chances of him coming back.
This isn't a library, an establishment where he had to return to at some point. No, he could very likely purchase your selection today, decide it was absolute shit, and never return. Yet, he always came back, and you began to lean on the crutch of a belief that he would continue to.
"Call it a profitable relationship." You joke, even as your heartbeat faintly thuds in the pads of your fingertips, digging into the spine of the copy you reserved for him.
He takes it, fingers brushing over yours. That lingering second of contact feels intentional, but the ghost of his touch disappears before you even have the chance to register its searing warmth.
His smirk dials down into something softer, more genuine. This is the part you love most, and secretly dread that you might not receive. That rare spark in his gaze, to receive something so personal based on the assumption of what he might like. All narrowed down from a history of ten minute exchanges every week in the dead of night, shared between an academic victim who likes spending too much of her time waiting for a suspicious individual to sneak into a local bookstore, and said suspicious individual.
"It's a local author." It spills out of you before you can stop it. "I know you've read most of the classics, but you haven't really delved into ones that relate more to home."
His lip curls, a hum stuck in the back of his throat, and you recognise its one of approval. It shouldn't affect you as much as it did.
"Literature that dives into the horrors of Gotham, should I expect an existential crisis tonight?"
"I'll leave the surprise to do its job.” Leaning in over the counter, your gaze drops to his cargo pants. “Any reason for the limp?"
“Jumped down from the fourth floor.” He shrugs. “Wasn’t sure you’d wait up on me.”
You stare at him wide-eyed, waiting for him to call upon a joke—and he merely returns your stare, amused.
“Jason, you’re joking.”
“I never joke about closing hours.” He shrugs.
You're ready to start, because his frequent disregard for closing hours is a whole other thing—but his gaze shifts instinctively to the clock hanging lop-sided by the ladder, before landing on you again. The crinkles of his gaze deepens, softening the shadows. "You better catch the train. Do me a favour and remember to lock your windows when you get back?”
"Yeah, so long as you come in uninjured next time."
"Worried about me? As long as you keep yours, I’ll keep mine." The point in his grin sharpens, fingers giving a lazy wave as his shoulder digs into the door. The bell rings once more, as if to signify the gravity of his departure. "More illegal activities to run. See you next week, sweetheart.”
His shadow disappears past the flickering street lamp outside the store, as if he never existed. Your heart does that little, traitorous sigh—and that’s all the physical evidence you have past the lump in your throat that the exchange even happened at all.
Your first encounter with Jason was less familiarity-conduced endorphins and more of customer service's worst nightmare.
"Sir, I'm afraid we're closed."
You don't know why you bothered with the 'we', when you're clearly the only staff here. Or why you bothered speaking at all. This man who's barged in through the door, despite the 'Closed' sign, is obviously on edge and possibly on the run? Gotham's unspoken law is to never stick your nose into other people's business, especially if the stranger radiates danger right down to his bruised knuckles. All you should be concerned about is the ten minute walk you have to embark on and how all trains in this district stops at thirty minutes past eleven.
His gaze shifts at the sound of your voice, distracted and hyper-focused all at once. You're struck by the illuminating green that disperses into pale blue, when he finally notices that he isn't alone. Intense, and otherworldly—a gorgeous lunatic who looks like he materialised out of the shadows, stepping into the night and ending up on the wrong side of Gotham.
His gaze doesn't linger for long before it maneuvers around, scoping his environment as his lips press together, some sealed sigh laced within the charged tension between you two. Eventually, a low rasp leaves his lips. "I'll buy somethin'."
Your brows furrow. "Excuse me?"
His hand shifts, waving you off impatiently. "Hand me a book, or two—whatever. I need more time."
The crease between your brows deepen, that soft irritation earlier rising again. Not only has he come in during closing hours, which is the worst of all experiences in customer service, but he had the audacity to be rude and dismissive about it.
"Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time—"
"Lady." He cuts you off, gaze shifting back towards the streets before looking back to you in warning. "It's not a request. You can charge me however much you want, but I can't leave this store till the coast is clear... and neither can you."
Great, now he's holding you hostage too.
"Are you being chased?" You question impulsively. You have a bugging suspicion that he's prone to lying to you anyways, but his cutting tone makes you unfamiliarly bold. "You're a criminal?"
He snorts, finding something amusing. "In Gotham, some would say it's an honourable profession. There's worse bad guys out there, sweetheart. You're lucky it was me that came in here."
"I wouldn't call it luck." You frown. He doesn't bother with a response, clearly tuning you out, and your growing dislike finds something new to feast on. If you're going to waste a Friday night with some asshole, you may as well squeeze some money out of his pockets. Your gaze flickers over him, scrutinising.
"What are you looking at?" He murmurs, sensing your gaze even when his own is trained on the window, hand tucked under his jacket on what you hope isn't a weapon.
"Just wondering what kind of reader you are."
That finally gets his attention. He looks back at you, surprise evident in his gaze. Without that permanent furrow between his brows, he looks almost younger, erased temporarily of the self-righteousness buried in his bones and the weight of something deadly clutched in his hands.
A moment passes, his tight expression slowly unwinding into genuine amusement. "That's kind of you but you don't have to dial up your customer service. I'm not the kind of guy who leaves reviews."
Your brow twitches, frustration slipping past the cracks of your demeanour. "It's principle. I don't recommend books half-heartedly."
His smirk twitches higher, but you make the wiser choice of storming off, deeper into the shelves before he deigns you with another unfavourable response. Your mind is already slipping into its unfolding map of genres, of the books that encompass your pathway with what you think suits a jerk like him.
"Jackass." You mutter to yourself, opting between a self-help book or a literature pick for the jerk who acts so highly of himself. You decide on the latter, doubting the hunk would even understand the reference.
"Dorian Gray?"
"Yeah, heard of it?" You respond, unamused as you glare down at him.
He's made himself real comfortable, large thighs swallowing up your seat, swirling around on the creaky wheels as he eyes the store with that same assessing look he did when he first entered, as if he was used to mapping out any place he stepped into.
“Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes.” He mutters lowly, blue eyes landing back on you.
You blink once, then twice, wondering if you'd misheard him. "You're a reader?"
"Enough to know what you're suggesting, sweetheart." He mocks. "I know a thing or two about mistakes of men, so if you want to cause some real harm, you'll have to hit harder."
"I wasn't—" You falter, because that was exactly what you were intending on. "Fine. You forcefully extended a long, underpaid night shift, and I indirectly called you a jackass. Let's call it even."
His lip twitches involuntarily, not expecting your honesty. "Y'know being direct is what gets you places in Gotham."
"Yeah, gets you running into bookstores and terrorising their staff, you mean?"
"Well, I haven't been insulted through a book before." He shrugs half-heartedly. "I suppose you experience something new everyday."
"Anyone ever told you that you're infuriating?"
"Pretty too." He grins then, something striking and downright filthy. His hand taps on a copy of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. "That's what you seem to be suggesting, since you're clearly intent on being honest through your recommendations."
Your scoff escapes you, less annoyed than it should be. "I think my recommendation fits you just fine if that's the only thing you're willing to take from it."
"Oh, I'm more than willing." His grin sharpens. "That's sweet of you, but I'm afraid it's a little compromising, hitting on a customer this soon? You do this with all late night visitors?"
You're tempted to drop one of your heaviest dictionaries right on his skull to sort out the serious issues going on in that head of his. "Customer?" You raise a brow mockingly. "All I see is a stranger wasting my time after closing hours, raising this month's electricity bills, refusing to pay a single cent for his book, and getting out of here as promised."
"We still have—" His gaze glimpses to the clock. "—five minutes if you want to play it safe. You're doing a horrendous job at customer service by the way. Calling me a jackass, trying to kick me out. No wonder this place is—"
Your jaw drops. "You are not insulting the very place you're hiding in like a coward right now."
He raises both hands in surrender. "So charming. Was just going to mention how charming this place is."
Your lips quiver into an almost smile and you shut it down immediately, along with the quick decision that he is dangerous. Disarming with the quickness of his tongue, and unnerving in how he handles conversation like a chess board.
"This entire situation needs more tea." You grumble to yourself, turning your back on him.
There's nothing worth stealing on that counter of yours, unless he's crude enough to steal second-hand books worth cents if he even attempted to resell them in a city like Gotham. At most, he'd take the chipped mug rimmed with your tea. Oh, stupid you forgot your mug.
Your steps retract, a groan caught in the between your lips as you turn around with the anticipation to be hit with his mocking—only to find an empty seat in your view. Your head whips around past the shelves, but there was no sight of a worn leather jacket. Of course, he didn't even bother to announce his departure.
Coming back to the counter, you check for any missing items only to spot a bookmark poking out of one of your books, left in an ajar placement on the counter. On top of it, sat a pile of cash that was worth more than any copy in this entire store.
“Hey—”
He was already gone, you forget. You flip open the book, only to find there’s handwriting on your bookmark. Scratched in impulsively, like a lingering thought he had to put down.
“Jackass left you a tip for the trouble—and the rec. - Jason.”
His condescending tone somehow translates into pen on paper. It should irritate you. Yet, when your fingers lift to trace over the drying ink, you find yourself smiling involuntarily again. Jason. What kind of a man was he? It's a useless question, as you doubt you'll ever see him again.
A likely criminal, a guaranteed jerk—and probably the most exciting visitor of your entire summer.
Jason comes back not a week after. Covered in blood, which after your initial fright, is believed to belong mostly to the other guy. That particular fact he thought to include does little to soothe your nerves.
“You should’ve seen him.” He rambles, in what you could only hope wasn't his disgruntled attempt at impressing you, whilst laying flat on the desk. “Makes mine look like child's play."
The first-aid kit, hidden somewhere in the store cabinet, is squeezed haphazardly onto your office chair. There’s nothing more nerve-wracking than your first attempt at stitching a cut, not anything close to your caliber. If his arms weren't wrecked, you suspect he wouldn't have come all the way to you, an actual stranger. His voice distracts you, and you miss your aim.
Jason hisses, half-shirtless with his black tee tucked between his canines. "No, I said you have to turn it as soon as the point disappears."
Your hand is splayed over his stomach, fingers shaking slightly as you try to focus. "Stop shifting, and just keep quiet for a second. I can't focus with you nagging me."
"Forgive me for being concerned about my wound—"
Your hand comes up to shove the t-shirt further into his mouth, muffling his words. He raises a brow, almost amused, and a trickle of sweat brushes past.
"I'm trying my best to help, when this is clearly something hospitals exist for." You huff, focusing back on the stitch. "Give me some grace, and shut up."
His muscles flex and contract, but eventually, he listens. Your work becomes easier after that, despite it being the worst position you've ever been put in, neck cramping to avoid blocking your only source of light, the flickering lamp above the surface he's laid on, his blood dripping onto the wood.
"You owe me at least five purchases to make up for the blood stains." You grumble. "That requires you to stay alive."
He grunts through the fabric, and you take it as agreement.
“Why’re you back here anyway?” You question, trying to distract yourself. “Of all the places you could’ve gone, you thought that a bookstore keeper would have medical expertise?”
“Not medical expertise.” He mutters, voice too raw to not be honest. “I wanted..”
Your hand places a cloth over his wound, soaking the fabric red. “Wanted what?”
His gaze lingers over you, somehow more haunting with how the blue shade's grown darker, pupils expanded. He winces when you accidentally put too much pressure on the stitch, but that doesn't seem to be all to his sudden stillness. “A recommendation.” He answers eventually.
You stare at him, tempted to laugh. “You came all this way bleeding out, barging in through the door, past closing hours again—for a recommendation?”
He stares at you, and your laugh slips through when you realise that he’s at least half-serious. “I knew you'd be infuriating, but I didn't expect insanity.”
He ends up buying eight later just to prove his point and to make up for the blood stains, only after you promised that they'd all be your recommendations.
The hour's long past operating train schedules, and with the quiet acknowledgement of traumatising your uneventful Friday night, the second time he's reinvented what a normal shift should have been—he offers to walk you back once warmth seeps back into his skin.
Somewhere between sitting cramped behind the shelves as you pick out his recommendations and his tracking gaze over your frame as you rant on about how he desperately needed a self-help book or two, the unspoken tension gradually fades. Eventually, your frustrations die down too—and you realise his company, minus the blood and sharpness of tongue, wasn't the worst thing in the world.
You come to expect Jason’s presence, late in the night although he does begin to respect the concept of a ‘closing hour’. He's usually your last visitor regardless—leaving the two of you alone to... continue on your charade of recommendations. Even when he begins to linger longer than any customer should, offering to walk you back, or make you tea when you're too busy shelfing to bother with a new mug to replace your over-steeped one from the afternoon. Except for today, because Margery, your least favourite customer in the whole of Gotham, decides to pick the one night Jason's visiting to start her practiced act.
Clearly intending on slithering her way into getting something for free, Margery drones on about how important her niece's education is to her, and how anything contributing to children's education should be free of charge. All over a book set costing a measly seven bucks, but you suppose to dear Margery, supporting small businesses in Gotham isn't in her check-list.
“I’m sorry, Margery.” Your voice remains perfectly levelled. “I can't hand the set to you for free, because it's against our policy."
“Can’t you understand my situation?” She huffs, annoyance flared in the fine lines of her cheeks. “No one's even interested in that set, I've surveyed it for days.”
“Which by all existing policies, still requires a purchase, ma’am.”
She scoffs, nails drumming impatiently against the counter. “I want to speak to your manager.”
Your lips quirk up. “Jason.”
Jason shifts then, his gaze lifting from the book in his hand, one which he hasn’t turned the page since he conveniently perched himself right next to your counter ten minutes ago. He places the book down gently onto the wood, bookmark slipping into place, though the slight sneer of his lips conveys none of that delicate care as he slumps against the counter, shoulder brushing against yours.
“There a problem?”
Margery blinks, affronted by his attitude. Or his sheer size towering over her. "You're the manager?"
“Policy’s law.” Jason shrugs. “If you’d like to take this further, to save yourself—“ His gaze flickers to the book set, and his smirk quirks up higher—the perfect composition of a jerk. “Seven bucks, we'll be more than happy to call the authorities.”
“I have never experienced such horrible service!” Her cheeks grow warm, sloshed with embarrassment. “Acting as if I'm in the wrong—you’ll be receiving the worst review!”
"All’s fair in Gotham, ma’am.” He calls out with a grin as he watches her turquoise skirt catch onto the end of the door hinge, releasing another shriek from her lips.
The door slams shut, bell ringing dramatically with the impact, and Jason turns back to you, smile slipping into something familiar and reserved for you. “The review will be wiped the moment she hits post.”
You snort, leaning back against the shelves. “Should I be concerned about your illegal activities invading its way into my work?”
“Nah.” He shrugs. “Last place the GCPD will look into is some shabby bookstore.”
“Shabby.” You feign offense. "Our most repeating customer doesn't even hold a shred of respect for this place."
“Oh-no, I’m beginning to like the sound of being manager of this fine establishment.” He humours, glancing around as if he hasn't already memorised the interior.
You frown, suspicious of his change in tune. “Why, cause you’ll be the boss of me?”
His smirk deepens. “One of its many perks, I imagine.”
“Oh, get over yourself, Todd.” You glance back towards the door, still unable to rid yourself of the satisfaction of watching that entire fiasco go down. "Though I suppose a thank you is in order."
"Couldn't get her out of her fast enough." He shrugs. "She was taking up our time."
"Our?" You raise a brow, almost teasing as you look back at him. "Didn't realise this was our thing now."
His gaze lingers on you, as if he knew his response would be the deciding factor of acknowledging the thinly veiled string that's begun to loop itself around the both of you. Something about your dark circles, the oil on your nose bridge, or the mess of your knotted hair—whatever he saw in you, seals his decision.
"Yeah." His voice rasps, the most unguarded you've ever heard him. "It is."
It's an instantaneous kick, one that nearly leaves you breathless as you try to regain your composure. He could’ve said nothing. He could have thrown this to the side and said that his weekly visits for recommendations during your shifts, no matter if he was bleeding or bruised at the knuckles coming from a life clearly separate from yours—meant nothing.
Yet, it does mean something. Not just to you, but to him as well.
"Oh." You mutter, because you can't think of anything appropriate to say to that.
"Oh." He echoes, a genuine smile lingering at the edge of his lips. "Haven't received my recommendation of the day, sweetheart."
You blink, feeling strangely light, as if your body has regained all the energy zapped out from long hours of rearranging shelves and stacking boxes. It doesn't help that he's looking at you like that, soft and disarmed in a way you've begun to realise he's let himself be, only around you.
You should've trusted your gut that he was dangerous, but never in the way you expected. Your heart skips traitorously, the little thing already knowing something that you refuse to admit aloud. So, you do what you always do and dig out your recommendation, waiting for that spark to light in his gaze and pretend there's nothing more to why you love it so much.
Weeks turn into months, and Jason becomes your one constant even as your shifts lessen in hours to accommodate your academics. If anything, there's something comforting now about leather jackets, the faint scent of pain ointment, the certain knowledge that Jason is most probably a vigilante, after you noticed his constant vigilance over the district you work in has significantly lessened crime rates.
His shelf at home has built its steady collection, every book representing a particular week, an ever-increasing memoir of the thing shared between the two of you, from the first time he stumbled into the store. You don't know what to call it, only that you wish for it to never stop.
He knows the store like the back of his palm, including the exact hour in which you would get up for a tea refill, or when you need a steady hand on the ladder to reach the highest shelves. It's strangely intimate, the way he slots himself into the quiet mundane of your shifts, but he never complains of boredom or having something better to do with his time. If anything, the slower the day, the more he seems to uncurl like a satisfied feline—accompanying you by your side when there's nothing more to do, catching up on his reads while you have a read of your own.
"I have a recommendation for you." Jason mutters offhandedly, legs resting on the desk, as much as home as you are now, seemingly unbothered that he's randomly switched up the unspoken rules of the thing that's shared between the two of you.
You raise a brow, gaze peering over your current read. "You—Mr. I Can't Read Without Your Recommendations, has one for me?"
He shrugs, taking something out from the inner pocket of his jacket. You never understand just how much he's able—and willing to fit inside the leather confinements, and you swear half of it belongs to his side of the world you're privy to only in the latest of nights, when his hand is gripping yours knuckle-white, and he lets you stay by his side before muttering his review for his latest read.
In his hand, is a book, one in which you recognise immediately.
"Dorian Gray." You muse. "Is it your turn to call me self-conceited?"
His lip twitches into a half-smirk, but it buries itself under what you only recognise now to be nerves.
"Jason?" You murmur, slightly startled as you place down your book.
His own hand, scarred over the knuckles and engulfing the book, places its weight gently in your hands, as if offering something sacred.
"I wrote something inside." He mutters, voice softened.
Your brows furrow, but you oblige—flipping open the very first copy you've ever recommended to him, and find a handwritten note on the first page. It's unmistakably his, and there's a few scratched out lines that you can't make out, clearly something he pondered over for a while.
"I think you've probably figured it out by now, that I am not good with my words, no matter how many books I've read with greater speeches or declarations. Still, you deserve to hear something honest, and I've always conveyed myself better through my actions than I do with my mouth.
When I first entered this store, I never expected to run into you. Fate or whatever people call it, has never been considerate of my path, or who I encounter along it. Yet, you stood right there, clearly out of place with the world I know, and I don't think I'll ever truly comprehend how our paths aligned. I told myself to forget you, but you had given me a piece of you in the book you placed in my hands, and I couldn't stop thinking of that, of you. I tried convincing myself, after considering it for seven days, that seeking you out would make the curiousity dissipate, and not because I wanted to hear your voice again.
Bleeding out over your counter, I knew that I was done for when I realised I was willing to buy the entire store if it meant getting to spend a few more minutes by your side. Every book I carried home, was me getting to keep pieces of evidence, of this thing we share that feels like it's completely ours. Proof that a person who thought about what kind of reader I'd be despite every reason not to care—actually existed.
I'll probably regret this, I do have a talent of screwing up with people, but keeping silent has never been my forte, and I would regret not telling you what I've known since the first, which is that there hasn't been a single book where a line has crossed my mind without thinking of you. That there hasn't been a day, where I don't hold myself back from wanting to see you again. I'm offering you my honesty because I do believe that's the only decency available in Gotham, and I'd like to offer you at least that."
Speechless was an understatement for the shaking in your fingers, the weight of the page in your hand when you finally look up and meet his gaze.
He's nervous, pupils dilated—body locked with tension. He's just poured his heart out to you through the page of the very first book you've given him, and he's staring at you like you’ve changed the entire trajectory of his life, and not the other way around.
“Jason.”
“I’ve never done anything like this.” It spills out of him, as if he can’t contain himself. “Our thing, falling for someone. So, before you say anything—I just want to state that I'm not expecting anything. That's the one of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn a long time ago, so don't feel you have to say something you don't mean. I just can't go on pretending that meeting you didn't change something in me—that it hasn't rewired what genuine happiness feels like. I began to read again, after all these years, because books which I once found comfort in now reminds me of you. That in every line I read, I searched for something to bring back to you."
"It scared me." He admits, and even the act seems to cost him. "To care that much. To have this lack of control over how I operate, how I should feel. You disarmed me in a way no one else ever had, and I didn't think I even had that in me anymore. To feel this terrified and to still want someone this much."
His hand lowers to the note-filled page, the book still gripped between your hands and his expression steadies. "I considered it countless times. To stop this, before I start something I'll never be able to take back. Then I looked at you, and I realised I can never go back to my life 'before' you. That I was already in this, and I'd be willing to do anything if you are too."
"Jason." You call out, and he stops with a trained halt, as if he expected the worst. That was your last straw.
"I didn't even need the note." You burst. "If you had simply told me you wanted me, I would've already said yes. Our thing, I've always wanted to be a part of it."
Before, he was tense—but now, your words seemed to have hit him like a truck. You continue, not wanting him to doubt something you realised should've been obvious from the moment you kept that very first note he left you in your wallet.
"I want to be in this with you, Jason." You confess. "You're the one person I wanted to see every night. I don't know how to say this without sounding like a mess but—every book in this store, I constantly look for something that screams you and I wait in the hopes that you'll like it, and that was the most scariest, intimate thing I've ever done for someone. So—you're an idiot if you think I don't want this as much as you do."
"...You mean I didn't have to feel physically ill to write that note out, and you would've said yes?" He mutters after a moment, a low huff of amusement leaving his lips.
“I thought you said being direct is what gets you places in Gotham.” You quote.
His smile gradually reappears. “Yeah, I suppose it got me places. Running into a shabby bookstore, getting hit on the first night.”
You raise a brow. “You and I remember that encounter very differently."
"Yeah?" He murmurs. "That'll be a problem if we aren't on the same page. Just to give it a test, what if I said I wanted to kiss you right now?"
Shock registers faintly to you, even if that thought's been circling your mind for months. A little smile pulls at your mouth. "Yeah, I think we might be on the same page there."
When he leans in, you smell faintly of gunpowder, something warm and smoky—so distinctly Jason. You don't think you'll ever tire of it, and you love it more when his fingers tangled itself into your hair, brushing against the nape of your neck. When he finally kisses you, a low rumble in the back of his throat in content, you find he was half-right that night you both met. Maybe there was luck involved after all.
"I am keeping that note." You murmur after he pulls away to press something softer against your temple.
His lips curl into a smile, and you feel it against your skin. "'Course you are."
Summary : Of course, out of everyone in the universe, you had to fall in love with a soldier from Brooklyn.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Guardian of The Galaxy! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Will they, won’t they trope, one night stand to lovers, fluff, angst-ish with a happy ending! grief/mourning, sexual content (including semi public sex, no anatomical detail as per usual). Childhood abuse/neglect, trauma dumping with Bucky, Reader is a humanoid alien described to have non-specific markings on her skin. Reader is described to have two hearts but looks like a human female otherwise. Reader is the daughter of Ego (half siblings to Star Lord and Mantis). Described the plot of GOTG vol 2, Infinity war, Endgame, GOTG vol 3, and a little bit of lead up Thunderbolts. Earth is referred to as Terra. Food. (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 13.7k
Note : This has been in the works for like, 6 months now, and I’m finally happy with how it turned out! The title is taken and inspired by “Let Me Down Easy” by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!
You told Peter Quill you would never live on Terra when you were thirteen years old.
You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of a Ravager ship with grease streaked on your cheek and a stolen ration bar in your hand. You had the confidence of a little girl who had never once seen Earth and had already decided it was not fun at all.
“You said your planet still uses wheels,” you said, horrified.
Peter looked up from where he was painting a blue stripe on one of Yondu’s old shoes because he thought it looked cool. “Wheels are useful,” he shrugged.
“They are primitive.”
“Cars are cool.”
“Cars are slow.”
“They have music.”
That, unfortunately, made you stop dead in your tracks, because Terra did have good music. Peter made sure everyone knew that. He had his cassette player and he treated it like the planet lived inside that little plastic box and those stupid orange headphones.
Still, you lifted your chin. “Fine,” you rolled your eyes. “One point for Terra. I’m still never moving there.”
Peter threw a bolt at you. You caught it without looking.
From the doorway, Yondu laughed,“Both of you kids are idiots.”
You grinned. Peter grinned. Yondu scoffed and pretended he didn’t love either of you.
Back then, you and Peter were just Ravager kids. You grew up with rooms under engine bays, learning how to steal and squeeze into tight spaces before you learned how to talk about feelings.
You called Peter your brother as a joke. He called you his sister, too, when he was annoyed with you, which was often. Mostly because you stole his snacks, rewired his blasters, and told alien girls he cried during Footloose (the girls would be so confused and ask what is a loose foot?).
Neither of you knew, until years later, that the joke turned out to be true.
Why would you even think that? You looked so different.
By the time you learned you were both children of Ego, everything was already falling apart. You and Peter both stood there with celestial light in your veins and heartbreak deep in your stomach.
Ego looked at you and Peter like you were not his children at all. To him you were not people, not family. You were not kids Yondu had fed, clothed, shouted at, protected, and raised in his own terrible way.
You and Peter were… batteries.
And then Yondu died.
What were you supposed to do then? How were you supposed to process the fact that your father was a monster and your daddy was fucking dead?
That grief changed you. It changed Peter, too.
For a while, neither of you joked about anything.
Yondu’s parenting hadn’t always been… healthy. He had been mean, loud, unfair. He pitted you and Peter against each other because he said it “builds character”. He taught you to steal, lie, shoot, and run,
But he had also taken you in. He tried his best and loved you, even if he never knew how to show it properly.
The Guardians became your family after that, making space for you the way that they made space for Peter.
And it didn’t take long for you to realise why your brother was so fond of them : no one really knew how to leave each other alone.
Rocket complained about everyone while making sure everyone had weapons that worked. Groot wrapped little branches around your wrist when he thought you were upset. Drax gave you advice that was almost always terrible and occasionally devastatingly profound. Gamora understood what it meant to be made by a monster, and yet still wanted to be better. Mantis, newcomer to the group, too, touched your hand one night and whispered that your sadness felt like a dying star.
