guess who just gained a new insane ex story!!! (not my partner i love him we love each other but i just found out insane info about someone else)
now i have:
ex that broke off his engagement with the girl he left me for, contacted me for the first time after two years to beg me to flee the continent with him to elope in romania
the ex that named his kid after me
the ex that literally made me move apartments bc he would not stop sending me drawings he made of the two of us from jail
the ex that put himself in rehab bc he wanted to twelve step to get over me
the ex that flew to kenya to cheat on me
the ex that i just found out apparently has a tattoo of my name and birthday on his chest (we broke up 13 years ago and this ink is fresh and my friend just sent me a pic of it)
lol i know my jason todd x reader series has been meandering in slow burn friends to lovers through the years but next chapter is going full speed ahead into smut and then immediately taking a nosedive into angst lmfaooooo
I obviously know it's October lmao but I would love to request Jimmy Olsen x best friend reader where it's Valentine's Day and reader decides to spend a lot of time making a valentine for Jimmy to confess their deeper feelings for him. Obviously Jimmy gets like a million valentine's though so it backfires.
Either reader adds theirs to the pile and Jimmy just tosses all of the valentine's he got into the garbage lol OR the reader sees all his valentine's and decides not to give it to him. They get found out either way and they have to explain. A good dose of embarrassment and a little angst with a happy ending!
You are stupid, you realize now. Stupid to spend hours making this silly heap of paper in your hands, stupid to think it would make a difference. And stupidest of all, you thought that maybe you were different every time he kissed you so unbelievably tender in the mornings, with this morning being no exception. Stupid that maybe being his best friend that he fucks would make you special. You look from the pile of red and white and pink to the jumble in your hands. You’d done silly on the front of it.
On the Valentine is Jimmy, but you’d taken the billowing open shirted chest of a Fabio novel cover and pasted it below his neck. You’d taken hair from a shampoo ad that was the same color as his and made it flow out behind him. You’d put a horse between his legs. Jimmy looked ridiculous, and even moreso was the message under it: “Let's ride into the sunset” cut and pasted not unlike a ransom note.
On the back was something worse, it was serious. It was a declaration that tonight’s meet up should be a date, a real one. Now as you stare at the pile, which looks bigger than it did when you first came over, and you think maybe a meetup tonight won’t happen at all. Jimmy has his pick of the eligible hot singles in the office, why would he pick a friend?
“Going through the fan mail?”
Clark’s voice cuts through the spiral of self doubt, practically making you jump out of your skin.
“Uh, yeah,” you say, convincing no one, “Pretty crazy stuff.”
“I always tell Jimmy he needs to be upfront about things, I feel so bad watching him throw all of this away every year and hiding it from his admirers.”
He throws them away? Oh, well now you really can’t give this to him.
“Oh… yeah,” you say, not sure what else really to say. Just, oh. Clark is so sweet, and he doesn’t seem to notice the turmoil beside him now.
“You’re coming to the bar with us later right? I know he picked out the place.”
“Wouldn’t miss it!” you push a smile across your cheeks, thinking in your head of an excuse to absolutely miss the bar later now. It would kill you if he showed up with any one of them. He could have any of these people, if he wanted it. Jess from sports or Darnell from economics. And you’re just a friend, and this valentine you’d painstakingly glued together was going in the goddamn garbage. You offer Clark another smile, this one weaker as you turn to head back to your desk, the valentine still clutched in your hand. You drop it into the trash at the end of the bullpen, and continue back to your seat.
The third floor bathroom is your own little oasis to have meltdowns in, if history is anything to go on. It’s quiet, seldom used, the lights are dim for some reason, and there’s even little extra toiletries near the sink. You practically ran here after you passed Jimmy’s desk again, this time with him and his mountain of valentines absent. He’d already thrown them away, or maybe he picked his favorite one. You sent him a text first, not willing to face the oncoming rejection.
“Not feeling great, have fun tonight, don’t make Lois a third wheel.”
