If you’re reading this... welcome to my page!! I use RobinsDearest as just a way to post some of my old fics for the DC universe.
I haven’t written anything new in a long time, but I’m just posting all my old stuff to get it out there.
If you like it, please let me know!! I may consider coming back to write more (I have a lot of WIP’s hehe). If you don’t like it, please let me know!! I love criticism, but I can’t promise that anything will change about my writing (mostly since I’m not writing currently).
With enough traction, I might start rewriting, but to the world we shall see!
(idea brought to you by "Orpheus" by Vincent Lima)
What does a human do at the feet of a god?
As a child, he had spat at the withered man’s feet. Granted, Jason was eight when he first met Hades.
The throne room was small, no bigger than the apartment he shared with his mother. The throne seemed so large in comparison, almost as if it weren’t made to be there. There were cracked and crumbling columns on either side of it, and two more barely standing behind him. Jason felt a little claustrophobic- there was more breathing room in an alleyway.
So many questions had run through his head, but he knew where we was. He remembered counting a few sets of ribs just that morning; he didn’t remember the last time he had eaten something, or the last time he had seen his mother.
Jason was a smart kid. But just a kid: he didn’t understand why he had died but she hadn’t.
A swirling mist descended from the ceiling, materializing into the form of a body on the throne. The form seemed much larger than the average human.
“Kneel before the King of the Underworld.” A voice boomed from seemingly all directions, but Jason stood tall. He was a thief and a street rat. His mother was a drug addict and had not rightfully taught him manners. He would not be bullied.
The being stared at Jason, and Jason stared right back. More smoke drifted around the body, a man fully emerging from the shadows of it. He had appeared much older than Jason, nearly ninety years old. He had red eyes that gleamed like the rubies Jason had read about in books from the dumpsters.
The man, or the King as he called himself, would not budge. He was probably waiting for Jason’s compliance.
The King would have anything but compliance.
“Send me back.” Jason demanded.
“You starved, boy.” His voice croaked and creaked with age, and it grated against Jason’s sensitive ears. “A promised soul does not get sent back.”
Jason scoffed. “I could have lasted another day or two. I would have gotten something from the old lady across the hall.”
The old man tutted, standing to his full height. Jason had seen the Batmobile a few days ago in the alley, and this thing was definitely larger than that. As the man moved, the scent of decay and death rushed through Jason’s small nose. It smelled better than his mother’s apartment, he knew for sure.
“Do you know who I am?”
Jason crossed his arms. All those other adults in the slums of Gotham had tried to get Jason to answers questions like that, tried to make him look stupid. He never answered them, and he wasn’t about to answer this guy. It didn’t matter though, because the man seemed more amused than anything.
“My name is Hades: Ruler of the Dead, eldest son of Kronus, the Rich One, the King-“
“I don’t care.” Jason interrupted in utter defiance. “It doesn’t matter who you are.”
Hades chuckled to himself and murmured a few words too low for Jason’s ears to hear. Rather, he heard a hissing noise from behind him. He turned in circles to try and find the source, but the marble floor was only filled with smoke, dense and gray. The noise grew louder as Hades walked closer to him. Jason would always stand his ground. He would always fight if given the chance.
“Answer my riddle, boy.”
“Jason.” He corrected, indignant until the very end.
“Jason.” The old man parroted and then smiled. A grotesque thing: a gummy mouth with few yellow teeth. “Some will hide, others will cheat. I can be of pride, or I can be of defeat. What am I?”
The hissing noise seemed to creep along his spine, a slick bug crawling along his skin. Jason tried to swat at it while Hades loomed over him, watching with his ruby eyes. Jason refused to cower, refused to give in.
“You’re Death.” Jason announced with a deep-seated courage. He was Jason Todd, and he would not be afraid.
Hades smiled again, the yellow of his teeth becoming more prominent while hair fell from his scalp. “That I am.”
More smoke descended from the ceiling, wispy and thin, this time only surrounding Jason. An icy cold washed over his body, threading through the skin between his fingers, like someone holding his hand in a winter night. The hissing and the bug disappeared, and the smoke blurred his vision until he only saw Hades before him.
“I will see you again soon, Jason.” Hades’ voice boomed, a thunder clap and a lightning crash, and Jason was swallowed by the mist.
____________________________________
What would a human do at the feet of a god for the second time?
As a teenager, he folded into himself and waited to wake up. Jason was fifteen; his sixteenth birthday wouldn’t have been too far away from this second death. He knew he was still a kid- the Joker had told him plenty of times behind a crowbar.
He was still seated upright against a wall, arm slung over his eyes. He brought his knees to his chest, cradling his body while the shaking of his bones subsided.
The throne room was bigger somehow, shaped like a crumbling warehouse with onyx columns and ivy plants stretched thin across the walls. The old man sitting on the throne was smaller now, as if more of his muscle mass had deteriorated. He was now more bones than body. Jason recalled the many names the man gave himself, the riddle he answered as an eight-year-old. It didn’t matter where he was, who he was with. Bruce was going to get him from here.
Right?
“Do you remember me, boy?” The man asked.
“Jason.” He corrected in a small voice he failed to recognize as his own. His eight-year-old self had more courage than his present self. He had no more courage left to give.
“I have no riddles for you this time, Jason.”
Jason nodded his head. His bones ached, his entire body still thrumming with aftershock. His throat was sore from screaming, asking for forgiveness he might not have deserved. Tears stung at his eyes as he tried to blink them away. He hadn’t cried once during his time in that warehouse. Now, sitting on the cold marble floor of the Underworld, Jason was more embarrassed than anything with a sickening realization.
Bruce wasn’t coming at all. Bruce never made it to the warehouse in the twelve hours the Joker had held him. Some detective, that bat. He didn’t care about Jason, just as his mother hadn’t cared. He was a thief and a street rat; he didn’t deserve that kindness, that love.
Jason let out a long sigh. He knocked his head back against the wall to stare above him. There wasn’t a ceiling, but a silent, star-filled sky resting above his head. The columns disappeared into the inky night, fading away into the blackness such as death does.
By this time, he remembered the story of the Greek Gods from Diana, remembered where dead souls wander to.
He had broken each of the bones in his right arm, his collarbone, and his shoulder blade in a fall during a mission. The fourth time Jason was caught trying to sneak out of the mansion while Bruce was on patrol, Alfred had called in red, white, and lasso reinforcements. Diana had sat with him for the next few weeks describing the stories and history of Greek Mythology. She brought her sidekick, a small aspiring hero created in the same way Diana was created: formed of beach clay and brought to life by Zeus. Hippolyta had wanted a child, and so Diana also wished the same. You were small and frail, but you looked at Diana like she had hung the moon, and you looked at Jason like he had drawn the stars.
Diana told the two of you that the gods were in fact real. She emphasized the importance of the gods and their jobs, how they interacted with mortals, how they dealt with them. She told the stories of the Harpies and the Fates, the trials of the demigods, and even the bards of the Argonauts, led by his namesake and the descendent of Hermes, Jason.
You had hated the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. A death no one prepared for and how Orpheus failed his test; the gods playing with the lives of mortals they didn’t care about.
“It’s not fair that for all their love they still failed at the end. I thought stories were meant to have happy endings?”
Jason had huffed out a breath. “Not everyone gets a happy ending.” You chucked a water bottle at his head in response.
Diana had a soft look on her face as she patted your head. “To love is to look, young ones. Orpheus loved Eurydice so much he lost her. It is not a happy ending, but a warning to those who would follow in the footsteps that Orpheus made. He was never going to win.”
Diana refused to tell him if the tales of heroes and demigods were true.
Jason blinked, the star-studded ceiling coming back into focus. He rubbed the tears away from his face with the back of his hand. The room smelt of jasmine and siena-colored earth, much more comforting than last time.
He forced himself to stand. He’d just get this over with, go shake Hades’ hand and accept his death or whatever the god wanted. He was tired. Too tired.
Hades still sat on his throne, a solid black seat that reached into the mist above. Two hellhounds sat on either side of the god, both watching Jason’s every movement. Hades held out a hand, beckoning Jason to come forward. Black mist poured out from behind the throne, the smell of it overwhelming with rotting fruit.
Jason took a single step before halting. A green mist, viscous and murky, sprouted from beneath his feet, the smell of briny water pouring with it. He spun in a circle, his mind racing. Was this one of Hades’ tricks? He didn’t want to play any of the god’s games. His head whipped towards Hades, whose face mirrored his own confusion. Jason tried to take another step but couldn’t. He could feel something along his back: not a bug but a tether, some type of chain attached to the middle of his spine that stopped him from moving forward.
The green mist quickly clouded his vision, climbing up his body and painting everything in an emerald hue. Jason watched as Hades stood from his throne and thrust a hand forward. The black mist and the hellhounds raced forward in a feeble attempt to grab Jason. He was too far away from the throne for it to matter. A warm breeze swept against the scruff of his neck, the feeling of someone calling his name, calling him back.
Something had grabbed on to the chain and yanked. His body folded in on itself, the tether to his spine wrenching him backward. Jason went flying through the air, pulled sideways and up and down, and Hades could do nothing but watch as his prize was taken from him.
Bruce hadn’t come to save him then. But something else had snatched Jason from the hands of Death, and Death would neither forgive nor forget.
____________________________________
What would a human do at the feet of a god for the third time?
As an adult, he would beg, if need be. He was now twenty-six. Matured, stronger, wiser than the previous times standing before the lone throne of the empty room.
The room was larger than he remembered, deeper and more menacing. The onyx columns surrounding him were twice as thick as he was now. The ceiling was still a starry night sky, the throne still thrusted itself upward, not breaking the inky picture. And instead of an old man sitting on the throne, Death appeared to him as a ghastly skeleton clothed in tattered robes.
“You come before me now, Jason? After years apart, you wish to stand here of your own free will?” Hades clicked his tongue, or whatever the skeleton kept in his mouth. “That’s not like you at all.”
Jason had escaped Hades twice before. He would do whatever Hades asked of him this time.
Jason shook his head. “I’m not here for my soul.”
“Whose soul would you like to bargain for then?”
Jason didn’t hesitate before saying your name. The second it left his lips, the King of the Underworld smiled. A genuine smile, as if your name was funny to him. As if this moment was going to be amusing. Nothing about losing you from the Land of the Living was amusing. Nothing. This third time, it wasn’t his soul that needed saving. It was yours.
Yours: child to Diana, fellow hero, fellow friend. And you were so much more than that. Brilliant, beautiful, steadfast, passionate, selfless, and helpful. Sunlight personified. A friend to all and stranger to none. Taken, stolen from this life as if you weren’t the most important in Jason’s.
He didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to you, he didn’t get the chance to tell you how much you truly meant to him.
You had been friends since you were pulled into his room with Diana. Diana and Bruce’s friendship meant the two of you would always be seen together, but it was more than that.
You were the calm to Jason’s storm, you mellowed him out in ways he never dreamed anyone could. The two of you worked seamlessly together on missions, where he failed you succeeded, the perfect dynamic duo.
Dick had joked several times how in a room full of people, you would only smile at Jason.
Jason would tell you that he was sorry more than was needed, he would fix this. You were coming home, sweet home, and he swore home had never been so sweet before you.
He had begged Diana for a traditional obol, an Ancient Greek silver coin used as payment to cross into the Underworld. You were already buried with one, but Jason needed his own. He needed to bribe the ferryman, yet Diana had told Jason it wasn’t worth it.
“You do not play games with Fate, and you most certainly do not play games with a god.” She had said.
She refused to hand it to him. He wanted to yell, to scream at Diana for not wanting to do anything to get her child back. Maybe she knew better than to fight this way; maybe she knew better than to play games with your soul.
It was a good thing he used to be a thief and a street rat. You’d probably never forgive him for this, but he had to try. He stole the obol the day of your funeral. He wouldn’t attend something he could make right. He would bring you back.
“A mission gone wrong,” every other hero seemed to call it. Everyone except for Jason.
He felt the weight on his shoulders, forced to carry the burden of your death, a mirror image of Atlas holding the world and the heavens. A story made real. Bruce and Diana told him it wasn’t his fault, but Jason couldn’t shake the guilt.
If only he had been stronger, faster, more proactive rather than reactive. If he weren’t a loose cannon and had been more reliant on waiting, more patient. If you hadn’t taken that shot that would have been placed directly over his heart. If only you weren’t something some unfortunate circumstance stole.
You had told Jason for years how important he was, how his life, his soul, had purpose and meaning. You showed Jason all the kindness and love he didn’t think he deserved. The look of hope in your eyes as you tried to convince him. He had just started to believe you.
In those final moments, you acted as if his life were more important than yours. You wasted your last breaths telling Jason that you were in love with him, always had been. It wasn’t fair you didn’t last long enough to hear him tell you the same.
And Jason would soon rectify that mistake.
“What do you wish to bargain?” Hades’ smile seemed to grow more menacing, as if he was expecting Jason to offer his own soul as a trade.
You had hated the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. The dedication of his love, the hubris of believing he had won, the failure of his one goal. The loss of trust that Eurydice was behind him. The panic that ensued- what if it were a lie? Is it true ‘to love is to look’?
Would he make the same mistake for you? He’d like to believe not. There was no doubt that Orpheus loved Eurydice; he loved her so much he lost her. But Jason hadn’t been given the time to show you that same love. He lost you before he could love you.
Grief was a terrible, funny thing.
“I request Orpheus’ trial.”
The smile instantly vanished from the god’s face. The withering sack of bones pointed a finger at Jason, no muscles or tendons, just a sapphire ring that sucked in the surrounding light.
“Fool.” The slithering voice was both booming and soft, old and young, singular and many voices at once. A god who had lived for thousands of millennia. Was Death itself. Jason might have forgotten that fact until now. “It is not a trial but a blessing. Do you believe that you, a mortal, could bear the weight of a god’s blessing that so few demigod’s have managed to achieve- winning against me?”
“Well, maybe being a demigod was their downfall to begin with.”
The hissing air might have been a laugh, it could have been a chastisement.
The two stared at one another for what felt like eons. A flash of the memory of eight-year-old Jason also staring down the god. Jason’s resolve was concrete, he would not back down, he would not be afraid. You were taken from him too soon, too early. He would fight for you. He would do anything for you.
The resolve must have shown in his face. Hades rapped his fingers against the arm of the throne, contemplating, thinking. Jason wouldn’t put it past the god to be scheming.
“I shall grant you the trial of Orpheus. Make it to the Land of the Living without looking, and I shall restore to you what was taken. You have my word that no harm will come to your loved one while you walk the path. This oath I swear.” Hades smiled at Jason again, this one not as genuine. Ruby eyes sunken into a gray and brown skull, rotting teeth coated in grime and misery. Gold flecks could be seen between the gaps, as if the creature couldn’t help but dine in the assumption of his wealth.
No questions, no more bargaining, and no other promises. And so Jason turned and began walking.
It was easy, at first. He knew that you were there. He knew there was no other option.
He trusted that you were there, but he still pleaded with any deity that would listen just in case.
What had Diana told him years ago? Orpheus was never meant to win? He wouldn’t allow history to repeat itself. Diana was wrong. To love you was to save you, to fight his urge to look. He would not look.
But, he had to make sure; Jason shouted your name. His voice bounced off the walls- the only answer was the echo of his voice. He hoped that you could hear him. Jason shouted your name again. He hoped that you would just say something to ease his racing heart. Yet he was met with silence.
He trusted that you were there, but you never responded. He could trust that you were there.
Right?