The Guardians didn’t fix that grief, they could not. They filled that hollow emptiness with arguments over music, bad plans, worse jokes, emergency repairs, and shared meals.
You had been a Ravager first, but with this rag tag band of freaks, you became more than Ego’s child, more than Yondu’s ward. You were a Guardian of the Galaxy, with all the terrible decisions and accidental tenderness that came with it.
For a while, that was enough. What more could you ask for? Your family was insane and the galaxy kept trying to kill you in increasingly creative ways, which honestly felt normal enough. You had missions and people to annoy. You had Peter to bully whenever he got too sentimental about Terra. You had a place to stand. You had a reason to stay.
Then came Thanos, and Titan.
Titan was dead in a way that made your skin crawl. It was huge and orange and silent, a ruined sky stretching above you like the planet itself had given up long before you arrived.
The fight came back to you later in flashes, though your brain still struggled to fill in the full picture: You remembered Tony Stark bleeding into the ground and Stephen Strange looking at everything like he already knew the ending. You remembered Mantis holding on to the Mad Titan’s sleep with everything she had, small but braver than almost anyone gave her credit for. Peter Parker, an arachnid boy to the best of your understanding, had been fighting for his life. You remembered throwing yourself at him, blades in hand, the remnants of power burning beneath your skin. You hated the way it reminded you of Ego. You hated the way it made you feel like his daughter. But in that moment, with your chosen family around you and that monster in front of you, you used it anyway.
You were a guardian; and guardians didn’t have to be healed to fight for each other. You didn’t have to be whole.
But it was not enough.
The plan almost worked, which just made it worse. For one breathless second, it felt like you might actually pull it off. Mantis had him under and the gauntlet was right there. Everyone was moving, shouting, straining, almost winning.
Then Peter found out about Gamora, and grief did what grief always did in your family: it broke.
You couldn’t even blame him, really. Later, maybe, people would.
Maybe they would say he ruined everything. Maybe they would say he should have held it together.
But you knew Peter. You knew that kind of loss. If someone had stood in front of you mentioning Yondu’s death like it was necessary, you weren’t sure you would have been any smarter, any less reckless.
Neither you nor Peter had ever learned how to grieve quietly.
Then Thanos was gone, and you never knew silence would get worse than the fight.
At first, you thought the dust on your hand was from the planet. Titan was full of it, after all. But then your fingers started to break apart, coming undone, and grey at the edges, scattering into the air before your mind could make sense of it.
You stared at your own hand, as if you looked hard enough, you could force it to stay.
Peter saw it happen.
One second he was Star-Lord, heartbroken and still trying to understand what he had done, and then he was just Peter. Your brother, the boy from the Ravager ship, the idiot who used to throw bolts at you.
“Hey,” he said, and there was panic in it immediately. “No. No, no, no—”
You tried to reach for him, but your arm started disappearing halfway there.
That was when the fear finally hit you like a child reaching for light in the dark. You looked past Peter and saw Mantis fading too, eyes wide and wet, her hand stretching toward you even as her own body betrayed her. Drax was already gone. The battlefield was emptying itself one person at a time, and all you could think was that your family was scattered across the galaxy and you had not said goodbye to any of them.
You had spent your life acting like leaving was easy because Ravagers left. Guardians left. People like you learned how to walk away before anyone could see what it cost. But this was not leaving. This was being taken. This was the universe reaching into your chest and ripping you out before you could choose a final word, a final joke, a final insult about Terra just to make Peter laugh.
Peter lunged for you, hand outstretched, desperate to catch what was left, but he… started disappearing, too.
Then you were both dust.
—
And then, five years later, you woke up in what felt like the middle of the end of the universe.
One second, you were dust on Titan. The next, you were gasping air back into your lungs, stumbling through a portal with Peter shouting and Mantis grabbing your arm like she needed to make sure you were real. There was no time to understand or ask what had happened, where you had been, or why everyone looked like they had spent years grieving you.
There was only Thanos standing across the battlefield like the galaxy had not already suffered enough because of him.
So you fought him again, and this time, you won.
Earth, as it turned out, was not boring.
Earth was loud and muddy and actively on fire, which was frankly more personality than you had expected from Peter’s stupid little wheel planet. Earth had witches throwing red light from their hands, sorcerers opening glowing doorways in the air, flying men in metal suits, a giant green Terran who looked like someone had inflated a nerd with steroids, and at least one god with an axe. There were soldiers with wings, tiny insect people, archers with no self-preservation, and a man dressed like a flag who kept throwing a shield like he had never heard of blasters.
Earth also had Bucky Barnes.
Rocket introduced you to him two days after the battle, when everyone was still sleep-deprived and trying to figure out what the fuck had happened in the five missing years. The Avengers had put the Guardians in a motel, which was… an interesting choice. The bed was too soft, the ceiling was too low, and everything on Terra smelled like detergent and old carpet. You were sitting on the floor because it felt less ridiculous than the springed-cot thing they called a mattress when Rocket kicked the door open without knocking.
Rocket had been introducing “Terran freaks” to you, which mostly involved dragging various Avengers to the motel and describing them in the least respectful way possible. He had spent five years coming back and forth from Earth, apparently, which meant he met most of the important ones. And those he hadn’t met yet, he already knew about through stories.
“This is Green Monster Man,” Rocket said yesterday, showing Banner around to the guardians.
“That’s Bug Guy,” Rocket said this morning, taking Scott Lang on a tour of the motel, showing him off like a show-and-tell presentation.
Of course, this time, he had a new guy to show around.
“Hey,” he said, jerking one thumb over his shoulder. “This is Metal Arm Man.”
You looked up.
And fuck.
Metal Arm Man was beautiful, in the way some Terrans seemed to admire. He was not shiny, like a Sovereign. In fact, he was quite the opposite. He looked like a man who had crawled out of several consecutive wars. He had tired blue eyes, dark brown hair tucked behind his ears, a jawline carved by old gods, and a black-and-gold metal arm— so it made sense why Rocket had taken a liking to him. Or. y’know. His metal appendages.
He stared at you too, and there was nothing polite about it. His eyes moved over the faint shimmer under your skin and the Ravager leathers you had refused to trade for Earth clothes. He looked at the bruise healing along your collarbone, and the knife strapped to your thigh.
Rocket looked between the two of you and made a gagging sound. “What the hell are you two doing?”
The man cleared his throat, like he had remembered manners halfway through staring at you. “My name’s Bucky.”
You blinked. “Bucky?”
His mouth twitched. “Yeah.”
You stared at him for another second, genuinely trying to decide whether Terra was playing some kind of joke on you. “Is that even a real name?”
From somewhere in the hallway, Peter shouted, “Don’t make fun of Terran names! You’re embarrassing me!”
You ignored your brother. Bucky, to his credit, didn't look offended. If anything, he looked amused, which only made him more annoyingly attractive.
“It’s um...” He scratched the back of his head with a human arm. “It’s short for James Buchanan Barnes,” he said, as if that made it any better.
You frowned. Why are earth names so unnecessarily long and complicated? “That’s worse.”
Peter, who apparently had still been listening in, made a noise from the hallway. “Can you be normal for literally one minute?”
“No,” you and Rocket said at the same time.
Bucky actually smiled then.
And you, who had spent most of your life insisting Terra was primitive, boring, and overrated, had the unfortunate thought that maybe you had been wrong.
—
You ended up on the motel roof that night because Earth rooms were suffocating.
It wasn’t exactly difficult. Terran buildings were hilariously easy to escape from. All it took was one window, one rusted ladder, a short jump, and you were on the roof with your back against a humming vent and your knees drawn up to your chest, looking out over a planet you still didn’t understand.
Earth was strange at night. The fire and smoke from the battlefield were gone from here, replaced by yellow streetlights, blinking towers, the rush of wheeled vehicles dragging themselves along roads like they had nowhere better to be. The sky was weird. There was too much light from the city and not enough stars visible. You could barely see anything past the haze, and for someone who had grown up under infinite darkness in a space pirate ship, that felt almost cruel.
Your fingers moved absently over your arm.
The markings there were faint tonight, but still visible. Thin lines of soft, light trailing from your wrist toward your elbow, glowing under the skin like someone had hidden stardust in your veins. Proof, if you needed it, that you were not human. These were markings of your mother’s species, but it didn’t really matter, did it? Your mother’s planet was a dead one. You had no true home.
Behind you, the roof access door creaked.
You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. “You’re still here, Metal Arm Man?”
You heard a pause, then a huff that might have been a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Still here.”
Bucky Barnes stepped onto the roof like he was trying not to startle a wild animal. He was wearing the same thing he was earlier: dark shirt, dark jacket, dark boots. The metal arm reflected the weak rooftop light as he walked closer, black and gold lines shifting with him.
He stopped a few feet away, giving you space.
“Your brother cornered me downstairs,” he said.
You finally looked over at him. “Pete?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “He wanted to talk to me about Captain America collectible trading cards.”
You blinked. “About what?”
“That was pretty much my response.”
You tried to picture Peter, still freshly returned from being dust in his home planet, cornering this beautiful and haunted-looking Terran soldier in a motel hallway to discuss little paper images of a man in a flag suit. You had no idea what trading cards were. You had no idea why Captain America needed collecting. You had no idea why Peter was like this, except that unfortunately you knew exactly why Peter was like this.
“He’s very embarrassing,” you said.
Bucky’s mouth twitched up. “He seemed excited.”
“He gets like that when Terra is involved. The planet does something to his brain.”
“Pretty sure he was asking if I knew how much the 1944 set was worth.”
You stared at him. “Do you?”
“No.” This time, he did laugh. It was a startled sound that seemed to slip out of him before he could stop it. The sound suited him too much. It made him look younger for half a second, less broken from war and more like someone who might have once been very good at smiling.
He walked closer after that, though still not too close. “Mind if I sit?”
You looked back out over the city. “It is your planet.”
“Not sure that means much.”
“No?”
“No.” You could hear him being flat and careful. There was something he wasn’t really saying.
So you shrugged, and Bucky sat beside you with a polite amount of space between your shoulder and his. For a while, neither of you spoke. Somewhere in the building, you could hear Drax laughing. And in a nearby home, you could hear a young voice crying quietly enough that they probably thought nobody could hear. But you could, your hearing was better than human hearing.
You did not feel better than human that night, though. You… felt tired.
Bucky’s eyes moved to your arm. You thought he was looking at your species marking. But then he asked, “does it hurt?” and you knew he was talking about something much more… sensitive.
You glanced down at your arm, turning it over to show the deep scarring line that never quite healed from your battle with Ego. “No. Not usually.”
“What is it?”
You flexed your fingers, watching the light shift faintly beneath your skin. “Proof that my planet-sized narcissist father tried to kill me.”
Bucky turned his head toward you.
You smiled without humour. “My biological father is a living planet. He made many children across the galaxy because he wanted to use us as batteries for his expansion plan.”
Bucky stared at you for a second, then looked out over the city again. “That’s a lot.”
“Yeah,” you leaned back, “I have been told my childhood is not a good first-date topic.”
His mouth twitched again, but it was kinder this time. “This a first date?”
You looked at him, and the rooftop seemed to tilt slightly. “I don’t know. Is sitting on a roof after a universe-ending battle a date on Terra?”
“Usually no.”
“Usually?”
“I’m old. Dating got weird while I was gone.”
While I was gone.
Huh. Another little door with some probably horrible backstory behind it. You wondered how many of those he had
So you pushed your door open first.
You just started talking because the city sounded too alive after all that death, and because Bucky Barnes gave you the kind of comfort that made people say things they didn’t mean to say yet.
You told him about Ego first, because that was the biggest part of the story on paper. But he was not the part that hurt the most.
You told him how mother’s home planet had already been dying when Yondu found you. The sky had been the wrong colour for so long that you thought all skies looked sick. You remembered your mother’s hands, or maybe you had invented that memory. You remembered being small, hungry, angry, and too tired to cry properly.
Then Yondu came. He got you out because that was what he did.
Bucky listened without interrupting. He didn’t rush to relate, though you suspected he might’ve been able to. He sat there beside you on the motel roof, one knee bent, metal arm resting still against it, and let the words come out.
You looked down at your hands.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky said eventually.
People said that a lot, and you usually hated it. But from him, it didn’t sound empty. Maybe, it was because his voice already carried so much sorrow that it knew how to make room for yours.
You swallowed. “The funny thing is, Yondu threatened to eat Peter and me so many times. But at least he was there. I might have Ego’s blood, but Yondu gave me a home.”
Bucky sighed. “Blood doesn’t mean much by itself.”
You looked at him.
His eyes were fixed on the city, but he was not really seeing it anymore. The streetlights reflected faintly in his face, illuminating the tired slope of his mouth and the shadows beneath his eyes. “I had a family once. Parents, a sister, everything.”
And just like that, Bucky pushed his door open too.
Maybe it was easier to trauma dump to a pretty alien girl who he’s pretty certain he won’t see again.
He told you about war, handing you broken parts of himself and trusting you not to cut yourself on them. He told you about leaving home, about falling, about waking up in the hands of monsters. He told you enough that your stomach turned cold.
You had known there was something wrong in him. It made more sense now that you knew they had taken a living thing apart and put it back together with instructions missing.
You looked at his arm again, even though that wasn’t the arm. Then, you looked at his face. “Oh,” you said, after he told you about HYDRA. “They made you a weapon.”
Anger rose in your stomach, a real, hot, familiar anger. It was the kind of anger you had learned from Ravagers. It was actionable. It was pure and feral.
“Are they dead?” you asked.
That made him look at you.
You blinked. “What? It’s a reasonable question.”
Bucky studied your face, and he looked almost amused behind the exhaustion of his eyes. “Most of them.”
“Most is not all.”
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
“Do you want help?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I am very good at killing people,” you added, because honesty, that seemed polite.
Bucky stared at you for half a second, then laughed again, this time with more breath in it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You smiled despite yourself, then looked away before it got too real. You had known him for less than a day, properly, and the rooftop felt smaller than it should. His shoulder was not touching yours, but you were aware of the space between you.
Bucky seemed aware of it too.
“So,” he said after a while, voice lighter in a way that felt deliberate, “do aliens have one-night stands?”
You turned to him slowly. “Do we have what?”
“One-night stands.”
You stared.
He seemed to realise he had lost you and shifted slightly, almost embarrassed. “I uh… Casual sex. You know… two people spending a night together because they want to.”
“Oh.” You considered that. “Yes. Obviously.”
He exhaled a laugh. “Obviously?”
“You thought Terrans invented casual sex?”
“No.”
“That would be a very Terran thing to think.”
His smile lingered, and so did yours.
The air changed then, and it had been changing for a while, probably from the moment Rocket shoved him into your orbit and called him Metal Arm Man like he was doing you both a favour. But now there were no Guardians yelling in the lobby, no brother to embarrass you with trading cards. Just the two of you on a motel roof, talking your asses off about monsters who called themselves fathers and creators, grief, and sex like any of it belonged in the same conversation.
Maybe it did.
Maybe this was what survivors did. Maybe they took the worst things that had ever happened to them, laid them down between each other, and then reached for each other anyway.
“So,” you said, because you were suddenly very aware of your own two heartbeats, “is this you asking?”
His eyes flicked back to yours. “Maybe.”
“Maybe is a coward’s answer.”
That did something to him. You saw it in the slight shift of his jaw, the way his gaze darkened, the way his human hand curled loosely against his knee. Still, when he spoke, his voice was careful.
“I’m asking,” he said. “But only if you want that.”
You didn’t answer immediately, though not for being unsure. You were very, annoyingly sure, actually. You wanted him in a way that felt too quick and too simple after a lifetime of things being complicated. You wanted his mouth and his hands and the sadness in his eyes. You wanted to forget the battlefield for a few hours. You wanted to feel alive in a way that didn’t involve fighting for it, for once.
You leaned closer anyway.
“On my planet,” you said, “we do not call it a one-night stand.”
“No?”
“No,” you shook your head with a chuckle. “Mostly because I don’t have a planet. But if I did, I would call it a very reasonable use of a night.”
Bucky’s smile was small and devastating. “That so?”
“Yes.”
You were close enough now to see the tiny flecks of grey in his blue eyes and the faint scar near his mouth. Yet, he held himself like he was giving you every chance to change your mind.
You didn’t.
Instead, you touched the metal fingers resting beside him. The vibranium was cool under your hand.
“I want that,” you said. Then, because you had never been good at masking kindness, you added, “And I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Bucky’s face changed, but not with pity, thank the stars. You would have left immediately if it had been pity.
Instead, it was recognition.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me neither.”
When he kissed you, it was careful for all of two seconds.
His mouth pressed yours once, soft and hesitant. His human hand hovered near your waist before settling there, warm through your shirt. His metal hand stayed braced against the rooftop beside you, like he was holding himself back from touching too much too soon.
It was infuriatingly sweet.
So you fixed it.
You leaned into him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, and kissed him back harder.
Bucky made a small sound against your mouth, and his hand tightened at your waist. His mouth opened under yours, and the kiss turned deeper, messier.
You had kissed people before. You had kissed in back rooms of spaceports, against ship walls, in the dark corners of bars where nobody cared about names. You knew what casual was.
This did not feel like that.
Bucky kissed you like he was trying to remember how, and somehow that made it worse. When your fingers slid up into his hair, he exhaled against you.
He was a little rough at the edges. He was careful, then hungry, then careful again when you shifted closer and his metal hand finally moved to your hip.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead nearly touching his.
Bucky’s eyes opened slowly. His pupils were dark, his mouth swollen.
“Sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I’m a little rusty.”
You blinked at him. Then you looked very deliberately at his metal arm.
“You don’t have rust.”
For a second, he just stared at you. Then he laughed. “No, I don’t.”
You traced your fingers down the front of his shirt, feeling his breathing change beneath your touch. “You don’t need to apologise.”
His eyes dropped to your hand.
It should not have been so attractive, how kind he was. So you kissed him again.
By the time the two of you made it back inside, laughing under your breath, Bucky nearly knocked his shoulder against the frame trying not to let go of you.
It was still supposed to be simple. That was what you told yourself when he kissed you against the wall. That was what you told yourself when your hands found the edge of his shirt and pulled it over your head. That was what you told yourself when he paused, forehead against yours, and asked again if you were sure.
You were.
So for a few stolen hours, neither of you had to be a weapon.
You just made each other feel good.
—
In the morning, someone knocked on your door.
It was a determined knock, followed by a pause, followed by another knock that was weirdly polite.
You opened your eyes slowly.
For a second, you had no idea where you were. The light coming through the curtains was thin and grey and Terran. Then you became aware of the warm body behind you, the weight of an arm across your waist, the steady rise and fall of Bucky Barnes breathing against the back of your neck.
Oh.
Right.
The knocking came again.
Beside you, Bucky stirred awake. His arm tightened around you for half a second before he seemed to remember where he was, who you were, and what had happened the night before.
“I am Groot?” came a muffled voice from the hallway.
You closed your eyes.
Bucky’s voice was sleep-rough when he whispered, “Is that…?”
“Yes,” you whispered back. “That’s Groot.”
“He okay?”
“He’s asking about breakfast.”
“I am Groot,” Groot said again, more insistently this time.
You dragged a hand over your face. “What the hell is an IHOP?”
Bucky blinked, then made the mistake of laughing.
It wasn’t particularly loud, but you felt it against your shoulder and immediately wanted to do several stupid things, including staying exactly where you were and never opening the door. Unfortunately, Groot knocked again, and then someone in the room next to yours opened their door.
“I am going to kill both of you” Nebula called to you from the hallway.
You sat up so fast Bucky almost got elbowed in the chin.
Oh, shit.
Bucky sat up beside you with his hair a mess, eyes wide, mouth pressed tightly together like he was trying very hard not to laugh and make this worse.
You put a shirt and trousers on, panicking, making bucky put his boxers on, too.
Nebula continued, voice flat and merciless. “Some of us were trying to sleep. Some of us didn’t need to hear whatever Terran mating ritual you were performing in there all night!”
Your entire body went hot.
“You heard?” you opened the door to peek outside to see a crowd of guardians already converging there. You weren’t opening the door fully yet. Obviously. Bucky was still trying to find his shirt.
Nebula scoffed, “It was impossible not to.”
From the hallway, Rocket’s voice cut in. “I just put a pillow over my head.”
You dropped your face into your hands.
Bucky’s hand touched your back as he made his way to look for his socks, still shirtless.
“I still don’t know what IHOP is,” said Mantis, because apparently, she was there too.
“A breakfast place,” Bucky said, loud enough for everyone to hear. To be fair, Bucky had never really been there either. It was only a thing after the war, so all the knowledge he had about chain restaurants came secondhand from Sam’s stories and Shuri’s travels.
Drax, answer loudly from the hallway. “Why is it called that?”
“It stands for International House of Pancakes,” Bucky shouted back, looping his belt through. You stared at him, and he looked almost apologetic.
Before Bucky could answer, there was another voice in the hallway.
Peter.
“Why is everyone standing outside—” His voice cut off into a silence, which meant Peter Quill had looked through the half-open door, seen Bucky Barnes half-dressed, and experienced several emotions at once, most notably disgust and awe, which you were unaware could coexist .
Then he shouted, “YOU HAD SEX WITH A HOWLING COMMANDO?”
You froze. Bucky froze.
You stared at Peter through the gap in the door, genuinely exhausted. “I have no idea what that means.”
Peter looked like he hated that he knew something about his sister’s sex life, but was amazed you bagged a historical figure he learned about in school. “It means he’s a war hero!”
Bucky, looking increasingly like he regretted being alive, said, “Quill—”
Peter opened the door a little wider. “No, no, no, no, I’m not judging. Sir, I respect you very much.”
“Oh my god,” you said.
“Don’t call him sir,” Nebula said from somewhere out of sight.
Peter ignored both of you, because Peter had never once let good advice stop him. “Bucky, sir, would you like to join us at IHOP?”
You turned to him in alarm. “No.”
Bucky looked between you and the doorway.
“No, please,” you said, smoothing your stupid borrowed human shirt that said I ❤️ New York. “Bucky. Just go.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
You immediately realised how that sounded a bit aggressive and winced. “Not like that. I mean— before they make this worse. Before Peter starts asking you questions about ancient Terran history or Rocket asks if your arm has detachable components.”
“I was building up to it,” Rocket said, looking a bit pissed.
Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. You could see the smile fighting its way onto his mouth despite everything, still unfairly attractive. He finally found his shirt under the bed, while you looked very hard at the wall and pretended you were not noticing the way his back moved.
Bucky pulled his shirt on, then his jacket, then paused by the bed.
Rocket was still muttering about pancakes, Groot was making curious little noises, and Peter was whispering something that sounded like “World War Two Legend” under his breath. But inside the room, between you and Bucky, there was a pocket of silence.
“I’ll see you around?” you said.
“I hope so.” Then he smiled like he wanted to say something else, but then Peter coughed very loudly in the hallway, and the moment snapped. Bucky gave you one last look, then stepped out into the corridor, where Peter immediately straightened.
“Big fan,” Peter said.
“Pete!” you groaned.
Bucky, because he was apparently kind even under extreme psychological pressure, just nodded. “Thanks.”
Just like that, he left with a kiss on your temple.
Peter spent the entire walk there explaining World War Two to you.
Rocket and Drax collectively ordered too much food. Nebula threatened three different utensils. Groot liked the syrup so much he tried to drink it straight from the little container. Mantis, still not fully adjusted to Earth mornings, asked if your “night of physical bonding” had helped with your sadness, which made you put your head down on the table while Peter choked on his coffee.
By the time you got back to the motel, you saw a small Terran phone on the nightstand that you hadn’t noticed when you left.
It had one number saved: Bucky.
—
You were supposed to leave Earth after a week.
It had been the initial plan. It was only supposed to be one extra week on Peter’s weird little wheel planet, just long enough for Rocket to patch the Benatar, insult several Earth scientists, establish reliable interstellar communication, and call NASA a hobby club with delusions of grandeur.
Unfortunately, the Benatar was more fucked than anyone wanted to admit.
Earth, being a backwater planet with no shortage of paperwork, five years of stagnation, and parts that apparently could not just be stolen without “causing an international incident,” made repairs painfully slow. Rocket had to source pieces from Stark warehouses, Wakandan labs, old S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra storage, and one aerospace facility where he bit a man for calling him a raccoon.
So one week became five months.
And of course, you had to pass the time somehow.
Bucky Barnes was a very, very good way to pass the time.
The phone came in handy, because every time you weren’t helping a guardian with an annoyingly administrative task, you were lonely. So, you would call him.
It might not have been a one night stand anymore, but it was still casual.
It was so casual you fucked him every time the two of you were alone for more than seven minutes. You did it in his temporary apartment, your motel room, the roof, his kitchen, the backseat of a borrowed car, after he made the mistake of telling you the windows were tinted.
Huh. Maybe this contraption on wheels wasn't as useless as you thought it was.
Bucky had survived many things, including war and brainwashing, but apparently nothing had prepared him for you, wearing Ravager leathers deciding she wanted him immediately and treating Terran public decency like a loose suggestion.
There was the bar incident, which he still could not talk about without going pink in the ears. See, Bucky Barnes had not expected to be getting a blowjob from an alien girl in a cubicle of a newly reopened dive bar bathroom.
But there he was.
Things happened.
There was also the alley behind a Brooklyn diner, where his metal hand ended up in your folds, and you learned, very quickly, that Terran technology was not always primitive.
There was the temporary compound supply closet, where you had gone in looking for a power converter and came out with your hair ruined and knees weak, and Bucky looking like he had seen god in a storage room full of printer paper. There was the motel laundry room at three in the morning, where the machines rattled so loudly that you thought no one could hear you, until Drax walked past the next day and told you he sincerely wished his “pounding” would produce “strong children.”
You looked like you wanted the planet to split open and swallow you whole.
It was filthy and stupid. It was fun. It was definitely casual.
That was what you kept saying, anyway.
Calling it casual meant it didn’t matter that his metal arm felt good. Casual meant it did not matter that his human hand felt just as good. Casual meant it didn’t matter that he figured out exactly when you wanted him to be gentle and when you very much didn’t, that he could make you forget every insulting thing you had ever said about Earth with his mouth on your neck and that Brooklyn rasp in your ear.
Casual meant you could leave when you had to.
Bucky made that harder by being annoyingly charming outside of bed. He introduced you to human food like pizza, bagels, and pancakes. He taught you how to tell real New York pizza from the “modern stuff,” even when you were still struggling to eat the flimsy-foldable bread thing in the first place.
“You like it,” he said, watching you steal a pepperoni from his box.
You shrugged, but didn’t deny it. He smiled at you like you were funny, which was dangerous because you liked his smile far too much.
Then one afternoon, he told you he was from Brooklyn, and you sat up so fast you nearly kicked over the coffee table.
“Brooklyn,” you said. “As in No Sleep Till?”