You figured it was jokey enough to not make him suspect anything was actually wrong. He’d read it, almost immediately. Jimmy did not respond. Great! Fantastic even! Which is why your eyes burn and you’re clutching the counter like you’d rip it clean off. There’s enough saved PTO that you can slip out of here, take the rest of the day to lick your wounds and lock this embarrassing little slip up away in a tiny box in your mind that you never have to think of again. Sure, you love Jimmy Olsen. Who doesn’t? And that’s exactly the problem. At least the evidence is disposed of and no one but you needs to know about this little issue. You can bounce back, you can get over him, you can do this.
It was easy to convince people you had to leave, with your red eyes and your tight voice it sounded more or less like you had a sinus infection. The alarm on your phone buzzes, and you head over to your kitchenette. You’d thrown some veggies on a tray to roast in the oven, not willing to stand over the stove on a night like tonight. Not when the sun was setting and there was a bottle of wine to open. You place the tray down on top of the stove and start plating your dinner when the sound of a key in the lock stops you.
“Hey! It’s not a good time!” you call out, hoping, but knowing better, that it might deter him. Only one person has your spare key.
“Are you sure about that?”
Jimmy comes through the door, his messenger bag slung across him as he closes and locks the door behind him, walking across the space to you.
“You don’t look very sick.”
“No, I’m very sick! Contagious, even,” you cough to punctuate the sentence, but it doesn’t even sound remotely real.
“Okay,” he raises his eyebrows, laughing a little at your poor attempts, “Anyways I was hoping you could help me figure something out.”
You put down the tongs and the plate, turning now fully to face him as you watch him unzip his bag. Jimmy digs around for a little, before a familiar looking lump of red appears in his hand. He holds it up to you like a piece of evidence, between his thumb and his pointer finger carefully, inspecting it and flipping it over once or twice to look at both sides.
You can feel not just your face but your whole body heating up, and you wish now that this was one of those buildings effected by the rift that had opened up last year so maybe it could come apart and swallow you whole right here right now.
“Clark said he found this in the trash,” Jimmy tells you. And you’re gonna kill Clark! He’s dead, and even his little buddy Superman can’t save him. Trash picking little corn fed…
“Did you mean to put it there?”
“I— well, I mean,” you swear under your breath, turning away from him. Your cabinets are scuffed, and your eyes trace the lines you need to buff.
“You know, I don’t think I can pull off this haircut, I mean… gosh,” you don’t have to turn around to know he’s gesturing at the collage art you’d made, “You want a date and for me to grow out my hair? Tall order.”
You scoff, turning on your heels back to face him.
“You don’t have to make fun of me, you know?” your voice comes out louder than you expected, and you shrink in on yourself, “Why are you even here?”
And he has the audacity to smile. Jimmy Olsen and that shit-eating grin. If you were still in college, you’d have smacked him.
“I came here to say yes to the question on the back of your little art project and to drag you out of here kicking and screaming to the bar we’re supposed to meet Clark and Lois at, but by all means— if you want to keep throwing your little pity party,” he holds up his hands as if surrendering, “I just think a double date might be better than whatever that is.”
“They’re vegetables, asshole.”
He drops the valentine on your counter, a big messy yes written on the back of it where you’d written your question, and throws his hands up in exasperation.
“Can I take you out, please?” he asks, his voice strained and stressed, “I promise I’ll drag you if I have to.”
You stare at him, looking for maybe the last signs of a joke, last living signs of this blowing up in your face. There are none, just his tired smile and his eyebrows knitted up with frustration at you.
“Can I agree and have you try to drag me?”
“Theres my girl,” Jimmy sighs, and his arms are around you. You sink into his grasp immediately, letting him kiss the side of your head as he squeezes you close. He kisses the side of your nose next, then the corner of your mouth, then finally kisses you square on the lips. It feels like every other kiss of his, tender and gentle but still firm. Oh! You are stupid, but not for the reason you thought you were this morning.
“You like me,” you tease, your words muffled because you refuse to pull away from his kiss, even for this.