What if it were a lie? What if your soul couldn’t be fought for? What if the trial was to look, to follow Orpheus’ footsteps? What if Hades had tricked him and you were- no. Jason remembered the story Diana had told him. Hades had sworn an oath that no harm would come to Eurydice. It was Orpheus’ fault for not staying the course. Jason would do it. He would stay the course and not look back for you.
If only you would respond to him.
Why weren’t you responding to him?
Could you not speak? Had Hades done something to you? Had the god hurt you- tortured you? Jason remembered his own torture all those years ago, and his blood ran cold.
The panic was rising faster, harder, more incessant now. Jason finally understood Orpheus. He finally understood the hopelessness of not knowing, of needing to ensure your presence. Just to be sure.
To love you was to look. He could ruin his resolve to be sure.
No.
It felt like days, weeks, as he walked forward. His resolve was concrete. He had spat at the feet of a god and had escaped Death before. He could do this for you.
Sunlight peaked out from the mouth opening. He heard rocks falling as if someone had tripped. He gritted his teeth.
Jason kept walking.
Jason stood on the green grass, the proof of the Land of the Living. The sun was beautiful- it was setting, your favorite time of day. He knew you would be thrilled to see it. But Jason would not turn. Both of you needed to be out of the Underworld for this to work. He took a few more steps, distancing himself from the cave, and he would wait for you to stand next to him. He had to take every precaution.
So Jason waited. Tears coated his cheeks as a soft wind twirled around him. He pictured the life he would give you, how he would love you every day for the rest of his life. His vows to protect you would never be broken. He needed this torment to be over, he needed to hold you, to kiss you, to give you the time to be loved by him.
A hand softly brushed across his neck. The light breeze brought your smell to his nose- perfect and alive and- Jason had never been happier. He would tell you every day how happy he was. He would buy you anything, say anything, do anything-
He finally- finally- turned around to see your face, tears blocking most of his vision.
But you were not there.
Jason’s head swiveled from the Land of the Living to the cave to the Underworld. There were only his footprints. He had waited. He did not look back once. He had done what was asked and now-
Howling laughter echoed from the cave to the Underworld. As if a hundred crows were cackling at him and his failure. A black mist crawled along the cave floor. It inched past the mouth and into the grass. Where the smoke touched, grass died and a trail of brown made its way towards Jason. As the mist gathered in mass across the walls of the cave and onto the ceiling, two glowing red eyes could be seen. Jason could just barely make out the silhouette outline of the death god.
“Liar!” Jason bellowed. He reached for a gun holster that was not there. “You swore an oath!” He would tear Hades to pieces- no matter if he were a god, this creature would be mauled by his bare hands.
“You thought you were clever all those years ago. Escaping the death that was rightfully mine to take. Now, I will keep the soul you thought was rightfully yours. Forever now promised to me.” Hades taunted.
Jason raced forward to the cave. The mist receded with each of his thundering steps. Hades was mocking him. Hades had tricked Jason just as he thought the bird had done so many years ago.
“A walk from the depths of a world down below, in which you failed. You escaped me years ago, boy. Even if you had looked, you would have failed.” A yellow smile broke through the smoke, the red eyes glinting in the setting sun. “Give Diana and Bruce my blessings.” Then Hades disappeared. Jason pushed himself harder, ran faster.
Your silhouette could be seen through the mist, your hand reaching out to Jason’s as he dove for you. He would grab you and take you far away and-
Jason slammed into a wall of rock as the cave was sealed before him. He pounded his fists, screaming until his voice gave out.
Jason bloodied his hands as he continued to hammer on the rock, praying to his strength that he would break through. It wasn’t fair- Jason knew the gods did not play fair, but they had rules. A god would not break their oaths by committing perjury. Hades believed he had righted a wrong done on to him all those years ago when Jason was brought back to life from the Lazarus Pit. Your soul for his was not a fair trade.
You were kind, and good, and everything Jason wasn’t. You had loved him for years, mourned him during his death, and welcomed him after his rebirth. You brought the sun and the moon and the stars to him, how your love for him was sacred and needed to be explored. You accepted all of him and made him a better human. The mere human that he was.
Jason slid to his knees before the rock, blood pooling as his aching fists rested on the grass. His lungs were on fire, his breaths coming in short spurts. The air smelt of burnt sugar, like nitroglycerin waiting to explode. His head emptied out all thoughts besides you. His blood was mixed with electricity, the adrenaline- the anger- still pumping through his system.
He was a human, not a demigod.
Jason no longer cared what a human would do at the feet of a god.
Jason had escaped Death twice before. He had completed Orpheus’ trial, had walked the entire route from the Land of the Dead to the Living without looking back. To love was not to look, but to fight. He fought for you, he would always fight for you. He was just a human, but he would do anything to get you back. His resolve was concrete. But now? His resolve was steel.
That anger pumped harder. Jason was wrath, he was fury.
Five times the birds catch you, and the one time Bruce finally does.
Damian catches you first.
It’s late in the night, or early in the morning, depending on how you view the clock. Six one way, half a dozen the other. No matter because your youngest is already demanding an answer for your whereabouts. He can tell something is wrong from the way you jump from your skin when he surprises you. He found you walking up the stairs from the BatCave, and your question regarding his bedtime was dismissed quickly.
You have a certain smell to you that he immediately places. His interrogation is thorough, you do admit to yourself, because he simply cares about you and your safety. He also loves his father and you can see the conflict in his eyes as the gears in his head turn and turn.
You try your very best to explain the circumstance, but you are failing miserably and cannot fully mitigate this instance. You think your secret will be revealed to Bruce before Damian gives you a slight nod after careful consideration.
Damian promises to keep your secret in return for a new pet. Your immediate question is to know which one he wants. You're not above buying compliance.
Jason catches you second.
His confrontation is less aggressive than Damian’s turned out to be. You’re not even home when the Red Hood finds you. You’re coming out of an unremarkable garage when he drops from the roof right in front of you. Your yelp of surprise sends a flock of birds scattering to the wind. Jason only crosses his arm to stare at you in silence while you fidget under his glare.
You are blessedly given another chance to explain the circumstance, and Jason is much more receptive and understanding. His gaze flicks between you and the open door to the garage. When he finally spots what sits there, his arms go slack. He takes off the hood and simply listens to the rest of your story. Once you’re done and you think he’s going to call Bruce, Jason throws an arm around your shoulder and steers you back to the garage. He has a few items to negotiate for his silence.
Tim catches you third.
In truth, you had thought he would be the first to catch you. His hacking and investigative skills rivaled that of Bruce’s on a bad day and far exceeded Question’s on a good day.
You thought you had erased any trail of your small venture out of town, but it seems even attempting to cover your tracks was foolish, as this was child’s play for Red Robin.
Tim sits in front of the computer and brings up a map of the area you have just returned from. Your face is hot with strong embarrassment as you grip your bag. He slowly turns the chair to face you, an inquisitive eyebrow raised waiting for your defense. You try to plead your case with hard evidence and logical reasoning: it really was a small venture, and you were only gone for less than ten hours, which is amazing in this day of age, and-
In an incredibly surprising twist of fate, Tim only acknowledges your story by removing the map from the screen and deleting the record logs. He sips his coffee and tosses his head towards the exit, dismissing you entirely. Your knuckles are white and tight wrapped around your bag as you head upstairs.
Cassandra catches you fourth.
She’s so quiet, you didn’t even realize she was with you until she tapped your shoulder. Your scream is shrill and you thought the glass from the small window would burst. After your body doesn’t fail you with an imminent heart attack, you look back to Cass as her small smile grows into something more sinister.
You don’t even have a good explanation for tonight’s journey. Your plans are in ten minutes, and if you don't show up on time, your company is going to be so upset. You try and explain as quickly as possible. As she sits there and listens to you, you finally realize that maybe your kids are in on it all together and are waiting for the perfect moment to expose you. Too many people are going to know, and you know Bruce would kill you- even worse, potentially divorce you- if he found out.
She signs something that allows your shoulders to finally relax.
Dick catches you fifth.
He’s more disappointed than angry, in reality. Damian had confessed to him in a bit of panic when you hadn’t returned to the Manor after a few hours of being gone. Dick had cornered you in your study as you were finishing a few additional work papers the next day. He demanded to know why you were doing it, if Bruce’s happiness wasn’t enough for you, or if you wanted to send the man to an early grave. You could tell Dick is hurt, and you feel more guilty than you ever had before. You hadn’t taken into account the feelings of your own kids until this conversation.
You know your begging doesn’t work on your oldest; he learned his puppy dog eyes from you, and they’re not very effective when used on each other. Instead, you offer him another solution as an explanation enough. He begrudgingly agrees and follows you out of the manor. A few hours later, Dick is breathless, yet still promises to keep his mouth shut for the time being.
When Bruce finally catches you, he’s shocked, to say the least. Devastated at best.
“You’ve got to be joking.” He’s standing in the middle of the Batcave, sans any and all gear or kevlar. Damn, you had really banked on the Batman being in Metropolis tonight.
“I can explain, I promise!” You have the thought to tell him how good he looks in gray sweatpants, but his face is contorted in anger.
“How long has this been going on? How many times?” He’s circling you in that predator way that you’ve seen Batman circle villains on the street.
You can do nothing but toy with the hem of your shirt that still smells like gasoline and the outside winter air. You sit in the chair next to the Batcycle, the heat of the motor singing a few hairs on your arm.
You had finally been caught, by Bruce, nonetheless. He is for sure going to divorce you; death would be too kind. You explain what has been going on, and like too good of a man, he listens until you are finished speaking.
Bruce calls each of your kids to the cave. When they finally arrive, Bruce demands the truth. To their credit, not one of them lies, and they confirm your story.
“Hold on.” He stops them from speaking as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re standing there, telling me, that my wife- my wife with almost no training- has been going out at night in the military-grade vehicles specifically made for fighting crime, for months, and not a single one of you was going to tell me?”
You didn't think you had the heart to tell him it was closer to a year.
Damian spoke though. “Father, I found her after taking the Batcopter a few months ago.” You couldn’t sleep that night while Bruce was patrolling, so you took the helicopter to Wayne Enterprises to get a few things of work done. It wasn’t the first time you had stolen one of the many vehicles Batman hoards, but it was the first time you had gotten caught.
Bruce’s eyes are digging into you, and you do feel a little guilty now for not telling him any of this.
Jason yells from across the cave. “She had the Batmobile across town.” You had taken the tumbler out to go meet Lucius for a few improvements to the vehicle’s controls; the brake was sticking and you knew it would cause problems for Bruce eventually. You could see Jason’s shit-eating grin from your seat. Bruce held his head with both hands now. “We switched out the tires, too old man.”
Tim didn’t even look up from the computer. “Batplane. She flew to Jamaica and back a couple weeks ago.”
Bruce whips his head to you.
“Alfred said he needed jerk spice, and you know he only likes the traditional kind from the stores in Kingston!” You cry.
Cassandra is only sitting on the boat, which is confirmation enough for Bruce as he turns her way. She had been sitting in the boat cabin while you crossed the Delaware Bay to visit Metropolis for a happy hour with Lois and Diana. You let Cassandra drive the boat back while you talked about your night with the other women.
Dick calls out finally. “B, I was going to tell you after I caught her with the motorcycle.” Bruce throws his arms up as he knows that a contrasting statement is coming. You crack a small smile when it does. “But she challenged me to a race, and I couldn’t say no. She beat me across town, and the punishment for not winning was keeping quiet. That was a few days ago.”
Bruce lets out a mirthless laugh before turning back to you. You give your husband of nearly two decades a sheepish grin. He comes over and drops to squat before you. He takes your left hand where your wedding band proudly sits on your ring finger. He toys with it for a second before turning your hand over and kissing your palm. He sighs dejectedly and lifts his head to kiss you properly.
“You should have told me. I would have made time to make sure things were safe.”
“I didn’t want to worry you. Also, I can take care of myself with my minimum training." You kiss his nose so that he stops scrunching it. "Besides, be proud that our children worked together to help me keep this secret to maintain your sanity. We love you, just remember that."
“So you told everyone but me and Alfred?”
You wince, and the movement makes Bruce slap his forehead. He mutters something small beneath his breath that sounds an awful lot like a prayer.
“Alfred might have been the one who gave me the keys for everything.”
Jason Todd had always been a fighter.
Through and through, birth to death to rebirth- he never stopped fighting. It was in his blood, his very being, down to the bones that kept him upright.
Or the bones that kept him squatting here.
Jason dropped his knee to the ice to catch the hockey puck from flying into the goal. The arena erupted into cheers and applause before quickly quieting down. The other players stopped the play and skated back to their positions. Jason stood, threw the puck to the referee, and finally let a breath loose.
His annoyance climbed slowly. It started during the pre-game debrief, yet his bones seemed to weigh heavier with it as the periods carried on. He was restless for action, which made no sense considering ice hockey was considered to be one of the most physically demanding and extensive sports. He guessed he just did not like being the goalie.
It was your idea to get into ice hockey. You read one or two books about hockey romances and basically begged Jason to give it a try. He relented after reading a few chapters of the books himself.
You made it easy for him and found a good place to start. This small recreational league created a competitive atmosphere for men of all ages to play: mostly former convicts and drug addicts, or just people from Gotham who needed an outlet or needed to spend community team doing something productive.
Hitting other men against a plexiglass screen, skating on blades of steel on an ice rink was surely productive one way or the other.
The team Jason joined was no different. At their first meeting, he explained he was simply working through anger issues, a sentiment easily shared amongst his new teammates.
The big, bad, bat even agreed with the decision with a fervor Jason could have only described as giddy. An outlet for violence, a redirection of anger, maybe someone could knock some sense into him, good exercise, and a few other points that Bruce had listed while writing a check to cover the whole teams’ expenses under a Wayne Enterprise’s donation.
The coach had cried for hours when he brought the check during the next practice. It was a sweet gesture.
Jason propped up his goalie mask and squirted some water into his mouth from the bottle on top of the net. The water was cold compared to the heat from the gear and his sweat, the ice barely cooling him down. He placed the bottle back on the net before surveying the ice rink once again. The audience cheered and screamed, many fans hitting the glass with their fists or palms. Most of his teammates skidded into position while one guy in particular stayed glued to someone from the opposing team. From Jason’s team, the man was tonight’s left defender, a primary enforcer. Jason’s frown deepened.
Due to the small nature of the league, players were encouraged to try all the positions: center, left and right wing, left and right defense, and goalie.
Goalie was apparently the easiest to learn for newbies, but Jason’s favorite turned out to be either of the defensive positions. Body checking in hockey gear was the same, if not more fun than doing it to a Joker henchman in his tactical Red Hood gear. He could get away with most of his hits, as the referees gave a bit of wiggle room to play and didn’t penalize too often. And Jason argued that all of his hits were legal.
You were always the first one to tell him otherwise.
He had a few cheap shots. He liked to use his weight and size against some of the smaller men; it was easy to throw a few punches or check an opposing player with his massive body. The coach had basically salivated at the mere sight of Jason walking through the arena doors at the small recreational league orientation.
You would be visibly angry, but Jason always liked to watch you squirm as you relayed the plays back to him. A glint in your eyes when talking about his strength. Some nights after a game got hot enough to melt away an entire rink of ice if Jason got you talking about it long enough. He’d have to find those romance authors and thank them for the additional ideas.
At the thought of you, he checked on your seat. You were standing up, soda can in one hand while the other beat against the glass. Tim was seated beside you, an indifferent look plastered on his smug little face. You always found a seat next to his team’s bench. The brainiac was your second favorite bird, so Jason tolerated him a little more often. He was a welcome companion for tonight’s game.