Bucky blinked, then laughed. “Yeah. Shuri made me listen to that.”
“Pete loves that song.”
“Of course he does.”
You nodded solemnly. “It is one of the only respectable things about this planet.”
He leaned back, smiling into his coffee. “Brooklyn?”
“No. Music.”
He looked so offended you had to kiss him.
That was the problem with Bucky. He was too easy to kiss, too easy to want, too easy to crawl back to after a long day of Rocket screaming at wiring diagrams and Peter trying to explain why Earth malls used to matter culturally. Bucky made you food and started leaving space for your knives on his temporary dresser like that was a normal thing to do for someone you were only sleeping with.
The Benatar was fixed eventually.
Rocket announced the news to Avengers and Guardians and Asgardians and Wakandans alike, over breakfast like it was good news, because it was. Your family could leave, because the ship could fly.
Bucky didn’t say anything.
He just looked at you across the table, and you realised with a sick little twist in your chest that casual had become the biggest lie you had ever told.
—
The night before you left Earth, you found yourself on top of Bucky Barnes again in his makeshift New Asgardian tent.
It was getting increasingly harder and harder to pretend your chest didn’t hurt every time he looked at you like you were a treasure he had found in the wreckage and wanted, desperately, to keep.
His hands were on either side of you, your knees pressed into the cot on either side of him, your palms braced against his chest, your hair falling around your face while you rode him hard enough to make the frame knock into the fabric.
“Fuck,” Bucky breathed, head tipped back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded and wrecked. “Baby—”
You hated when Terrans called people that. Well. You hated it until he did it.
When he did, it made a warm pool in your stomach, made both your hearts kick faster, made you grind down harder just to hear him lose his breath again.
His metal hand tightened on your thigh. His human hand slid up your waist, warm and rough, thumb pressing into the place beneath your ribs like he was checking that you were still there.
You leaned down and kissed him because you couldn’t stand his face.
You could not stand his beautiful, sad, earnest face. You couldn’t stand that he had kissed you on the temple in a motel hallway once and therefore ruined your life forever. You couldn’t stand that he had made Earth feel less like Peter’s stupid planet and more like a place with someone waiting for you to come back.
Bucky groaned into your mouth when you moved again, taking him until your thighs shook.
“Christ,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down your throat, the place where your pulse was too fast. One pulse. Then the other. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Good,” you said, breathless. “Then I don’t have to leave you.”
It was meant to be a joke. It didn’t feel like one.
You were leaving in the morning, and earlier today, Drax had asked if Bucky would be joining you and then said that he hoped so because Bucky seemed like he had “excellent reproductive prowess.”
You had kicked Drax under the table.
Bucky had not laughed much after that.
Now he looked up at you, hair messy against the pillow, mouth swollen from kissing.
After you rode out your high and drawn out his at the same time, you collapsed next to him.
“Stay,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if he had been holding it in for weeks and it had finally slipped out
“Bucky...”
“I know,” he said quickly, and his hands slid up your back, holding you against him. “I know. Pete’s out there. The Guardians are out there. I know that’s your family.”
You swallowed hard. “You could come with me.”
His face changed. There it was, the conversation you had been circling. You knew in reality, that this was nothing more than a ridiculous, impossible fantasy you had been trying not to build.
“You could,” you said again. “Thor’s coming.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, but it broke halfway through. “Yeah, well. Thor doesn’t exactly blend in here either.”
“You don’t blend in anywhere.”
“That’s fair.”
You tried to smile.
Bucky’s hand came up to your face, metal fingers careful against your cheek. The cool touch made your eyes sting.
“I haven’t been home in a long time,” he said.
“I know.”
“I don’t even know if New York is still home,” he admitted. “But I think I need to try.”
You nodded, even though it felt like swallowing glass.
You understood. Bucky had been dragged through so much. He had only just been handed a life that belonged to him. For the first time in a long time, this was his chance to figure out who he was when nobody was using him.
How could you ask him to leave that?
And how could he ask you to stay?
Your only tether to anything like family was Peter and Guardians.
Earth had Bucky.
Space had everyone else.
You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re breaking my hearts,” you whispered.
His breath hitched, kissing the edge of your lips. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” you said, wiping at your cheek angrily. “And they’re both beating quicker than they should be.”
He laughed then, and you laughed too, even as tears slipped hot down your face and fell onto his skin.
He kissed them off your cheeks.
You kissed his lips then as if you could press every unsaid thing into his mouth and make him understand. I’m sorry. I want you. I have to go. Come with me. Stay safe. Wait for me. Don’t wait for me. Please wait for me.
Eventually, Bucky rolled you beneath him with one smooth shift and you gasped against his mouth.
For a second, you thought he only meant to hold you there.
His weight settled over you, his hair fell around his face, his breath still uneven from what you had done to him not long ago, and yet when his hips pressed between your thighs, you felt him already hard again.
You blinked up at him.
Bucky froze, because in all honestly, his uncontrollable evidence of wanting you had made him feel like a perv. It was almost funny, really. This man had survived unspeakable things, but apparently getting hard again too quickly in front of the girl leaving his planet in the morning was what made him look embarrassed.
Your lips parted.
He let out a rough little breath, eyes flicking away for half a second. “Sorry.”
You stared at him. “Why are you apologizing?”
He was embarrassed and wanting and so painfully Bucky that it made your chest ache. “Super soldier thing,” he muttered. “I can, uh…”
You raised an eyebrow.
He looked down at you, cheeks faintly flushed now, and that was worse than all the filth you had done together in the last five months. “…go again,” he finished.
Then, you laughed, but not because it was funny.
But because of course James Buchanan Barnes would be hovering over you on your last night on Earth, looking sweet and apologetic for the fact that his body still wanted yours after you had already wasted him half to death.
He laughed too, quieter.
“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “I just— I want you. But you don’t have to.”
You reached up and touched him. His stubble scratched against your palm. His eyes closed for half a second like he was trying to memorise that too.
It was your last night, with his sheets tangled around your legs, with his body over yours.
You were tired and sore. But you wanted him again so badly it felt dumb.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Bucky opened his eyes.
You hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him closer. “Yes. Please.”
He kissed you first, like he was saying thank you into your mouth. Then his hand slid down your side, over your hip, between your thighs, touching you with careful fingers until your body reacted to him all over again.
He pushed into you again, slow enough that you felt every inch and stretch until your back arched.
His forehead dropped to yours.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did.
He moved slowly at first,one hand tangled with yours against the sheets, the other braced beside your head. It was not the frantic, filthy kind of sex the two of you had gotten so good at. It was not trying to see how fast you could make him come apart before someone noticed you were missing.
This was him fucking you like he wanted you to remember exactly what leaving felt like.
Every thrust pushed the air from your lungs, and every drag of his body against yours made your thighs tighten around his waist. You dug your nails into his back and he groaned into your neck, hips snapping harder for a second before he caught himself again.
“Don’t,” you gasped.
He lifted his head. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t hold back.”
His eyes darkened.
Your voice cracked around the next words. “I want to miss all of it.”
Bucky kissed you hard, and then he gave you exactly what you asked for. He fucked you into the mattress with the kind of hunger that had been hiding his mouth at your throat, his hands on your hips.
You let yourself have it.
For once, you didn’t try to make it funny.
You just let him have you.
And when you came, it hit you so hard you cried out against his shoulder, bones trembling. Bucky followed after, burying his face in your neck with a broken sound, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.
Good.
You wanted it to fucking ache.
For a long time afterwards, neither of you moved.
The room smelled like sweat and sex and Bucky’s laundry soap. Your skin was damp against his. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, steady precious.
Eventually, you whispered, “I’m going to miss this.”
His hand stilled in your hair.
You closed your eyes. “I’m going to miss you.”
Bucky pressed his mouth to the top of your head.
“I’m gonna miss you, too,” he said.
You wanted to be brave about it. Still, your throat burned.
You shifted enough to reach for the little device on the makeshift nightstand. It was small, flat, and ugly, because Rocket had built it from three different communication systems, one stolen Stark component, and another thing he claimed was “probably not radioactive anymore.”
You placed it in Bucky’s hand.
He looked down at it. “What’s this?”
“A communicator.”
His brows lifted. “This works in space?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“Some parts of space are unreachable,” you said, defensive because Rocket had already explained the limitations six times and you understood maybe half of them. “There are dead zones, black-market relay issues, Kree interference, and weird cosmic nonsense. Also Rocket said if you press the red button too many times, it may get hot.”
Bucky stared at you.
You sniffed. “But it works.”
His thumb moved over the edge of it, careful. “Yeah?”
“Yes. So reach out, please.” Your voice went low. “Even if I don’t answer right away, even if it takes a while. I’ll answer when I can.”
Bucky looked at you then, and the naked hope in his face nearly killed you.
“I’ll visit,” you said quickly, because if he looked at you like that much longer, you were going to do something embarrassing like stay. “From time to time.”
“From time to time,” he repeated.
You winced.you knew that sounded terrible, as if you didn’t want to give enough effort. “I mean I will come back,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “I mean it. I don’t know when. I don’t know how often. My family attracts disasters like Drax attracts confusing conversations, but I will come visit.”
Bucky’s hand turned under yours until he could lace your fingers together.
“I’ll be here,” he said.
Then Bucky sat up, reaching toward the floor where his jeans had been abandoned hours ago. He searched the pocket and pulled out a thin chain tangled around his fingers.
He looked almost shy when he handed it to you.
You took it, frowning at the two small metal plates hung from the chain, stamped with Terran letters and numbers you didn’t fully understand.
“What is this?”
“My dog tags.”
You stared at him, then thought of the only other dog you know of: Cosmo. “You’re not a dog.”
He laughed, soft and pained. “No.”
“Then why are they called that?”
“I don’t know. It’s an Army thing.”
You turned the tags over in your palm. “They have your name,” you said, before looking up.
His smiled.
Oh.
“They’re important,” you realised.
Bucky nodded once. “They’re from… before.”
And just like that, you understood. Your fingers closed around the tags.
“Bucky,” you whispered.
He shrugged like it didn’t matter, which meant it mattered terribly. “Figured you should have something.”
You looked down at them again, and your vision blurred. “I don’t have anything like this to give you.”
“You gave me a space phone that might explode."
You laughed. Bucky smiled, but his eyes were wet too.
You leaned forward and kissed him gentler, before he slipped the chain over your head. The tags settled between your breasts, cold against your skin, right between your two stupid, breaking hearts.
Bucky watched them land there, and the look on his face made heat curl through you all over again.You touched the tags. “How do they look?”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“Like mine,” he said, then seemed to realise what he had said.
You went very still.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” you said.
He looked at you.
You crawled back into his lap, the chain shifting against your bare skin, the communicator forgotten on the bed beside you. His hands came to your waist automatically.
“Good,” you whispered.
Then you kissed him again.
By morning, your body ached everywhere.
When you finally stood in the doorway with your bag over your shoulder and his dog tags hidden beneath your shirt, you and Bucky looked at each other like you both wanted to ask again.
Stay.
Come with me.
Both of you were too kind to say either out loud.
You kissed him one more time before you boarded the Benatar.
—
You visited Bucky Barnes four times in the next three years.
Four times sounded almost generous if you didn’t think about all the days between.
Still, you messaged him when you could.
Sometimes the communicator worked, and sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes your voice arrived through the little device in his palm three weeks late, half-swallowed by static and distance, saying, “—Rocket says if this thing starts beeping, that's technically your fault—” before cutting out entirely.
Sometimes Bucky sent you a message and had no idea whether it reached you.
Still alive?
That was his most common one. It looked and sounded casual. It was anything but.
You usually answered with something stupid, like: Unfortunately. Or Yes. You?
Or once, after apparently being shot at by pirates, chased through a collapsing space station, and nearly eaten by something Peter insisted was “not technically a worm”, you texted back: Define alive.
Bucky read that one in his kitchen at two in the morning and was scared shitless for your life.
Then he looked out of his window.
Brooklyn never showed enough stars, but some nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he went up to the roof anyway. He stood there with his jacket pulled close, metal hand resting on the ledge, eyes lifted to a sky that hid you from him.
He wondered where you were.
He wondered if you were safe. He wondered if you were injured and pretending you weren’t. He wondered if Peter was annoying you. He wondered if Rocket was taking care of you the way he promised to. He wondered if you ever looked out into the dark and thought of him, too.
—
The first time you came back, it was only for two days.
You told nebula to land on his roof, because of course you did. Bucky had already learned that you considered swinging, hinged doors a Terran inconvenience because you stubbed your toe on one once.
He had been waiting there for twenty minutes, when your little shuttle appeared above the building, and Bucky forgot every reasonable thing he had ever planned to say.
You jumped down with a bag over your shoulder, boots hitting the concrete like you had never once doubted you would land on your feet. For a second, you just looked at him. He looked at you, too. Eight months sat between you awkwardly, until you smiled.
“Your planet still smells strange,” you said.
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Hi to you too.”
He kissed you, and it wasn’t frantic at first. It was worse. His hands came up to your face like he was checking that you were real, thumbs brushing your cheeks, before you made a small sound and pulled him closer by the front of his jacket.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said quietly.
You swallowed, suddenly irritated with him for sounding so grateful. “For two days.”
“I know.”
“It’s not enough time.”
“I know,” he said again.
His apartment was exactly like him in the worst way. There were books stacked beside the couch, a blanket folded over the arm, mugs drying beside the sink, and a little space cleared on the dresser where, after one hour, your duffel bag somehow ended up.
You walked around slowly, inspecting everything. Bucky followed you like he was trying not to look nervous.
“It’s very square,” you announced eventually.
He leaned against the kitchen counter. “You said that about the motel too.”
“Terrans love boxes.”
He laughed and spent the days showing you his neighbourhood.
That night, you didn’t do half the filthy things you had promised yourself you would do on the way there. You had thought you would make the most of the short visit, but instead, you ended up under his blankets, your back against his chest, his arm around your waist, your body so tired from travel and space jumps that you fell asleep before you could even make a joke about his mattress.
Bucky stayed awake.
He couldn’t help it. He had spent eight months imagining you in this apartment, and now you were here. His dog tags rested against your chest beneath one of his shirts. He could feel the little metal plates when his hand settled over your ribs.
“You still wear them,” he murmured.
You weren't fully asleep. “They are important.”
“To me.”
“To me too,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion.
Bucky’s breath hitched.
You seemed to realise what you had said a second later, because you shifted and cleared your throat. “Also, they’re useful identification in case I misplace you.”
He huffed a laugh into your hair. “In case you misplace me?”
“Yes.”
“Where would you misplace me?”
“I don’t know. Your planet has many streets.”
A long silence passed as your fingers found his hand over your waist, and instead of moving it away, you threaded your fingers through his.
After a while, Bucky said, “You know, this feels like one of those old war movies.”
You turned your head slightly. “What does?”
“This. You showing up for two days and leaving again.” His voice was light, but trying too hard. “Like you’re a sailor being shipped out.”
You blinked in the dark. “I am the sailor?”
“Yeah.”
“And what are you?”
You felt his smile against your neck before he said, very seriously, “The damsel.”
You chuckled sleepily. Bucky chuckled, too, arms wrapping around you properly when you playfully tried to twist away from him. “Oh, you poor thing,” you said. “Do you require rescuing, princess?”
“Every few months, apparently.”
You laughed again, quieter this time.
Then the humour faded, because every joke with Bucky seemed to have a cliff beneath it.
—
The second time you came back, it was for five days.
Rocket needed Bruce Banner for something involving gamma signatures, and deep-space interference. You came with him because someone had to stop Rocket from biting another scientist.
Also because Bucky was there.
Not that you said that.
You invited him to the ship and while Bruce was there, too. Rocket gagged. “Not in my lab.”
You didn’t make it to dinner before you ended up in Bucky’s apartment.
This time, the urgency was there. Five days was longer. You could do more than cuddle in five days.
Bucky kissed you against his front door with one hand at your waist and the other braced beside your head. You laughed into his mouth when he almost tripped over your bag, and he muttered something about you being a menace before kissing you harder.
Afterward, as your skin cooled beneath his sheets, Bucky went quiet.
“What?” you asked, turning your head on the pillow.
He stared up at the ceiling, one hand resting on his stomach. “I went on a date.”
He looked like it had been eating him alive. He looked like he hated himself for it.
Against your better judgement, as you took in the absurdity of the conversation, you laughed. It came out a little too bright.
“Oh,” you said. “Okay.”
Bucky looked at you. “Okay?”
“Yes. Okay.” You pushed yourself up on one elbow and tried to look mature. “That’s good.”
He didn’t answer. He almost would rather you shout at him, even if you never said you were exclusive and had no reason to assume so.
You kept going because silence was dangerous. “You live here. You should date. You should have… Terran meals and Terran walks and whatever else dating is.”
“I had dinner where she worked,” he said quietly.
You looked at him for a moment, then asked another question because you were stupid and cruel to yourself. “How was she?”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Nice.”
“Nice is good.”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty?”
He turned his head toward you, and he looked hurt now. “Don’t do that.”
Bucky seemed to regret saying it as soon as he did. He looked away again, but you had already seen too much.
You swallowed. “It is not like we’re in a relationship.”
“I know.”
“You can date.”
“I know.”
“Then how was it?”
“She…” he gulped, knowing it went nowhere, knowing he would never see her again because it felt so wrong, he felt nauseous afterwards. “She’s not you.”
Oh.
You didn’t know what to do with that.
You wanted to tell him not to wait for you, but the thought of him not waiting made your breath hitched. You wanted to tell him to date someone else, but not her. Actually, not anyone. You wanted to say you were sorry, or that you loved him.
Instead, you reached for his hand.
He let you take it.
“I don’t want you to be lonely,” you said.
“I know.”
You looked at him. “But?”
Bucky squeezed your fingers once. “But I still am.”
—
The third time, you visited, you stayed for a week
That time, Sam invited you to a Wilson cookout at his sister’s house.
Bucky asked badly as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Sam’s having a cookout. Sarah’ll be there. The boys too, but… we don’t have to go.”
You stared at him. “Do they know about me?”
“Yes.”
“What do they know?”
He looked uncomfortable.
You narrowed your eyes. “James Buchanan Barnes.”
“Oh, now it’s the full name?”
“What do they know?”
“That you visit.” He smiled faintly, but it faded quickly. “I… I just wanted you there.”
So you went on the short flight to New Orleans with him.
The Wilson’s Louisiana house was warm and smelled of grilled food and salt air.
You stood beside Bucky, as kids pointed out your markings, and suddenly became very aware that you didn’t know how to be introduced.
Sarah solved that immediately by smiling at you like she had already decided she liked you.
“So,” she said, handing you a plate, “you’re Barnes’ long-distance girlfriend.”
Bucky froze. Sam took one sip of his drink like had been waiting all day for this.
You laughed at once. “That’s not what this is.”
Sarah’s eyebrows lifted.
“It is more like…” You glanced at Bucky, then away, because his face had gone blank. “What you Terrans call an intergalactic booty call.”
Sam choked.
One of the boys immediately asked, “What’s a booty call?”
“Ask your uncle,” Sarah said.
Sam looked betrayed. “Why would you do that to me?”
You wanted to take it back.
You wanted to say, actually, no, that was wrong. Actually, he’s not that or I cross galaxies for him.
But you didn’t say any of that.
Later, while Sarah’s boys asked you increasingly strange questions about space, you caught Bucky looking at you from across the yard. He was leaning against the railing beside Sam, who was saying something to him. But Bucky was not really listening. His eyes were on you like a lost puppy.
You mouthed, stop.
He smiled faintly.
Three days later, you begged for his spare arm.
Bucky said no before you even finished explaining.
“It is for Rocket,” you insisted.
“That makes it worse.”
“It’s for Christmas!” You told him, leaning across his kitchen table. “He’s my best friend.”
Bucky leaned back, looking at you. You were wearing one of his shirts again, hair still damp from his shower. His apartment looked both wrong and right around you, as if you had always belonged there and were always about to leave.
“Fine,” he said at last.
Your face lit up. “Really?”
“Yeah. But I want something.”
You immediately narrowed your eyes. “I don’t make deals with soldiers.”
Bucky smiled, but it was fragile. “Just come back soon, yeah?”
Oh.
He didn’t look away, even though you could tell he wanted to.
Soon.
As if soon was easy, as if your life was not a mess of missions, emergencies, broken engines, family obligations, cosmic disasters, and Peter doing stupid things with massive diplomatic consequences.
“Bucky…”
“I know,” he said. “I know you can’t promise me anything.”
You swallowed.
“I know,” he repeated, but his voice was rougher now. “Just… try.”
You could have fought a demand or mocked a plea. But this…
You reached across the table and took his hand.
“I’ll try,” you said.
—
The fourth time, you came back two months later.
He opened the apartment door and just stood there, staring at you like he couldn't quite believe you were here.
You held up a bag, because apparently, you had taken a detour on the way to his apartment. “I brought bagels.”
His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to your face.
You lifted the bag higher, because you couldn’t survive much more of that look. “Bread circles, Bucky. Are you going to let me in or do Terrans eat in corridors now?”
He let you in.
The bagels were forgotten on the counter within minutes.
You told him about Mantis on the second night.
You were in his bed, his arm around you, the room dim except for the weak city light through the blinds. The dog tags rested against your bare sternum, rising and falling with your breathing. Bucky’s fingers had been tracing absent shapes along your side, soothing, when he asked about how Christmas in Knowhere went.
So you told him that Rocket loved the arm, but you also told him the bigger revelation.
“Mantis is my sister,” you said.
Bucky’s hand paused for a second. “Your sister?”
You nodded, staring at the ceiling. “She’s one of Ego’s, too.” You said with a smile. “She was already family. I mean, before. She was already one of ours. But now…”
“Now it’s different,” Bucky said.
“Yes.”
He shifted slightly to look at you. “How do you feel?”
You took a long breath. “Happy. I want to kill him again, but he’s already dead, so...”
Bucky smiled faintly. “I’m glad you have her.”
You believed him.
And he was telling the truth. He was glad, and Bucky would rather jump off a bridge than ever be cruel with your happiness. He never made you feel guilty for having family beyond him, never treated the Guardians like a competition, never asked you to shrink your world until only he was left in it. He loved you too much for that, even if neither of you had said the word.
But mantis being your sister, when all you ever wanted in life was family, meant that you’ve got another reason to stay up there.
Every piece of family you found among the stars tied you tighter to a life Bucky could only visit through broken messages and sparse wondering.
And what did Earth have?
One soldier in Brooklyn.
And later, after you fell asleep, Bucky laid awake beneath you and looked toward the window.
He wondered where you would be in a month.
He wondered if the communicator would work or if Rocket would be stripping it for parts again in an emergency.
He wondered if one day you would stop coming back and he would still find himself on the roof, looking up, waiting for you.
Then he looked down at the dog tags resting against your chest. For a few days, at least, the universe was small enough to fit in his bed.
—
Months later…
Rocket almost died, not in the abstract way all of you almost died every other cycle, either.
Rocket actually almost died.
You could still see it when you closed your eyes: his body on the table, fur matted, chest refusing to rise like a normal raccoon.
For a second, you thought your best friend had gone somewhere none of you could follow.
Then he came back.
Against all odds, Rocket lived.
The High Evolutionary was gone, his ship was wreckage. The children and the animals aboard the ship were safe. Knowhere had become both an ark and a home to many, many new faces.
Everywhere you looked, there was evidence of survivals. There were kids sleeping in corners because they hadn’t yet learned beds were safe and strange animals blinking under unfamiliar lights.
And now, your family was changing.
Mantis said she wanted to go. Although it felt like your sister was abandoning you, she reassured you that she wanted to see the universe without Ego. She wanted to find herself without the guardians breathing down her neck.
Which was fair
But she was your sister. You had barely gotten to have that before this. And yet, you understood.
Then Peter said he was leaving, too.
He was leaving for Earth because he wanted to see his grandfather again.
Peter tried to say it casually, but he was terrible at it. When he said it, he was not Star-Lord. He was not the idiot who had danced in front of Ronan, or the man who had lost Gamora, or the brother who had thrown bolts at you across Ravager floors.
He was just Peter, a little boy who had been taken from home, finally admitting there was still someone there he needed to go back to.
And maybe because everyone else was saying the brave thing out loud, you did, too.
“I could come with you,” you said.
Peter blinked at you. Then his face scrunched up in immediate disgust. “You can’t come live with my grandpa with me.”
You smacked him upside the head.
“Ow!”
“No, dumbass,” you rolled your eyes, "I'm not gonna live with you.”
Peter rubbed the back of his head, wounded and hurt, but then his eyes dropped to the chain beneath your shirt.
His eyes changed.
“Ohhh,” he said.
You looked away at once. “Don’t.”
Peter’s mouth opened wider. “Ahhh.”
“Peter.”
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t.”
But he was already grinning, all mischief and brotherly cruelty. “I see now.”
Drax leaned forward, deeply alarmed by being left out of something. “What? What are we seeing?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
Nebula folded her arms, finally catching up, “Guess who else is on Terra?”
Your face went hot.
Drax’s eyes widened. “Ah.”
“I am not going because of him,” you sputtered out, clearly lying through your teeth, “maybe I just want to learn of Terran music!”
The pretense was paper thin, and even you knew it.
Rocket made a rude little noise from his seat.
You turned. “What?”
He lifted both paws. “Didn’t say anything.”
“I am Groot,” Groot said mildly from beside him.
Rocket nodded. “Exactly.”
You looked at Groot in betrayal.
Groot only blinked at you with those gentle eyes.
Mantis smiled softly. “You do touch the metal necklace every time someone mentions Terra.”
“I don’t.”
“You are touching them now.”
You dropped your hand like the metal had burned you.
“This is amazing.” Peter looked delighted. “My sister is moving to Earth for that old robot. We’ll practically be neighbors.”
“He’s not old.”
Nebula finally looked up.
Peter held up a finger. “He fought in World War Two.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“It means old.”
“He looks fine.”
Rocket barked a laugh. “Oh, she’s got it bad.”
“I don’t have anything”
Drax nodded with grave certainty. “She has been claimed by the metal warrior. He gave her necklace plates.”
“They are called dog tags.”
“You are not a dog.”
“That is what I said!”
Nebula smiled a little, which for her was basically hysterics. “You cross galaxies to crawl into his bed and wear his military identification around your neck.”
Well, when she said it like that…
Mantis leaned closer. “He makes you less lonely.”
Finally, everybody shut the hell up.
Because yes. He did.
Right.
Rocket looked away first.
He was picking at a seam in his jacket, claws worrying the fabric until the thread started to pull loose. His ears were low, though he was clearly trying to make them not be. His mouth had twisted into that flat line he wore whenever feeling like he wanted to bite.
Mantis was leaving. Peter was leaving. You were leaving. The children of Ego, all drifting off in different directions like the dead bastard pleft cruelty in your blood.
Rocket scoffed. “Great. Real touching. Everybody’s got somewhere better to be now.”