“Yeah,” he laughs, mouth still against yours, his breath hot on your face, “Love you.”
i thought that if i bought tickets to the flyers on easter i could avoid seeing my family until at least june but guess who has invited themselves to my safe space on easter too
Jason Todd has been through it, and he knows that he doesn't have time for many friends. Enter you: Optimistic, way too pretty, and ready to prove him wrong. A When Harry Met Sally retelling with two vigilantes who can see everything but whats right in front of them, a splash of miscommunication, and friendship that endures despite Jason's best efforts.
warnings and notes for the series: swearing, smoking, drinking, canon typical violence, smut in later half, angst with a fluffy ending, side dickkori and roydonna, side jaytemis and reader x reciever on the bludhaven brawlers, absolutely no hate for artemis but a lot of hate for the reciever, slight ooc jason in ch 1 but its for a reason
rest of the series here
December, Three Years Ago
“I really wanna thank you for taking me out tonight,” you say, reaching for your beer, “Really, I would have just been bored and alone in my apartment.”
Not that you didn’t have an invite to any New Years, in fact Harley Quinn had invited you (and all of the girls and the gays of the Gotham hero and anti-hero scene) to a warehouse party she wanted to throw. For some reason, the idea of it didn’t appeal to you. Too old for a warehouse party? You’re not sure thats a real excuse, most of the women invited are older than you. Still, the idea of a warehouse party to end the year feels wrong for you.
Luckily, Jason asked if you’d like to go to the bar down the street. They’re doing an Emo night, but its chill. There’s a makeshift dance floor on the other side of the room, and you and Jason are tucked into the corner booth away from it all.
“No you wouldn’t have, I’d be there,” he says it like its obvious.
“That Wayne Gala was tonight,” you remind him, the big gaudy turn of the century themed one that Bruce knew even his girlfriend was ditching for the warehouse party. The tesla coil he’d told you about would have been cool to see on that dance floor though.
“And no matter what I was going to hide from it with you, we just happen to be out instead of in tonight,” he effectively ends the train of thought, and he’s right. Every major holiday and birthday, this year and last, he’s managed to hide somewhere in the city with you. Christmas was at yours, his birthday was at a bar near his place, your birthday was at one of his safe houses with some take out. You’ve always wanted to be a social butterfly. It would certainly make work easier, you’d have a big group of friends, you’d always be doing something and going somewhere. But it doesn’t come naturally to you. You like being out and about, but on the sidelines. Your favorite spot in the club is a place you can watch and observe people. Just two weeks ago, you and Jason had stood in the corner of a club Dick had dragged you both to, and you attempted to poorly lip read a couple having an argument across the room, which then devolved into the two of you making up horrible voices and ridiculous drama for them to get into. This socially-unsocial thing you do with Jason is the most comfortable you’ve ever felt, like finally you have someone that understands the intricacies of being a wallflower.
He dabs his fries in the garlic aioli you ordered to go with them, silently conceding you were indeed right when you asserted that it was actually the best thing to dip fries in after you’d argued with him on the matter for months now at this point. He chews the fries quickly, like someone is gonna take it from him, but the rest of him reads relaxed, lounged back against the cushions of the booth. You watch him, limbs lithe and smooth as he reaches for his beer next, and the rim of the glass kisses his mustache.
“You know, I like the stubble,” you say, as if this is a new revelation and not something you’ve been thinking since Christmas. Jason only laughs.
“Why? Because it hides my face”
“No” You laugh, but it sort of kills you at the same time, “Because you look more relaxed with it, like you can take a break for once. I like when you look like you can just be you.”
Jason smiles, a real smile, and reaches out for your hand. You reach back, your hand dropping in his own. He thumbs over your pinky ring, a signet with old looking script reading “The End” like the final frames of a film. He pulls you a little closer, your purse squeezing between the two of you, the only thing preventing your hips from bumping together.
“Ten! Nine! Eight!”
Right, the whole reason you’re here. The bar feels like it shrinks around you and Jason, coating you in this little bubble of warmth and comfort.
“Wanna get some air?” He asks, and you can tell he doesn’t want to get up.
“No, I’m okay,” you say, and you really are.
“Seven, Six, Five!”
Getting up would ruin this moment, might make the waiter take your fries, might ruin the entire vibe of the night. You do want a cigarette, but it can wait.