You went to every single game. Your relationship with Jason budded years ago; the Red Hood collapsing on your fire escape kick-started the friendship that turned into something much more. Friendly punches and awkward conversations that blossomed into soft touching and lingering hands. Jason was grateful for you in many ways.
You liked to watch him destress while playing. After the first few games, the two of you had discussed in depth how it truly was a good outlet of frustrations. All you asked from him during his hockey endeavors was that he try his best to keep all his teeth. You liked his smile, and the pearly whites were essential for his looks. Among other non-mentionables.
His previous fighting had landed him in this position tonight. A goalie wasn’t allowed to fight, and his team had been fined well enough to last a lifetime- no thanks to Jason and his cheap shots.
Thank goodness Bruce had a few lifetimes worth of money.
Earlier at the debrief, the coach shoved the goalie gear into Jason’s hands. That’s where his annoyance started to bubble.
“You get to play nice tonight. For once.” Coach had said.
Jason slammed his hockey stick against the ice impatiently. The left defender was still trash talking the opposing player. The defender was on parole for laundering money, a non-violent sort of guy.
Jason’s hockey career started a little over six months ago, and as it turned out, he was naturally built for this sport. His stature, his quick-thinking, and his training as Robin did wonders for a contact sport like this. Who would have thought that punching a few villains at night would equate to a premier international sport sensation.
Jason’s Red Hood duties had been pushed to a minimum during that time, too. He spent more hours practicing on the ice than he did hunting down lowlifes from Gotham’s underbelly. Nightwing took over his jurisdiction, focusing heavily on the docks. Jason was able to provide Dick with a few pieces of information he had heard from his fellow teammates when he learned something worth mentioning.
There’s a commotion and a few whistles burst through the air. Roars erupted again from the audience. Across the rink, the left defender threw down his gloves to shove the opposing team member’s face into the ice. There were shouts and a few other fights broke out as the referees tried their hardest to break up the seven or eight men now at each other’s throats. With each swing, more and more fans stood from their seats to enjoy the chaos. Jason would have been content watching the mayhem from his corner of the world at the goal.
Would have been. He would have been until his eyes caught an opposing jersey making its way to his team’s bench.
The guy was tall but lanky; a right wing from this Metropolis team that had no business going to Gotham’s bench. He looked to be older, but most of these guys were. Jason’s blood boiled at what the lanky kid did next.
He slid next to the bench to you. At the angle from across the box, he had direct access to speak to you. Even from the distance, Jason could tell that the guy was attempting to flirt with you. You were too kind a soul- you were only nodding your head with a fake smile that the creep thought was genuine.
Jason would have to teach Tim about scaring other men away from you in the future.
Jason slammed his hockey stick to the ground, banging it again and again demanding attention. The only one he grabbed was yours.
In any other scenario, that would have been sufficient. Not now. Not when a stranger is taking advantage of the fighting chaos to flirt with a fan.
A fan that was solely Jason’s. His person. His.
Something greater than jealousy rumbled in his veins, propelling the man into action. He had been itching for a fight. It sucked that he was placed as a goalie instead of the left defense like he wanted.
Your eyes tracked Jason the entire time he skated across the ice. One of the referees attempted to grab Jason before another fight could break out, but he easily pushed the ref aside. The roar in his ears drowned out the echoes from the crowd around you.
“Hey!” He screamed.
The guy ignored him. Creep had the audacity to reach for you to grab your attention.
Jason was always a fighter. A lover too, but a fighter through and through. And now his time had come.
Jason skidded to a halt next to the lowlife, kicking up shaved ice into his face. The man spun on his skates to glare directly at him. Finally, Jason got his attention. He felt on fire: fueled and heated on his steel blades despite the frost beneath them. The man scowled at Jason, rolled his eyes, and held a hand up as if to placate the goalie.
Jason didn’t give him time to explain. He threw a punch so quickly that even the Demon Brat would have been proud.
Tim shot from his seat with whoops and hollers. “Kick his ass, Jason!” Tim screamed.
You squawked in response. “No, no more ass kicking! Quit it! Goalies don’t fight, you idiot!”
“This one does!” Tim yelled again, hitting the glass and punching the air with his fists.
Jason’s punches were met with some thrown by the other player. He could have played dirty, but Jason kept it clean and didn’t throw his entire weight behind each one. Until, that is, the player finally got a good hit right square on Jason’s chin that knocked his head back. His vision blurred for what felt like seconds too long.
When his sight returned, so did a vengeance. Jason didn’t hold back his weight when he laid out the guy in two swift hooks. By this time, the entire arena was on their feet. The Gotham team was pulling Jason back by his jersey, now stained red with blood that belonged to multiple people. Jason’s screams matched and overlapped with players and fans. The Metropolis team pulled back their own player and retreated to their bench.
The referees were speaking animatedly with both coaches. A team wide fight in a recreational league was unprecedented, and Jason was sure Bruce would be called about this. Perhaps another check would be written.
Consequences be damned. That was fun.
Jason was thrown unceremoniously on to the bench along with a water bottle and a towel. As he attempted to wash some of the blood out of his mouth, he caught you staring with that mischievous glint in your eyes. Despite how you felt about him fighting, your features were still lit with a smile as you watched him. Jason loved the feeling. Probably loved the feeling of your eyes on him more than he loved fighting. He definitely loved fighting for you.
Jason mirrored your smile as he wiped the sweat, ice, and blood off his face. Your smile had dropped, a scowl slowly forming as the adoration transformed into something a little less happy. He frowned and went to lick his teeth in annoyance. His own smile dropped as his tongue ran along his teeth.
Dammit.
One of his front teeth was missing.
(Idea brought to you by “forsaken” by Paris Paloma)
Your feet dangle over the side of the roof. Looking up, you’re sad to see more clouds. You wish the stars would have come out tonight. But you know the stars were selfish. Stars were free- they were free to come and go as they please. To show themselves and to hide and to shine brighter or duller depending on how they felt. Selfish to live and to breathe and to die and to burn out.
Looking back down, your eyes roam between the colors and the gleam of the city below. The night time sky is illuminated by the city lights. The wonders. The stars of the modern world that ignite the clouds with false light. False pretenses. False hope.
The day had been uneventful, to say for certain. You followed your father’s plans, completed his tasks, obeyed his orders. The dutiful child of a crime lord, too small for major vigilante attention, but large enough that he would be a problem in the coming years. You fulfilled his ideas of a servant to the black market of Gotham, funneling the drugs to and fro. Cocaine, fear toxin, prescription drugs, venom- it didn’t matter what was in those boxes, you never knew. Your father played his hand close to his chest to avoid the direct spotlight on you.
You’re not sure that you wanted it, though. The warmth it would bring you would be like the city skyglow, fake and artificial. The dark nights and city lights to encase you within the shadows and blanket in comfort of a past you have always lived.
You know that you have always wanted to be warm, though. To feel the selfish burn, the intimacy. To be Icarus flying on the clouds and to feel the sun warm your wings and to feel free.
“It’s a little chilly outside to not have a jacket.”
The voice comes from the stairwell to the corner of the roof. Not his usual entrance, but welcome nonetheless. The natural born star. The knight in shining armor. The hero of Bludhaven.
You had tracked down the famous Nightwing so that he could take down your father’s crime ring almost two years ago to this day. You had been giving the vigilante information about trackings and shipments. You had even hand-delivered a package to a spot that you knew would get caught by the blue bird. A setup of your own design, skillfully wrought.
Your father had been furious that night. Accused his own men of being traitors. He had sent you across town so that he could take care of them on his own. At home, he tucked you into bed and kissed you goodnight. He sat on the corner of your bed and told you that he was disappointed in the night’s events. Disappointed in you. He had told you that you deserved to go down with the shipment. To fail so that you might learn from your mistakes. That your failures would stain everyone around you- most importantly the only family you had left.
Maybe you deserved to fail. Maybe you deserved the sun melting your wings to plummet into the cold, dark sea. Deserved the stain that melted wax would leave on your skin. Maybe you deserved no lights or warmth at all.
The sound of Dick’s feet shuffling toward you bring you back into the moment. He stands to your left, looking out at the city skyline with you. The heights and shapes of buildings jutting from the horizon that help to obscure the selfish stars. The moon that no longer watched you.
He turns to you, bright blue eyes and easy smiles; the city lights glowing along his skin. This man that you so easily fell for. Months of planning to take down your father turned into months of talks and sleepovers. Secrets and prayers whispered between the two of you. The hard-learned failure was falling in love with your natural enemy: spawn of crime lord and spawn of caped crusader. A heart beating for Nightwing was a heart beating for Dick Grayson, one and the same but entirely different. His charming looks and honeyed words that convinced you you were special. And you felt like you were when you were with him.
But that thought coats your throat with ash.
Your silence tears the smile from his glorious face. You can make out the wetness of his raven hair, the small water droplets stuck to the curls around the nape of his neck. He must have just come here from a shower. He always knew where to find you, when you wanted him to find you.
“What did he say to you this time?” He says, as if he also knows what makes your bones grow tired.
“It’s not about my father.” You reply.
It’s his turn to stay silent for a few seconds. Your eyes roam his own, hoping that he would find the words you would have too much trouble to get out. He’s beautiful from this angle. Painstakingly pretty in a way that hurts your heart with how much light and warmth this hero had brought to your cold life.
“I’ve told you before that we can get you out of this entirely. I can take you from him and protect you and keep you safe. We can erase your past. Erase anything you might call a failure from his eyes.”
Somewhere between the months of meeting him and falling in love, you and Dick had switched puzzles. No longer were you trying to take down your father- Dick’s first priority was to get you to safety. It was a recent labyrinth to navigate, one that you weren’t sure how it would work. You were more afraid of the plans failing and Dick getting hurt because of a dark past you didn’t know how to grow beyond.
Your father’s words continue to clatter and smash through every neuron in your brain. His words that have shortened “your failures” to “you.” How you have failed him, your family, hell, even Dick. How you will stain those around you. How you were not special beyond what you were to the crime ring. He had warned you that anyone too close could ruin you. And it would be too hard to let Dick get closer and allow you to ruin him.
You stand to face him, your bones and joints stiff from sitting. You had waited a while for him to show, dreading this conversation you knew you needed to have. You would not ruin him.
“We have to end this thing between us, Dick.”
“Bullshit.”
Dick is blissfully brilliant, smarter than you could ever hope to be. He can see through your facade, your self-deprecating issues stemmed from the morals of a heaven-set saint raised in a criminal background. So badly you wanted to be taken away from dark plans, insidious tasks, and evil orders.
“You’re not making this any easier!” You look back to the skies, pleading for something to save you. The selfish stars never listen. You can see Dick out of the corner of your eye. He watches you carefully, painfully. Why can’t he get it? “We can’t keep doing this. This is getting too complicated, too messy. What if you get hurt and I can’t save you and-“
“Then tell me what I need to do to make this easier for you!” Dick interrupts. “Let me help you. Do you want me to stay and help-“ He pauses, thinking over his next words, afraid of what your answer could be. “Do you want to stay with your father?”
“That’s definitely not what I want.” You say quickly, too quickly.
“Then what do you want?” He raises his voice. Dick’s screams wrack your body. It’s unsettling for a fight of this caliber for his raised voice to sound so broken.
“I want to see the stars.” Your eyes burn with your half-assed answer, tears threatening to spill. You know being this petty can only hurt you more. You raise your own voice. “I want to know why they get to shine. Why they get to choose and why I am stuck here!”
“No,” he bites. He pulls on his hair, almost manic. “You want to be a star.” He motions to the skyline. “Don’t you want to shine the brightest? Be more than what your father has made you feel? Be free to do what you want?”
He knows you so well, knows the inner workings of your brain and your thoughts. Knows how you idolized the stars and the freedom they had.
The moon and the stars must have conspired tonight to hide away, to hide in the clouds to watch selfless people do selfless things when all they want to be is to be selfish. You know you could save Dick from the way you would burn his wax and feathers to his skin. You couldn’t watch him fall. You wouldn’t.
He throws his arms back to his side. Dick stands still for a moment, flexing his hands and fingers as he counts his breaths. Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, a solemn expression of devotion.
“You deserve to live. This is not living. You deserve to be happy, deserve someone who makes you happy and who can keep you safe.”
You wince, the tears now not waiting for permission. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve.”
You finally look at him, meet his stare: his eyes a mixture of contradictory feelings.
Pain.
Desire.
Despair.
Love.
“Do I not deserve you?” Dick’s question sends a shiver down your spine you attempt to suppress. Of course he notices, he always does, and he continues to press. He takes a few tentative steps toward you. “If you think the stars can choose, then why can’t we? I’m wanting to give you all that you need to shine on your own so that you can shine with me.”
You scoff. “I never asked you to do any of those things. You picked me up and decided that I was what you wanted.”
“I want to give you the stars.” Dick stands too close, inches from your beating heart that you know he can hear; he can feel; he can mirror. He extends a hand, dragging a knuckle across your cheek to wipe away the tears. “But you refuse to let me.” You lean into his hand, closing your eyes. His voice lowers to a whisper. “You’ve always shone the brightest in my eyes. You’ve always been special to me. We can start your life over. You don’t have to be shadowed by the past.”
Dick knew better than anyone, anyone, that your past did not define you- no matter who you were. His own past was tragic and devastating, and in many ways, worse than yours has been. After free-falling through pitch black, Dick’s selfish feet have touched the ground. He has paved his own path for his own life. A star in his own ways. He could do the same for you.
A small whimper escapes your throat. You’re trying to show some resolve here, what little you might have left.
“So why won’t you let me deserve you?”
Your resolve stands tall. “Because you don’t deserve me, Dick.” You step out his reach, wrapping your arms around your body instead. “You’re too kind for this world.” Too kind for me, you want to scream. “I can only be a burden to those around me. I don’t want to stain you.”
You can see Dick’s tears falling now. His arm is outstretched toward you, and you want nothing more than to step into him again. There is an intrinsic part of you that wants to jump, wants to take flight on homemade wings so that the moon and the stars and the clouds and the very heavens could cry out in joy at your freedom. However, your father’s words have a leash on your mind; you know this will only end badly.
And maybe Icarus had done something to upset the stars so that the sun would take revenge. The sun would burn wax and feathers and skin for the selfish beings that were free to do as they please. And you, just like Icarus, would fall from the grace of the light and into the depths. The depths of a city with false light, the depths of a lifestyle with false pretenses, and the depths of a broken heart with false hope. Maybe you had done something to upset the stars, too.
“I will not stop fighting for you.” Dick breaths.
But maybe here the sun was not taking revenge. The sun had gifted you Dick Grayson, this boy wonder, this golden child, this kind man. A kindness that radiated from his every movement, his every being, that it could remind a crime lord’s child that help is there even when you believe you don’t deserve it.
The trails along his cheeks from his tears glisten under the city haze. Maybe you deserved the light and the warmth and the choice and the freedom.
“I don’t want you to stop.” You whisper.
He smiles then, a small one just from the corners of his mouth so that only a small dimple shows on his cheek. It takes every ounce of your being to not close the distance between you and put your lips there, to kiss away the dent, the salty tears, the pain of tonight. Instead, you choose to match his smile.
His shoes turn and shuffle along the roof. The stairwell in the corner opens and closes and you are once again left alone. You sit back down to dangle your feet over the side of the roof.
In your life, your father ruled everything but the heavens, everything but the stars. A crime lord’s child who wanted to fly and to soar.
Dick had shown you that the stars were yours to grab. That you were free to be selfish and to live and to breathe and to die and to burn out on your own time.