Your hearts felt hurt. “Rocket.”
“What?” he snapped, too fast. “It’s good. It’s great. Everyone’s got somewhere to be.”
Rocket didn’t look at you.
He had almost died. He had woken up into a universe where he was finally captain, and now his family was peeling apart.
“Family’s still family,” you said, “Even when we’re spread out.”
You looked around the room at the only family you’d ever really known, and here was Rocket pretending not to be sad.
The raccoon looked up at you three, and this time, he looked… okay.
“I am groot,” Groot said, finally.
I love you guys.
—
Bucky wasn’t expecting a knock on a random Tuesday.
He should have been, probably.
That was his life now: he always had knocks at weird hours, which was usually campaign staff with clipboards. Sometimes it was Sam showing up because apparently “boundaries” were optional during election season. Other times it was someone from legal, or from security, or an intern from the press being brave enough, or stupid enough to knock on the former winter soldier’s door at 8AM.
He had only just started his campaign for congressman, and already his personal life felt less personal the more people tried to pry open his head with a crowbar.
So when the knock came, he thought someone had leaked his address.
He thought this must be a reporter. His life must be blowing up.
He set the mug down, rubbed a hand over his face, and walked to the door trying to make his expression less like it belonged on a wanted poster.
Then he opened it and the entire world stopped.
You were standing in his hallway.
You.
You were actually there, clothes damp from rain, hair windswept, a duffel bag hanging from your shoulder, his dog tags tucked beneath your shirt.
Behind you, Peter Quill stood near the stairwell, a respectful amount of distance, but probably a reminded that he was still your brother. He gave Bucky a small thumbs-up before scurrying down the stairs. He had already said goodbye in the car and given you his address in Missouri after driving you here, obviously. You didn’t know how cars worked. Yet.
Bucky barely saw him, mostly because he couldn’t stop looking at you.
You looked nervous, which was so wrong it almost hurt to see. You had fought gods, monsters, armies, and living planets. And now you were standing in his doorway like you were afraid he might say reject you.
“Hi,” you said, voice smaller than usual.
Bucky’s hand tightened around the edge of the door.
“I’m here to stay,” you said. “If that’s okay.”
For a second, nothing existed to Bucky, not even the campaign or reporters or Earth or space. Just you.
Then Bucky stepped forward and pulled you into his arms.
Your duffel slipped off your shoulder and hit the hallway floor, but neither of you cared. His metal hand spread across your back, gentle even when the rest of him was shaking. His human arm was wrapped around your waist as buried his face against your neck.
You went still, startled by it, and then folded into him without any resistance whatsoever.
Bucky closed his eyes.
His throat tightened so suddenly he almost couldn’t get the words out.
“How long?” he asked.
Your fingers curled into the back of his shirt. “For the foreseeable future.”
Oh.
Oh, stars.
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you.
Your eyes were watering. His probably were, too, but he didn’t care. He didn’t have room to care. You swallowed.
“I should’ve asked you first,” you rushed out. “I know. I just wanted it to be a surprise, and Pete thought it might be a good surprise, so I’m—”
Bucky kissed you.
He couldn’t stand to listen to you ask permission to be wanted. Because of course you were wanted.
Yes.
Yes, stay.
Yes, here.
Yes, with me.
You made a broken little noise into his mouth, and Bucky’s hand slid into your hair, holding you there like he was anchoring both of you to the same planet.
When Bucky finally pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to yours.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then you whispered, “Good surprise?”
Bucky let out a laugh, but it broke. “Yeah,” he said, voice wet. “Yeah, sweetheart. Good surprise.”
You sighed then.
Bucky bent down, picked up your duffel, and stepped back into the apartment. You crossed the threshold, eyes moving over the campaign papers on the table, the tie abandoned on the couch, the books stacked by the window, the stupid square Terran box of a home you had to teased every time you visited.
—
And then life kept going.
You stayed, and the world didn’t collapse.
Bucky still had campaign meetings and reporters still asked questions that made your fingers twitch toward knives you were no longer allowed to carry in certain government buildings. Peter sent too many messages after getting you both a smartphone. Rocket called every once in a while, calling Earth “a bureaucratic sinkhole.” Bucky tried to teach you how primaries worked, and you told him Terrans had made voting sound more complicated than interstellar smuggling.
He won anyway.
By the time Mantis visited Earth months later, Bucky Barnes was now Congressman Barnes, which still sounded fake to your alien brain.
The news loved it, obviously. They wrote all sorts of headlines:
Former Winter Soldier wins historic congressional seat.
James Buchanan Barnes sworn into office.
Congressman Barnes has an alien girlfriend.
That one was your favourite.
You framed it.
Bucky came home one evening, saw it hanging in the hallway of your new DC penthouse, and stopped dead with his briefcase still in his hand.
You were sitting on the floor nearby, sorting through a box of your things and pretending very hard not to watch him notice.
He stared at the headline.
“You framed it,” he said.
“Yes.”
“In the hallway, where guests can see it.”
“That is usually why people hang things in hallways, is it not?”
Bucky sighed, but he didn’t take it down.
The penthouse had been a compromise, which was to say Bucky had wanted something secure and reasonable, and you had wanted the biggest house with the biggest windows.
You’re still not used to Terran skies, but from high up, DC was lovely. You could see glowing roads and monuments with headlights and ridiculous little wheeled vehicles dragging themselves around.
Bucky said the place made sense for security.
When Peter visited for the first time, he looked at the glass walls, the high ceiling, the guest rooms, the kitchen big enough for a small diplomatic crisis, and said, “Oh. So you guys are rich rich now.”
“It’s practical,” Bucky said, even though rich wasn’t a place he’d use.
“It has what? Two walk in closets ” Peter said, and guessed right.
“I wanted a third one for all my knives,” you said. “But I had to compromise.”
Bucky looked at you like he loved you and regretted encouraging you at the same time.
And slowly, it became yours.
You had your weird human boots by his polished shoes. You had strange little space trinkets on his shelves, and your faux fur jacket thrown over the back of his very expensive chair.
When Mantis visited, Peter visited, too.
He was still arguing with security about his blasters when she stepped into the penthouse and looked around with wide eyes.
“Oh,” she said softly. “You live very high.”
Bucky was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, opening pizza boxes.
“Your sister likes windows,” he said.
He said it like your wanting mattered enough to explain the whole place.
Mantis smiled.
Bucky glanced at you, then slid a box toward all three of you. Eventually, Peter sat on the floor like he owned the place. Mantis sat cross-legged beside him, studying her slice with concern. You curled into Bucky’s side on the couch, his arm along the back of it, his knee against yours.
Mantis took one bite and her eyes widened. “This is amazing.”
You looked at Peter, your brother, who had once thrown bolts at you across the floor of a Ravager ship and now sat eating pizza in your living room. You looked at Mantis, your sister, free and alive and choosing her own way through the universe. You looked at Bucky, the man who had once been a one-night stand in a motel room, but now, he was your home in every sense of the word.
And tonight, the universe was small enough to fit in one living room.
Mantis leaned back, pizza balanced carefully in both hands.
“I like Earth,” she said.
You looked at her, then at Peter, then at Bucky.
“Yeah,” you said, leaning into your lover’s side. “It has one or two good things.”
—end.
Extra note: I think this reader would make a wonderful Thunderbolt. Thoughts?
a/n: this is a crack fic, the reader is both oblivious and too smart... like figures out everything except for the fact that her Dick Grayson can't be the Dick Grayson she has found out about...
dividers by @cafekitsune
Dick Grayson had a secret.
Well, several secrets. But the relevant one right now was that his girlfriend of two months had absolutely no idea he was Nightwing. Or anything about his private life.
This was intentional. Healthy, even. You were a normal civilian with a normal job and a normal life, and dating you was the one piece of normalcy he had.
What wasn't intentional was discovering that you were obsessed with unmasking the Bat-family.
"Dick! DICK!" You burst into his apartment, laptop in hand, eyes wild with excitement. "You need to see this."
"Hello to you too, babe." He looked up from his case files—civilian case files, he'd learned to hide those very carefully. "What's going on?"
"I found a new forum. Well, not new—it's been around for three years—but new to me. And Dick, they have theories." You sat down next to him, already pulling up browser tabs. "Look at this analysis of Nightwing's fighting style. Someone broke down footage from seventeen different encounters and compared it to known martial arts disciplines."
Dick leaned over, his stomach sinking as he recognized one of the breakdowns. It was... actually pretty accurate.
"That's cool," he said carefully. "But isn't this kind of thing a little invasive? These are real people."
"Real vigilantes," you corrected. "Who operate in public. This is public information." Your eyes were shining with that particular intensity you got when you were excited about something. "Besides, I'm not trying to expose them or anything. I just think it's fascinating. Like a puzzle."
"A puzzle."
"A really complicated, really interesting puzzle." You pulled up another tab. "Look at this thread about Batman's possible identity. Someone did a financial analysis of Wayne Enterprises' R&D spending and cross-referenced it with Bat-gadget appearances."
"That seems like a lot of work."
"It's thirty-seven pages. I'm only on page twelve." You were already scrolling. "Oh! And there's this whole section on Robin—well, the Robins, plural. The theory is there have been at least four different ones."
There had been five, but Dick wasn't about to correct you.
"Why are you so interested in this?" he asked.
"Are you kidding? They're superheroes, Dick. Real-life superheroes in our city. Don't you want to know who they are?" You looked at him like he was crazy. "Don't you wonder what kind of person decides to dress up in a costume and fight crime?"
"I mean, sure, but—"
"I think Nightwing is someone local. Mid-twenties to early thirties, probably. The way he moves—he has formal training. Gymnastics, maybe? Circus background?" You were pulling up video footage now. "Look at this flip. That's not just martial arts. That's acrobatic training from childhood."
Dick's mouth went dry.
You'd just described him perfectly.
"That's a pretty specific theory," he managed.
"I know! And get this—someone on the forums thinks they saw Nightwing at a coffee shop in Blüdhaven. Out of costume, obviously. They said he had the same build, same hair color, similar mannerisms." You were scrolling through comments now. "Of course, half the comments are calling them crazy, but what if they're right?"
"What if they are?" Dick asked carefully. "Would you want to know?"
"Are you kidding? Of course I would! Can you imagine? Finding out someone you pass on the street is secretly Nightwing?" You grabbed his arm excitedly. "Actually, that gives me an idea."
"What idea?"
"We should do a stakeout."
"A what?"
"A stakeout! A Bat-watch!" You were already pulling up maps of Gotham. "There are patterns, right? Areas where Nightwing patrols more frequently. If we stake out those areas, we might see him. We could try to follow him, see where he goes—"
"That sounds dangerous."
"We won't get close! We'll just observe from a distance. Take notes. Gather evidence." You looked at him with puppy-dog eyes. "Please? It'll be fun. Like a date, but with more vigilante watching."
"That is not a normal date activity."
"Dick, we once spent three hours at that antique store looking at old medical equipment. Normal left our relationship a long time ago."
He couldn't really argue with that.
"One stakeout," he heard himself say. "But if it's dangerous, we leave immediately."
"Yes! Oh my God, this is going to be amazing!" You kissed him quickly. "I need to prepare. Make a list of locations, times when Nightwing is most active, equipment we'll need—"
"Equipment?"
"Binoculars, obviously. A camera with a good zoom lens. Snacks. Coffee. Oh, and I should make an evidence board!"
"An evidence board."
"To track patterns! Don't look at me like that, this is basic detective work."
"You're not a detective, babe. You're a graphic designer."
"A graphic designer with excellent research skills and a PowerPoint addiction." You were already typing. "This is going to be so fun!"
Dick watched you, already lost in planning your "Bat-watch," and wondered if this was karma for all the times he'd teased Tim about his conspiracy theories.
This was going to be a disaster.
A hilarious, terrible disaster.
Dick came over to find your apartment transformed.
There was a literal cork board on your wall covered in photos, string, and sticky notes.
"Is that... is that Bruce Wayne?" Dick asked, staring at a photo of his adopted father.
"Possible Batman candidate," you said, not looking up from your laptop. "I know, I know—billionaire playboy doesn't fit the profile. But it's the perfect cover, right? Everyone assumes he's too busy partying to be Batman."
"Bruce Wayne is not Batman."
"That's exactly what someone would say if they were trying to protect Batman's identity." You added another note to the board. "Plus, the timeline works. Batman appeared around the same time Bruce Wayne returned from his 'world tour.' Suspicious."
Dick was going to have a stroke. Or laugh. Possibly both.
"What else do you have up there?"
"Oh! Okay, so—" You jumped up excitedly. "This section is Nightwing theories. I've narrowed down possible occupations: athlete, stunt performer, circus performer, or someone with serious military training."
You'd literally listed his actual background.
"And this section is Robin theories. The current one, at least. I think he's a teenager, probably fifteen to seventeen. Still in school, which explains why Robin appearances drop during exam seasons."
You'd just profiled Damian perfectly.
"How long have you been working on this?" Dick asked weakly.
"Since yesterday. I got kind of obsessed." You grinned sheepishly. "I know it's a lot, but Dick, this is fascinating. These people are real. They're out there right now, and nobody knows who they are."
"Maybe they want it that way."
"Maybe. But don't you wonder? Like, what's Nightwing's real name? What does he do when he's not fighting crime? Does he have a family? A girlfriend?"
"Why do you assume he has a girlfriend?"
"I don't. Could be a boyfriend. Or multiple partners. Or no one." You shrugged. "But he's got to have a life outside the costume, right? He's a person."
"Yeah," Dick said softly. "He is."
You looked at him curiously. "You okay? You've been weird about this whole thing."
"Just worried about you getting too invested. These are real people doing dangerous work. Following them could put you at risk."
"I'm not going to do anything stupid," you promised. "I just want to observe. Maybe get a good photo. Gather some evidence."
"For what?"
"For the forums! Do you know how much credibility I'd get if I posted an actual clear photo of Nightwing? I'd be a legend!"
"Or you'd be painting a target on your back."
"Dick." You took his hands. "I appreciate you worrying, but I'll be careful. I promise. This is just for fun."
He wanted to tell you. Right there, looking at your evidence board with his face probably somewhere in those photos, he wanted to just admit it.
I'm Nightwing. You're dating him. You don't need to stakeout anything because he's literally standing in your apartment right now.
But the words stuck in his throat.
Because what if you were only interested in Nightwing? What if finding out he was just Dick Grayson, boring civilian, ruined the mystery?
"Okay," he said instead. "But I'm coming with you on this stakeout. For safety."
"Deal!" You kissed him. "Tomorrow night? I've identified three high-probability locations."
"Can't wait," Dick lied.
You'd chosen a rooftop in Blüdhaven with a clear view of the area Nightwing patrolled most frequently.
Dick knew this because it was his usual route.
"Okay, so according to my research, Nightwing usually passes through this area between 10 PM and midnight," you said, setting up your camera. "We should have a good vantage point here."
"You brought a telephoto lens."
"I told you, I want good photos!" You were adjusting settings, completely in your element. "Oh, I also brought snacks. There's coffee in the thermos, and I made sandwiches."
"You made sandwiches for a vigilante stakeout."
"It's still a stakeout! People get hungry on stakeouts!"
Dick couldn't help but smile. You were so excited, so genuinely enthusiastic about this. It was adorable.
It was also absolutely going to expose his secret identity if he wasn't careful.
"So what's the plan if we actually see him?" Dick asked.
"We observe. Take notes. Maybe try to track where he goes?" You looked at him. "Why are you so nervous?"
"I'm not nervous."
"You're doing that thing with your hands. The fidgety thing."
"I don't have a thing."
"You absolutely have a thing." You took his hand. "Relax. This is supposed to be fun. We're just two normal people hoping to catch a glimpse of a superhero."
One normal person and one superhero pretending to be normal, Dick thought.
They sat in silence for a while, you watching the streets below through your camera, Dick wondering how he was going to get out of this.
"There!" You suddenly grabbed his arm. "Did you see that? Someone just grappled between buildings!"
Dick looked. Sure enough, someone in a dark costume was moving across the rooftops.
But it wasn't him.
"That's not Nightwing," he said immediately.
"How do you know?"
"Wrong build. Nightwing is taller. And he doesn't move like that."
You lowered your camera, looking at him suspiciously. "You seem to know a lot about how Nightwing moves."
"I've seen him before. Around."
"When?"
"Just... around. He saved me once. From a mugging."
This was technically true. Dick had saved himself from a mugging while in costume. It counted.
"He saved you? And you didn't tell me?" You were looking at him with new interest. "What was he like?"
"Uh... tall? Dark hair. Very acrobatic."
"Did you talk to him?"
"Briefly. He asked if I was okay, I said yes, he left."
"What did he sound like?"
Dick realized, with growing horror, that he was about to describe his own voice.
"Normal? Maybe a little deeper than usual. Hard to say, it was a stressful situation."
"Was he nice?"
"Very professional."
"But nice?"
"Yeah. Nice."
You were smiling now. "You have a crush on Nightwing."
"What? No!"
"You totally do! You got all flustered describing him!"
"I did not get flustered—"
"Your voice went up an octave!"
"That's just—I'm not flustered, I'm—" Dick stopped. "Wait, am I being jealous of myself?"
"What?"
"Nothing. Never mind."
You laughed, kissing his cheek. "It's okay. Everyone has a crush on Nightwing. He's a superhero. It's allowed."
"I don't have a crush on Nightwing."
"Sure you don't." You went back to your camera. "Oh! There's someone else. Is that him?"
It was actually Red Robin, but Dick wasn't about to explain that.
"Different costume," he said. "Red and black, not blue."
"There's more than one?" You were already zooming in. "Oh my God, I need to update my evidence board."
This was getting out of hand.
By hour three, you'd seen Red Robin, Batgirl, and someone who might have been Spoiler.
No Nightwing, because Dick had very carefully texted the group chat to avoid this area tonight.
Taking the night off. Personal stuff. - Dick
Personal stuff = girlfriend stakeout? - Tim
SHUT UP - Dick
This is hilarious - Jason
I want updates - Steph
Focus on patrol - Bruce
"I can't believe we didn't see Nightwing," you said, packing up your camera. "We saw literally everyone else."
"Maybe he had the night off."
"Vigilantes don't get nights off."
"Maybe he was patrolling a different area."
"Or maybe he somehow knew we were here and avoided us." You looked at him suspiciously. "You didn't tip him off, did you?"
"How would I tip off Nightwing? I don't have his number."
"I don't know, you seem weirdly knowledgeable about vigilante stuff."
"I just pay attention to the news."
"Mm-hmm." But you were smiling. "Well, this was still fun. Even if we didn't see your crush."
"He's not my—you know what, never mind."
You laughed, taking his hand as you headed back down from the roof. "Same time next week?"
"You want to do this again?"
"Are you kidding? This was the most exciting date we've had in months!" You squeezed his hand. "Plus, I have three new theories I want to test."
Dick was definitely going to have to tell you.
Eventually.
Maybe.
You'd dragged Dick on four more stakeouts, each one more elaborate than the last.
Probably not.
You'd also expanded your evidence board to include:
Possible Nightwing sightings (12)
Potential secret identity candidates (47)
Fighting style analysis (6 pages)
A color-coded timeline of all Bat-family appearances
It was impressive and terrifying in equal measure.
"I've been thinking," you said during stakeout number five. "What if Nightwing is someone famous?"
"Why would he be famous?"
"Think about it—he moves like a performer. What if he's an athlete? A gymnast, maybe?"
Dick, who was literally a former Olympic-level gymnast, froze.
"That's a big assumption."
"Is it though? Look at this footage." You pulled up a video on your phone. "That's a perfect aerial. You need serious training for that. Years of training, probably starting in childhood."
"Lots of people train in gymnastics."
"Not like this. This is professional level. Maybe even circus level." You were scrolling through more footage. "The way he moves—it's not just gymnastics. It's acrobatics. Performance acrobatics."
Dick's mouth went dry.
"There aren't that many people with that kind of training," you continued. "And in Gotham? Even fewer."
"I'm sure there are more than you think."
"Actually, I looked into it. There were several circus families that used to perform in Gotham, but most of them moved away or disbanded years ago." You pulled up your notes. "The Flying Graysons were the most famous—a family of acrobats. But they died in a tragic accident over a decade ago."
Dick's chest tightened at the mention of his parents.
"That's awful," he managed.
"It is. Their son survived though. He was adopted by Bruce Wayne and completely disappeared from public life." You looked thoughtful. "He'd be the right age now for Nightwing, actually. Mid-twenties."
"You think Bruce Wayne's adopted son is Nightwing?" Dick tried to keep his voice steady. Thank God you still believe it was just the same name, but he had no connection with them.
"I don't know. Maybe? The skills would line up. And Bruce Wayne is still on my possible-Batman list, so..." You shrugged. "It's a theory. Hard to prove though—the kid's been kept completely out of the spotlight. No social media, no public appearances. I can't even find a recent photo of him."
"Maybe that's intentional. Maybe he just wants privacy after losing his parents."
"Maybe." But you didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe Bruce Wayne is protecting his identity because he's training him to be a vigilante."
Dick desperately tried to redirect. "That seems like a big jump from 'traumatized orphan' to 'crime-fighting vigilante.'"
"Is it? Think about it—lose your parents to crime, get adopted by possibly-Batman, have the perfect skill set..." You were getting that excited look again. "It actually makes perfect sense!"
"Or he's just a regular person living a quiet life."
"You're awfully defensive about this theory."
"I'm not defensive, I just think jumping to 'everyone connected to Bruce Wayne is a vigilante' is a stretch."
"But am I wrong?"
Dick didn't answer.
You studied him carefully. "You're being weird again."
"I'm not being weird."
"You are. You get all tense and fidgety whenever I get close to something." Your eyes narrowed. "Dick... do you know something about this?"
"About what?"
"About Nightwing's identity. About Bruce Wayne. About—" You gasped. "Oh my God, do you work for Bruce Wayne?"
"What? No!"
"That would explain the weird hours! And why you know so much about him! And—"
"I don't work for Bruce Wayne," Dick said firmly. Which was technically true. He didn't work for Bruce. He worked with him. As Batman and Nightwing.
There was a difference.
"Then why are you being so weird?"
"I'm not—okay, yes, maybe I'm being weird. But not for the reasons you think."
"Then what reasons?"
Dick ran his hand through his hair, stressed. "I just... I think maybe you're getting a little too deep into this. These theories about people's private lives—"
"Are just theories. I'm not going to actually do anything with them." You touched his arm gently. "Dick, this is just for fun. I'm not trying to expose anyone or put anyone in danger. I'm just... curious. Is that so bad?"
"No," he said quietly. "It's not bad. I just worry about you."
"I know you do." You kissed his cheek. "But I'm careful. I promise."
Dick wanted to tell you right then. Wanted to explain that your "wild theory" about the Flying Grayson survivor was sitting right next to you. That you didn't need to investigate because you were dating the answer.
But the moment passed, and you went back to your notes, and Dick stayed silent.
Dick had decided to tell you.
He'd planned it perfectly. Dinner at your place, a serious conversation, maybe a demonstration of his abilities.
What he hadn't planned for was walking into your apartment to find you standing in the middle of your living room, arms crossed, looking simultaneously furious and vindicated.
"We need to talk."
Those four words. Never good.
"Okay..." Dick set down the takeout he'd brought. "What's going on?"
"I figured it out." You pointed at your evidence board, which had somehow quadrupled in size overnight. "All of it."
Dick's stomach dropped. "Figured what out?"
"You're Nightwing."
The words hung in the air.
"I—what? That's—"
"Don't." You held up a hand. "I know. And before you try to deny it, let me show you my evidence."
You walked to the board, and Dick saw that you'd reorganized everything. Photos of him—civilian him—were now connected with red string to photos of Nightwing.
"I started thinking about what you said last night. About me getting too deep into people's private lives." You pointed to a photo. "You were defensive. Really defensive. And you're never defensive unless something matters to you personally."
"That doesn't mean—"
"So I thought: what if it matters because you're the person I'm investigating?" You pulled up a video on your laptop. "This is footage from last month. Nightwing stopping a robbery downtown."
Dick watched himself on screen, taking down three armed men.
"Now watch this." You pulled up another video—this one from your phone. "This is you, at the gym last week. I was filming to show you your form on those pull-ups."
It was him, in a tank top, doing a complex gymnastic routine on the bars.
"Same body type. Same height. Same movement style." You played them side by side. "And look here—" You zoomed in on Nightwing's exposed forearm. "That scar. From the motorcycle accident you had two years ago."
Dick instinctively touched his left arm, where that exact scar was.
"And then there's this." You pulled up a photo of Nightwing from behind. "Your hair. Nightwing's hair is black, but in certain lights—" You zoomed in. "You can see dark blue. Like someone dyed it. Like someone with naturally dark auburn hair might dye it to be less distinctive."
Dick's hair was indeed dark auburn-brown, which he did dye darker for the Nightwing persona.
"That's—that's circumstantial—"
"There's more. Your schedule." You pulled up your calendar, which apparently you'd been using to track his comings and goings. "Every time there's a major Nightwing sighting, you're mysteriously unavailable. Every time Nightwing takes a night off, you're suddenly free."
"Lots of people work weird hours—"
"Dick." You looked at him directly. "Last week, I mentioned that Nightwing had been spotted with a shoulder injury. The next day, you showed up with your shoulder wrapped, claiming you hurt it at the gym."
Oh. Oh no.
"And the final piece—" You pulled out your phone. "I called the crime lab this morning. Asked if Dick Grayson was working today. They said there's no one by that name employed there."
Dick's heart stopped.
"You lied about where you work. You lied about your schedule. You've been lying about everything." Your voice cracked slightly. "Who are you really?"
Dick stared at you, at your evidence board, at two months of careful deception unraveling in front of him.
"You're right," he said quietly. "About all of it."
You let out a breath. "So you are Nightwing."
"Yes."
"And your name isn't just 'Dick'?"
"It's Dick Grayson. That part's true. But I don't work at the crime lab—well, I do sometimes, consulting for the GCPD, but it's not my main job. My main job is..." He gestured helplessly. "Being Nightwing."
"And Bruce Wayne?"
"Is Batman. And my adoptive father. And yes, before you ask—I'm the Flying Grayson survivor. My parents died when I was eight. Bruce took me in." The words came pouring out now. "I became Robin when I was nine. Then Nightwing when I was eighteen. I've been doing this for seventeen years."
You sat down heavily on your couch. "Seventeen years."
"Yeah."
"You've been a vigilante since you were a child."
"Bruce gave me a choice. I wanted to help. I wanted—" His voice broke. "I wanted to make sure what happened to my parents didn't happen to anyone else."
You were quiet for a long moment, processing.
"Why didn't you tell me?" you finally asked. "We've been dating for two months."
"Because everyone I tell becomes a target. Everyone I care about gets hurt." He sat next to you, careful to leave space between you. "I've lost people. I've seen what happens when villains find out who I care about. I couldn't—I can't lose you too."
"So you just lied?"