“Four, Three, Two, One!”
The bar erupts in screams, in kissing, in revelry. The lights go up, then down again and My Chemical Romance’s “I’m Not Okay” begins to play, an almost perfect needle drop if you were to say anything. You smile at Jason, and he smiles back, his eyebrow quirking up. You raise your own in response, a silent question. Jason only shrugs, and you shrug back.
So its decided.
Jason’s free hand reaches for you, his big calloused hand warm on your chin as he pulls you in. You readily let him guide you. His lips are soft, his facial hair rough as his face presses against your own. Its comfortable, and nicer than kisses with Mike were. You hate to compare the two, but Mike was always too soft or two rough. Always treating you like glass or head butting you. Jason kisses the way you like, though. Jason knows how to make it count. Its dangerous. His hand slides its way to the back of your head, tangling in your hair as he holds you in place. He smiles into it, and you smile back just as he pulls away.
The smile on Jason’s face is big and wide and dumb when you open your eyes, and he pulls you into a hug.
“Happy New Year,” he says.
“Happy New Year.”
He keeps you tucked under his arm, his heart hammering against your ear, and you can’t help thinking how fucked you both are.
April, Two Years Ago
Donna Troy takes your arm as she walks down the block with you. This was a stupid idea, but one you were optimistic about. It doesn’t stop the weird little voice in the back of your head that tells you to call the whole thing off.
“Listen, he’s one of my best friends, and you’re one of my best friends,” You reason, “and if by some chance you two hit it off then we can all be best friends together and I can stand on both sides of the aisle at the wedding and you can stand at mine.”
She doesn’t comment on the way you’re now willing to consider marriage. It was a recent revelation anyway. You’d like to be someone’s wife… as long as they would be okay with your vigilantism and the fact that Jason would practically live with you. But the title of wife doesn’t sound like a poisoned dagger anymore, if only you could get over your habit of serial ghosting.
“I don’t know why you’re being so secretive about this,” she says, shaking her head as you wait for the trucks to pass at the crosswalk. You check your watch, ten minutes until the reservation time. You’d be early, and you can only hope that Jason will also be early, or at least on time.
“Well thats the fun of a blind date, right?” You ask, then add, “I don’t even know the name of the guy I’m being set up with.”
Jason is being weirdly quiet about the whole thing, which is part of the reason why you are too. He’s just continued to swear that this was a good idea, and that he wouldn’t immediately hook up and leave, and that you couldn’t ghost because the date would be a mutual friend and you both couldn’t fuck it up without inconveniencing your friend. It was like a weird type of social insurance, he told you.
When the light finally turns and you can cross, you see two forms in the distance, and one is clearly Jason. He stands against the stone wall outside the place, leg hitched up as his back rests. He’s smoking with the other guy, and its clearly the anxious Jason smoking and not the habitual Jason smoking. You figure there’s a panic attack brewing under his attempt at a casual posture.
You walk closer as Donna squeezes your arm again, the forms now working out more details.
And then Donna gasps.
“Roy?” Donna calls out, her voice surprised as it is shocked. Your eyes widen, turning your head towards her slowly. Roy? As in, her ex-boyfriend Roy?
“Donna?” The redhead man calls back, and yes, the insane situation is starting to take shape in your head.
You and Jason were bringing two people who had dated for over a year to a blind date. She speeds up, dragging you in tow to the front of the restaurant, excitedly waving at the two men waiting there. Jason stomps out a cigarette and offers you a weak wave. He’s trimmed the mustache, you. notice immediately. Good, you think, at least he follows your advice.
“Oh, what on Earth!” Donna turns to you, “Did you know about this? Of all the humans you could have set me up with, my ex boyfriend’s best friend?”
“Jason is Roy’s Jason?” You ask, more out of disbelief than confirmation. You’d never actually met Roy when he and Donna dated, but you did hear about some of the wilder missions and adventures they’d been on. You’d even spent the weekend at Donna’s when Roy was away to keep her company while he and…. your Jason were out doing something insane. You’re going to kill Jason, maybe, for not letting you in on this little fact. The only thing stopping you is the fact that he also probably didn’t know you’d bring Donna. How could he have known?