If you could fly between the extremes, find what you wanted, you could mirror the stars and shine on your own. And after finding that love and kindness for yourself, you could shine with Dick. This wondrous soul, this shining star, this man who held your heart.
It’s much later when you stand from the edge and walk toward the stairwell in the corner of the roof. You reach the door and stop. Looking up, your eyes widen as the clouds break apart to reveal a midnight sky. With the artificial light from the city below, only a set of two stars can be seen tonight.
You smile and hope the stars can forgive you for whatever you did to upset them.
You had just single handedly pulled each of the tables and chairs inside the building when he arrived the first time.
He was nicely dressed in a button down shirt and ironed pants, expensive shoes. He brushed past you as you were grabbing your small street chalkboard with an intense urgency, as if your store was closing in just a few seconds.
Which it was.
You followed the man inside, brushed your hands off on your apron, and feigned a nice smile to appease him. He skipped the pleasantries and asked for a large triple mocha hot chocolate. You were positive that item was not at all healthy this late at night, but you shrugged, asked for his payment, and turned to make his monstrosity of a drink. You didn’t even question his tastes, you simply wanted him out of your shop so you could go home. You added the rest of the can of whipped cream to the top and dumped an ungodly amount of chocolate sauce before adding the lid. When you turn to hand the man his triple mocha hot chocolate, he’s staring directly at you. Not at the menu board above your tired head, not the counter of bean grinders, a chrome espresso machine, and a drip coffee tower- you. Exhausted, worn down, burnt out, coffee shop owner.
Your breath caught in your lungs as his fingers grazed yours in exchange of the warm cup, a small spark of electricity you felt could potentially brighten your day.
But he doesn’t even say thank you before rushing out, the bell above the door giving the only gratitude you’ll receive. He didn’t even tip.
You hoped you’d never see him again.
But you did.
You had just turned the open sign off and were about to lock the door when he arrived the second time a few days later.
You saw him coming and briefly debated how nice you were going to play. He was running towards you waving his hands, frantic. Earlier that day had been nicer, you had gotten more tips than usual, so you decided to repay karma for her good fortune. You held the door open for him as he fell through the doorframe, hurried and disheveled. You didn’t get a good look at his face last time he was here, but the way he looked at you felt the same, something unlike any other customer you had ever met. You thought maybe he needed something more than a hot chocolate.
Which he did.
He still skipped the pleasantries, but he ordered a shaken espresso, a latte with too many different flavors, and the same atrocious hot chocolate. As you’re punching the items into your register, he briefly explained he needed the hot chocolate to be made the exact same way you did last time. Emphatically. You shrugged, asked for his payment, and turned to make the drinks. While you waited for the espresso machine to whir back to life, you finally got a good look at this man.
He was tall, his raven colored hair freshly cut and framed his face beautifully, just long enough to curl on the ends. A devilish jaw and cheekbone structure to match. You could tell muscles corded beneath his dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms looked well-fit, tight. Bright sapphire eyes reminding you of robin eggs that tracked your every movement. He was familiar in a way that all customers were familiar, many pretty faces, many people in and out. Maybe you had seen him elsewhere in Gotham as well. You gave him a customer serviced smile, one he finally reciprocated. It was strikingly white and dazzling and hatched a few butterflies in your stomach. Heat pinched at your cheeks, and you realized suddenly the milk was completely frothed and the steam was overwhelming.
As you handed the man his drinks for the night, he verbally thanked you and left a crisp hundred dollar bill in the tip jar.
You hoped you’d see him again.
And you did.
The man showed up every couple of days, orders drifting between only one drink and four or five different drinks at any given time, but the triple mocha hot chocolate was forever constant. It became almost normal, you thought. You’d even stay open a few minutes longer each night just in case. Just in case the unconventionally attractive man made his way to your door to show his lovely smile and alluring charm. Mystery man never said more than a few words, and you never pushed, but a small affection forged, a nice level of respect. He had learned to say hello and goodbye, but never much more. Friendship seemed too intimate a word for the interactions.
As you owned your tiny coffee shop in a high traffic area for tourists, you got a lot of customers, travelers and locals, kind and rude alike. Also as a small business owner, it was hard to keep a staff beyond just you. So naturally, you resorted to only keeping yourself employed- it made profits easier and the HR team was a delight to work with. On the other hand, when mornings got busy and the line for your coffee trailed out the door, it made you frustrated. Worried this was a war you couldn’t handle. Mystery man appearing every few nights, however, would remind you that the struggle was worth it. He gave you something to look forward to beyond the monotonous day-to-day barista career. The days he came to see you were some of your favorite nights. You hoped he would take that extra step or make the move that you were too afraid to commit to, too afraid to lose one good constant in your life.
You were sitting behind your counter for thirty minutes after your posted closing when he arrived another day.
Just his presence was electrifying, and you had to calm your racing heart before even looking directly at him, afraid you would melt into a puddle on the spot. Crisp dress shirt and pants, as if he had just put them on to come here, a sole mission to maybe impress you. Tonight he didn’t look rushed or distraught, yet he still he darted through your door with a nervous quickness that piqued your interest and cocked your head.
“Hey there,” he cooed. His voice was sultry, velvety and smooth like hot mocha.
“Hi,” you answered, easily and automatically matching his smile, as if you were sure his grin was the singular reason the sun awoke each morning.
You stared at each other like that for a few seconds, heat climbing your cheeks to rest easily on the bridge of your nose and the tips of your ears. He always had this effect on you: sending your heart into overdrive and leaving your brain in the dust. Like you were back in school and your first crush was finally speaking to you. You were lucky making drinks were all muscle memory at this point. After the few weeks that he had been coming to your shop, you would have hoped he would speak to you more, asked you something beyond his coffee order. You spoke to people all day, every day- you wished someone would want to talk to you more than a series of caffeinated drinks.
He cleared his throat, bringing your attention back to his face. You realized horrifyingly that your wandering mind had taken your gaze to his chest, strong and competent and muscled. Caught red-handed and starry eyed. You sputtered and coughed, the heat of embarrassment now torching your entire body.
“I’m so sorry about that, must have trailed off. What can I get for you tonight?”
His grin turned nothing short of devious, and he chuckled quietly. He ran a hand through his hair before resting it on the back of his neck. If you knew any better, you’d say he looked almost sheepish.
“Actually, I was wondering if I could ask for a barista style favor.”
Your heart dropped, the little food you had in your stomach becoming heavy with disappointment. You had a little more of higher expectations for this conversation, but that was what you get for being optimistic. You surprised yourself with how quickly you mocked up a small smile that you hoped did not look as fake as it felt. You nodded for him to continue.
“I want you to cater this work event we’re having next week, and it’s kind of an all day thing, so you’d have to close up shop here and come to the building.”
Your fake smile quickly crumbled as annoyance and irritation bubbled under your skin. Just another customer, nothing more. He was here for the coffee, but you reminded yourself you made damn good drinks. You shrugged indifferently, mentally building a formal wall around your head, heart, and voice.
“Sure thing. I’ll give you prices if you can just write down your name, company, and number of estimated people.”
You steeled your eyes to glare at him, yet he looked taken back, his lips curling down just briefly. He laughed, unsure and a bit forced. When you don’t return the laugh, his smile truly does turn into a frown. The moment turned awkward, neither one of you entirely happy where the conversation had gone.
“Oh, come on. I’m all over the news.” You looked around your store as if to gesture to the lack of televisions in your line of sight. He shuffled back and forth on his feet and ran his hand through his hair again. Genuine surprise lit his features.
“Wait, you really don’t know who I am?”
“No, I do. You’re the jerk that comes into the store minutes before and after closing.” The joking tone you intended was actually not the tone the was used. The man flinched, and you kicked yourself behind the counter. Play nice. “It’s been a very long day, could you just help me out?”
His hands shot up in a quick surrender in front of his chest. His eyes landed on anything but you. “No, no. I’m sorry. I don’t want- I mean, I just-“ He sighed loudly. “I did this backwards, I think. I’m going to start over.”
You don’t give him a reaction, you simply watched as he rolled his shoulders and looked back at you. A type of determination in his eyes that you think you’ve only seen in superheroes, the vigilantes that ran the streets in this town.
“My name is Dick Grayson, and I think your coffee is the absolute best in town.” An authentic smile graced his face again, and you’re back to your heart melting in your shoes. “I wanted to help your business a bit with an event. And then I was hoping you would go to dinner with me afterwards.”
You’re shocked your jaw doesn’t make a sound when it hits the floor. He waited patiently for an answer that you easily knew but couldn’t find the ability to voice. You closed your mouth so that you could beam at this man- Dick Grayson- you corrected. A name for the mystery man.
Your brain short circuited as quick connections were made.
“Wait, like the Richard Grayson? Like the Wayne Enterprises, a work event?”
Mystery m- Dick, you corrected again- laughed, a deep resounding sound that eased any and all tension you had in your shoulders. It was on reflex that you echoed the action. His eyes soften with your laugh, and you thought he might like the sound. He leaned forward on the counter, placing both forearms down to inch closer to you.
“See, you do know who I am. Is that a yes?”
You leaned forward as well to match his stance, your pinky dragging alongside his.
“Of course it’s a yes. It’s also a yes for the work event.” Dick wrapped his pinky around yours in a promise. “So long as I get to meet the child who drinks the triple mocha hot chocolate.” You giggled again. The extremely handsome man you’ve just agreed to go on a date with looked like you just slapped him.
“What do you mean ‘child?’ The hot chocolate is for me!”
Perry had given you six months. You were thankful to get anything at all with this stretch of a story. Six months would have been any journalist’s dream; no other projects, no other small reports in the midst of this investigation. It was just your luck that your mouth would run until it got you the karma you deserved.
Six months to find out Superman’s true identity.
It started at the floor meeting, Perry’s sorry excuse to see what his journalists were up to in the middle of the week to surprise his best journalists, or the ones struggling. The new intern was not bright enough to keep your joke of an idea to herself. She even gave you the credit. Perry’s eyebrows were falling off his head, but he laughed. An actual, belly laugh, resulting in fists slammed on the table with a deal. Perry graciously asked if any brave soul wanted to help your ill-fated one. Fortunately enough, the bulk of man from across the office meagerly raised this hand to offer assistance. What a good mood Perry was in that day.
You were remarkably and boundlessly screwed.
You think back to that fateful moment: the clock had been ticking inordinately long. You hang your head in defeat.
Your ever fateful sidekick taps his pen on the paper beneath your hands, grabbing your attention.
“We okay there, sport?” His small town accent had kick started your crush on him a few months before the deal. Your love bug has only gotten worse since then.
You offer a groan in response. “Kent. We’re five months into this project with not much to show for it.”
The man across from you pauses, most likely tilting his head back and forth contemplating your progress. “I disagree.”
You roll your head to the side, leaning against your shoulder. The conference room Clark had designated your dynamic duo headquarters was reeking of failure. You were sure walking in this morning you smelt something might have died. Maybe it was both of your career paths. Clark continues talking.
“We’ve got a good idea of his flight patterns. We know he’s from the city. We can tell he makes numerous stops in Gotham.” He pauses, as if he hadn’t even realized that fact. “Why does Superman travel to Batman’s jurisdiction so often?” He looks mighty bothered.
You attempt to suppress a laughing bark. “Why indeed. A story for another time perhaps.” Thinking a bit more suggestively, you grin. You did need a pick-me-up. And picking on Clark was easy. “Maybe Supes and Bats have a different type of night time activity.” Clark pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up a little. See? Easy- you can’t help but continue. “Ship name: Superbat.” He puffs air through his nose. You know he can see your grin. You like to see him flustered. “I dig it.”
“I’m pretty sure Superman and Batman are not together, like that. They’re friends from work.”
This only piques your interest. You can play a game even as Perry’s icy fingers of death await you.
“You can be friends from work and still be together. It happens all the time. Happens in this office, even.” You want it to happen right now.
“That’s not what I meant.” He looks up at you finally. “I think we would have gotten stronger evidence of their relationship with five months of investigating.”
“Oh, but come on, Kent. Superhero identities with superhero feelings? Superhero relationships? Those are big buck titles.”
His hands are covering his face now- you’re sure there’s a blush somewhere.
“I’m sure Batman and Superman have very different tastes in who they would like in a romantic partner.” Clark sneaks a soft glance in your direction.
You’re blind to the movement and on a roll. He’s fueling your fire.
“I also knew there was a rumor Bruce Wayne and Batman were in a relationship. Did you know?”
“I’d have to ask Bruce next time I-“
Maybe even Metropolis below has gone still.
Clark knows what you’re going to ask before you even open your mouth. He pinches the bridge of his nose again. “No. I can’t get you an exclusive interview with Bruce Wayne.” Another beat of silence. “Yes. I know him.”
Your jaw has gone slack; you might be letting a pool of drool form. Clark reaches a curled finger to your face, lifting your chin back into place. His finger lingers a fraction too long, accidentally stroking the side of your cheek. The intimacy of the gesture has you clamping your mouth and your legs together. Neither motions are missed by Clark. His mouth turns slightly upward. Maybe he also likes to see you flustered.
You ruin the moment.
“Would you like to get dinner?”
Clark looks at his watch. “It’s not even one o’clock. We finished eating lunch thirty minutes ago.”
Apparently two can play this game. You shake your head. “No, I mean at a later time.” Like a date, you want to scream.
“We usually get dinner together since we’ve been working on this project.”
It’s your turn to blush. Since he’s on his roll, you might as well get bold.
“That’s work dinner. Not what I was hoping for.”
His smile is simply arrogant. “Are you not going to tell me what you want?”
“Dammit Kent!” The level of your voice surprises even you. You really were flustered. “You know what I mean!”
Clark opens his mouth to reply, but just as quickly shuts it. He immediately stills, as if listening for something. He stands abruptly, his chair screeching backwards. Clark mumbles a mixed apology, something between a bathroom break and a few minutes of air.
You slam back into your chair and pout. Your damn heart, damn mind- why couldn’t you have just waited patiently for that to happen naturally? Whatever that was.
Clark is missing for a little longer than a few minutes. Maybe your endless prodding and teasing has finally pushed your office crush away. You sulk, mentally drafting your two-week notice to Perry. Forget about Superman’s identity.
Your phone vibrates erratically with a news report. Likely another Amber Alert or civil threat.
Instead, it’s a live video feed from one of the Daily Planet’s cameramen stationed on a beach somewhere around the world. The video roars into sound and footage of Superman fighting off a beast: gnarly, lengthy, and ghastly. This battle won’t take long, the poor alien too ignorant to know how outmatched it might be against the Man of Steel. Correct as always, the live feed had barely just begun before the show was over; only a few minutes of screen time for the two of them today. Superman had outdone himself once again- he floats above the now limp and broken carcass. The beast looks other worldly, but Superman, an alien himself, does not mirror the creature.
The grin on the Kryptonian is just as arrogant and stifling as Clark’s was not even fifteen minutes ago.
Your lunch turns leaden in your stomach.
The pieces start inching their way together. Pieces of a puzzle you knew that you had, but not to such magnitude. You should have seen it. The flight patterns in and out of Metropolis, in and out of the Daily Planet. Clark knew a little too much information about the Kryptonian counterpart. Was this his idea of a joke? Clark must have agreed to help your investigation in order to send you in the opposite direction. Did he realize that the misinformation was adding into the whole story? For five months you’ve clutched this data and didn’t realize the utter weight behind any of it. Maybe your office crush wanted you to find him. Hell, he volunteered to help man the search.