"I was protecting you."
"By lying to me for two months? By letting me waste time investigating something you could have just told me?" Your voice rose. "I made an evidence board, Dick! I dragged you on stakeouts to find yourself! How is that protecting me?"
"I know! I know it's messed up! But you were so happy with your theories, and you liked Nightwing without knowing he was me, and I—" He took a shaky breath. "I liked being normal with you. Being just Dick. Not Nightwing, not Robin, not Bruce Wayne's ward. Just... me."
Your expression softened slightly. "Dick..."
"I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner. I should have trusted you." He looked at you directly. "I love you. I've loved you since you almost hit me with your car. And I was terrified that if you found out who I really was, you'd leave."
"Why would I leave?"
"Because I'm not normal. I'm a vigilante with more trauma than most people can handle. I disappear for days sometimes. I come home bleeding. I've died before—twice actually—and I'll probably keep putting myself in danger because I can't not help people." His laugh was bitter. "I'm not exactly boyfriend material."
You grabbed his face, forcing him to look at you. "Dick Grayson. You're an idiot."
"I know."
"I just spent three months investigating you. Building evidence boards. Dragging you on stakeouts. Creating spreadsheets." You smiled despite yourself. "Do you really think finding out you're Nightwing is going to scare me off?"
"It should."
"Well, it doesn't." You kissed him firmly. "I'm mad that you lied. We're going to have to work on the trust thing. But Dick—I fell in love with you. Not Nightwing. You. The guy who brings me coffee in the morning and lets me ramble about my theories and does terrible impressions of Batman—"
"One time—"
"—and helps old ladies with their groceries and cries during animated movies." You stroked his cheek. "Finding out you're also a superhero? That's just... extra."
"Extra?"
"Bonus Dick. It's great. But it's not why I love you."
Dick felt something tight in his chest finally release. "You still love me?"
"Of course I still love you, you absolute disaster." You pulled him into a hug. "Though we're taking down some of these evidence photos. It's weird dating someone while having surveillance photos of them on your wall."
"That's fair."
"But I'm keeping the board."
"Why?"
"Because I figured out Nightwing's identity through detective work! That's impressive! I want proof!"
Dick laughed, really laughed, pulling you closer. "You're incredible."
"I know." You pulled back to look at him. "Now show me. Do the thing."
"What thing?"
"The Nightwing thing! The flips! I want to see it!"
So Dick did a standing backflip in your living room, landing perfectly in front of the couch.
"Okay, that's really hot."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You pulled him back down next to you. "My boyfriend is Nightwing. This is insane."
"Good insane or bad insane?"
"Good insane. Definitely good insane." You kissed him. "Though you're going to have to tell me everything. And I mean everything. No more secrets."
"Deal. But first—" Dick pulled out his phone. "I need to warn my family that you figured it out."
"Your family?"
"The other vigilantes. My brothers and sisters." He started typing. "They're going to want to meet you."
"Because I figured out your identity?"
"Because you're the first person who did it through actual detective work and not, like, walking in on me in costume." He smiled. "They're going to be impressed. And possibly intimidated."
"Good." You leaned against him. "Now tell me everything. And I mean everything. Start with how an eight-year-old becomes Robin. Because that seems like terrible parenting on Batman's part."
"Oh, it absolutely was..."
And Dick told you everything.
About his parents. About Bruce. About Robin and Nightwing and the complicated, dangerous, wonderful family he'd found in the vigilante community.
You listened to all of it, asking questions, holding his hand, occasionally declaring "That's insane" or "Bruce Wayne needs therapy."
But you stayed.
You stayed through all of it.
And when Dick finally finished talking, the sun starting to rise through your windows, you just smiled and said:
"Well. This explains why you're always late."
And Dick knew, absolutely knew, that you were going to be okay.
More than okay.
Perfect.
Even if he did have to live with a six-foot evidence board documenting his secret identity.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: roy calls you at 2 am, apparently jason is drunk and needs you
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 1.1k words, none, fluff, CRACK, sort of part 2 for this, roy is there too, 1 sexual comment, not edited just proof-read 🚬
<𝟑: art creds to @quezartt
You’re currently wearing one of Jason’s Gotham U hoodies (you suspect it’s not actually Jason’s) that reaches down to your legs, along with your winter boots. Aside from that, you’re wearing your pyjamas and nothing else.
You’re absolutely freezing your ass off, and by the time you barge into the club Roy sent you the address to, you swear you’re on the verge of hypothermia.
You would’ve told him to fuck off because it’s literally two a.m. But he called with Jason’s phone, and told you to come right now.
You need to come. It’s Jason.
Your heart absolutely stopped for a second. What? You can’t even hear your own voice.
He laughs. Nothing serious. He’s just worried you’re hungry.
Huh? Your voice is still raspy from sleep.
Just come.
So now you’re here, climbing the stairs to the VIP lounge. And it’s just your luck that someone is guarding the door.
He scans you up and down, then shuffles a bit closer to block the entrance.
"Hi, um, my friends are inside waiting for me."
He raises a brow. "Sure.”
"Yeah," you insist. "Roy and Jason—"
His face falls. "You’re Jason’s girl?"
"Sorry?" You blink twice. "What do you mean—"
But you’re interrupted for a second time. You frown and check your phone again, to see if there are any missed calls. There’s not.
The man turns around and taps his earpiece. A moment later, he spins back to you, smiling brightly. "You can absolutely come in." He opens the door for you. "Jason’s girl."
You mumble a thanks, still very weirded out by the whole experience.
The second you step inside, all eyes snap to you. Granted, there are only five other people besides Roy and Jason, but it’s still very weird for everyone to be tracking your movements and whispering to each other.
You ignore the stares and make your way to the boys’ table in the corner of the room. Just where Jay would’ve chosen it— away from any potential threats.
"Roy! Jason!" you call.
Jason is rambling to Roy, waving his hands around and smiling brightly. But the second he hears you, his whole body freezes. Even his hands stop mid-gesture. His pretty green eyes immediately start scanning the room until they land on you.
And then he waddles. He waddles toward you. His movements are clumsy as he tries to grab you, nearly walking straight into a decorative plant.
"Baby!"
You catch him just as he’s about to collapse on top of you. Struggling to support his weight, you try to steady him.
He lets you. Then he picks you up.
He kisses you on the nose, and all you can do is blink in confusion before he throws you over his shoulder.
"Jason?" you whisper-yell. "Put me down right now."
"Nuh-uh." He sounds smug. "Can’t."
The world flips again as he plops you down beside him on the velvet couch. Now you’re sandwiched between the two of them.
You look at Roy, raising a brow. "What did you even give him?"
He smirks, raising his hands innocently. "He said he could handle it."
Jason is playing with your hair. He tugs on a strand before curling it around his index finger.
"Why is everyone looking at us?"
Roy laughs, bright and loud. "Jason couldn’t stop telling everyone about you. The cocktail guy, the—"
"Bouncer?"
He snaps his fingers. "Yeah." Roy grins. "You know, I thought he'd eventually run out of facts."
You blink. "Facts?"
"Oh, yeah." He starts counting on his fingers. "You brush your teeth for ten minutes— you’re a psycho for that, by the way. You like your toast overly done. You cry at movies, even if they’re not sad. He’s dissected the meaning of all of your favourite songs...”
You’re too dumbfounded to properly answer. Roy continues.
"You apparently have the prettiest smile in the tri-state area."
Jason nods solemnly. "It's true."
Roy whistles. "He's got it bad."
Jason is still playing with your hair. "You’re so pretty."
You turn to him with a smile, brushing his cheek softly. He immediately nuzzles into your touch. "Not as much as you."
He shakes his head. "No, no. You’re ridiculously pretty. Sometimes"— he drops his voice, as if you’re sharing some great secret—"when you smile, I forget how to think. Or when you do anything, really."
He wraps an arm around your waist until there isn’t even an inch of space between you. You can feel every line of his body, the hard muscle beneath his clothes. "My pretty, pretty girl."
You place a soft kiss on his lips. "I love you, Jay."
"And you also make me really hard."
Roy’s laughter is impossible to ignore. He slams a hand on the table, wheezing as he mumbles something between fits of laughter. You see him fumble for his phone out of the corner of your eye.
"Yesterday, for example, when you—"
"Jason," you say sternly.
His face falls. "Don’t be mad at me." He’s frowning now, his big green eyes glossy and wide.
You cup his face. "I’m not angry, baby."
"Oh, okay." He nods slowly. "I’m sorry I told Roy you snore."
"I do not—"
Roy nudges your shoulder. "According to Jason, you do."
Jason nods matter-of-factly. "When I can’t sleep, I listen to you breathe. So yeah. You snore."
Your heart pounds in your chest, steady and hard. You want to kiss him. Not just his lips. Everywhere.
Because who decided kisses on the lips were the most intimate? You’d kiss every scar, every freckle, every crook of his beautiful body. You want to worship him with kisses.
"And you make me soup," Jason continues, completely oblivious to the look of pure love on your face.
Roy blinks. "Okay?"
Jason sighs dramatically. "Not canned soup. Actual homemade soup she spends time and effort making."
"Congratulations.”
He rolls his eyes. "You don’t get it." Then his eyes find yours, unwavering. "But you do. You get me, and you love me."
"Of course I do, Jay.” You smile softly.
Jason smiles before resting his head in the crook of your neck. His eyes flutter shut as you run your fingers through his hair. "You’re my definition of an angel."
The next morning, Jason wakes up with a killer hangover and his entire body wrapped around you.
Then he bumps into Roy in the kitchen. He dies of embarrassment the second Roy holds up his phone to show him something.
The video shows nothing but the club ceiling, dim lighting, and red velvet. The audio, however, is crystal clear.
What if she’s hungry?
Jason physically cringes at the sound of his own whiny, worried voice. He’s never drinking again. Roy is barely holding in his laughter, the phone slightly shaking.
She’s an adult, man.
She forgets to eat. There’s a frustrated grumble. I can’t unlock my phone. Stupid numbers. A brief shuffle. The password is her birthday. You call her.
Jason wants to crawl into the Lazaurs Pit and disappear.
Superman said, “all immigrants are people and deserve respect and love they aren’t aliens they are humans and the people who disagree should die” and supergirl said, “A women’s purity shouldn’t be defined by the man who has caused them harm and the exploitation of young women is disgusting and the men who do such things should die” and they are right
request reader who acts as a healer for the team, and their ability on paper [and seemingly in practice] is just that they can heal anybody, no matter the damage or cause, except their power actually works by stealing the wound and inflicting it upon themselves. they can take any pain, mental, chronic, sometimes even emotional depending on circumstances and the degree of it. no one knows until they take on something far too bad: losing a limb, breaking their spine, guts spilling out, etc.
content gn! reader x dick grayson, healer! reader, reader gets hurt, self-sacrificial healing, severe injury, fall injury, temporary paralysis/loss of mobility, blood, medical trauma, pain transfer, guilt, panic, near-death fear, angst with comfort
masterlist
word count 8.2k
Dick Grayson knew how to fall. Better than anyone, maybe.
There was an art to it. A language. A thousand tiny choices made in the narrow breath between losing the line and hitting the ground. Turn the shoulder. Tuck the chin. Roll through the impact. Trust the body. Trust the air. Trust the hands that had taught you how to fly before you were old enough to know that gravity was not mercy, only law.
Dick knew falling. He knew the split-second sweetness of empty space. The rush of wind against his face. The world turning around him in ribbons of light and shadow. He knew how to make falling look like flying, because that was what the Graysons did.
They fell beautifully.
Until they didn’t.
That was the first lesson.
The second was that someone always had to catch what was left.
Dick had built a life out of becoming that someone. He caught teammates before they hit concrete. Caught civilians before buildings collapsed. Caught the Titans when they spiralled, caught Bruce when he vanished too far inside the Bat, caught Jason’s anger when nobody else could hold it without bleeding, caught Tim’s exhaustion before it became a body bag, caught Damian’s sharp edges and pretended they did not cut.
He smiled. He joked. He opened his arms and made himself the net. It was easier that way.
People trusted nets. People did not ask if nets were tired.
You did, though.
That was one of the first things that unsettled him about you.
You always asked.
“Shoulder?” you said, appearing beside him before he had even fully made it through the medbay doors.
Dick looked down at the red line slicing through his suit, just under the joint. “Hello to you too.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is it the shoulder?”
“It is deeply rude that you know that from ten feet away.”
“It’s my entire thing.”
“Your entire thing is being bossy and magical.”
“My entire thing is healing idiots who think flirting counts as a treatment plan.”
He gasped and pressed his uninjured hand to his chest. “You think I’m flirting?”
“I think you’re bleeding on my floor.”
“That’s not a no.”
You gave him a look.
Dick smiled.
It was easy with you.
That was the problem. Most things with you felt easy, even when they weren’t. Even in the aftermath of horror, with sirens in the distance and smoke still clinging to everyone’s suits, you had a way of lowering the temperature in a room. You came in with steady hands, soft eyes, and a voice like warm water over bruised skin.
You were the Titans’ miracle.
Not that you liked being called that. Gar had tried once, dramatically, from a medbay cot after you healed three cracked ribs and a bruised spleen.
“My angel,” he had declared, one hand thrown over his forehead. “My saviour. My divine little first-aid kit.”
You had thrown a roll of gauze at his head.
Vic had laughed for a full minute.
Kory had kissed your cheek in gratitude.
Raven had watched you with that quiet, knowing look of hers.
Dick had watched too. He watched more than he should have.
He watched the way your face tightened for half a second after you healed someone. The way you always turned slightly away before taking a breath. The way you flexed your fingers like you were shaking off static. The way you insisted on cleaning up alone afterwards.
At first, he thought healing took energy. That made sense. Every power had a cost. Every body had limits.
You told them yours was fatigue.
Dick believed you.
Not because he was careless.
Because he wanted to. Because after years of watching good people stay hurt, there was something dangerously addictive about watching wounds vanish under your hands.
When Raven came back from a mission with psychic backlash clawing through her mind, and you pressed your fingers to her temples until her breathing evened out, Dick did not ask why you spent the next hour sitting alone in the dark.
When Gar twisted his knee badly enough that the sound made everyone in the room wince, and you healed him before the panic really hit, Dick did not ask why you limped afterwards.
When Kory took a blast meant for a child, and her skin split gold-bright across her ribs, Dick did not ask why your own hand shook as you helped her sit up.
He noticed. But noticing was not knowing.
That was what he told himself later. Over and over. Like repetition could turn guilt into absolution.
He noticed. He just didn’t know.
Not yet.
The night everything changed began with rain.
Blüdhaven rain was different from Gotham rain. Gotham rain fell like a verdict. Cold, black, heavy with memory. Blüdhaven rain came down silver beneath neon signs, slicking the streets until every alley looked like it had been painted in oil. It turned rooftops treacherous, fire escapes slippery, windows into mirrors.
Dick loved it anyway.
It was his city. Bruised, stubborn, trying. A little ugly in the right light. A little beautiful in the wrong one.
The Titans had come because the call was too big for one vigilante and too strange for local police. A new metahuman trafficking ring had gotten its hands on alien tech and old magic, which was never a combination that suggested anyone involved had made good life choices.
By midnight, the docks were burning. By twelve-thirty, three warehouses had partially collapsed. By one, the sky above Blüdhaven was full of drones shaped like metal wasps, each one armed with sonic emitters strong enough to rupture glass and destabilise inner ears.
“Tell me again why crime can’t be normal,” Gar shouted over comms.
Dick flipped over a drone, brought both escrima sticks down, and sent it sparking into the rain-slick rooftop. “You want normal crime?”
“I want crime that doesn’t make my teeth vibrate.”
“You have teeth right now?” Vic asked.
“I have emotional teeth.”
“That tracks,” you said over comms.
Dick smiled despite himself. Your voice always did that to him. Cut through the noise. Found him.
“You’re supposed to be behind the barricade,” he said, ducking under a burst of sonic fire.
“I am behind the barricade.”
“You’re too calm.”
“I’m very calm behind the barricade.”
Raven’s voice came in, flat as ever. “They are not behind the barricade.”
Dick exhaled sharply. “Of course they’re not.”
“I’m near the barricade,” you corrected.
Kory flew overhead, a streak of orange through the storm. “Friend healer, there are many injured civilians near the west warehouse.”
“I see them.”
Dick’s attention snapped toward the west side of the docks.
Through the rain, he saw you moving below.
Not at the barricade. Not near the barricade. Running straight toward the worst of the damage, because apparently, self-preservation was not included in the miracle package.
“Absolutely not,” Dick said.
“You sound like Bruce.”
“That was cruel and unnecessary.”
“You’ll live.”
“Not if you keep sprinting into active combat zones.”
“Then stop watching me and stop the drones.”
A drone screamed toward you.
Dick moved before thought could catch up. He launched himself from the rooftop, grapple line firing, body arcing low through rain and smoke. The drone’s emitter pulsed once. Pain stabbed through his ears. His vision blurred.
He released the line. Dropped. Twisted.
His boot connected with the drone hard enough to crack the metal shell. It spun away and exploded against the side of a warehouse in a shower of blue sparks.
Dick landed in front of you, one knee down, rain streaming off his hair.
You stared at him.
He looked up with his best smile. “Hi.”
Your eyes narrowed. “That was incredibly dramatic.”
“I’m a performer.”
“That was incredibly stupid.”
“I’m also Batman-adjacent.”
“Unfortunately accurate.”
Behind you, a civilian groaned.
Your expression shifted instantly.
There was the healer.
The softness vanished into focus. You moved past Dick and dropped beside a woman pinned beneath a collapsed beam. Her leg was crushed at an angle that made Dick’s stomach turn. Her breathing came in panicked sobs.
“Hey,” you said gently, all teasing gone. “Look at me. Not the leg. Me.”
The woman grabbed your wrist with shaking fingers. “I can’t—I can’t feel—”
“I know. I’ve got you.”
Dick watched you place both hands over the injury.
He watched your shoulders rise as you inhaled.
Then the woman gasped.
The beam shifted. Dick lifted it enough for Vic to pull her free.
Her leg was whole. Bruised, but whole.
She started crying.
You smiled at her.
Then, very subtly, your left knee buckled.
Dick caught it.
Not much. Just one hand at your elbow, enough to steady you.
You went stiff beneath his touch.
“You okay?” he asked.
You smiled too quickly. “Fine.”
There it was. That word.
Dick hated it when Bruce used it. Hated it when Jason spat it through bloodied teeth. Hated it when Tim said it without looking up from a laptop.
He hated it most from you.
Because you made it sound kind.
Another drone shrieked overhead before he could say anything.
The docks trembled.
Raven’s voice cut through comms. “Nightwing, the central warehouse is rigged. There are people inside.”
“How many?”
“Too many.”
Dick looked up. The central warehouse stood at the edge of the pier, half its roof torn open, old brick walls glowing with intermittent blasts of alien-blue light. Through the broken windows, he saw movement.
Civilians. Hostages.
The structure groaned. Then the upper floor exploded outward.
Kory shouted. Dick ran.
You called his name.
He ignored you.
He heard you following anyway.
Of course he did.
Inside, the warehouse was chaos.
Smoke. Screaming. Sprinklers raining dirty water from cracked pipes. Drones buzzing between support beams like insects. Civilians huddled behind shipping containers while armed traffickers tried to retreat through a back exit.
Nightwing moved through them like a blade wrapped in blue light.
Strike. Dodge. Flip. Disarm. Smile, because fear spread faster when people saw the hero afraid.
“Exit to the south!” he shouted. “Go! Go now!”
Kory blew a hole through a side wall for evacuation. Vic ripped open jammed doors. Raven shielded a group of children from falling debris. Gar, currently a gorilla, blocked a collapsing beam with both massive hands and yelled, “I would like everyone to appreciate my core strength!”
You were everywhere you should not be. Healing a burned firefighter. Pressing a hand to a child’s forehead. Closing the wound across a police officer’s side. Calm, quick, relentless.
Too relentless.
Dick saw your face pale. He saw the way you pressed one hand briefly to your ribs after healing the officer.
Something in him tightened.
Then the floor screamed.
Not cracked.
Screamed.
The alien tech at the centre of the warehouse pulsed, drawing power from the old magical sigils carved beneath the concrete. The combination sent a shockwave through the building.
Every support beam lit blue.
Raven’s shield shattered. Kory slammed into a wall. Gar lost his grip.
The ceiling began to come down.
Dick saw it happen in pieces.
A family trapped near the upper catwalk. A little boy separated from his mother. The metal walkway beneath them twisting loose.
No time for the grapple. No time for a plan.
Just the fall.
Dick launched himself upward, using a stack of containers as steps. His boots hit metal. His body moved on instinct, rainwater and smoke and adrenaline turning the world sharp.
He grabbed the boy first and tossed him toward Kory, trusting her to catch him.
She did. Of course she did.
The mother screamed as the catwalk tilted.
Dick caught her wrist.
For half a second, they hung there over open air.
“Don’t look down,” he told her.
She looked down.
They always looked down.
A support cable snapped. The catwalk dropped. Dick twisted, threw the woman upward with everything he had, and felt Vic’s metal hand close around her coat.
Then the world gave way beneath him.
Falling was supposed to be familiar.
This was not.
The sonic emitters went off all at once.
His inner ear shattered into static. The building spun wrong. His grapple fired but missed the broken beam by inches. His fingers closed on nothing. His shoulder clipped metal hard enough to tear a shout from his throat.
Then he hit a lower catwalk.
Pain cracked across his back.
He bounced. Fell again.
He tried to turn. Tried to tuck.
Couldn’t.
There were too many angles. Too much debris. Too much noise.
The ground rushed up.
For the first time in years, Dick Grayson did not know how to fall.
He hit concrete.
And everything stopped.
At first, there was no pain.
That was how Dick knew it was bad. Pain was information. Pain told you what was damaged and how much time you had before the body started making executive decisions without you.
No pain meant the body had gone quiet. No pain meant the damage had passed language.
He stared up at the broken ceiling. Rain fell through the hole in the roof, silver and soft against his face.
Someone was screaming his name. Maybe several someones.
Dick tried to move.
Nothing happened.
Not his legs. Not his right hand. His chest moved, barely. Breath scraping in shallow and wrong.
Ah. That was bad.
A shadow fell over him.
You.
Your face appeared above his, wet with rain, streaked with soot, eyes wide with a terror that did not belong on you.
“Dick,” you said.
He tried to smile. He wasn’t sure if it worked.
“Hey,” he breathed.
It came out broken.
Your hands hovered over him, trembling.
That scared him more than the fall. You never trembled.
“Don’t move,” you said.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
Your face twisted.
Bad joke. Wrong moment. Classic Grayson.
He tried to lift his hand to touch your face.
Nothing.
Your eyes flicked down.
You saw.
He saw you see.
“Talk to me,” you said.
“Can’t feel…”
He stopped.
Your lips parted.
He did not want to finish the sentence.
He had spent his life moving. Flying. Running rooftops. Dancing along edges so narrow most people could not stand on them without shaking. His body was not just a tool. It was memory. Family. Language. A living echo of the Flying Graysons.
He could not feel half of it.
“Dick,” you whispered.
The building groaned around you. Distantly, Kory shouted for you both. Vic cursed. Raven’s power surged dark and bright somewhere behind the smoke.
You cupped Dick’s face. Your hands were warm despite the rain.
“I’m here,” you said.
He believed you. That was the danger.
“Don’t,” he managed.
Your expression shifted.
He was not Bruce. He had not figured it out fully. Not yet. But something old and instinctive in him understood the shape of sacrifice when it leaned too close.
You had looked pale after healing people. You had limped after fixing Gar’s knee. You had hidden your hand after Damian broke his wrist on a mission with the Supersons. You had smiled through it all.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
You shook your head. “You’re dying.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t.”
Your eyes filled. “Dick—”
“Please.”
That word hurt more than the fall. Please was not a word Nightwing used often in the field. Please belonged to civilians, to scared children, to moments too human for masks.
Your face broke. Only for a second.
Then you leaned down and pressed your forehead to his.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
His heart lurched.
“No,” he said, or tried to.
Your hands slid beneath his shoulders.
And then the pain came.
Not his.
Yours.
He knew because it came with your scream. It tore through the warehouse, raw and animal and absolute.
Dick’s body snapped back into itself. Sensation flooded his legs. His fingers. His lungs. Pain, yes, but normal pain. Bruises. Strains. Things he knew how to name.
His spine straightened. His ribs expanded. His right hand clenched.
He gasped and rolled onto his side, coughing through smoke.
For one impossible second, relief hit him.
Then he saw you.
You were on the concrete beside him, twisted at the same angle he had been. Your back arched unnaturally. Blood spread beneath you. One of your legs lay still, too still. Your hand curled against the ground, fingers shaking like they were trying to remember how to move.
Your mouth opened. No sound came out.
Dick’s world narrowed.
“No,” he said.
It did not sound like him.
He crawled to you, hands skidding in water and blood.
“No, no, no.”
Your eyes found his.
You looked relieved. Relieved. Like seeing him move was worth what had happened to you.
Something terrible opened inside him.
“Why would you do that?” he choked.
Your lips moved.
He leaned closer.
“Caught you,” you whispered.
Dick broke.
Not loudly. Not at first. The sound that left him was small. Fractured. A child’s sound buried under a man’s voice.
He gathered you into his arms with shaking hands, trying not to jostle your spine, trying not to touch anywhere wrong, trying not to look at the blood, the angle of your body, the proof.
The proof.
He had fallen. You had become the fall.
“Kory!” he screamed.
The name tore through his throat.
Orange light flashed.
Kory landed beside him hard enough to crack concrete. Her eyes went wide when she saw you.
“Oh, beloved healer,” she breathed.
Dick looked up at her, wild. “We need medevac.”
Vic’s voice came through comms, tight with horror. “Already calling it.”
Raven appeared from the smoke, her hood torn, shadows curling violently around her.
She looked at you. Then at Dick.
Her expression went white.
Not pale.
White. Like she had felt something nobody else could.
“They took it,” Raven whispered.
Dick stared at her. “What?”
Raven’s voice shook. “The injury. They took it from you.”
The warehouse seemed to tilt.
No. No, he knew that. He had seen it. He had felt his body become whole as yours broke.
But hearing it made it real in a way his mind had been refusing to allow.
Gar, shifted back into human form, stumbled toward them. “What do you mean took it?”
Raven swallowed. “Their power doesn’t erase wounds.”
Dick looked down at you.
Your eyes were half-closed now.
No.
No.
No.
“It transfers them,” Raven said.
No one spoke. Even the burning warehouse seemed to go quiet.
Dick pressed his fingers to your throat.
Pulse there.
Fast. Weak. Too weak.
“Stay with me,” he said, voice shaking. “Hey. Look at me. Come on, look at me.”
Your eyelids fluttered.
He smiled because he did not know how to do anything else with terror.
“There you are,” he whispered. “Stay with me, okay? I’ve got you.”
Your lips twitched faintly.