“Donna, how’ve you been?” Roy crosses the gap between the two parties, hugging her and kissing her on the cheek. Jason similarly greets you, with a firm squeeze around the waist and a kiss to your temple. His hands are slow to leave you, and by the way his fingers tense up against your jacket you can tell he’s just as anxious and annoyed at the situation as you. And Donna and Roy are off, talking and catching up in front of the restaurant while the two of you just stand here.
“Oh, we have fucked up, haven’t we?” Jason asks, keeping his voice low.
You nod, keeping your eyes on the pavement, on the way the toes of Donna’s heels and Roy’s boots dance around each other as they talk. Theres no room for even an introduction, but maybe thats not necessary anymore. The hero world sure is small, you think.
“How didn’t we know?” he asks, “We’re both smart, we should have known, right?”
You chuckle, patting his shoulder as you look up at him for the first time. Your eyelids feel heavy, your eyes sting. You did your make up really nicely tonight, though.
“Now that I think about it, we only hang out with each other alone,” you say, “We had to figure our friend groups overlap.”
Dinner is fine. Really, really fine.
Jason booked a private room with mood lighting and a curated playlist which you can tell are songs he finds romantic. He’s even laid off playing Tool and Spiritbox and swapped them out for some songs that normal people would find sweet. The food is great too, a lot of love and care put into the menu. Realistically, this has all the trappings of a perfect date.
The only issue is your date, and his date. You should be happy for them, they’re reconnecting, and you know Donna really loved Roy. You wouldn’t date him even if this date was going well just because of that fact. It’d be too weird, too familiar and uncanny. Donna and Roy have squished up to a mutual corner of the table, to the point where you’d actually be more shocked if they didn’t end the night going back to the hotel you’d overheard Roy say he was staying in. They’re talking low, quiet and flirtatious, sharing their dishes like you’re sure they’ve done a million times. He points out the bracelets on his arm, clearly the work of a child that must be in his life, and she coos and smiles wider than you’ve seen her do in years. Its just funny the way you both promised you wouldn’t bail on a date, only for your dates to bail on you for each other.
“Hey,” Jason leans over towards you, pinching the straw of your drink and bouncing it up and down a few times. You look over to him, a thin smile on your face.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and from below the table you can feel the side of his boot tap against your ankle. You nudge his leg in return.
“I was going to make a joke saying that you didn’t have to do all this just to get me to ask you out.”
“And here I thought you stopped hitting on me years ago,” you joke back, though it sounds weak and wobbly. He really did pull out all the stops here though. You’d wanted to try this place out for ages, and he’s being so sweet despite the situation. Jason even put his roasted carrots on your plate, knowing they’re your favorite.
“Okay, damn,” he lets go of your straw, “Guess I won’t ask if you wanna go back to mine and pick out something on Mubi.”
He folds his arms like a petulant child, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from your chest.
“Oh you didn’t say a movie was on the line,” you look over to Roy and Donna, still oblivious to anything but each other, “In that case, flirt away.”
the way that i am the number one emerald fennell hater on earth and i was given early screening access to a press showing of her clearly terrible adaptation of my favorite novel lmfaoooooo
Not Because We're Lonely... A Jason Todd x Reader When Harry Met Sally AU!
Jason Todd has been through it, and he knows that he doesn't have time for many friends. Enter you: Optimistic, way too pretty, and ready to prove him wrong. A When Harry Met Sally retelling with two vigilantes who can see everything but whats right in front of them, a splash of miscommunication, and friendship that endures despite Jason's best efforts.
warnings and notes for the series: swearing, smoking, drinking, canon typical violence, smut in later half, angst with a fluffy ending, side dickkori and roydonna, side jaytemis and reader x reciever on the bludhaven brawlers, absolutely no hate for artemis but a lot of hate for the reciever
Jason Todd has been through it, and he knows that he doesn't have time for many friends. Enter you: Optimistic, way too pretty, and ready to prove him wrong. A When Harry Met Sally retelling with two vigilantes who can see everything but whats right in front of them, a splash of miscommunication, and friendship that endures despite Jason's best efforts.
warnings and notes for the series: swearing, smoking, drinking, canon typical violence, smut in later half, angst with a fluffy ending, side dickkori and roydonna, side jaytemis and reader x reciever on the bludhaven brawlers, absolutely no hate for artemis but a lot of hate for the reciever, slight ooc jason in ch 1 but its for a reason
rest of the series here
February, Three Years Ago
“Hello? You asleep?” The voice on the other end of the line asks, speakerphone on your counter as you fiddle with the cocktail shaker.