You have the shadow of a grin when Clark returns to the room about half an hour later. You don’t want to look too pleased with yourself, you did yell at him the last time he was here.
He still has a few specs of sand in his hair. He smells of salt and citrus. The only death smell in this room now might be the alien blood dried under Clark’s fingertips.
He wordlessly returns to his seat beside you. You whisper his name as he wipes a hand down his face. You wait a few moments before speaking.
“How was the bathroom?”
Clark actually laughs. The sound is beautiful, enriching. He whispers your name in return.
“I don’t know why I let you continue your story.” He admits after a few more seconds of silence. “I should have put a stop to this investigation months ago.” He turns to you. “Didn’t think I would like spending so much time with you.” He seems relaxed sitting in his chair, but the tension of his shoulders sells his fears away.
“I’ve already drafted my resignation letter to Perry. Your secret is safe with me.” You stand, turning to instead sit on the table in front of Clark. “But I would still like that dinner in return.”
“I could do better than dinner.” More teasing?
You cock an eyebrow at him as he sits before you. Clark leans forward, catching your lips in a smoldering kiss.
When he leans back into his seat, you’re both a little breathless. You’re absolutely awestruck. You kiss your sidekick again before deciding to pester him a final time.
“But what about an interview with Bruce Wayne?”
“I’ll have to ask my friend from work.”
You heave a deep sigh. “It could be the only way to keep my job with Perry since I don’t have a Superman story.”
Clark’s grin is one-sided, wide and cheeky. “I’ll think about it.”
“It’s not like you’re going to make me beg for you.”
“Mm.” Clark inches his head side to side, feigning contemplation. He tilts your chin down with a finger, then kisses you softly. “I’ll promise to try.“
Not much later that night, your Kryptonian office crush makes good on his promise.
Peanut Butter and Oreos (Part 1) | They’ll be okay (Part 2) | Bobby pin (Part 3) | Ketchup Packets (Part 4) | IV Pole (Part 5) | Red (Part 6) | Light Switch (Part 7)
You sit shoulder to shoulder with the person next to you; the television playing some cheesy romance film in the background, your eyes and pencil tapping back and forth across your unwritten essay, and Tim’s hand resting gently on your thigh drawing small circles.
He had basically ordered you to bed as he dragged you out of the library a short few hours ago; apparently you had been studying far too long alone.
So now, you sit propped on a few dozen pillows with your notebook in your lap, and Tim’s warming presence snug against you. Tim was not lying when he said that you would not leave his side ever again.
And through all of your years as best friends, you finally learned Tim’s love language, or two languages. Physical touch and- Oreos and peanut butter.
You always assumed he only ate the sweet treat because you had liked it. And you would have been partially right. He ate it with you because you had liked it. But also, he loved the snack because it reminded him of everything about you.
The tub of peanut butter and the basket of Oreos lay open on the small TV dinner tray on the bed between your feet.
Relishing in those two deep vulnerable facts about your best friend, now turned boyfriend, your mind drifts away from whatever medicinal narrative you were supposed to be writing.
Tim had rescued you. He- and his family- had flown across the ocean to save you and the others from whatever terrors Abadi, his goons, or even Luthor were planning to commit. Tim’s search to find you had saved countless others, an incomprehensible feat that you’re sure Batman knew but couldn’t quite understand. His family helped Tim to help you.
You would love them- and Tim- for the rest of your life.
In only a few hours after the siege, Batman and local authorities had begun a plan for evacuation. The people originally from America were to be taken by Batman and his flock back to the states. Others, so many others, would receive help to get home. You had so deeply worried how long that might be.
You and the other American prisoners sat in some unknown part of the aircraft, taking note of others’ injuries and helping each other when needed. Batman had handed Gina numerous supplies: clothes, food, medical equipment, anything we might have needed for the long journey home.
You wouldn’t dare tell anyone of the kiss your Russian savior had planted on the masked vigilante’s cheek, nor would you mention the smile on his lips immediately following.
After the plane had taken flight, Tim was the one who continued to periodically check on the passengers. With multiple shifts, he would check on each person, saving you and Gina for last each time. As Red Robin, he would smile at you, ruffle your hair, and lean down to place a kiss to your temple, each and every time he passed.
Gina refused to leave your side the entire ride. She sat stroking your hair and sung you to sleep.
You had all but moved into the manor as soon as you came home.
With your parents gone, everything was left to you. The anxiety and sheer emptiness that followed losing both parents was a fate known well within Tim’s family. Each member stepped forward to help you in any way they possibly could. Even Damian agreed to tolerate Tim if it meant you were happy.
Gina had more or less additionally adopted you in this short amount of time. She promised to step in, to not let the nightmares of what happened to you, to your parents, seep into your body and soul. She promised to be your armor in shining silver and gold. Knight in shining armor, you corrected her this time. She moved entirely into your life just as quickly as she had entered it by agreeing to go on some dumb medical missionary trip.
Tim told you about his three months of personal hell, all that he did and tried to do in order to find you. Jason had wickedly included the burger murder story, of how a stupid ketchup packet was all it took. You told Tim about the bobby pin and communicator from the raft, told him how his genius, computer-like mind saved you in more ways than one.
Tim had later told you how Bruce took care of everything in regards to the media for survivor details, the other prisoners, the fortress itself. Everyone from the complex went home within a few days of the release. You slept better than you ever had before that night.
However, Tim never told you what his punishment was for beating Eyepatch to a bloody pulp. The fact he had sat next to you on multiple patrol nights for the past few weeks told you what you didn’t want to ask. It was all behind you now.
You were lucky. Through eaten peanut butter and Oreos, borrowed bobby pins, broken ketchup packets, and thrown IV poles, you made it back to your favorite bird.
Tim flicks a finger to your nose, raising you out of the memory you had gotten lost in.
You crinkle it, baring a tooth or two to signal the twinge of pain.
“Where’d you go?” His head tilts to the side, but he doesn’t look up from his folder.
You continue tapping your pencil to the notepad. “Just thinking.”
You can see the tilt of his mouth as his grin grows before he turns to you.
“Thinking about me?”
You shove his shoulder playfully, as he wraps an arm around your waist to pull you closer to him. He carefully maneuvers your bodies so that you’re sitting between his legs. Your back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
Yes, this is still real.
You think back to the gaudy woman at the benefit gala before your departure to hell. You hope you can see her again to tell her that you and Tim are in fact together.
Tim places a kiss to your temple. You push away to face him fully. Tim is everything and more that you could dream. The crush you had for years finally happy. Your own personal detective, your best friend, the one to bring light into your life.
He kisses you soft and sweet. The bags under his eyes indicate he might not be sleeping.
You ask him so. “Was the last time your slept weeks ago?”
“Only about a day or so.”
He leans forward, leaving a hairbreadth between your lips as eyes roam your face. His lack of movement moves you to speak.
“Are you going to kiss me again?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
Your mind goes to the computer he maintains as a brain, hoping that he’s already filed away the feeling of your lips on his. “You’re always thinking about something.”
The smile Tim returns is teethy and cocky. “I’ve only ever thought about you.”
And like a light switch bathing your entire existence in glimmering light, his kiss was nothing but blinding.
It had been six weeks since the alley incident. Six weeks since Jason returned to your world. He had reappeared in your memory where you were still lost from his. Your encounter had essentially ruined most of Jason’s progress. More than just a few steps back.
He lost his older brother: Dick declined Jason’s calls, he refused to join the rest of the family in stakeouts or takedowns, and he has not been seen at Wayne Manor since.
Jason wasn’t positive Dick was avoiding him specifically until the devil spawn approached him after a night on patrol. Damian said Dick wanted space, but Jason didn’t think he had meant the whole damn galaxy. He just wanted answers. He wanted to speak to someone that could provide information, but he refused to speak to you.
You had flooded his thoughts after that fateful night. His dreams were filled with the photos from his phone, now turned to moving pictures- they felt like out of body experiences, Jason now watching you and circus boy in his place. A third wheel, unwanted and forgotten. Is that how you had felt?
Maybe this was for the best. After all, Jason seemed to remember everything else. Or so he thought.
Jason tried to go back to the small basics to see if you truly were the only missing piece. He walked his old neighborhood to find the alley where he first took the Batmobile wheels. He instantly knew the route to his favorite cheeseburger diner. He followed the path that led to Dick’s old apartment- the fire escape still creaked on the third step. Jason even borrowed Tim’s bicycle to make sure he at least remembered the simple mechanics. It took him a whole week to go through different parts of memory lane.
Jason’s head hit the pillow back at his apartment. It’s been an exhausting time- he hasn’t taken any mercenary jobs since meeting you again. It was early in the morning after a particular long patrol night. He just needed a clear head. Jason’s memory held true for even the smallest things. But you were no small thing.
His mind crawls to the saying from one of those cheesy romance movies Stephanie made him watch with her last week.
“Distance makes the heart grow fonder.” Yeah, what a piece of shit. Jason feels sick.
The phone ringing brought Jason to his senses. He answers with a grunt.
“I want to talk.”
Jason shoots upward from his position, sitting tall.
“Dick?” Silence must mean compliance. “Sure. Name the time and place.”
The older man speaks softly away from the phone. Jason can’t make out what was said, but assumes it was with a third person for confirmation.
“B’s cave. Tonight.”
And before Jason could ask for more specifics, the line drops. It’s two more steps forward at least.
With no direct scheduled meeting, Jason arrives to the cave late in the evening. Nerves ultimately kept him home, even if the vigilante convinced himself otherwise.
Tim and Dick are standing by the weapons vault, Dick smiling at something Tim had said to him. The smile fades quickly when he hears Jason.
“What’s this “oui” bit, French man?” Jason attempts his own joke to ease the tension. “I thought you said it was just you.”
To Jason’s delight, Tim snickers in response. Dick’s frown tightens. There’s a vein on his neck that could pop at any moment.
“Timmy’s here for mediation.” Dick nods in the aforementioned kid’s direction. “I don’t have much to say to you in all actuality.”
It’s Jason’s turn for a vein to pop. “Then why the hell did you call me all the way out to the manor? I’ve got cases to follow.” Lies to cover his own turmoil.
Dick puffs air through his nose. He can probably see through the lies. “Whatever.” Dick finally turns to face Jason, scowling at his brother. Jason gulps, not expecting the intensity of his gaze. “I want you to know that nothing you say will change their mind. They’ve had a lot of time to think, and I’ve been chosen.”
The last word has more venom than anyone would care to admit. It’s said with malice: a choice was made. The ferocity of his voice surprises even Dick. He swears under his breath, putting a hand on the back of his neck. He apologizes quietly.
“They just want to clear the air. Get closure.” Jason finally registers that circus boy is speaking about you. A twinge of pain has Jason desperately searching for words, but all he can do is nod.
Dick takes Jason’s response in stride, gliding right past him. From somewhere behind him, Jason can hear Dick lower his voice.
Tim turns to follow Dick, motioning Jason to follow. As Jason turns, his breath is stolen from his lungs.
You’re sitting at one of the data tables. Your leather jacket is thrown across the back of your chair, and your cheeks are tinted pink- from crying, Jason can finally tell. You’re even more breathtaking than the night he first saw you.
He sits in the chair next to you, there is still a safe distance between your bodies. Jason wants to give you the room to run if you wanted, but he can’t help but need to be close. He wants nothing more than to remember everything. Remember you.
Dick and Tim both leave the cave for now. Dick is calm as he gives you one last glance before the door shuts; the exes are left alone for the first time.
You’re refusing to look at him. He cranes his neck to meet your lowered eyes and whispers your name, an easy tenderness rolling off his tongue.
“It really is you.” Your lip begins to tremble. Jason doesn’t initially understand the feeling in his rib cage. “I was in denial for so long.” Your hands shake with your voice. “I mourned you.” A tear finally falls, and Jason can’t breathe. Guilt. Inconsolable guilt.
“If it’s any consolation, it’s not exactly what I wanted.” Jason mentally kicks himself. This is not a good time for humor to fill the void of uneasiness. You scoff, causing Jason to flinch.
“No. Nobody wanted it.” Your tears are flowing faster now. Jason can’t help but feel empathetic. He doesn’t know you, but he feels for you. He hasn’t felt anything for a long time.
You’re still refusing to look at him directly. You use your T-shirt sleeve to wipe your nose. Adorable, but gross. His eyes refuse to leave your face, searching for anything to help him remember more.
“You were itchy.” Your sudden confession causes Jason to choke on his spit. He coughs a few times.
He speaks when he finds his tongue. “Hold on. Itchy?”
Your teary laugh bubbles through him- he can’t help but smile.
“People say everyone has an itch they can never scratch just right.” You look up at Jason through wet eyelashes. A deep breath in. “You and me.” A deep breath out. “We scratched all our itches. We joked about it all the time actually. How we thought we were perfect for each other. Everything you did for me was just so perfect, even when we were that young. We melded. We scratched each other’s itches, made everything feel just right. Itchy.”
The way the last word rolls off your tongue burns Jason’s heart. It was said with such familiarity, so many memories embedded in just a single word, an unfleeting feeling.
“Do you really not remember anything about me?” Your eyes are shining, boring a hole through Jason’s heart. He can’t lie to you.
“I see glimpses.” You nod, letting him continue. “Dreams of possible memories. I don’t know if they’re real.” You wipe your nose again. He stumbles on his next words. “I wa- I want.” Breathe, for crying out loud. “I want them to be real.”
A confession of his own that Jason didn’t know he needed to say. He mindlessly thinks he’s going crazy.
You were left with everything when Jason was killed. Jason was left with nothing. You were forgotten from Jason’s memory and from his heart. Jason continued to leave scratches in your life, now turned to painful scars.
Your thumbs are kneading into your palm. A nervous tick that has Jason’s own hand flexing in response. The action reaches a part of Jason’s mind he didn’t know existed. Is this remembering? It almost surprises him how badly he wants to hold your hand.
Almost.
Jason reaches forward, attempting to close the space between the digits. Your mouth drops only slightly as you watch his hand inch towards yours.
A voice stops Jason’s movements, only a few centimeters away.
Dammit.
“5 minutes are up.” Tim was always going to keep up his end of the deal with Dick. Damn replacement.
Jason throws a look at his younger brother that the evil genius seems to ignore. Tim shuffles awkwardly on both feet as he watches you gather your things.
You reach down to grab Jason’s hand. Yours seem much different than his: small, gentle, soft. But it fits so perfectly in his own. Itchy. The breath in his throat catches when you squeeze his fingers.
“Take care of yourself, Jay.”
As you walk away, the smell of your perfume trickles around Jason’s nose. Almost comically beckoning him with a cartoon finger to follow you. The nickname sticks to his ears, making them ring. Maybe Jason really is going crazy.
Tim nods in your direction after you place a hand on his shoulder with a simple thanks. The two men watch you exit the cave, eventually out of sight but never out of mind.
Tim whistles a small tune after a beat of silence.
“Dick suggests you forget about it. Everything. The photos. Everything about the two of them, the two of you. Move on; move forward.”
Jason knocks the table a few times in contemplation, giving an apathetic hum. If he is going crazy, Jason will need help.
“And what do you suggest, Timmers?”
Jason rolls his eyes when he’s met with silence. Tim whistles a long, low trill, almost as if he’s giving himself time to think. Jason dares to look towards him, yet the younger man is doing nothing but grinning ear to ear.
“You’ve never been too keen on following direct orders.”
“You better not stay too late.” You glance up from your computer, smiling at the man in your office doorway. Lucius Fox has his jacket thrown over his shoulder. He taps on the glass door, most likely making a note to text your husband to check on you.