“Net,” you breathed.
“What?”
“You’re… always the net.”
Dick’s vision blurred.
“Yeah,” he said, voice breaking. “Yeah, baby. I’m the net. So you don’t get to fall through. You hear me?”
Your eyes closed.
Dick’s smile vanished. “No. No, no. Open your eyes. Open your eyes.”
Kory knelt beside him and placed one glowing hand carefully against your shoulder, not healing, not touching the wound, just there.
“Dick,” she said softly.
He shook his head. “They’re not dying.”
“No,” Kory agreed, though her voice trembled. “They are not.”
Dick looked down at you in his arms.
He had caught you.
Too late.
But he had caught you.
And he would not let go.
Titan Tower’s medbay had seen bad nights.
This was worse.
The room was full of people trying not to fall apart loudly.
Kory stood by the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her glow dimmed to a low, anxious pulse beneath her skin. Gar sat on the floor with his back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. Vic kept running diagnostics, jaw clenched, his human eye red. Raven stood in the corner with her hood up, shadows tucked close around her like grief with teeth.
Dick sat beside your bed and held your hand.
He had been told to leave twice.
He had not.
The first time, a nurse tried gentle concern.
The second time, Donna tried command voice.
Neither worked.
Finally, Raven had looked at everyone and said, “Let him stay.”
So he stayed.
You lay still beneath white sheets and too many wires, your body strapped carefully to prevent movement. Spinal stabilizers ran along your back. An oxygen line curved beneath your nose. Your face looked wrong without expression. Too empty. Too quiet.
Dick kept staring at your mouth. Waiting for it to quirk. Waiting for you to make a joke about his bedside manner. Waiting for you to open your eyes and call him dramatic.
His suit was still on. Torn, wet, stained with your blood and his own, though technically the blood was all yours now in the ways that mattered. Someone had thrown a blanket over his shoulders.
Probably Kory. Maybe Donna.
He did not remember.
He remembered your scream. He remembered your body twisting. He remembered Raven saying, It transfers them.
His hand tightened around yours. Your fingers did not move.
“Dick.”
Donna’s voice came from the doorway.
He did not look up.
“How long?” he asked.
She was quiet for a second. “The doctors don’t know.”
He nodded once.
Meaningless.
His gaze stayed on your face.
Donna came closer. “They said the injury may not behave like a normal spinal trauma. Their body processes transferred wounds differently.”
“May,” Dick repeated.
“Yes.”
“May not.”
“Yes.”
He laughed once. It was ugly.
Donna’s hand settled on his shoulder.
That almost undid him.
Dick bowed his head over your hand.
“I should have known,” he said.
Donna did not answer.
He hated her for that. Loved her for it too.
“I noticed things,” he continued, voice low. “After they healed people. I noticed.”
“Dick.”
“I noticed and I let it go.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have.”
Donna squeezed his shoulder. “That is Bruce talking.”
His head snapped up.
She looked at him steadily.
“You are allowed to be hurt without making guilt useful,” she said.
Dick stared at her.
Then he looked back at you.
“Useful is all I’ve got right now.”
Donna’s expression softened.
Behind them, Gar made a broken sound.
“I let them heal me last week,” he said.
Everyone looked at him.
He stared at the floor. “My knee. It was nothing. Like, yeah, it hurt, but it wasn’t—” His voice cracked. “It wasn’t worth that.”
Raven closed her eyes. Kory turned away sharply.
Vic’s metal hand curled into a fist. “They healed my neural interface after Psimon fried half my systems.”
“They helped me after Trigon,” Raven said quietly.
Silence fell.
Not empty.
Crowded.
Every person in the room was remembering.
Every hand you had held. Every wound you had closed. Every time you had smiled afterward and said you were tired.
Only tired.
Dick felt sick.
Not because you had lied.
Because all of them had been relieved enough to believe you.
The door opened again.
Clark Kent stepped in, rain-dark hair mussed, glasses absent, Superman suit visible beneath a jacket he had clearly thrown on in a hurry.
He looked around the room once. Then at you.
His face changed.
“Oh,” he said softly.
That was all.
Just oh.
Dick wanted to stand. Wanted to say something. Wanted to be Nightwing, team leader, eldest brother, person who knew how to make everyone breathe again.
He couldn’t.
Clark came to the other side of your bed.
“I came as soon as I heard,” he said.
Dick nodded.
Clark’s eyes lowered to your still hand in Dick’s grip.
“They healed me yesterday,” Clark said.
Dick’s breath caught.
“Kryptonite burn,” Clark continued quietly. “They looked pale afterwards. Bruce noticed. He told them to rest.”
A horrible laugh escaped Dick. “Of course he did.”
Clark looked at him with infinite gentleness. “Bruce didn’t know either.”
Dick shut his eyes.
He could imagine Bruce finding out. The silence. The rage. The way he would turn terror into protocols and guilt into surveillance. The way he would blame himself first, hardest, longest.
Dick had learned from the best. Unfortunately.
“Can you hear anything?” Dick asked.
Clark’s face tightened.
Heartbeats. That was what Dick meant.
Clark nodded. “Their heart is steady for now.”
For now.
The phrase lodged under Dick’s ribs.
He looked down at you.
“Good,” he said, like the word had weight, like saying it could make it true. “That’s good.”
Clark stayed for a while.
So did everyone else.
One by one, though, they drifted out. Not far. Never far. Titans did not abandon their own. They lingered in hallways, in waiting rooms, in corners with vending machine coffee and red-rimmed eyes.
Eventually, only Dick remained.
He was good at vigils. He hated that too.
Hours passed in monitor beeps and the low hum of machines.
Your hand was warm in his.
That became his whole world.
Warm meant alive. Warm meant here. Warm meant not yet.
Near dawn, your fingers twitched.
Dick nearly came out of his chair.
“Hey,” he said, leaning forward. “Hey, I’m here.”
Your eyelids fluttered.
He forgot how to breathe.
Then your eyes opened. Unfocused at first. Cloudy with pain and medication.
Then they found him.
You smiled. Barely.
It devastated him.
“Hi, pretty bird,” you rasped.
Dick made a sound between a laugh and a sob.
“You’re not allowed to be charming right now,” he said.
Your brow furrowed faintly. “M’dying?”
“No.”
“Then I’m allowed.”
His mouth trembled.
You blinked slowly, gaze shifting around the room. “Tower?”
“Yeah.”
“Everyone okay?”
There it was. First question.
Not, Am I okay? Not, What happened?
Everyone.
Dick had never loved and hated anything more.
He leaned closer.
“No,” he said.
Your eyes came back to him.
“They’re not okay. I’m not okay. You scared the hell out of us.”
Your expression shifted with slow understanding.
Then memory returned.
He watched it happen.
The warehouse. The fall. The choice.
Your eyes filled. “Dick—”
“No.” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard and tried again. “No, don’t. Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t make it easier. Please don’t make it easier.”
You went quiet.
He pressed your hand to his forehead.
His shoulders shook once. Only once.
“I watched you become the fall,” he whispered.
Your breath hitched.
“You were—” He stopped, unable to finish. “You were on the ground. Like me. Because of me.”
“Not because of you.”
“You took my injury.”
“Yes.”
The honesty punched the air out of him.
No deflection. No lie. No, I’m fine.
Just yes.
Dick lifted his head. His eyes burned.
“How long?”
Your gaze slid away.
His stomach dropped. “How long have you been doing that?”
You were quiet.
Too quiet.
Dick understood before you answered.
“All of it?” he asked.
Your mouth trembled.
“Most of it,” you whispered.
Dick stood so fast the chair slammed backward.
You flinched.
He froze immediately.
Regret flashed through him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” He pushed both hands through his hair and turned away, pacing once before spinning back to you. “It’s not okay. None of this is okay.”
Your face had gone pale.
He forced himself to lower his voice. “You took Gar’s knee.”
There was something old in them then. Older than your face. Older than your smile.
“I heal faster than most people.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
“That sounds like something Bruce would say.”
A weak breath of laughter escaped you.
Dick did not smile.
The laugh died.
“I didn’t want you to know,” you said.
“No kidding.”
“Dick.”
His name in your voice hurt.
He came back to the chair slowly and sat down because standing made him want to run through walls.
You turned your head toward him.
The movement was tiny. It still cost you. He saw the pain ripple over your face.
“Don’t,” he said quickly.
You stilled.
He hated this. He hated all of it. The bed. The machines. Your body trapped under injury. His body whole because yours wasn’t.
“I need to know why,” he said.
“You know why.”
“No.” His voice came out sharper than intended. “No, I really don’t.”
Your eyes searched his face.
He let you see it. All of it. The fear. The anger. The betrayal. The love he had been carrying like a secret too fragile to name.
You looked away first.
“I didn’t want anyone to choose pain,” you said.
Dick stared at you.
“Everyone I work with is the same,” you continued. “The League. The Titans. The Outlaws. All of you. If I told you what healing costs me, you’d refuse unless you were unconscious or dying. Maybe even then.”
“Yes,” Dick said. “Because we’re not monsters.”
“You’re martyrs.”
He went still.
You looked back at him. Softly, exhaustedly furious.
“You are,” you said. “Every single one of you. You’d let yourselves bleed out if it meant I didn’t have to feel it. You’d call that noble. I call it stupid.”
Dick let out a stunned laugh. “You cannot be serious right now.”
“I am extremely serious.”
“You are lying in a medbay because you took a broken spine from me.”
“And I’d do it again.”
The room went silent.
Dick’s face crumpled before he could stop it.
You saw. Of course you saw.
Regret passed over your features.
“Dick—”
“No.” He shook his head. “No, don’t say that.”
“I can’t lie to you anymore.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to almost die for me and then tell me you’d do it again.”
“I love you.”
Dick stopped. Everything stopped.
The monitors kept beeping. Somewhere outside, someone walked down the hall. Rain tapped lightly against the Tower windows.
But inside Dick, every moving part went still.
You looked terrified now.
Not of death.
Of him. Of what he would do with the truth.
Your eyes glistened.
“I love you,” you said again, voice breaking. “And I know that’s not an excuse. I know it doesn’t make lying okay. I know it doesn’t make taking the choice away okay. But it’s the reason.”
Dick could not move. He had imagined hearing those words from you more times than he would ever admit. Usually in softer places. A kitchen at two in the morning. His apartment. A rooftop under a kinder sky. Your hand in his, your smile warm enough to make the world feel less like a thing that constantly needed saving.
Not here. Not with your spine braced. Not with your blood still dried under his fingernails.
“You can’t say that,” he whispered.
Your face went blank.
Dick realised what it sounded like and reached for you immediately.
“No. No, that’s not—” He sat on the edge of the chair, one hand hovering near yours. “That’s not what I mean.”
You looked at his hand.
He waited.
This time, he waited.
After a moment, you moved your fingers weakly toward him.
Permission.
Dick took your hand like it was made of light.
“You can’t say you love me like that,” he said, voice shaking. “Like it means your life is automatically worth less than mine.”
Your eyes filled again. “I don’t think that.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“You do,” he said, gentler now. “Because I know that trick. I invented that trick. I perfected that trick. I have a whole family of emotionally repressed vigilantes who could give a TED Talk on that trick.”
A watery laugh escaped you.
Dick’s thumb moved over your knuckles.
“I know what it looks like when someone calls self-destruction devotion,” he said.
Your smile faded.
He swallowed hard. “I know because I do it all the time.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then you whispered, “Yeah.”
He laughed once, and this time it was almost real. “Rude.”
“Accurate.”
“Still rude.”
Your fingers twitched against his palm.
He lowered his head until his forehead rested against your hand.
“I love you too,” he whispered.
Your breath caught.
He held onto you tighter.
“I love you,” he said again, because now that the words were out, he could not bear to let them stand alone. “I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it. And I am so angry at you that I can barely breathe.”
You made a small sound.
He lifted his head.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“I only wanted you alive.”
His face twisted.
“I know,” he said.
That was the worst part. He knew.
There was no cruelty in what you had done. No malice. No carelessness.
Only love. Misdirected. Secretive. Devastating love. The kind that looked too much like his own.
Dick leaned forward and pressed his lips to your knuckles.
Your eyes closed.
He stayed there.
When he spoke again, his voice was softer.
“We have to tell everyone.”
Your eyes opened. Fear flickered.
“They already know some of it,” he continued. “Raven felt it. She told us what happened.”
You looked toward the door.
Dick followed your gaze.
Through the small window, shadows moved in the hallway.
The Titans.
Waiting. Hurting. Loving you.
Your mouth trembled. “They’re going to hate me.”
Dick shook his head immediately. “No.”
“They should.”
“No.”
“I lied to them.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And they’re going to be upset. They’re going to be scared. Gar is probably going to cry on you, so prepare emotionally for dampness.”
Despite everything, your lips twitched.
“Vic is going to pretend he’s fine and then build you seventeen medical devices,” Dick continued. “Raven is going to stare into your soul until you confess every symptom you’ve ever hidden. Kory might actually lift a car.”
“She wouldn’t.”
“She might. For emphasis.”
Your smile faded, but some of the terror went with it.
“And you?” you asked.
Dick breathed in.
“I’m going to stay mad for a while,” he admitted.
You nodded.
“But I’m also going to stay.”
Your face cracked open.
He leaned closer.
“I’m not leaving because this is hard,” he said. “I’m not leaving because you scared me. I’m not leaving because you made a bad choice trying to save me.”
Your eyes searched his.
“I need you to promise me something,” he said.
“Dick…”
“No secret healing. Not with us. Not anymore.”
Your jaw tightened. “Emergency circumstances—”
“We’ll define them.”
“You sound like Batman.”
“I know. I’m devastated too.”
A weak laugh.
His heart nearly buckled under the sound.
“I mean it,” he said. “You have to tell people what they’re agreeing to.”
You looked down. “I know.”
“And you have to let us take care of you afterwards.”
“That’s harder.”
“I know.”
“I’m bad at it.”
“Baby, you are catastrophically bad at it.”
You huffed.
He smiled faintly, then sobered. “But we’re going to practice.”
“We?”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushed your hand. “We.”
Your eyes glistened.
“Okay,” you whispered.
It was not enough.
But it was a beginning.
Dick could work with beginnings.
He was a circus kid. A vigilante. A Robin. A Nightwing. A man who had lost the ground and learned to trust the air anyway.
Beginnings were just another kind of leap.
The Titans entered one at a time. Gar cried first, obviously. He tried very hard not to, which made it worse. He stood beside your bed with his arms crossed, lower lip trembling, eyes too bright.
“I’m mad at you,” he said.
Your face softened. “I know.”
“I’m, like, really mad.”
“I know.”
“And sad. And mad. And also really glad you’re not dead, which is making the mad part complicated.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“It is.” His voice cracked. “You took my knee.”
Your eyes lowered.
Gar wiped his face with his sleeve. “It was just my knee.”
“Gar…”
“No, it was. It hurt, yeah, but I would’ve been fine. It wasn’t worth you hurting.”
You looked at Dick. He said nothing.
This was yours to answer.
You swallowed.
“At the time,” you said carefully, “it felt worth it to me.”
Gar looked stricken.
“I know that doesn’t make it okay,” you added quickly. “I know I should have told you. I’m sorry.”
Gar sniffled. Then he leaned down very carefully and hugged the top of your head.
Dick almost told him to be careful.
He did not.
You closed your eyes.
Gar whispered, “You’re not allowed to die. I already decided.”
“Okay,” you whispered back.
“Cool.”
Then he backed away, crying harder.
Vic came next.
He did not cry. He brought a tablet.
“I’ve got three ideas,” he said, voice too controlled, “for a biofeedback system that can warn before a transfer exceeds safe neurological load.”
“I would’ve let you help,” he said quietly. “Sometimes. Maybe. But I would’ve wanted to know when helping me hurt you.”
Your eyes filled again.
“I know,” you whispered.
Vic nodded once.
Then he set the tablet on your bedside table like an offering.
Raven came after him.
She stood beside your bed, silent and pale, shadows moving slowly around her wrists.
You looked nervous.
Raven looked at you for a long time.
Then she said, “You took more than injuries.”
Your face went still.
Dick’s attention sharpened.
Raven’s eyes did not leave yours. “Emotional pain too. Psychic pain. Fear. Grief.”
You swallowed.
“Sometimes,” you said.
Dick felt like the floor had dropped again.
Of course. Of course there was more.
Raven’s expression tightened. “Mine?”
You closed your eyes. The silence answered.
Raven inhaled sharply.
Dick started to reach for her, but she lifted one hand.
You opened your eyes. “Only when it was too much. Only when I thought—”
“That I couldn’t survive it?” Raven asked.
You flinched.
Raven looked away. For a moment, she was very young. Then she stepped closer and placed two fingers lightly against your hand.
“I understand why,” Raven said. Your tears spilled over. “But do not do it again without asking me.”
“I won’t,” you whispered.
Raven nodded.
Then, after a pause, she added, “You are loved for more than your usefulness.”
You broke then. Quietly. Completely.
Dick stood, but Raven was already there, leaning carefully over you, touching your forehead with hers.
Not a hug. Not exactly.
Something quieter. Something sacred.
Kory came last.
She tried to be gentle.
Kory’s gentleness had always been a force of nature trying to fit through a doorway.
Her eyes shone bright green as she took your hand.
“My beloved friend,” she said, voice trembling, “you have carried pain alone when you had an army.”
You gave a wet laugh. “When you say it like that, it sounds very stupid.”
“It was,” Kory said.
Everyone blinked.
Kory’s chin lifted. “It was brave. It was loving. It was also stupid.”
Gar made a tiny sound. “She said the thing.”
Kory ignored him.
She leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“You will not do this alone again,” she said.
You nodded, crying too hard to speak.
Dick watched them surround you.
Not crowding. Not demanding.
Just there. A net, woven from people who loved you enough to be angry.
For the first time since the warehouse, something inside him loosened.
Not healed. Not yet.
But held.
Recovery was slow. Not as slow as normal spinal trauma, because your body was strange and stubborn and apparently determined to give medical science a migraine.
But not fast either.
Feeling returned in fragments. Left foot. Right toes. Thighs. Hips. Pain followed each return like lightning learning your name.
You hated it.
Dick loved every sign because it meant you were still there, still fighting, still coming back.
He also hated it because every gasp from you felt like punishment.
He spent most days at your bedside.
At first, he tried to make himself useful. He brought food. Adjusted pillows. Read medical updates. Ran interference when too many worried heroes wanted to visit. Smuggled in snacks Alfred absolutely did not approve of but definitely knew about because Alfred knew everything and permitted crimes selectively.
Then you caught him reorganising the medbay supply cabinet at three in the morning.
“Dick.”
He froze with a roll of bandages in each hand.
You stared at him from the bed, unimpressed. “What are you doing?”
“Inventory.”
“This is not your medbay.”
“Organisation helps.”
“You alphabetised antiseptic.”
“Antiseptic deserves respect.”
“You need sleep.”
“So do you.”
“I was asleep until you started stress-cleaning gauze.”
He looked down at the bandages. Then back at you.
“You were in pain.”
Your expression softened.
He hated how easily you saw through him.
“I’m often in pain right now,” you said gently.
His hands tightened.
“Don’t do that,” you said.
“Do what?”
“Make my pain your failure.”
He laughed once, humourless. “Kind of hard not to, considering.”
“Dick.”
He looked away.
You sighed. “Come here.”
He put the bandages down and came to your bedside.
You patted the edge of the mattress.
He gave you a look. “Absolutely not.”
“Sit.”
“I could hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“I’m not risking your spine because you want cuddles.”
“I do want cuddles.”
His expression flickered.
You smiled faintly. “That one got you.”
“Cruel.”
“Effective.”
He compromised by dragging the chair close enough that his knees touched the bed. You reached for him, and he gave you his hand.
It had become familiar now. His hand in yours. Your pulse under his fingers. Your life, stubborn and warm.
“You’re doing the thing,” you said.
“What thing?”
“The smile.”
Dick blinked. “I’m not smiling.”
“The inside smile. The fake one. The one that says, ‘I’m fine, don’t look too closely, I’m very handsome and emotionally functional.’”
He stared at you. “You think I’m handsome?”
“You heard the rest.”
“I prioritised.”
Your mouth twitched.
Dick’s smile came easier this time. Realer.
Then it faded.
“I don’t know how to stop seeing it,” he admitted.
Your thumb moved weakly against his hand.
“The fall?” you asked.
He nodded.
Your face gentled.
“When I close my eyes,” he said, voice low, “I see you on the floor.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.” He leaned forward. “I’m not telling you so you apologise. I’m telling you because we said no more hiding.”
You absorbed that.
Then nodded slowly.
“Okay,” you whispered. “No more hiding.”
His throat tightened.
You looked down at your joined hands.
“I still feel it sometimes,” you said.
Dick went still.
“The fall,” you clarified. “Not the full injury anymore. But echoes. Like my body remembers impact that wasn’t mine.”
Dick could not speak.
You continued, because apparently both of you had chosen emotional destruction as a bonding activity.
“I don’t regret saving you.” He closed his eyes. “But I’m starting to understand that not regretting it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt you.”
His eyes opened.
You looked at him, open and tired and honest. “I’m sorry for that part.”
Dick breathed in carefully.
Then out.
“I don’t regret being alive,” he said.
Your lips parted.
“I need you to know that. I don’t regret it. I don’t wish you hadn’t saved me if the alternative was dying in that warehouse.”
Your eyes filled.
“But I hate that you paid for it alone,” he continued. “I hate that I didn’t get to say yes. I hate that you thought love meant making yourself the place pain goes to disappear.”
You nodded, tears spilling silently.
“I’m learning,” you whispered.
He kissed your hand. “Me too.”
You studied him. “What are you learning?”
Dick huffed softly. “That apparently I have control issues.”
Your brows rose.
“I know. Shocking. Alert the media.”
“Front-page news.”
“And,” he continued, “that being the net all the time is not actually the same as being loved.”
Your expression changed.
He swallowed. “I think I liked being needed because it felt safer than being wanted.”
You went very still.
Dick looked down at your hand.
“If people need you, you have a job. A role. Something to do. Something to offer. You can earn your place over and over.” His mouth twisted. “But being wanted? Just because you’re you? That’s terrifying.”
Your voice was soft. “Yeah.”
He looked up. Your eyes were wet.
“I know,” you said.
And there it was.
The mirror. Two people who had made themselves useful enough to avoid asking if they were loved.
Dick smiled sadly. “We’re a pair, huh?”
“A disastrous one.”
“Hot.”
You laughed. This time, it did not sound broken.
Dick felt the laugh settle into his chest like sunrise.
He leaned closer, giving you time to refuse.
You did not.
His lips touched yours softly. Carefully.
There was nothing dramatic about it. No collapsing warehouse. No blue fire. No scream. Just his hand in yours, your mouth warm beneath his, and the quiet, astonishing fact that you were both still alive.
When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.
“Was that okay?” he asked.
Your eyes opened slowly. “You’re asking after?”
“I panicked.”
“Adorable.”
“I can do better.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
You tugged weakly at his hand. “Again.”
This time, he laughed before kissing you.
The first time you stood again, everyone cried.
Gar denied it. He was lying.
Vic recorded the whole thing and claimed it was for medical documentation. Also lying.
Kory hovered with both hands out like she intended to catch you, the bed, Dick, and possibly the entire Tower if necessary. Raven stood nearby, pretending calm while her shadows formed nervous little curls at her feet.
Dick stood in front of you.
Not behind. Not beside.
In front, hands open.
A net. But not the only one.
“You’ve got this,” he said.
You glared at him. “If I fall, I’m haunting you.”
“Reasonable.”
“As a poltergeist.”
“Mean, but fair.”
“I’ll move all your cereal into different boxes.”
Gar gasped. “That’s evil.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Dick’s grin trembled.
You saw. Your expression softened.
“Hey,” you said quietly. He focused on you. “I’m here.”
He nodded.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “You are.”
You took one step. Your knees shook.
Dick did not grab you. It took everything in him. Every instinct screamed. Every memory of your body broken on concrete rose up sharp and hungry.
But he did not grab you. He let you choose the step. Let you own the balance. Let you move.
You took another.
Then another.
Then your strength failed.
Dick caught you.
So did Kory.
So did Vic.
Raven’s shadows braced your legs.
Gar cheered and cried openly this time.
You ended up laughing against Dick’s chest while everyone crowded in, careful and loud and ridiculous.
The pain had gone somewhere. The fear had too.
Not away. Never fully away.
But spread out. Held by more hands.
That was the secret none of you had known at first.
Pain did not become lighter because one person carried all of it.
It became survivable when everyone carried a piece.
Later, after the others left and you were back in bed, exhausted but smiling, Dick sat beside you and traced idle circles over your palm.
“You caught me,” you said.
He looked up.
“In the warehouse,” you continued. “After.”
His face sobered. “I was too late.”
“No.” You squeezed his hand. “You caught me.”
Dick swallowed hard.
“You caught me too,” he said.
Your smile faded into something tender. “I broke all your rules when I did.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m trying not to romanticise that.”
“Good.”
“But I did catch you.”
His mouth curved despite himself.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “You did.”
You looked at him in the soft medbay light. “Now what?”
Dick leaned back in his chair, still holding your hand. “Now we learn how to do the next part without almost dying.”
“Sounds improbable.”
“We can try.”
“Are there snacks?”
“Definitely.”
“Then I’m in.”
He laughed.
There it was again. That bright thing. That impossible thing.
Joy, growing stubbornly in the aftermath.
Dick Grayson still knew how to fall. He always would. But now, when he looked at you, when he felt your fingers threaded through his, when he remembered the warehouse and the scream and the terrible miracle of being saved, he understood something he had spent his whole life avoiding.
Catching someone did not mean never falling. Being loved did not mean never hitting the ground.
Sometimes love was the hand reaching down afterwards. Sometimes it was the person who stayed through recovery. Sometimes it was telling the truth when the lie would be easier. Sometimes it was a whole team gathered around a bed, furious and crying and refusing to let one person become the only place pain could live.
And sometimes, impossibly, it was you.
Alive. Healing. Learning. Smiling at him like the world was still worth saving.
Dick lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles.
“I love you,” he said.
Your eyes softened. “I love you too, pretty bird.”
His heart stumbled. “Still not over that nickname.”
“You love it.”
“I do.”
You smiled wider.
Outside the Tower windows, Blüdhaven glittered beneath the rain.
summary: jason has no weaknesses. especially not that one bookstore keeper he visits every week. he merely needs new book recommendations, and you're the only person he's willing to trust. about the books, obviously. or jason todd falls miserably, pathetically in love with a bookstore keeper who insults him on first recommendation.
pairing: jason todd x fem! reader
You don't expect any customers tonight, not when Friday's are usually associated with activities more enthralling than a shabby bookstore that smells faintly of over-stewed tea. Your fingers itch to flip the signboard around to 'Closed', but they squeeze habitually around your mug instead. A brown rim has formed around the interior from the untouched tea left hours ago when sunlight still graced the shelves near the window seat.