“No, just reading,” you tell him, which isn’t untrue, you paused your audiobook to pickup his call.
“Oh, more Gothic Horror? A little spooky late night?” Jason teases, his voice sounding like one of those announcers on a halloween commercial. Goofy Jason is rare, but a welcomed delight. Patrols must have went well, his flare up must have cleared up, but you were just happy he was speaking without a wince in his words.
“No, actually, a romance,” It was one where a masked man takes a woman in his arms all dramatic and has his way with her while calling her his muse and his queen and all of that sappy shit, but he doesn’t need to know about that. He chuckles on the other end, so you ask him a question before he can press further.
“What about you? Reading? Or just bothering me?”
“Rude. I’m finally annotating that copy of War and Peace I bought with you,” Strange. Jason, the avid annotator, usually has that done within a week of purchase. You’ve never seen him read without a pen in hand. “Say, would you really rather marry Andrei over Anatole?”
You almost drop the shaker, fumbling it in your bandaged hand.
“Was that ice I hear?”
“When did I say that?”
Jason chuckles over the other side of the phone, and from the pause he’s writing or underlining something.
“In the car ride to Bludhaven,” he recalls, “you said it was stupid for Natasha to even entertain the idea of Anatole when she has Andrei she’s waiting for. That he’s the practical choice and she should have known that was more important than her feelings.”
You scoff.
“I would never have said that,” you tell him, but actually you’re not sure, you might have, "besides, the real passion of that book is the quiet and longstanding love of her and Pierre”
Jason is quiet for another moment, as if thinking it over. This happens often, your answers scrutinized and digested, but he’s long since stopped snarking them. This one though, he chews on long enough so you can pour your drink uninterrupted.
“Alright, have it your way,” he sighs, then, “Have you been sleeping?”
“No,” you answer honestly. The amount of make up to hide it at work is getting a little ridiculous, “You?”
“No, I think I’m restless.”
“Do you want to do something about it?” you ask, “I made myself a little cocktail, figured I deserve it after one of Penguin’s thugs slammed my fingers into a car door tonight.”
Jason hangs up, and twenty minutes later he’s on your balcony in what is clearly his pajamas.
“Lock that!” he chastises you as he slides the door open, entering your space without needing invitation. You hand him another cocktail you made in anticipation, middle and ring finger awkwardly jutting out where the tape and splint keep them together and immobile. He settles in with you on the couch, holding his book with the pen tucked into it like a bookmark up to show you his progress. He’s about two thirds of the way through. You settle in on the seat next to him, the audiobook ditched for the physical copy. Jason did not need to hear the scene that was playing just before he arrived.
“Eugh,” he fake-retches as he looks at the cover, and you try to smack him in retaliation, only you forgot about your fingers for a moment. The second they make contact with his bicep, you whine in pain, the dull ache spreading up your hand. Jason reaches for it, gently, and surveys the damage, his thumb running over the taped together knuckles.
You watch as his face scrunches up, that little line between his eyebrows pronounced and deep. He frowns, subtly, but you see it.
“We don’t have to amputate,” he jokes, but his voice is low and soft and not at all his normal joking bravado.
“Thanks, Doc,” you smile at him, something soft and easy. Jason drops your hand, cracking open his book, and you both fall into an easy silence.