Your laugh bounces across the room. “I promise. It’s not even ten, Mr. Fox.” You make a few unnecessary keyboard clicks for emphasis.
“Well, Mrs. Wayne,” he pauses as he puts his jacket on. “It’s a Saturday. We shouldn’t have been here to begin with.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose as you laugh again. Bruce had forgotten to submit a few government reports earlier this week, forcing you and a few select others to work overtime.
Being married to Bruce Wayne definitely had its overall pros and cons. Pro: wonderful, dutiful, and caring husband. Con: tasteless vigilante at night; you know, normal things.
All bats aside, you loved your life. You helped raise some pretty amazing children. You worked at Wayne Enterprises alongside Lucius, one of the few sane people in your life. You and Alfred even had special weekly tea nights. The Dark Knight barely reared its ugly head on your side of the story.
You exchange a few more pleasantries before goodbyes, promising Lucius to text him whenever you head out. The morning light still illuminated your area, cascading to the corners of your top floor office.
You finish all that your husband failed to do within the next two hours or so, swearing to yourself that you’ll have to keep him more accountable next time.
You pack your bag, putting your heels back on before heading out. As you walk, your mind wanders to what tea Alfred has potentially left out for you.
You make it to the elevator when the lights start to flicker. Quite odd, there shouldn’t have been any maintenance scheduled. You pull your phone out to check the employee website. You truly become worried when you notice there’s no signal. You know damn well you paid to have enough Wi-Fi and cell service to power a small city. You sigh, shoving your phone back into your purse. No text to Lucius today.
A sudden tremor shakes the skyscraper, forcing you to grab ahold of the nearest wall. The lights flicker again, and you make a beeline for the stairs. Fear and adrenaline course through your veins. At this height, an elevator ride to the bottom very well could be a death trap. There’s no immediate explanation for earthquakes in Gotham, but you don’t have time to question anything.
Tremors continue to shake the ground as you run down the stairwell. The stairs appear sturdy enough even with the shaking. You drop your bag and shed your heels on the next landing. Workouts with your kids can help train for this type of endurance, however you don’t believe this exact scenario has been practiced.
A few dozen flight of stairs later, an explosion rattles the entire building, and you’re sent to your knees. The blast seemed close, but the stairwell you were in seems untouched. Your breathing is labored, and your heart is beating in your ears. You check your phone again with no luck- still no service.
You attempt to stand back on your feet, yet you’re stopped by another discharge. This blast is much closer as it tears down the walls around you. Individual stairs are rattling, breaking into pieces. The ground caves from beneath you and you’re sent plummeting. Your screams are drowned out with the sound of falling debris. The last thing on your mind is that your husband and children are safe, they have to be safe. Their lives flicker through your memories as your world goes dark.
You wake with a cough. It feels as if a terrible weight has settled on your chest. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can barely make out your surroundings. A few steel beams create a makeshift roof, sheltering you from what you assume is the rest of the building you were just standing in. You can barely move your limbs, shaking a few pieces of destroyed building off of you. Thinking of Bruce and your birds, you know the pain now would pale in comparison to their’s if you were to stay here. Scanning your options in the darkness of wreckage, you finally spot a small glitter of light off to your left. Dragging yourself through the smashed concrete, you army crawl your way forward.
The smoke outside is still settling as you inch from the rubble. The sun is visibly lower than it was before you fell, signaling that you had been out for quite a few hours.
You look back to the path that you created, a trail of blood left in your wake. Peering down to your legs, the daylight finally illuminates your wounds- your clothes are torn and speckled with your own blood; glass shards litter your body; and a few pieces of concrete are embedded in dirty skin. You probably look as terrible as you feel. The only thought that crosses your mind is Bruce.
You’ve crawled well enough away from the building to get a better look at the destruction. Wayne Enterprises- or at least what it used to be- is entirely reduced to rubble. The force of the explosion has leveled a block, only several other buildings are seriously damaged.
Your corporate brain goes to the paperwork involved with repairing this Gotham district. You force yourself to stand and choose a direction to walk.
A few cracked bones, maybe a broken rib or two, at maximum you decide. It explains the inability to breathe. You’re pushed forward by the sheer will to see your husband and your kids. Thinking of their lives without you brings tears to your eyes, leaving a clean trail down your cheeks.
Despite your injuries, you make it surprisingly far. After several agonizing blocks, you finally see the mob. There are dozens of ambulances, several fire trucks, and more police cars than you can count with a blurry head. You’re acutely proud of yourself for choosing the correct direction to go. You can barely make out the metal barricades separating the emergency crew and the civilians.
With the way things are situated, the citizens of Gotham stand between you and a much needed wellness check. Your mind drifts to think of where Bruce might be.
A traffic cone being thrown catches your attention. You strain your eyes and could collapse in relief with what you see.
Batman has a finger in a police officer’s face. His other gloved hand is resting on another orange victim. You might need to remind him to mind his tantrums. This level of anger seen on the vigilante is quite uncommon. Your eyebrows furrow as your foggy mind attempts to find the reason. Beyond the need to smother Bruce, you know he’s exactly who you need right now. You’re alive and you have to reach him.
You’ve finally made it to the large group of onlookers; startled gasps cause a path to be made for you. Your eyes are getting heavy and your legs are starting to slow. The adrenaline is wearing off, most likely, and there’s a particular large piece of concrete you can feel is digging into your thigh. You’re trying to not pay attention to the eyes on you. The finish line is right in your reach, the only place you want to be. The only place where you know you can be safe. This damn barricade is right in your way.
Superman’s hand is on Batman’s chest now. Wonder Woman has a hand on his shoulder, most likely speaking in hush tones in an attempt to calm him. Bruce’s cowl is not enough to cover the exasperation on his features: fighting back against Clark’s hand, he’s obviously yelling even if you can’t hear him exactly. What could Bruce be so worked up about?
Scanning the other first responders, you eventually find Dick speaking with a fireman a dozen feet to your right. The boy you’ve helped raise is still in his Bludhaven police uniform. He looks like an old man with his brows scrunched together like that. You swear quietly, you’ll have to lecture him on his wrinkles later.
Your ankle gives out as you take another step, launching you into the temporary barrier. The metal clangs too aggressively for your sensitive ears, and it has you swearing louder this time. Your bones seem to be getting heavier with time, and you lean more into the barrier to release some of the tension.
Suddenly, you hear your name being shouted. Painfully, you raise your head to make eye contact with your favorite policeman. Dick is running towards you, speaking into his transceiver. He reaches you after a few seconds and is grabbing your shoulders to lift your head to meet his eyes. You decide to not call out the wetness of his cheeks, not in front of all these people anyway.
“Oh my god, where were you? You haven’t been answering your phone. God, B has been going insane. Why didn’t you pick up? Where have you been?”
Dick’s questions hit your ears, but your brain is slow to process. Concussion, at minimum you decide. He’s still crying as he continues worrying. You mindlessly wonder if Dick’s reasoning for being upset is the same as your husband’s.
You lift a hand to smooth down the wrinkles on his forehead. This seems to ease his mouth to a slow tremble as the tears continue.
Dick finally takes an assessment of your current physical status, the tears stop and his eyes go wide.
“Mama.” You smile falters at how serious he gets. “You don’t look so good. W-we have to get you out of here.” He motions over to a pair of paramedics who rush to your side. Before you know it, you’re being carefully lifted over the barrier to be placed on a gurney.
“No, Dickie.” You grab his hand so he doesn’t leave your side on the way back to the ambulance. Your throat aches but you continue, “I gotta see your dad. I gotta see Bruce.” You can feel the blood rushing to your head from laying down. Things are getting incredibly blurry. You just want to see Bruce, injuries can wait, they’re really not that bad.
Dick is shaking his head. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead turns his head as his name is being called. You crane your neck to see Barry speed to your side. The EMT’s are loading you in the car as Dick and Barry speak on the ground. You smile weakly at the speedster as the he turns his head to call the others.
At the height in the back of the emergency vehicle, you finally catch Bruce’s eye.
Batman pushes off Superman’s hand. He breaks out into a sprint just as the ambulance doors close. Dick raises both hands to slow the bat down. Bruce is gesturing towards you and continues to yell. Barry is holding Bruce back this time. Even though you wouldn’t encourage how your husband raises his voice at your kids, you understand the anger, a lot is happening. You wish you could hold B’s stare longer, but your exhaustion takes over.
An oxygen mask is placed over your head as you slowly lose consciousness for the second time today.
Realization hits you in the same wave finally: Bruce was worried about you. Bruce was ready to fight Clark, Diana, and Barry to come find you. The lack of service, the explosion, the hours that have ticked by. How long did Bruce think you were dead?
When you wake again, it’s dark. The antiseptic smell of a hospital room is what you first notice as the rest of your senses follow. You hollowly feel the morphine in your system, a good solution to any potential pain. The beeping of the EKG fills the room, but is intermittently interrupted by slight snoring. Looking down to your side, there’s a small boy curled into you, his hands fisted tight into your hospital gown.
The tuft of black hair tells all: Damian. Slowly wrapping an arm around your smallest bird, a gasp startles you.
Whipping your head towards the sound, the sudden motion makes you flinch and swear once again.
“I told you we have to work on your language.”
Your free hand goes to rub at the back of your neck as you relax. “And I told you to not yell at your children in high stress environments.”
You can make out the outline of a man standing from his chair, making calculated movements towards you. His weight settles on the other side of you, causing you to lean into him, Damian rolling forward as well.
Bruce gently cradles your head, kissing your temple. There’s another beat of silence before he speaks again.
“Three hours.” You make a puzzled sound. He kisses your forehead. “How long you were missing. How long I thought you were dead.” Your sharp intake of breathe lets Bruce continue. “Kent threatened to fly me across the world if I didn’t calm down. Diana tried to convince me you weren’t at the office building when it collapsed.”
You stifle a laugh- he very well could have fought Superman to find you. You take his hand to kiss the calloused knuckles. Your head falls into the crook of Bruce’s neck as he explains the event.
Low level punks thinking they weren’t going to do much damage to Wayne Enterprises or the surrounding business district. Too stupid to know what they were actually doing. You don’t know if it warms your heart or breaks it that you could have been lost to petty crime, not even a big name villain.
Bruce is running fingers through your hair, the other hand drawing small circles on your hand with his thumb. He tells you about the first call to your phone, the second call to the boys, and finally the third call to the Justice League. He knew where you were; he instinctively knew by the twisting of his gut that you were there and he couldn’t do anything about it. Bruce mentioned how helpless he felt. Something about how Clark needed to check for more explosives before any rescue team could make headway.
The freshly showered scent of your husband is almost enough to put you back to sleep. He whispers all his feelings and his fears from the day, kissing your head and holding you close.
It’s an overwhelmingly tender moment. Damian eventually wakes up, hugging you and almost immediately crying upon seeing that you’re awake. At one point, the baby bird leaves to retrieve your other boys. This allows a small moment between husband and wife.
Bruce cups your face with both hands and kisses you fully. His lips are soft and sweet, a bit salty from his or your tears you’re not sure. He rests his forehead against yours.
“When I saw you being pulled into that ambulance, I wanted nothing more than to run to you and do just that.” He kisses you again for good measure. “I almost knocked down everything in my path to get to you.” You hum into his lips.
“I was gross and dirty. You wouldn’t have wanted to kiss me then.”
It’s Bruce’s turn to laugh. “No.” Another kiss. You can hear your boys on the other side of the door now. Bruce’s smile brightens your room and sends butterflies to your stomach. “Absolutely not.”
So- please send me some ideas of what to write or stories you would like to see continued!! Send me an Ask or DM me and let me know what you want next!
Send me things that you want or ideas of where stories can go from here!! Any one of my stories could be open for more pieces or changes in some of the plot lines, whatever you guys would like to see
Anything from who you want to be the father for “super cool powers,” how you think the epilogue of “peanut butter & oreos” should go, if you’re team Dick or team Jason for “three steps back”, or if you actually want to see where “sunlight is something you make and give away” will end up going and who it includes. WHATEVER YOU WANT just lmk lol I have some specific plans but open to see what the people crave
The Red Hood scoffed to himself as you bought your third coffee for the day. You were a creature of habit, and that made the vigilante’s job easier.
Jason frowned looking down at the manilla envelope and its contents spread around him, jotting down a few notes. Looking back down to your figure in the local coffee shop, Jason shivered. The rooftop was beginning to get uncomfortable and the weather was starting to grow too cold for surveillance.
The Red Hood had been following you for weeks at this point. He had your name in a folder with all personal identifying information to be found. Oddly weird things about you that no normal human would ever be able to know- including what looks to be the exact coffee order you preferred. The Bat could be useful sometimes, he did have to admit.
From the coffee shop, you walked several store fronts north until reaching the corner store. You reached into your pocket to pull free a set of keys. Unlocking the door, you disappeared from his line of sight. You’d be in this building for the next several hours. Jason sat back on his heels.
The building across the street from your floral shop was perfect cover for recon: Hood could watch your daily routine without disturbance. It’s also a short distance to your apartment a couple blocks west. You could have possibly been the easiest target the Red Hood has ever had on his list.
Jason gathered his items and notes, twisted around, and begun to jump building to building to return to his own apartment.
It had been several months since Jason’s return from the Lazarus Pit. Although he amended (with the word used loosely) his relationship with Bruce and the subsequent caped crusaders, Hood was still walking on thin ice. He remembers the look of disgust on Dick’s usually smiling face when Jason had asked for a folder containing your information. Alfred might have been the only one to showcase his enjoyment of Jason’s rebirth. He remembered what he thought to be everything before the explosion that killed him. Jason had thought he was taking two steps forward with these people. He did admit to himself that he had been working some odd end jobs, working down lists given to him by mercenaries who paid well. Things he knew the rest of the family did not agree with.
You, however, remained at the top of a different list. This mission was not for amendments or money. This hit needed to be smooth and seamless- Jason needed answers. He didn’t remember where you fit in this picture.
A few hours later, Jason returned to his perch. Right on schedule, you were locking the door of your shop. It was well past dusk, and it was about the time you looped home, picking up carry-out along the way.
Red Hood turned west to head to your apartment like you normally did. He got a few strides along the top platforms before he halted: you had gone the opposite direction.
Odd. Creatures of habits should stick to habits.
Jason turned on his heel to sprint in order to catch up. As you came closer into view, you had changed your clothes, your wool blazer much nicer than the leather jacket you wore earlier; you held a small bouquet of an assortment of red flowers in your gloved hands, your shoulder bag bumping your leg as you walked forward; you walked slow, your face a touch pink- from crying or from weather, Jason could not tell.
He followed you for a few more blocks before you reached a small movie theater. Jason ducked into an alley. The night was too clear, and the masked man needed a better view of your actions.
A man had caught your attention, pulling you into a hug with a hand lingering too long on your hip. A twinge of jealousy shocked Jason’s heart, catching him off guard. He shuffled anxiously as he watched the two of you interacting.
“Come on, my man.” Jason whispered to himself. “Who the hell are you?”
As if the gods pitied him, Jason’s rhetorical question was answered.
You turned to gesture back in the direction of your flower shop, revealing the man’s face to the Red Hood.
Jason’s breath caught in his throat.
What on earth was Dick doing with you?
His mind raced, but Jason needed answers. He was getting impatient.
Jason whistled: three short trills followed by a single long trill.
Dick’s head snapped immediately towards the direction of the alley. Jason coyly waved a two finger salute before shuffling backwards. He knew Dick wouldn’t bring you.