Three minutes to closing, you decide to give the store the respectful grace of being a decent employee and waiting for the clock to strike eleven. At least, that's the excuse you give yourself. Your fingers tap lightly against the solid wood of the make-shift counter, a haphazardly placed desk shoved between shelves and boxes that are to be sent to the recycling center tomorrow. Your life is almost perfectly mundane.
The bell rings.
Almost, except for one sole factor. Your gaze shifts, your neck craning towards the door. Here, you thought your last visitor would finally break the pattern. It's certainly not Margery, a lady who thinks herself the most important customer to this small establishment, always inventing new cons in a skewed attempt to bargain for more free books as gifts for her many nieces and nephews.
This visitor carries a scent of smoke, broad shoulders stretching out a worn, leather jacket. Even from your skewed view, half his back turned towards you, he's gorgeous as he always is. Almost out of place, body stiff as his gaze glances past the stained glass stickers pasted onto the windows, shading the jagged line over his cheek in reds and blues. A familiar, brute tension stuffed into his posture, shadows striking his skin. Smaller, faint scars litter his jawline, and one prominent jagged line is carved into his cheek.
Your secret visitor, who brings in the scent of iron, faint bruises across his cheek on some nights, that goes by the name, Jason.
"Here I was thinking your terrorising finally came to an end." Your voice echoes, a teasing tilt laced in its croak from hours of going unused. "It's nearly closing hour, Jay."
Despite the limp that accompanies his gait, clearly wounded somewhere beneath his large frame and thick layers of clothing, his own smirk greets your gleam of teeth. "Couldn't end a shit week without a recommendation."
Your heart skips, like the quick traitor it is. You feign a casual expression, as if you didn't have his next read hidden under your stack of orders you've yet to shelf.
"Bringing in blood to the floorboards again?" You raise a brow, gaze flickering to where his boots left imprints on the scratched-up wood.
"Nah." His smirk widens, stopping before you. "Wouldn't want you making use of free labour again to mop the dust off this place."
"Wouldn't be too difficult if we didn't have to use bleach, genius."
He shrugs, looking down at you with a pleased expression. "Useful skills I teach you, all without a price, sweetheart." His voice rolls over you like thunder, a low gravel for that mocking nickname he picked out for you like you're the only person he's ever given it to.
Your neck cranes to meet his gaze. "Right, next time I need help cleaning blood trails, I'll call my favourite potential vigilante."
"Oh, so I'm a favourite now?" His brow raises.
"You're so full of yourself." Your bite holds no mark, softening in its edge when your fingers trace over his next recommendation stuffed between the stack of new donations. Dragging it out, you hold it out with held breath.
It never gets easier, the silent exchange. The anticipation, the brief few seconds of waiting as his gaze assesses your pick. It had started out exactly like this, and like some idiotic, preening teenager—you had hoped with every right choice you made, it might heighten the chances of him coming back.
This isn't a library, an establishment where he had to return to at some point. No, he could very likely purchase your selection today, decide it was absolute shit, and never return. Yet, he always came back, and you began to lean on the crutch of a belief that he would continue to.
"Call it a profitable relationship." You joke, even as your heartbeat faintly thuds in the pads of your fingertips, digging into the spine of the copy you reserved for him.
He takes it, fingers brushing over yours. That lingering second of contact feels intentional, but the ghost of his touch disappears before you even have the chance to register its searing warmth.
His smirk dials down into something softer, more genuine. This is the part you love most, and secretly dread that you might not receive. That rare spark in his gaze, to receive something so personal based on the assumption of what he might like. All narrowed down from a history of ten minute exchanges every week in the dead of night, shared between an academic victim who likes spending too much of her time waiting for a suspicious individual to sneak into a local bookstore, and said suspicious individual.
"It's a local author." It spills out of you before you can stop it. "I know you've read most of the classics, but you haven't really delved into ones that relate more to home."
His lip curls, a hum stuck in the back of his throat, and you recognise its one of approval. It shouldn't affect you as much as it did.
"Literature that dives into the horrors of Gotham, should I expect an existential crisis tonight?"
"I'll leave the surprise to do its job.” Leaning in over the counter, your gaze drops to his cargo pants. “Any reason for the limp?"
“Jumped down from the fourth floor.” He shrugs. “Wasn’t sure you’d wait up on me.”
You stare at him wide-eyed, waiting for him to call upon a joke—and he merely returns your stare, amused.
“Jason, you’re joking.”
“I never joke about closing hours.” He shrugs.
You're ready to start, because his frequent disregard for closing hours is a whole other thing—but his gaze shifts instinctively to the clock hanging lop-sided by the ladder, before landing on you again. The crinkles of his gaze deepens, softening the shadows. "You better catch the train. Do me a favour and remember to lock your windows when you get back?”
"Yeah, so long as you come in uninjured next time."
"Worried about me? As long as you keep yours, I’ll keep mine." The point in his grin sharpens, fingers giving a lazy wave as his shoulder digs into the door. The bell rings once more, as if to signify the gravity of his departure. "More illegal activities to run. See you next week, sweetheart.”
His shadow disappears past the flickering street lamp outside the store, as if he never existed. Your heart does that little, traitorous sigh—and that’s all the physical evidence you have past the lump in your throat that the exchange even happened at all.
Your first encounter with Jason was less familiarity-conduced endorphins and more of customer service's worst nightmare.
"Sir, I'm afraid we're closed."
You don't know why you bothered with the 'we', when you're clearly the only staff here. Or why you bothered speaking at all. This man who's barged in through the door, despite the 'Closed' sign, is obviously on edge and possibly on the run? Gotham's unspoken law is to never stick your nose into other people's business, especially if the stranger radiates danger right down to his bruised knuckles. All you should be concerned about is the ten minute walk you have to embark on and how all trains in this district stops at thirty minutes past eleven.
His gaze shifts at the sound of your voice, distracted and hyper-focused all at once. You're struck by the illuminating green that disperses into pale blue, when he finally notices that he isn't alone. Intense, and otherworldly—a gorgeous lunatic who looks like he materialised out of the shadows, stepping into the night and ending up on the wrong side of Gotham.
His gaze doesn't linger for long before it maneuvers around, scoping his environment as his lips press together, some sealed sigh laced within the charged tension between you two. Eventually, a low rasp leaves his lips. "I'll buy somethin'."
Your brows furrow. "Excuse me?"
His hand shifts, waving you off impatiently. "Hand me a book, or two—whatever. I need more time."
The crease between your brows deepen, that soft irritation earlier rising again. Not only has he come in during closing hours, which is the worst of all experiences in customer service, but he had the audacity to be rude and dismissive about it.
"Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time—"
"Lady." He cuts you off, gaze shifting back towards the streets before looking back to you in warning. "It's not a request. You can charge me however much you want, but I can't leave this store till the coast is clear... and neither can you."
Great, now he's holding you hostage too.
"Are you being chased?" You question impulsively. You have a bugging suspicion that he's prone to lying to you anyways, but his cutting tone makes you unfamiliarly bold. "You're a criminal?"
He snorts, finding something amusing. "In Gotham, some would say it's an honourable profession. There's worse bad guys out there, sweetheart. You're lucky it was me that came in here."
"I wouldn't call it luck." You frown. He doesn't bother with a response, clearly tuning you out, and your growing dislike finds something new to feast on. If you're going to waste a Friday night with some asshole, you may as well squeeze some money out of his pockets. Your gaze flickers over him, scrutinising.
"What are you looking at?" He murmurs, sensing your gaze even when his own is trained on the window, hand tucked under his jacket on what you hope isn't a weapon.
"Just wondering what kind of reader you are."
That finally gets his attention. He looks back at you, surprise evident in his gaze. Without that permanent furrow between his brows, he looks almost younger, erased temporarily of the self-righteousness buried in his bones and the weight of something deadly clutched in his hands.
A moment passes, his tight expression slowly unwinding into genuine amusement. "That's kind of you but you don't have to dial up your customer service. I'm not the kind of guy who leaves reviews."
Your brow twitches, frustration slipping past the cracks of your demeanour. "It's principle. I don't recommend books half-heartedly."
His smirk twitches higher, but you make the wiser choice of storming off, deeper into the shelves before he deigns you with another unfavourable response. Your mind is already slipping into its unfolding map of genres, of the books that encompass your pathway with what you think suits a jerk like him.
"Jackass." You mutter to yourself, opting between a self-help book or a literature pick for the jerk who acts so highly of himself. You decide on the latter, doubting the hunk would even understand the reference.
"Dorian Gray?"
"Yeah, heard of it?" You respond, unamused as you glare down at him.
He's made himself real comfortable, large thighs swallowing up your seat, swirling around on the creaky wheels as he eyes the store with that same assessing look he did when he first entered, as if he was used to mapping out any place he stepped into.
“Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes.” He mutters lowly, blue eyes landing back on you.
You blink once, then twice, wondering if you'd misheard him. "You're a reader?"
"Enough to know what you're suggesting, sweetheart." He mocks. "I know a thing or two about mistakes of men, so if you want to cause some real harm, you'll have to hit harder."
"I wasn't—" You falter, because that was exactly what you were intending on. "Fine. You forcefully extended a long, underpaid night shift, and I indirectly called you a jackass. Let's call it even."
His lip twitches involuntarily, not expecting your honesty. "Y'know being direct is what gets you places in Gotham."
"Yeah, gets you running into bookstores and terrorising their staff, you mean?"
"Well, I haven't been insulted through a book before." He shrugs half-heartedly. "I suppose you experience something new everyday."
"Anyone ever told you that you're infuriating?"
"Pretty too." He grins then, something striking and downright filthy. His hand taps on a copy of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. "That's what you seem to be suggesting, since you're clearly intent on being honest through your recommendations."
Your scoff escapes you, less annoyed than it should be. "I think my recommendation fits you just fine if that's the only thing you're willing to take from it."
"Oh, I'm more than willing." His grin sharpens. "That's sweet of you, but I'm afraid it's a little compromising, hitting on a customer this soon? You do this with all late night visitors?"
You're tempted to drop one of your heaviest dictionaries right on his skull to sort out the serious issues going on in that head of his. "Customer?" You raise a brow mockingly. "All I see is a stranger wasting my time after closing hours, raising this month's electricity bills, refusing to pay a single cent for his book, and getting out of here as promised."
"We still have—" His gaze glimpses to the clock. "—five minutes if you want to play it safe. You're doing a horrendous job at customer service by the way. Calling me a jackass, trying to kick me out. No wonder this place is—"
Your jaw drops. "You are not insulting the very place you're hiding in like a coward right now."
He raises both hands in surrender. "So charming. Was just going to mention how charming this place is."
Your lips quiver into an almost smile and you shut it down immediately, along with the quick decision that he is dangerous. Disarming with the quickness of his tongue, and unnerving in how he handles conversation like a chess board.
"This entire situation needs more tea." You grumble to yourself, turning your back on him.
There's nothing worth stealing on that counter of yours, unless he's crude enough to steal second-hand books worth cents if he even attempted to resell them in a city like Gotham. At most, he'd take the chipped mug rimmed with your tea. Oh, stupid you forgot your mug.
Your steps retract, a groan caught in the between your lips as you turn around with the anticipation to be hit with his mocking—only to find an empty seat in your view. Your head whips around past the shelves, but there was no sight of a worn leather jacket. Of course, he didn't even bother to announce his departure.
Coming back to the counter, you check for any missing items only to spot a bookmark poking out of one of your books, left in an ajar placement on the counter. On top of it, sat a pile of cash that was worth more than any copy in this entire store.
“Hey—”
He was already gone, you forget. You flip open the book, only to find there’s handwriting on your bookmark. Scratched in impulsively, like a lingering thought he had to put down.
“Jackass left you a tip for the trouble—and the rec. - Jason.”
His condescending tone somehow translates into pen on paper. It should irritate you. Yet, when your fingers lift to trace over the drying ink, you find yourself smiling involuntarily again. Jason. What kind of a man was he? It's a useless question, as you doubt you'll ever see him again.
A likely criminal, a guaranteed jerk—and probably the most exciting visitor of your entire summer.
Jason comes back not a week after. Covered in blood, which after your initial fright, is believed to belong mostly to the other guy. That particular fact he thought to include does little to soothe your nerves.
“You should’ve seen him.” He rambles, in what you could only hope wasn't his disgruntled attempt at impressing you, whilst laying flat on the desk. “Makes mine look like child's play."
The first-aid kit, hidden somewhere in the store cabinet, is squeezed haphazardly onto your office chair. There’s nothing more nerve-wracking than your first attempt at stitching a cut, not anything close to your caliber. If his arms weren't wrecked, you suspect he wouldn't have come all the way to you, an actual stranger. His voice distracts you, and you miss your aim.
Jason hisses, half-shirtless with his black tee tucked between his canines. "No, I said you have to turn it as soon as the point disappears."
Your hand is splayed over his stomach, fingers shaking slightly as you try to focus. "Stop shifting, and just keep quiet for a second. I can't focus with you nagging me."
"Forgive me for being concerned about my wound—"
Your hand comes up to shove the t-shirt further into his mouth, muffling his words. He raises a brow, almost amused, and a trickle of sweat brushes past.
"I'm trying my best to help, when this is clearly something hospitals exist for." You huff, focusing back on the stitch. "Give me some grace, and shut up."
His muscles flex and contract, but eventually, he listens. Your work becomes easier after that, despite it being the worst position you've ever been put in, neck cramping to avoid blocking your only source of light, the flickering lamp above the surface he's laid on, his blood dripping onto the wood.
"You owe me at least five purchases to make up for the blood stains." You grumble. "That requires you to stay alive."
He grunts through the fabric, and you take it as agreement.
“Why’re you back here anyway?” You question, trying to distract yourself. “Of all the places you could’ve gone, you thought that a bookstore keeper would have medical expertise?”
“Not medical expertise.” He mutters, voice too raw to not be honest. “I wanted..”
Your hand places a cloth over his wound, soaking the fabric red. “Wanted what?”
His gaze lingers over you, somehow more haunting with how the blue shade's grown darker, pupils expanded. He winces when you accidentally put too much pressure on the stitch, but that doesn't seem to be all to his sudden stillness. “A recommendation.” He answers eventually.
You stare at him, tempted to laugh. “You came all this way bleeding out, barging in through the door, past closing hours again—for a recommendation?”
He stares at you, and your laugh slips through when you realise that he’s at least half-serious. “I knew you'd be infuriating, but I didn't expect insanity.”
He ends up buying eight later just to prove his point and to make up for the blood stains, only after you promised that they'd all be your recommendations.
The hour's long past operating train schedules, and with the quiet acknowledgement of traumatising your uneventful Friday night, the second time he's reinvented what a normal shift should have been—he offers to walk you back once warmth seeps back into his skin.
Somewhere between sitting cramped behind the shelves as you pick out his recommendations and his tracking gaze over your frame as you rant on about how he desperately needed a self-help book or two, the unspoken tension gradually fades. Eventually, your frustrations die down too—and you realise his company, minus the blood and sharpness of tongue, wasn't the worst thing in the world.
You come to expect Jason’s presence, late in the night although he does begin to respect the concept of a ‘closing hour’. He's usually your last visitor regardless—leaving the two of you alone to... continue on your charade of recommendations. Even when he begins to linger longer than any customer should, offering to walk you back, or make you tea when you're too busy shelfing to bother with a new mug to replace your over-steeped one from the afternoon. Except for today, because Margery, your least favourite customer in the whole of Gotham, decides to pick the one night Jason's visiting to start her practiced act.
Clearly intending on slithering her way into getting something for free, Margery drones on about how important her niece's education is to her, and how anything contributing to children's education should be free of charge. All over a book set costing a measly seven bucks, but you suppose to dear Margery, supporting small businesses in Gotham isn't in her check-list.
“I’m sorry, Margery.” Your voice remains perfectly levelled. “I can't hand the set to you for free, because it's against our policy."
“Can’t you understand my situation?” She huffs, annoyance flared in the fine lines of her cheeks. “No one's even interested in that set, I've surveyed it for days.”
“Which by all existing policies, still requires a purchase, ma’am.”
She scoffs, nails drumming impatiently against the counter. “I want to speak to your manager.”
Your lips quirk up. “Jason.”
Jason shifts then, his gaze lifting from the book in his hand, one which he hasn’t turned the page since he conveniently perched himself right next to your counter ten minutes ago. He places the book down gently onto the wood, bookmark slipping into place, though the slight sneer of his lips conveys none of that delicate care as he slumps against the counter, shoulder brushing against yours.
“There a problem?”
Margery blinks, affronted by his attitude. Or his sheer size towering over her. "You're the manager?"
“Policy’s law.” Jason shrugs. “If you’d like to take this further, to save yourself—“ His gaze flickers to the book set, and his smirk quirks up higher—the perfect composition of a jerk. “Seven bucks, we'll be more than happy to call the authorities.”
“I have never experienced such horrible service!” Her cheeks grow warm, sloshed with embarrassment. “Acting as if I'm in the wrong—you’ll be receiving the worst review!”
"All’s fair in Gotham, ma’am.” He calls out with a grin as he watches her turquoise skirt catch onto the end of the door hinge, releasing another shriek from her lips.
The door slams shut, bell ringing dramatically with the impact, and Jason turns back to you, smile slipping into something familiar and reserved for you. “The review will be wiped the moment she hits post.”
You snort, leaning back against the shelves. “Should I be concerned about your illegal activities invading its way into my work?”
“Nah.” He shrugs. “Last place the GCPD will look into is some shabby bookstore.”
“Shabby.” You feign offense. "Our most repeating customer doesn't even hold a shred of respect for this place."
“Oh-no, I’m beginning to like the sound of being manager of this fine establishment.” He humours, glancing around as if he hasn't already memorised the interior.
You frown, suspicious of his change in tune. “Why, cause you’ll be the boss of me?”
His smirk deepens. “One of its many perks, I imagine.”
“Oh, get over yourself, Todd.” You glance back towards the door, still unable to rid yourself of the satisfaction of watching that entire fiasco go down. "Though I suppose a thank you is in order."
"Couldn't get her out of her fast enough." He shrugs. "She was taking up our time."
"Our?" You raise a brow, almost teasing as you look back at him. "Didn't realise this was our thing now."
His gaze lingers on you, as if he knew his response would be the deciding factor of acknowledging the thinly veiled string that's begun to loop itself around the both of you. Something about your dark circles, the oil on your nose bridge, or the mess of your knotted hair—whatever he saw in you, seals his decision.
"Yeah." His voice rasps, the most unguarded you've ever heard him. "It is."
It's an instantaneous kick, one that nearly leaves you breathless as you try to regain your composure. He could’ve said nothing. He could have thrown this to the side and said that his weekly visits for recommendations during your shifts, no matter if he was bleeding or bruised at the knuckles coming from a life clearly separate from yours—meant nothing.
Yet, it does mean something. Not just to you, but to him as well.
"Oh." You mutter, because you can't think of anything appropriate to say to that.
"Oh." He echoes, a genuine smile lingering at the edge of his lips. "Haven't received my recommendation of the day, sweetheart."
You blink, feeling strangely light, as if your body has regained all the energy zapped out from long hours of rearranging shelves and stacking boxes. It doesn't help that he's looking at you like that, soft and disarmed in a way you've begun to realise he's let himself be, only around you.
You should've trusted your gut that he was dangerous, but never in the way you expected. Your heart skips traitorously, the little thing already knowing something that you refuse to admit aloud. So, you do what you always do and dig out your recommendation, waiting for that spark to light in his gaze and pretend there's nothing more to why you love it so much.
Weeks turn into months, and Jason becomes your one constant even as your shifts lessen in hours to accommodate your academics. If anything, there's something comforting now about leather jackets, the faint scent of pain ointment, the certain knowledge that Jason is most probably a vigilante, after you noticed his constant vigilance over the district you work in has significantly lessened crime rates.
His shelf at home has built its steady collection, every book representing a particular week, an ever-increasing memoir of the thing shared between the two of you, from the first time he stumbled into the store. You don't know what to call it, only that you wish for it to never stop.
He knows the store like the back of his palm, including the exact hour in which you would get up for a tea refill, or when you need a steady hand on the ladder to reach the highest shelves. It's strangely intimate, the way he slots himself into the quiet mundane of your shifts, but he never complains of boredom or having something better to do with his time. If anything, the slower the day, the more he seems to uncurl like a satisfied feline—accompanying you by your side when there's nothing more to do, catching up on his reads while you have a read of your own.
"I have a recommendation for you." Jason mutters offhandedly, legs resting on the desk, as much as home as you are now, seemingly unbothered that he's randomly switched up the unspoken rules of the thing that's shared between the two of you.
You raise a brow, gaze peering over your current read. "You—Mr. I Can't Read Without Your Recommendations, has one for me?"
He shrugs, taking something out from the inner pocket of his jacket. You never understand just how much he's able—and willing to fit inside the leather confinements, and you swear half of it belongs to his side of the world you're privy to only in the latest of nights, when his hand is gripping yours knuckle-white, and he lets you stay by his side before muttering his review for his latest read.
In his hand, is a book, one in which you recognise immediately.
"Dorian Gray." You muse. "Is it your turn to call me self-conceited?"
His lip twitches into a half-smirk, but it buries itself under what you only recognise now to be nerves.
"Jason?" You murmur, slightly startled as you place down your book.
His own hand, scarred over the knuckles and engulfing the book, places its weight gently in your hands, as if offering something sacred.
"I wrote something inside." He mutters, voice softened.
Your brows furrow, but you oblige—flipping open the very first copy you've ever recommended to him, and find a handwritten note on the first page. It's unmistakably his, and there's a few scratched out lines that you can't make out, clearly something he pondered over for a while.
"I think you've probably figured it out by now, that I am not good with my words, no matter how many books I've read with greater speeches or declarations. Still, you deserve to hear something honest, and I've always conveyed myself better through my actions than I do with my mouth.
When I first entered this store, I never expected to run into you. Fate or whatever people call it, has never been considerate of my path, or who I encounter along it. Yet, you stood right there, clearly out of place with the world I know, and I don't think I'll ever truly comprehend how our paths aligned. I told myself to forget you, but you had given me a piece of you in the book you placed in my hands, and I couldn't stop thinking of that, of you. I tried convincing myself, after considering it for seven days, that seeking you out would make the curiousity dissipate, and not because I wanted to hear your voice again.
Bleeding out over your counter, I knew that I was done for when I realised I was willing to buy the entire store if it meant getting to spend a few more minutes by your side. Every book I carried home, was me getting to keep pieces of evidence, of this thing we share that feels like it's completely ours. Proof that a person who thought about what kind of reader I'd be despite every reason not to care—actually existed.
I'll probably regret this, I do have a talent of screwing up with people, but keeping silent has never been my forte, and I would regret not telling you what I've known since the first, which is that there hasn't been a single book where a line has crossed my mind without thinking of you. That there hasn't been a day, where I don't hold myself back from wanting to see you again. I'm offering you my honesty because I do believe that's the only decency available in Gotham, and I'd like to offer you at least that."
Speechless was an understatement for the shaking in your fingers, the weight of the page in your hand when you finally look up and meet his gaze.
He's nervous, pupils dilated—body locked with tension. He's just poured his heart out to you through the page of the very first book you've given him, and he's staring at you like you’ve changed the entire trajectory of his life, and not the other way around.
“Jason.”
“I’ve never done anything like this.” It spills out of him, as if he can’t contain himself. “Our thing, falling for someone. So, before you say anything—I just want to state that I'm not expecting anything. That's the one of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn a long time ago, so don't feel you have to say something you don't mean. I just can't go on pretending that meeting you didn't change something in me—that it hasn't rewired what genuine happiness feels like. I began to read again, after all these years, because books which I once found comfort in now reminds me of you. That in every line I read, I searched for something to bring back to you."
"It scared me." He admits, and even the act seems to cost him. "To care that much. To have this lack of control over how I operate, how I should feel. You disarmed me in a way no one else ever had, and I didn't think I even had that in me anymore. To feel this terrified and to still want someone this much."
His hand lowers to the note-filled page, the book still gripped between your hands and his expression steadies. "I considered it countless times. To stop this, before I start something I'll never be able to take back. Then I looked at you, and I realised I can never go back to my life 'before' you. That I was already in this, and I'd be willing to do anything if you are too."
"Jason." You call out, and he stops with a trained halt, as if he expected the worst. That was your last straw.
"I didn't even need the note." You burst. "If you had simply told me you wanted me, I would've already said yes. Our thing, I've always wanted to be a part of it."
Before, he was tense—but now, your words seemed to have hit him like a truck. You continue, not wanting him to doubt something you realised should've been obvious from the moment you kept that very first note he left you in your wallet.
"I want to be in this with you, Jason." You confess. "You're the one person I wanted to see every night. I don't know how to say this without sounding like a mess but—every book in this store, I constantly look for something that screams you and I wait in the hopes that you'll like it, and that was the most scariest, intimate thing I've ever done for someone. So—you're an idiot if you think I don't want this as much as you do."
"...You mean I didn't have to feel physically ill to write that note out, and you would've said yes?" He mutters after a moment, a low huff of amusement leaving his lips.
“I thought you said being direct is what gets you places in Gotham.” You quote.
His smile gradually reappears. “Yeah, I suppose it got me places. Running into a shabby bookstore, getting hit on the first night.”
You raise a brow. “You and I remember that encounter very differently."
"Yeah?" He murmurs. "That'll be a problem if we aren't on the same page. Just to give it a test, what if I said I wanted to kiss you right now?"
Shock registers faintly to you, even if that thought's been circling your mind for months. A little smile pulls at your mouth. "Yeah, I think we might be on the same page there."
When he leans in, you smell faintly of gunpowder, something warm and smoky—so distinctly Jason. You don't think you'll ever tire of it, and you love it more when his fingers tangled itself into your hair, brushing against the nape of your neck. When he finally kisses you, a low rumble in the back of his throat in content, you find he was half-right that night you both met. Maybe there was luck involved after all.
"I am keeping that note." You murmur after he pulls away to press something softer against your temple.
His lips curl into a smile, and you feel it against your skin. "'Course you are."
"You gonna move or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty?"
Fourteen words.
You'd had them your whole life — neat dark letters wrapping the inside of your forearm, permanent and unhelpful, offering absolutely zero identifying information about the person who would one day say them to you. No name. No context. Just fourteen words that managed to be simultaneously a little rude and a little flirtatious and completely unreadable as to whether the person saying them would mean it as one or the other or somehow both.
Your mother had called it characterful.
Your best friend had called it concerning.
You'd made your peace with it. Whoever they were, they were apparently someone who said exactly what they thought, moved fast, and had a specific kind of humor that operated in the space between blunt and charming. You'd built a rough sketch of a person from fourteen words over twenty-something years and tried not to get too attached to the sketch.
You were a little attached to the sketch.
Gotham was not a city you'd chosen so much as landed in — job opportunity, affordable rent by the standards of someone who'd never been to Gotham and didn't yet understand what affordable rent in Gotham meant about a neighborhood — and you'd been here long enough now to have developed the particular Gotham-specific survival skill of simply continuing to walk when things happened around you.
Things happened a lot in Gotham.
Tonight's thing was a fight in the alley beside your building, which you heard before you saw — the specific sounds of impact, something hitting brick, a grunt — and you made the Gotham calculus instantly: not a mugging, wrong sounds for that, too much back-and-forth, and there were two distinct voices which meant—
You turned the corner anyway because you were, as your best friend had noted on multiple occasions, genuinely terrible at self-preservation.
The alley was a disaster. Three men were down in various configurations of unconscious, and a fourth was currently being held against the wall by a figure in a red helmet and a leather jacket, which — Red Hood, you'd seen enough Gotham news to recognize Red Hood — who was saying something in a low voice that had the quality of a thing you didn't want to hear the specifics of.
The fourth man made a decision. Bad one.
He had something in his hand — small, dark — and you did not think, you just reacted, the way you did when something bad was about to happen and your body moved before your brain caught up.
"Hey!" Loud, sharp, aimed at the man with the weapon.
It worked, which was a miracle. He startled. The Red Hood moved — fast, faster than anyone had a right to move — and the thing was handled in about two seconds, the man joining his colleagues on the alley floor.
Silence.
You became aware that you were standing at the entrance to an alley in Gotham at eleven at night having just yelled at a man with a gun. Your brain, now catching up, had several notes about this.
The Red Hood turned around.
The helmet was expressionless by design, which made it somehow more unnerving — no face to read, just the red visor, the broad shoulders, the leather jacket, the general impression of someone who was very large and very capable and currently looking directly at you.
"You gonna move," he asked sarcastically, and his voice was low and a little rough and had an edge of incredulous to it, "or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty?"
The alley went very quiet.
Your arm was burning.
Not painfully — not quite. More like warmth, sudden and specific, the feeling people described and that you'd read about and filed under things that won't happen to me because you were practical about these things, you'd gotten practical, and yet here it was, the warmth spreading up your forearm exactly where fourteen words had lived your whole life.
You looked down.
The letters were glowing. Faintly, gold-warm, the way they did when — when—
You looked up.
The helmet looked back at you.
"What," he said. Flat. But something had changed in his voice, the edge of incredulous gone, replaced by something more careful.
"Your — say that again." Your voice came out strange. "What you just said."
A long pause.
"Which part." Not quite a question.
"All of it."
He was very still. The kind of still that felt like a held breath, like something balanced on a very narrow edge. He looked at your arm — at the glow of it, faint and warm in the dim alley light — and then back at your face, and you couldn't see his expression, you couldn't see anything behind the helmet, but the stillness of him was communicating something anyway.
"Huh," he said finally. Very quiet. Almost to himself.
"Yeah."
Another pause. Longer.
"You just yelled at a guy with a gun," he stated with a breathy laugh.
"I noticed that, yes."
"In a Gotham alley. At eleven at night."
"Also yes."
"That's—" He stopped. You got the impression he was doing something with his face behind the helmet that he was grateful you couldn't see. "That's insane. That's genuinely insane."
"I have been told," you said, "that I'm bad at self-preservation."
"Clearly." But the rough edge of his voice had shifted into something that wasn't quite dry and wasn't quite warm and was somehow both. "You live around here?"
"That building." You pointed. "Third floor."
He looked at the building. Then back at you. "Of course you do," he said, mostly to himself.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I've been running this block for eight months and my soulmate lives on the third floor and apparently nearly got shot tonight because she—" He stopped. Seemed to realize how much he was saying. "Nothing. Forget it."
Your heart was doing something unreasonable.
"You've been running this block for eight months," you said carefully.
"I patrol. It's a thing I do. It's not—" He made a gesture. "It's work."
"And you never—"
"I never stopped anyone on the street and asked them to look at my arm, no." Flat. "I'm not — I don't do that. I didn't think—" Another stop. The careful stillness again. "I have fourteen words on my arm that are very loud and extremely unhelpful and I wasn't exactly optimistic about the context they implied."
Fourteen words.
You looked at him. At the helmet, the jacket, the alley around you with its unconscious occupants, the Gotham night in all its grim and complicated glory.
"Can I see?" you asked.
A long moment.
He pushed the jacket sleeve up slowly, the leather sliding back to reveal the inside of a forearm — and the tattoo there, dark letters, words you knew because you'd said them, or would say them, or had just said them approximately forty seconds ago in a Gotham alley at eleven at night.
Your words. On his arm. His whole life.
The matching warmth was there too, faint gold, the same glow as yours.
You pulled your own sleeve up without being asked.
He looked at your arm for a long time.
"You gonna move or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty," he read aloud. Quiet. Like he was checking the weight of each word. "That's what I said."
"That's what you said."
"I almost said something else." He sounded slightly stunned. "I almost said — something about moving, but different, and I changed it last second."
"What would have happened if you hadn't?"
"I don't know." He looked up from your arm to your face. "I don't want to know."
You thought about eight months. Him running your block for eight months, and you in your third floor apartment, and the specific arithmetic of almost — how close and how long and how many times you might have walked past each other in the ordinary way of a city that never made anything easy.
"I'm—" You started. "My name is—"
"I know," he interrupted, Then, registering your expression: "I told you. I run this block. I know the neighborhood. I don't — it's not weird, it's just—"
"It's a little weird."
"It's a little weird," he admitted shyly.
A pause. Below you one of the unconscious men made a noise and did not wake up.
"You could tell me yours," you asked, "Since we're doing this."
The stillness again. Long enough that you t1hought he might not — that this was the wall, the place where it stopped, where the helmet stayed on and the name stayed private and you went upstairs to your third floor apartment with a glowing arm and a story you wouldn't know how to tell.
"Jason," he offered slowly.
Just that. Careful and quiet, like something he didn't take out often.
"Jason," you echoed back. Checking the weight of it. It was a good weight.
He was looking at your face again with that quality of attention that felt like inventory, like accounting. Like someone who'd stopped letting himself expect something finding it anyway and not quite knowing what to do with his hands about it.
"You should go inside," he stated seriously, "It's late and this block is — just go inside."
"Are you going to keep running the block?"
"That's generally how it works, yeah."
"Okay." You pulled your sleeve back down. The warmth was fading to something quieter, settled, permanent in a new way. "I make coffee in the morning. Third floor, the window with the bad curtains. If you're ever — if you wanted to—"
"Bad curtains."
"Genuinely terrible. I've been meaning to replace them."
"I'll find it," Jason assured you with a laugh. And the rough voice had gone fully warm now, all the edge of it soft, the way something sounds when a person has given up managing it. "Go to sleep."
You went inside.
You stood in your kitchen for a while, jacket still on, looking at your forearm where fourteen words had lived your whole life and were now quiet, settled, finally exactly what they'd always been waiting to be.
In the morning you made coffee and opened the window with the bad curtains.
'jason makes a mean pasta' he knows this, everyone does, however, its different to hear it coming from you while he's outside your apartment window — not in a weird way though! he lives here! you just happen to be having a girls night and bursting in with his red hood gear doesn't sound like a plan.
pairing. jason todd x fem!reader wc. 2.4k warnings. alcohol consumption (wine), maybe MAYBE ooc!jason todd pretty please forgive me if thats the case i swear i tried my best, english is not my first language a/n. first fic!! might delete later!! also my first time writing in present tense lol i always use past but i wanted to spice things up a bit. enjoy!!
dividers by @/pixopix
“Jason makes a mean pasta.” You groan at the memory. Everyone else in your living room enthusiastically agrees, voices mixing with some soft jazz playing in the background.
Patrol had been uneventful, as uneventful as a night in Gotham could be. Perhaps that’s what got him to clock out from his shift earlier than usual without taking into account the girls’ night you are hosting in your shared living room.
Now, he is trapped on the balcony, eavesdropping on all the ruckus coming from inside. His helmet is off, sitting right next to his thigh, and the wind is kind against his flushed skin, comforting.
He can hear the clinking of glasses, probably the ones you had bought at a thrift store on your first date after moving in together. Then laughter, before a cork pops. Another bottle is being opened, and he is sure this wasn’t the first of the night.
After all, you had stuck three in the fridge earlier this afternoon.
Four voices inside, including yours, cheer after the wine is poured. Laughter follows once again.
“He needs to teach Jeremy how to work around the kitchen.” One of your friends— Olivia, he thinks— sighs. “Last time he tried making pasta, we had firefighters called on us.”
Jessica, he is at least 75% sure it's her, interrupts, taking another sip of her wine. “He’s a good cook, babes, not a miracle worker.”
You chuckle into your cup, “He’s an amazing cook, actually.”
Everyone coos. Jason blushes. He considers taking a round trip around the building, entering your apartment from the bedroom window and staying holed up in there until everyone leaves. But he isn’t moving. He doesn’t want to, now that he’s privy to the conversation you were having — that and the fact that he’s sure he had locked it before leaving.
“Can you at least host another dinner party before bragging?” Olivia groans. He can hear her pour herself another glass of wine. You hum in response, scooting closer to your friend so she can lean her head on the crook of your neck.
“You want carbonara again?” You thread your fingers through her hair, and she sighs. The last one to speak– Lily, Jason takes a guess– interrupts her before she can respond.
“I do.” She takes a sip of her wine, letting out a contented sigh afterwards. “I missed out on you guys’ last one, remember?”
Jessica whistles lowly under her breath. It catches everyone’s attention. “Boy, did you miss out on so much.”
At Lily’s confusion, she sighs and nods your way. When she raises her brow, you tilt your head.
“What do you mean?” you ask, confusion lacing your voice. Jason could hear it from a mile away. It piques his own curiosity, and he can’t help but lean in.
“What do you mean, ‘what do I mean’?” Jessica laughs. “I’m talking about your obnoxious display of domesticity.”
You shake your head. “I don’t understand.”
Jessica groans, but she is still smiling, a twinkle of warmth in her eyes. “Between Jason and you?”
Olivia bursts into a fit of giggles before you can respond. Some of her wine splashes inside her glass and you are quick to grab it from her hands, putting it back on the wooden table.
“It was the sweetest thing, Lils,” she gets a hold of your arm and nuzzles her cheek against it, before launching into a spiel. “They were so in sync, like, Jer and I arrived way too early and they were still making, I think it was… ugh what was it?”
She looks up at you, still pressing herself close. It makes you smile. “Garlic bread.”
“Right!” Her attention is back on Lily. The latter nods, invested. She doesn’t dare interrupt the story. “And he’s like, chopping the baguette in these identical-sized bites, meanwhile you,” her eyes are on you now, “were chopping garlic in tiny little squares and before you could ask for butter, he was handing you butter and a bowl to mix the two and he like—”
She interrupts herself, shaking you in place with a squeal, and you laugh, heart full. Jason melts at the sound. His eyes are closed, reminiscing on that night.
He had been stressed out of his mind, hoping to make some good food and a good impression, when the doorbell had rung. Things weren’t ready yet.
“It’s okay, Livy’s always early,” you had reassured him, squeezed his bicep, placed a kiss on his cheek. “Either that, or extremely late.”
He had sighed, focusing back on the cutting board. Olivia and Jeremy had stayed put at the breakfast bar, talking and looking as you guys cooked, entranced by the way he had handed you another knife before you could even ask. How he had opened the fridge and handed you the butter. How, after you had put everything in the microwave to melt together, you had opened the oven and pulled the right-sized baking pan from the four you had stored. It had looked perfectly choreographed– you had not crashed into each other, not once.
“I’ve never seen you more in love in all our years of friendship!” Olivia squeals and you freeze in place. You can feel your body warming up from the inside, and a stupid sheepish grin forces itself onto your lips.
“Shut up!” you drag out the syllables in mock complaint, shaking your friend back and making her squeal even more. Before the two of you could fall on the floor in a heap of giggles, you chug the remains of your wine and place your glass on the table, missing the coaster.
“Oh, you’re soooo in love with your Jason!” Olivia keeps on egging you, freeing herself from you to hide behind Jessica, who caught that last interaction on camera.
Trying to catch your breath, you lean against the couch before asking: “My what?”
“Your Jason,” Lily tilts her head and responds with an amused grin.
“Stop itttt,” you launch yourself onto the comfy couch. Your breathing stalls for a second as you bite your cheek, lost in thought. “Actually,” you pause, eyes shimmering with nothing but delight, “say it again.”
“Say what?” Jessica teases. “‘Your Jason’?”
The squeal you let out sounds muffled. He could picture the scene in perfect detail: some sort of elatedness brightens your face as you get a hold of one of the throw pillows on the couch. You burrow your face in it and the girls laugh alongside you.
In the absence of something to hide his own delight with, Jason bites his lower lip. He looks up at the night sky, uncommonly clear, and sighs. He is sure you are going to be the death of him.
The laughter dies down and he can hear footsteps, the clinking of a bottle, and the way you shift your weight on the couch.
You hug the pillow, looking at the ceiling. “It’s just, I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?” Lily asks as she takes the empty bottle and leaves it in the sink. Then, she pulls the fridge open, taking the last bottle you had stashed along with a sparkling water, before joining you again.
“I don’t know,” your glass is empty now, but you feel so full– with your friends, with your love, and with a lot of wine. It is warm in your tummy, spreading through your limbs until it reaches up, up, up and messes with your head in the endearing way wine tends to do. “I like like him way too much, like I get, I don’t know, stupid about him.”
“Yeah but you’ve been stupid about him since you met him.”
Consider Jason’s interest piqued. He relaxes against the wall and listens.
“You know it’s true.” Jessica raises her glass at you, Lily having already refilled it for her.
From outside, Jason can hear the pillow falling on the ground as you sit up. You pay it no mind, scooting towards the edge of the couch. The glass of wine, now empty, makes a clinking noise as you pick it up before extending it in Lily’s direction; another one.
A sip and you are already fueled up, ready to defend yourself against the ‘chalant’ allegations they were trying to raise against you. “Actually, it’s not.”
Jessica deadpans, and you know that you are fighting a losing battle. You can tell from Lily’s conspiratorial smile and Olivia’s giggles.
“You literally changed the route you take on your morning walks just so you could see him.”
“To be fair,” off to a great start, “I like to switch them up here and there,” you shrug. Frustration, or perhaps a wave of self-cringe, washes over you as you recount the familiar story. Perhaps another sip of wine could help? Yeah, it definitely will — you let out a puff of air and murmur through clenched teeth. “Plus, it's not like it worked. I barely saw him after that.”
“AHA! So you agree, then! You did change it just to run into him!”
“Well, no! I changed it because I get bored otherwise.”
They don’t look convinced. Like a petulant child, you avoid eye contact. Good god, you are burying yourself in chalantness at this point. “And sure, whatever, the thought of running into him did motivate me a little, sue me.”
The three break out in a choir of cheers and Jason can’t believe what he is hearing. He can easily make out one of them shouting ‘Stupid, I tell you!’ followed by a dreamy ‘You were soooo smitten!’. He joins the ruckus with laughter of his own, although he smothers it down with his hand to avoid getting caught.
All that teasing is making him blush, the giddiness in his chest bubbling up to a boiling point. He is so gonna make fun of you later, risking the possibility of you calling him a hypocrite after he comes clean.
“If its of any consolation,” Lily jumps in, “he looked extremely stupid about you too.”
“Really?” A saccharine sweet intrigue forces your voice to jump half an octave. An excited tilt pushes your curiosity to the edge of its seat.
Lily hums in agreement. “We could all tell.”
“From a distance too!” Olivia chimes in, once again all excited.
Sheepishness tints his cheeks. Again, it's teasing his skin with a rosy hue that looks just like it did back then, he is sure. And of course, he can’t deny its true: he had been stupid about you since the very first day he met you.
The girls left right when his patrol was supposed to end. He watched you kiss and hug the three of them goodbye, and only make your way back once you were sure they made it to their cab safe and sound.
The promise of rain waltzes through the night. His gaze follows the retreating taillights, blending with the horizon. He can hear the way you hum from inside the apartment, picking the remaining glasses and plates; you had basically shooed the girls away before they could even offer their help cleaning up.
The clinking of ceramic and glass mix and melt with the playlist still on loop pouring from a speaker, though at a lower volume now — the neighbours are sleeping after all. He doesn’t know what does it exactly– either the soft jazz, or the sound of your sock clad feet dancing against the floorboards– or perhaps it’s the sound of you existing peacefully after a night full of laughter, but something bigger than him forces his eyes closed and his body to melt against the brick wall once more.
However, and considering how engrossed he was in the sound of your humming, he should’ve noticed the moment you stopped. The sound of you turning on your heels should've snapped him out of it. Instead, it was a wooden creek that did.
“You’ve been here all night?” you pop your head out of the window with a knowing smile. He turns quickly in your direction, wide-eyed, but his startled state lasts no more than a second. It dissipates quickly after he soaks in the image of you. One of your arms rests on the windowsill, the other holding the bottom rail in place.
You are wearing one of his sweatshirts, one that reaches way past your hands and you have to roll the sleeves at least four times. The chunkiness of said cuffs tends to be a bother, you insist on wearing his clothes just because.
“How’d you know I was here?” Jason smiles back, eyes crinkling at the edges with utter endearment. There’s a soft layer of sleep that coats yours, making them slightly droopy, but it’s mixed with bliss and he can feel the way it's spreading to him, taking over his chest.
“Had a hunch,” you shrug, grinning wider. “That, and I can see your helmet all the way from the kitchen.”
Your eyes drop to his side, and he follows suit. The snitch in question seems to be grinning back at him.
You don’t tell him, however, that it had been only you who caught the revealing detail, nor that the only reason you caught it was because you are so used to looking for him no matter where you are, like a sixth sense.
Instead, you chuckle, smiling so widely and hoping that he could tell everything he means to you just from that alone.
“Come inside, you dork,” he grins at you, dusty pink, and you chuckle, moving to the side to grant him entrance.
He settles into the rhythm you had established, a dance you are both familiar with. He dries the glasses you rinse, then puts them away. You pick up the pillows on the floor, pass them to him. He fluffs them, like you taught him to, and places them neatly on the couch. You stretch lazily, leaning your whole weight against him, and he rests his cheek on top of your head, his arms circling your waist. The two of you scan the living room in tandem.
The music is off, the speaker is resting safely on a shelf and the silence stretches for a little too long.
“So,” his voice is soft, with a teasing edge to it. You can feel it reverberating through his body as he gently, and almost imperceptible, rocks you side to side. Something’s coming. You hum anyway. “I heard you changed your hot girl walk route for me?”
“Oh, shut up!” you laugh, pulling away and slapping his arm gently. “Bet you would’ve done the same!”
He joins in on the laughter and follows after you like a puppy when you walk towards the bedroom, trying to pull you back in.
Most definitely, he thinks, you were gonna call him a hypocrite.
a/n. jason todd?? a hypocrite??? hopefully that will motivate me to write a some more and dive a little deeper into his hypocrisy (hypebole, he’s the sweetest) let me know what yall thought about this one!! but be kind bc im sensitive lol and if anyone has any idea about what i meant by hypocrite i would absolutely love to hear all your thoughts, ask box is always open <3
summary: The three times he tried to kiss you and the one time he finally got to kiss you.
warning: fluff
Dick was genuinely starting to think the universe hated him. Because seriously, how hard was it to kiss you?
Apparently impossible.
The first time happened in his room at Wayne Manor.
You were sitting on his bed while he rambled about something that happened during patrol, waving his hands around dramatically while you laughed at him. His hair was messy from the shower he’d taken earlier and he looked dangerously handsome in gray sweatpants and an old band shirt.
Dick had been staring at you for a solid five minutes at that point. Not even listening to himself anymore.
Just you.
The way you smiled at him as if he hung the stars for you. The way you always looked at him and smiled at him. It made his chest hurt a little.
“What?” you asked finally, catching him staring.
“Nothing.” he said immediately.
“You’re smiling at me weird.” you pushed yourself up a bit with your elbows so you could look at him a little better.
“I always smile at you weird.”
“True.” You laughed quietly and Dick swore he almost melted into the mattress. God, he liked you so much.
Before he could chicken out, he moved closer. One hand landed beside your thigh on the bed while his eyes flicked down to your lips.
You noticed immediately. Your breathing hitched a little. Dick’s heart nearly exploded.
“Can I kiss-” The bedroom door slammed open.
“Dick, have you seen my- oh.” Jason froze in the doorway. Dick closed his eyes slowly. Of course.
Of fucking course.
You looked away quickly trying not to laugh while Jason stared between the two of you with the most annoying grin imaginable.
“Oh my god!” Jason said. “Was Grayson finally about to make a move after pining for like thirty years?”
“Get out.” he throws a pillow at Jason but he quickly dodges.
“You were gonna kiss them!” Jason says loudly and points at dick. To be fair, he always had to listen Dick rumbling about how much he likes you.
“Jason.”
“You hesitated too long, ancient man.”
Dick threw another pillow directly at his head while Jason laughs and disappeared down the hallway. The mood was officially dead.
Dick flopped backward onto the bed dramatically. “I’m moving to the other side of the world.”
You were laughing too hard to comfort him properly. The second time should’ve worked. Key word: Should’ve.
Dick actually planned this one. Like he actually bought a notebook just to write his ideas down on how to kiss you and where to kiss you. Safari open next to the notebook so he could look up beautiful places to take you.
So, he took you out for dinner after patrol and the two of you ended up sitting on a rooftop overlooking Gotham with your legs hanging over the edge and Dick’s hand protectively holding you close to him by your waist so you don’t fall.
The city lights reflected in Dick’s eyes while he looked at you.
You were sitting so close your knees bumped together every few seconds, neither of you moving away.
“You know.” Dick said softly, “I think this is the longest we’ve gone without one of my siblings ruining my life.”
“You just jinxed it.” you smile at him.
“Nah.” He grinned. “Nobody knows we’re here.”
The second he leaned in, you smiled to yourself, eyes dropping to his mouth. This was the moment!!
Finally.
Then suddenly-
“OH COME ON!”
Wally appeared out of literal nowhere. Dick almost screamed. Wally blinked between the two of you before looking genuinely offended. “Were you guys about to kiss without telling me?”
Dick stared at him with betrayal in his eyes. “How did you even find us?”
“I brought fries.” Wally holds two bags of fries in his hands and lifts them in his face.
“I don’t care!” You were fully hiding your face in your hands laughing while Dick contemplated pushing his best friend off the roof.
“This is sick.” Dick muttered. “I’m cursed.”
“You kinda are.” you admitted.
The third attempt somehow went even worse. Which honestly felt impressive.
You were both in the Batcave helping Dick patch up a tear in his suit after patrol. Well. Dick was pretending to help while mostly flirting with you.
“You missed a spot.” you told him.
“I’m distracted.”
“By what?” you ask him, acting confused.
“You.” You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway.
Dick leaned against the work table, watching you carefully while you focused on fixing the suit. You looked ridiculously cute under the cave lights and Dick decided he was done waiting.
Absolutely done.
He stepped closer slowly. Your hands stilled immediately.
There it was again. That one look. That soft nervous look you got every time he got too close.
Dick lifted a hand to your face gently. “Can I please kiss you now or is the universe gonna send another speedster after me?”
You laughed quietly. “Maybe you’re just unlucky.”
“I’m Nightwing. Bad luck is kinda my brand.” You smiled up at him and Dick swore his heart did a backflip.
He leaned down slowly-
“Richard.” Dick nearly slammed his head into the table. Bruce stood at the entrance of the Batcave looking completely unaware of the psychological damage he just caused.
Dick looked seconds away from tears.
You actually turned away because you were laughing too hard.
Bruce frowned slightly. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Yes!” Dick said immediately.
“No.” you said at the same time.
Bruce looked between both of you silently before turning back around.
“I’ll come back later.”
“THANK YOU!!!” Dick groans which earns him a little laugh from you. And he could swear he just felt his heart melt away. He wants to hear your laugh more often and if he could, he would tattoo the sound of your laugh on his skin.
The cave elevator closed again.
Dick dropped his forehead onto your shoulder dramatically. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Your shoulders shook with laughter while he groaned against you.
“You know I’m trying here.”
“I know.” you reply while resting your hands on his back, comforting him.
“I’m literally suffering.” Dick places his hands on each side of your hip.
“You’re so dramatic.”
“You love me.” The words slipped out accidentally. Both of you froze. Dick lifted his head slowly, eyes wide. “Well.” Your face warmed instantly.
“Well…” you echoed quietly.
Then suddenly Dick narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Wait. You didn’t deny it.”
“Maybe because I do.” You laughed softly. Dick genuinely forgot how to breathe for a second. And that was exactly why attempt number four HAD to work.
No siblings.
No Wally.
No Bruce.
No Alfred walking in with emotional support cookies.
Nothing.
Dick planned everything carefully.
His bedroom door? Locked. Windows? Checked twice because apparently his family climbed into rooms acting like they will die if they don’t get in there. Phone? Off. Comms? Disabled.
He even bribed Damian with twenty dollars to leave him alone for one night. Bought Tim five coffees so he wouldn’t knock on his door asking if he wanted to go and grab coffee. He hid Jason’s book in the refrigerator so he was busy searching for it. Dick trusted Duke enough to tell him about his plan and begged him to keep Steph, Cass away from his door.
“You’re insane.” you told him while laughing as he checked the hallway one final time.
“I’m cautious.” he replied softly.
“You barricaded the door.”
“Trauma changes people.” Dick shrugs off. You snorted while Dick finally turned toward you with a victorious smile.
“There.” he said proudly. “Perfect.”
“You’re adorable.”
“No, I’m determined.” He walked over slowly until he stood right in front of you.
This time there were no interruptions. No doors opening. No dramatic entrances. Just you and Dick.
Finally.
His hands settled gently on your waist while he looked at you with that stupidly soft expression he only ever wore around you.
“You know.” he murmured, “I’ve been trying to do this for like a month.”
“Your success rate is terrible.” you smile softly as you wrap your arms around his neck.
“Don’t bully me before I kiss you.”
You grinned. “Make me stop.”
Dick laughed quietly under his breath before leaning in again. This time he actually made it.
About damn time!
The kiss was soft at first, almost shy despite all his confidence. Like he’d wanted this for so long he was scared to ruin it.
But the second you kissed him back properly, Dick melted. Actually melted.
One of his hands slid up to your cheek while the other pulled you closer against him like he physically couldn’t get enough.
And oh my god… He kissed exactly how you imagined he would. Warm. Sweet. A little breathless because he was smiling into it half the time.
When you pulled away, Dick rested his forehead against yours looking ridiculously happy.
“There.” he whispered softly. He is very proud of himself. “I won.”
You laughed softly. “Against who?”
“My entire family.”
“Fair.” Dick kissed you again immediately, quicker this time because now he finally could.
“No interruptions.” he mumbled against your lips.
“Don’t jinx it!”
He gasped dramatically. “Take that back right now.”