When Dick rounded the corner of the first building, Jason tossed a small pebble from the fire escape, hitting the older man on the top of the head. Dick angrily shot a glance but refused to look at Jason directly. Jason hopped down back to the ground.
“Circus bird.” Jason teased, but Dick only grunted in response. Very short for a man who seemed so happy a few moments ago. “What are you doing here?”
“Movie date, obviously.” Dick kept an eye over his shoulder checking the entrance to the alley.
Jason chuckled, leaning against the cool brick. “Wonderful, boy wonder. However, you’re cutting into my job. I need you to abandon this date and move on.”
Dick reared his head and flashed a snarl towards Jason. Dick pushed his brother by the chest. “A job? You are the one that needs to get out of here.” Dick tried to keep his voice even but his anger was apparent. “Leave before you’re spotted.”
Jason knocked on his helmet. “People know who I am.”
“Not everyone.”
Jason had a retort to validate his infamy when a figure appeared behind Dick.
Dammit.
“Dick? Are you okay?” You called out.
Dick ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, babe. I’ll be right there.”
“Babe?” The words left Jason’s mouth before he registered they were even spoken.
You walked up to Dick, threading your arm through his and tugging him backwards.
“Dick, come one, this is dangerous.” You eyed the Red Hood intently.
Jason had never been in such close proximity to you. You were breathtaking. He couldn’t let you leave now without the job being completed.
“You’re right, let’s go.” The duo turned to leave, yet Jason couldn’t help himself.
Jason found himself yelling after you. “Forget you, Dick.” The pair spun back to look at him. Jason pointed at you.
“Do you know who I am?” Jason shouted, causing you to flinch and hide behind Dick who swung a protective arm behind him. The lack of answers pushed Jason further. Time to get bold. He continued.
“I’m pretty sure you do, sweetheart. I need to know why I have terabytes of information on you. I have photos and information time stamped years ago with your name and face. Shit, your face is even on my phone. Who are you?”
Dick took several steps forward. He gritted his teeth as he spoke to the man with the helmet. “Jason, you and I need to speak about this later. Not now.”
You looked like you were holding back tears- the bouquet of flowers you previously held hit the ground. You spoke quickly. “Jason? Like my Jason? What are you talking about?”
You were obviously scared, frightened, and just as confused as Jason. What did you mean by “mine?”
Questions answered by more questions- this is not how Jason needed this job to end. Dick was ruining it all.
The photos in his phone showed you, much younger and much more intimate than Jason would ever admit. There were hundreds of photos of you doing mundane things. Jason thought up until this moment you were a job left unfinished. His head was spinning and he couldn’t get a deep breath. Why is he suddenly feeling like this? What effect do you have on him?
Jason ripped the helmet off his head, revealing his face to you for what he thought was the first time. He was sure he heard you gasp, but still nonetheless, Jason drew his weapon. He held it steadily as Dick acted as your shield. Another twist of jealousy in Jason’s gut- he gripped the gun a little harder as anger flared.
“Move, Dickie-Bird.”
“Listen to me, Jason!” Dick started to yell. “You remember everything about your previous life except for this.” The older man gestured between the trio.
You suddenly fell to the ground, and Dick crouched to check on you. Jason’s hands were shaking as he lowered his gun.
“It’s Jason? He remembers everything but me?” You whispered, your soft voice carrying just far enough for Jason to hear.
The terror that cleaved its way into Jason’s bones was a new sensation, and it forced the man to his own knees. You were sobbing into Dick’s shoulders, echoing off the brick walls of the alley. Jason wanted nothing more than to comfort you, a strange sense of familiarity.
Jason wanted to scream; this was all too confusing. He knew he had lapses in his memory, but nothing like these whole sections cut out. How could he experience these feelings with you but not know who you are?
He roared back. “What the hell is going on? How do you know me?”
“You two were dating, you insufferable idiot.” Dick spat.
The coffee order. The seemingly unobtainable information Bruce had on you was not pure coincidence. The look on Dick’s face in the cave. Jason had taken the photos on his phone. The jealousy, the fear.
Peanut Butter and Oreos (Part 1) | They’ll be okay (Part 2) | Bobby pin (Part 3) | Ketchup Packets (Part 4) | IV Pole (Part 5) | Red (Part 6)
The plane ride to the island was silent, for the most part. Occasionally Jason or Dick would banter back and forth. Cass and Damian played cards. Flying the plane was Bruce’s only concern, but even the bat would turn around to check on Tim every few minutes.
As soon as the island is within view, Bruce starts again with the overall analysis and rescue plan. Casualties a minimum, a pointed look at Jason, and captives a priority. Unknown number of people, adjust accordingly based on judgement, a pointed look at Tim.
Yet Tim was out of the plane before they were even on the ground; Cass follows shortly after him. Tim can barely hear Bruce giving the final commands.
As always, Jason hops out guns blazing. Dick is swinging with Damian to higher ground. Bruce sneaks off to disarm alarms and create a safe zone for captives once outside.
Red Robin only has one thing on his mind at the moment: and that is getting you back.
The crew make headway fairly quickly. The group is busting through the front door of the complex in record time. Tim’s heart is beating in his ears- adrenaline and anxiety course his veins as he knocks various goons back with his staff. Pushing people aside to find what he came here for.
Bizarre movement catches Cassandra’s sight, and she motions for Tim to look with her. A single man runs off to the side, away from the main fight. Something inside Tim ignites as anger and hopefulness now juxtapose his blood. Tim shouts to Bruce, who knocks a goon away from Damian, alerting their leader of a specific pursuit. The duo follow the path of sight before losing the figure down a corridor.
There’s a trail of blood droplets, and the sight makes Tim’s heart drop. What if that blood is yours? What if you’re not okay?
Tim signs to Cass to follow the blood. The duo flip through the maze, knocking down goon after goon.
The blood droplets stop short of a door that is slightly ajar, and Tim bodies it. Red Robin and Orphan are barreling out of the door and to a decisive stop at the sight in the courtyard.
Abadi is holding you by your hair, a knife to your throat. He recognizes the man instantly from the folder in the plane. Tim’s cowl is suddenly too tight, the fabric suffocating his skin and pulling oxygen out of his lungs. The man is yelling at you and shaking you from side to side. Tim’s hands squeeze into fists as his own body shakes with rage. There is blood dripping from your arm- you’ve been hurt. Tim’s knuckles burn white against his staff, and in this very moment his wrath could snap the metal.
You’ve been hurt.
And all Tim can see is red.
Cass attempts to stop him in order to create a swift plan, but he’s already sprinting to your side- the one time Tim will ever out maneuver Cassandra. No time to assess, no time to figure out next steps. Tim has to reach you; he has to tell you; he has to save you.
Quickly, Tim reaches the two of you, and before Abadi can even register his presence, Tim greets the villain with cold steel. His bo staff hits the eyepatched man with a sickening crack across the face, most likely an eye socket or a jaw- Tim doesn’t care. The man lurches away from your body, so Tim takes full advantage of the distance.
Once you’re pushed away, Tim lets go of his anger and unleashes it on this man. And he doesn’t intend on stopping.
Three months of captivity. Three months of you being torn from his grasp. Three months of holding in his feelings. Tim has had enough.
However, he can only get a few dozen hits before fate intervenes. Cass jumps between Tim and Abadi, pulling the now unconscious man out of arms reach. She turns back and palms Tim directly in the chest, a powerful chastisement that knocks the wind from Tim’s throat. Red Robin is sent to the ground right on top of you.
Tim looks up to find Bruce there, shouldering the injured man. Tim knows the out of character display of anger will turn into a lecture from the bat, but he doesn’t care. He watches Bruce and Cass take him away before turning his attention back to you.
Untangling yourself from him, you sit knee to knee where Tim can now assess your physical state. You’re slightly bruised and a tad pale. The bleeding is coming from your arm- it looks like you were hooked up to an IV of some sort, he will have to ask later. Your hair is dirty and tangled. Your clothes are however sterile and clean, like you’ve been in uniform this entire time. Tim’s stomach churns thinking about your prison stay.
All in all, you are okay. You are alive. And the way you are looking at him right now, Tim wants nothing more in this world. You are more beautiful in this moment than you have ever been- breathing and in Tim’s arms.
Tim is just staring and bathing in your presence. He hardly recognizes you calling his name until your hands cup his face.
“Timothy! Tim, baby?” There’s a worried crease between your eyebrows, and all Tim wants to do is soothe it down with his thumb. “Are you okay? How did you find us?”
Red Robin can only nod. He feels as if he is suffocating with the tight squeezing in his chest- nothing other than exhilaration and delirium. He’s shortly grateful that you knew the man behind the mask, telling you the family secret was inherently a good idea. But right now, this cowl is stifling.
Tim rips off the mask and cups your cheeks. You start to cry at the full reveal of his face. He has been looking for you for so long, too long in fact. And you’re finally here. Finally within his arms once again. So Tim does what he promised himself he would do once he found you.
Tim cups the back of your head pulling you forward, and he kisses you.
And it’s electrifying.
It’s the type of kiss Tim has only dreamed about. The type of kiss seen in the cheesy movies you made him watch. The type of kiss that sends a shiver through his body to remind him that this is real. The type of kiss that explains to you all of Tim’s feelings without the words to express them.
You’re still crying as Tim pulls you onto his lap. You deepen the kiss as you bring his body closer to yours. The fact you are living and okay and Tim is here to get you is more than any wish or gift that could be granted by a thousand genies in a hundred lifetimes. He bumps your forehead as both of you part to catch your breath.
You start rambling, asking more questions of their arrival, of the other captives, asking if he was really going to kill Abadi. The crease between your eyebrows comes back.
Tim just shakes his head again, opting to kiss you another time. “Doesn’t matter.” He whispers. “I’m taking you home.” He follows with another kiss. “And you are never leaving my side again.”
Peanut Butter and Oreos (Part 1) They’ll be okay (Part 2) Bobby pin (Part 3) Ketchup Packets (Part 4) IV Pole (Part 5)
“Oi, brat.”
You look up at the man. The same face you’ve been seeing that brings your food and checks to make sure you’re still alive.
He throws a plate onto the floor, its contents scatter around you. The water bottle rolls to your ankle. He laughs something as he walks away. You sigh, standing up from your cot to collect the remnants of a meal.
It had been 3 months since your plane crashed, your parents killed, and your capture. Rescue was too loose a term. Picking at your stale piece of bread, you briefly think of how fighting the endlessness of the ocean would be better than rotting in this cell.
You estimated what should be about 30 minutes before the other man walks in. You hand him your tray and the bottle. He unlocks the door and you quietly follow him out of the room.
These men run to the second of the clock. Everything in order, everything always the same, day after day. Personal alarm, breakfast, work, cell, meal, sunshine, work, cell, meal, bed time. The men and women ordering you around, you feel like a mouse within the foxes den. The foxes playing with your body and soul before inevitably consuming you.
Rounding another corner, your body began to ache. Your favorite part of the day. The man opened a hatch, and sunshine flooded into the hallway. You deeply breathe in the salty air as you step outside into the corridor.
Arriving to the island after the raft, arrangements were made to acclimate each captive to their holdings. A 30 minute break outside was deemed reasonable, and you thank the gods there was at least some humanity left.
You and Gina deemed it recess when you had the time outside together; up until Gina and the other captive woman, Laura, decided to collectively attack one of the goons in a sorry attempt for escape.
You haven’t seen either of them since that day. Almost 5 weeks.
You run the course gravel through your hands and stare out to the waves crashing against the rocks. The wire fence is too high to climb, but the screen does allow you to see the entirety of the outside world. You wonder how the compound was viewed from the outside. You look further up and squint towards the sun. A little past midday.
Suddenly, the blood rushed from your head and you’re inexplicably light headed. As you turn your head back to the man watching you, a face and the faint memory of tufts of black hair skipped across your memory. Except all that you truly see, is darkness.
You awake to the heavy smell of antiseptic. There’s a pain at the side of your head, presumably from where you hit the ground, and a pain at the crux of your inner elbow. Blinking slowly, you register the IV tap and a pair of hands nestled next to yours.
“Tim?” Is the only word that you manage, raspy and corse.
One hand moves to misplace the hair out of your face.
“No, darling. It is just me.” You feel as if you can breathe again as Gina moved into your field of vision. Her eyes are puffy and red, and there’s a bandage across her chin.
She gathers your face with gentle hands, and kisses your forehead. She pulls your head to her shoulder as she lets you cry and soak her shirt.
Once you calm down, she starts at where you last saw her. Her punishment following the escape, the solitary confinement, and the work she’s been conducting.
Your fingers fiddle as she explains her experiences. Your tears are still falling as you ask, “how are you here?”
Sighing deeply, she pulls out a cigarette. She lights it and takes a deep draw, blowing the smoke out from her nose. The stale smell creeps around you as you try to breathe it in, hoping it will give you the same lethargic, mind-numbing feeling it could give Gina.
“There was commotion. We were in laboratory when door was rammed through. Someone had you in their arms, black as night.” Passed out, you correct yourself. “Eyepatch was furious. Yelled at other guards to contain whatever the hell was going on.” The animation of her arms flailing as she retells the event makes you giggle. “I followed you to infirmary. I do small checklist of tests. You are malnourished and over heated.”
She sits back and tosses the cigarette into the nearby can.
Gina grins kindly. “I make doctor note saying you cannot work today.” She pulls forward to kiss your forehead again. She spreads out your sheets with her hands and tucks a little bit in at your hips. “I will take over your inoculating tasks for today. You must rest. Lots of fluid!”
You nod your head in thanks as Gina exits and closes the only door to your room. She has been your resounding rock through this nightmare. You’re hopeful that your current incapacity will allow you to see her more often.
“And what do you want me to do about it?”
Hopeful thoughts and silence shatter. The voice reverberates off the walls, causing you to jump. The walls at the center of the complex must be much thinner than the cell walls, you think to yourself.
Looking around your small room, there is only one wall not covered in cabinets. You slowly stagger out of your bed, pull the chair and your IV pole around, and sit as close as you can.
“Dr. Ramirez,” a different voice. “You wanted payment. Whole payment comes from complete fulfillment of what you promised us. Based on your colleagues work, we are no where close to being finished.” A small pause, most likely a jab. “I would like you to explain to my buyer, and by association, me, as to why we do not have our product.”
The hair on your neck sticks up at the mention of Shawn. Traitor.
“It is not my fault things went to shit. I can’t call in reinforcements of doctors because I’m presumably dead.”
A spray of paper and heavy books slam into the wall your ear is pressed against. You clamp your hand over your mouth.
Shawn continues. “It is because we lost the best researchers in the crash.”
“That will not be explanation enough for him.”
“Obviously not.”
The slight click of a safety being turned off.
“Do not get snarky with me, boy.”
“The plan arranged for us to arrive at the island with all doctors in a line. The kid is what threw us off.”
More jostling of papers and books.
“And what about them?”
“Our notes failed to mention their connections to the Wayne family.” The sound of a glass bottle shattered against the wall. “The relationship with the family changed the flight plans. Billionaire playboy Wayne got the group a private jet. The original plane we ordered had paid off pilots. Instead of a planned hijack, we got an unpleasant and unplanned crash.”
Your head began to reel. The pit of your stomach seemed to churn. Bitter bile stained the back of your throat. You were the cause of your parents deaths? This all happened because of your friendship with Tim?
You wrench over, convulsing and dry heaving.
The conversation on the other side of the door continued as a fist banged on the table.
“Enough of your failures! We needed the doctors for the Meta-Human research. Now we have nothing to give to the bald American.”
“Luthor will take what we give him.”
The files in your brain failed to register and collect name information like Tim had taught you.
Oh Tim.
Tears began to swell in your eyes with the thought of your bird brain. You slump back against the wall and knead your shirt between your fingers.
You must have fallen asleep for quite some time.
A slight rumbling on the ground shakes you awake. The first thing you notice are the red lights flashing. You get up and drag your IV pole to the door. Your room opens up into the larger infirmary. You choose another door. It’s unlocked. Opening the next door, all the noises crash into you at once.
There’s yelling of orders and alarms blaring. The slight smell of engine oil hits your nose, something could be on fire.
Instinctively, you take off down the corridor without shoes and with your IV pole in hand. You’re running aimlessly down hall after hall in this endless maze trying to find someone. Anyone to help you.
Well, maybe not anyone.
You turn a corner and immediately halt. Eyepatch is standing there, waving a gun in hand and shouting orders to goons running amidst a blanket of chaos. He turns his head at your movement and snarls.
The larger man makes a bee-line for you. You’re frozen for just a second, and that second is all it takes. He’s above you in an instance.
“Come here, kid!” He yells.
You shove your IV pole at him, turn on your heel, and explode into a sprint. His grasp on the pole stays, and he yanks.
The IV still connected to your arm tugs before ripping out of your arm. You scream but continue running. Your fight or flight has kicked in and you have to fly to get back to your own bird. You don’t look back at Eyepatch.
With blood trickling down your arm and leaving a bread crumb trail of your path, you continue through the maze with little remembrance of where to go.
Tim taught you to monopolize your brain capacity, a computer with information filed away. You sort between what you can before screeching to a halt in front of your cell.
Only a few more turns before an exit door.
Your breathing is labored, your knees are shaking, and your ankles feel as if they are about to roll out from under you. You can’t stop just yet. It’s been too long.
You have to make it back to the states. You have to make it back to Gotham. You have to make it back home. You have to make it back to Tim.
The hatch to the outside feels infinitesimally heavy under your tired hands. You use the remainder of you strength to shove the door open.
And then, like a light switch, everything turned bright.
The party was tiring, no doubt about it. The ring on your finger was the main event, and Dick is pretty sure the two of you spoke to every single guest there tonight. It was a wonderful engagement party, Bruce had commented. Even Jason had showed, albeit a short time to hug you, clap Dick on the back, spill a whole tray of champagne, and walk out.
You were radiant, however: you shined in every imaginable way, from your laughs to your thank you’s, and even the sneaking of a few appetizers under a clothed table, from which grabby little hands accepted at such speed. Dick loved everything about you. He loved watching you be the lover and caregiver you were. Never the pleaser to just be so, but always the pleaser because it is what made them, and you, happy.
It was now much later. Clothes shrugged to the floor in exchange for comfy shirts and athletic shorts, a half empty chute of champagne on the dresser, and you sound asleep at the other side of the bed. A party at the Wayne Mansion always included a free nights stay in Dick’s old room, upgraded to a king bed since you arrived to the scene.
Dick scrolls through his phone answering a final few work emails. He sighs and puts his phone down. Rolling over, he closes his eyes and slips an arm around your body.
A little too furry if you ask him.
Dick opens an eye to level with a drooling tongue. Titus lies between you two, something he did not hear nor feel as the dog climbed into bed.
Peering over the horse sized animal, you still slept, a small smile on your face.
“Traitor.” He chuckles.
Dick turns back around to find Alfred perched a mere few inches from his face. The cat’s tail flicks back and forth amusingly. The brief thought of world domination might have crossed the cat’s mind, Dick thinks.
Dick slightly reaches for him before Alfred jumps off the bed and scurries off to the door. Adjusted to the dark, his eyes follow the feline before matching with a small silhouette in the door.
Too small to be an adult’s. A child, perhaps.
Oh.
“Damian?” Dick calls out. A sniffle replies. “You okay?”
Another small sniffle. “Of course, Grayson.”
Dick racks his still slightly tipsy brain. “You want Titus to come with you?” It’s too late in the night for Damian, it’s his night off from patrol.
“I was told to come here if I were to…” a slight pause, “to have any issues.” Dick can barely make the outline of the small boy pointing towards your side of the bed.
A nightmare, then. You had told Damian to come to you if his nightmares were to continue. It seems as if they had.
Dick pouts slightly. “I don’t think there is enough room for all four of us in here.”
Damian pauses to think. “You are correct.” Another pause. “My bed is big enough for you, Grayson. Alfred should be there to keep you company.”
Dick imagines a devilish grin on the boy’s face. He pouts again imagining puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks.
Damian’s small frame shuffles to the now overcrowded bed with pillow in hand, as he hikes up on your side.
Eyes closed and mumbling, you scoot Titus over with a tired “baby, please move.”
Titus groans as he plops back into Dick, crushing the man whose whole left side is now hanging off the bed.
Dick chooses life instead of suffocation and unceremoniously rolls off. He must pick his battles, and Dick has enough common sense to know this is not the battle to choose.
Standing, he gripes something under his breath before it hitches at the back of his throat. It’s a once in a lifetime shot, something of a comet only seen every few hundred years.
The man lets himself smile; he marks the core memory of you, his stars and moon and all things good, holding Damian and stroking his hair, his demon spawn brother and all things that will be good.
You are a lover and a caregiver after all. Dick hopes he’ll see this sight for years to come. The future picture lacks the animals for sure. Damian could still be there, but it might be a fight for your attention. Dick chuckles, thinking that would be a battle he would choose.
The cat rubs against his leg and mews, turning Dick’s attention back to him. He bends down and picks up Alfred, already purring with sleepy eyes.
“Come on buddy. Let’s go see if Damian’s bed will fit us two.”
You knock on the front door of your neighbor’s apartment, and twisting the knob, you found the door to be unlocked. Walking in and shouting inside the apartment, no one returned an answer. Guess it was empty.
It had been several months since you moved in next door to Jason and the two sex driven lunatics. You had become acquainted with Roy, the devilish red head who knows you had seen too much, and Kori, while also red head was less devil and more goddess.
You had quickly learned the trio were primarily night owls. However, most of the time the three were absent. You believed them to be adamant travelers, hikers or spelunkers even. More often than not all three would return home a little worse for wear after missing a week at a time. And each time they did come back, it’s as if they were bunnies. Jason swears to the gods above and below he doesn’t partake.
Eventually, you got the red heads to learn to be quiet. A threat (or two, or four) of involving the landlord was all you needed.
And speaking of the gremlin, he was the reason you were currently trespassing. Your apartment had several pipe leaks- it started with one in the kitchen and traveled to the pipes in your bathroom.
You stroll through their apartment, finding a note on the kitchen counter. Jason’s penmanship was quite clean.
Help yourself.
A couple days ago, you asked Jason in passing through the laundry room if you could take showers or a bath in their apartment; you asked your landlord to fix the leaks weeks ago but to no avail. You were tired of using your own bathtub with the over-looming anxiety of a pipe bursting. Jason told you he didn’t mind, just knock on the door whenever. If you were scared of Jason’s gruff demeanor, you might have thought you were asking too much. The dust of bright pink across his nose and ears told you otherwise.
You hook a left into Jason’s room with the attached bathroom. He had warned you not to travel to the primary bedroom, which you assumed could only belong to the others. You cringe at the thought.
Your brain further wanders to the blush on Jason’s face as you turn the faucet to fill the bathtub with hot water. You pour an ungodly amount of bubble bath liquid under the running faucet. You brought your own products- you’re trespassing, not a thief. Warm steam quickly fills the room, enveloping you and welcoming you to someone else’s space. You relax as you slowly glide into the water.
You’ve been soaking for a while before you finally stake out the state of the bathroom.
Recognizable, it’s the same layout as your neighboring bathroom. Although unlike yours, this one is polished, clean, almost sterile. Citrus and sandalwood hand soap, which almost seems to encompass Jason as a whole. Two toothbrushes in a brutish green cup, with adorned question marks. You make a mental note that one brush’s bristles are almost entirely flat, the second looks untouched. Another note that the double vanity seems slightly less used than you anticipated for two toothbrushes: one side lacks even a hand towel. Every bath item you would imagine a man to use was slated between the two sinks. You glance at an old water bottle, a toothpaste tube, a tortoise comb, a hand gun, a thing of chapstick, and a…
Oh.
Oh.
Your blood runs cold and your senses acutely sharpen.
Your eyes flit back to the black metal that starkly contrasts the white countertops.
Guns shouldn’t scare you; they don’t, you reassure yourself. But a gun living in Gotham, one that you don’t know where it came from or what it has been used for is a different thing. Jason’s frequent disappearances flood your brain.
As if on queue, you hear the front door open then slam as voices filter through. Roy complains about not eating in 48-hours. Kori suggests takeout. Jason only grunts in response.
Of course they would come home in the middle of your interpersonal dilemma.
Slowly, you push up from the tub with your arms, attempting to silently rise without the cacophonous splashing.
However, you think the lack of noise is more alarming, and you hear the bathroom door inadvertently open. You plop down loudly as sudsy water crashes back and forth.
A set of cerulean eyes meet yours. You feel terribly exposed.
The dangerous thought that in a different circumstance (perhaps gun-less), you’d want to float in the oceans of his irises.
“I’m sorry,” you squeak a soft laugh. The electric feeling of anxiety sparks around you, and you pray it doesn’t land in the water. “I think I’ve overstayed my welcome. I guess I should get a towel.”
Jason’s face twists with something you can’t quite set. Wordlessly, he sits at the edge of the tub and nods his head towards the double vanity.
“Below the sink.”
The man doesn’t break eye contact. Your heart beat has quickened. All too suddenly do you realize how cold the water has turned. Your bubbles are slowly displacing.
“Are you not going to grab it for me?” you panic. You would have to cross Jason and the gun in order to reach the towel.
His eyes are intense, feeling as if barring and marking your soul was his sole purpose.
“No, not at all.” He pauses, “I think you can get it.”
You swallow slowly, painstakingly. He has to be toying with you. Does he know a weapon sits merely feet from you? The rhetorical question sticks to the back of your brain.
It’s his bathroom. Why wouldn’t he know? How couldn’t he?
You nonetheless blush. Your eyes flicker to his grip on the side of the tub on which he sits. His knuckles are filtering through the last stages of pink as they beam whiter by the second. He has gone incredibly still.
“Can you leave before I get up?”
His hand flexes, your mind plays, if just barely. He waits another moment, the silence growing thick in the room before he replies, “no.”
Is he… smirking?
You day-dreamed that being stark-ass naked in your hot neighbor’s bathroom would be a little less dramatic than reality has turned out to be.
The tension is palpable. Jason’s eyes never once leave your body, and you can’t help but stare at anywhere else but him.
As you fixate on the gun once again, Jason moves in your peripheral. You stop breathing as he runs a relaxed finger down your neck and across your exposed collar bone. Goosebumps.
He is smirking. That bastard.
“Don’t mind the gun.” For the love of all things cruel in this world, he winks at you. “Doesn’t have to deal with you.”
The same outstretched finger lifts your chin to avert your full attention back to him.
“But there is something we need to talk about.”
**************************
[AN]: Again, check out the TikTok to see where this idea came from. This creator has some of the best recommendations and fantastic book scenes.
Reading the comments on the video, the original scene came from Jewel E Ann’s book, “Naked Fisherman.”
I ordered my own copy of the book before I wrote this. Super excited for it to come in!
Your braid whips up and down your back with the jostle of your galloping horse.
Looking ahead, you can easily see the coliseum’s entrance. Looking behind, you can easily see the distance you have gained between the other contestants.
Only a few more strides until you win the race.
You hit the reins and push your horse a little further past its top endurance to ensure your victory. Your smile widens as you hear the thunderous roar of the other Amazons inside the stadium. The oncoming feeling of victory resonated a powerful beam of pride that began to ease the stress in your shoulders.
Suddenly, you hear near shouting, and rustles behind the closest bushes. You can see figures but cannot identify numbers. Your instincts of action are failing as you grow closer to the bushes.
In a single second, a rope appears and trips your horse. Its legs are taken out from underneath it, and you can only watch in slow motion as your horse begins to fall to the ground.
The force in which your horse falls sends you flying off of its back, leaving you to tumble onto the hard dirt road. You roll several times over before finally laying down in a cloud of dust.
You hear the shadow individuals quietly cheer and disperse just as quickly as they appeared. You attempt to identify figures, but alas, the force of the fall leaves your head fuzzy. You take a few seconds to rest your muscles before attempting to stand.
As your bruised body eventually rises from the dust, the whoops and hollers of the other racers speed past you into the coliseum as victors.
Squaring your shoulders, you sigh deeply. Turning around, you fight back tears and head to check on your horse, helping it back to its feet.
A different figure soon emerges from the entrance to make their way to you.
You begin brushing the horse’s hide to rid of the dirt and adjust its reins.
“It is believed your horse tripped on its own.”
You scoff. “That was a quick decision.” You breathed for a second and checked yourself for injuries. “I’m assuming you saw the true story.”
The woman smiles softly. She brings a sugar cube to your horse and brushes its mane. “I also never received a fair race as a young child.”
You turn to face her and place a hand on your hip. “Princess, you still do not receive fair races.”
Diana’s head falls back as she laughs. It’s deep and beautiful and it makes you relax a bit further. She takes the reins from your hands and nods in the direction of the horse stables. “Let’s go, little one.”
As you walk in stride, she nudges you with a hip. However still young herself, Diana was the closest thing to family you had on this island.
Although you were told Diana was born from a small pile of clay, you were born from a mortal woman and an immortal god. Following the death of your mother and the abandonment of your father, a pair of Greek God twins took pity upon you. One marked your nose with the power of the sun, and the other placed your fragile body in the hands of Queen Hippolyta. The Amazonian queen saw that you were taken care of and planned for you to be trained as you came of age. Diana was told she would be in charge of your training when the time came. Diana was no more than 10 when you were left on the island, and now that you were nearing the same age, you understand the hardship of your origin.
The story of your mother and father turned to gossip that grew to an overwhelming hatred from others as you yourself grew. The god known as your father was not the same as Diana’s, but instead a much more hated being; the other island women primarily avoided your demigod blood. The combined disdain would explain the outcome of today’s race.
Diana led your horse into the stable as you stood back outside. Standing over the trough, you splashed the sun-warmed water onto your face to wash off the residual dirt. Another figure emerged from the stable and clapped a shoulder on your back.
You splashed a small amount of water onto the woman; she laughed and dragged you into a tight side hug.
Releasing you, she tugged your braid gently. “What a way to lose, firebird.”
You nudged your foot against her shin. “It is not nice to poke fun at almost winners, Artemis.”
The red head scoffed. “Almost winners are still losers, little one.”
You relied on Diana and Artemis for training and companionship. The two Amazons raised you as if you were no different, and you knew how hard they had to work to block the island rumors from your ears.
You looked up to them. It was surprising, truthfully. Diana was forced to accompany you, but she found a great love and appreciation for you. Artemis liked your fiery spirit and chose to help Diana with your training.
Although troublesome, you enjoyed life on Themyscira. You stayed to yourself as best as you could. The palace in which you were raised was kind, even if the people were not. Diana and Artemis were your moon and stars.
Until the moon left and took the stars with her.
Author’s note:
This is the beginning of a line of stories for my OC, Pyrena! Her name stems from the Greek root of “pyro,” meaning fire.
We’ll work through her overall story, her powers, her introduction into Young Justice, and some other one-shots that are just fun writing for me! I’m trying to be more consistent with creating content, so this is my attempt to get back into it! Send me suggestions for things you would want to see her do.