July, Three Years Ago
Damian stomps away from Jason in front of a sculpture you cannot decipher, something modern and grey and strange that makes you think of desk jobs and being nervous. Maybe thats what its supposed to mean, or maybe you’re way off and its about the artist’s marriage or something. Jason was excited to have a museum day with you and Damian, two people he said understood him like no one else. And the first three floors of the museum had gone well, but Damian is in high school, and as much as he loves Jason, he acts like a highschooler. He’s getting bored, no matter how much he loves art, not matter how much he tries to hide that he loved it when Jason took a selfie of the two of them in front of a painting Damian said reminded him of when he was little.
“Tough crowd,” you comment after leaving the textile piece you were studying.
“I gave him money for a soft pretzel, he’ll be fine,” Jason shrugs, and you fall in line next to him, staring at the painting in front of you. Two twisted abstract forms in a flurry of red and black and purple explode across the canvas, a fight or perhaps a dance. He sighs, not his exasperated sigh, but a relaxed one. His shoulders droop, at peace in a way you rarely see him outside of his apartment or yours.
“Hey, after we drop off pipsqueak, would you like to go to the movies with me tonight?” Jason asks, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, “You know, like between this and patrol?”
“Tonight?” you ask, “I well, I can’t I have…”
You’re not sure why, but it’s really hard to say the word.
“A hot date?” he jokes.
“Well, yes,” you still can’t say the word though, “I do.”
He pauses for a moment, looks like he doesn’t know what to do. The guarded posture of his back returns, the mask of public Jason slipping back into place. You know instantly you should have lied or something, though you’re not sure why. You hadn’t intended on him finding out you were actively trying to date. It felt like something Jason shouldn’t know.
“Oh… Oh, thats great!” he says, but his voice is thin, tight, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Because you can’t. Because the word won’t leave your lips. Because for some reason it feels wrong to tell Jason you’re going on a date with some guy you met on Hinge. You stumble over your words before you settle on an answer, your voice low and meek.
“I- I thought it might be weird,” you gesture between the two of you, “with all the time we’ve been spending together.”
You don’t say its because of the fact that he pulls you onto his lap during movie nights or insists he’s the only one allowed to check you over after a scrape. It feels like something that should be hidden away from him, a betrayal you don’t wish to put on him.
“No, I think its wonderful you have a date tonight,” he says, his voice uneven.
“You do?”
Thats not the response you expected, but the guilt subsides slowly like melted ice. You pull at the chain of your bag, fiddling with the clasp where it lands around your elbow.
“Yeah,” he pauses, then, “Is that what you’re going to wear?”
You look down at your outfit, a green sleeveless romper, linen and casual. You think theres a little sexiness to it, though. It buttons up the front, so you can choose if its giving someone a show or not. Its also a very thin material, if a date put their arm across your back they could feel lingerie through it. You haven’t decided on that yet, whether or not you want the date to go there. He may put his arm around you and just feel a normal boring bra.
“Maybe, why?” you ask, instantly regretting it though. You don’t want his help with this.
“That skirt you wore to dinner last week was really great,” he says, and yeah, it was a good one. Short, but not too short, and flirty with its tight but not too tight fit.
“You look fantastic in skirts.”
You’re not sure what the smile on his face means when he says it.
“Better than leather and spandex?” you joke, and he laughs, but doesn’t answer. Jason just reaches for your elbow as he pulls you along to the next room, where he can already see Damian sitting on a bench with his pretzel waiting for you.
“You know, maybe you should get out there too,” you say, now unable to bear the thought of Jason going to the movies alone or forgoing the whole thing to sit around his apartment before patrol.
“Oh no, I’m not ready,” he’s quick to deflect, turning his face away from you, “I wouldn’t be good for anyone right now.”
“Damn, did you get lucky?” is what he says instead of hello the next morning. You’re still in last night’s clothes, but you had the sense to take off your make up at least.
“You wish,” you scoff, pushing past him into his apartment. His furniture is pushed around already and the rug is leaned up against the kitchen island.
“Okay so then why do you look like you did a walk of shame here?”
Right, okay, you thought of an answer that made you sound normal on the way here, but that flies out of your head now that you’re asked to fess up.
“Would you believe I was so bored on the date that I fell asleep on my couch like the second I got home?”
And Jason looks… relieved. His face breaks into a smile as he laughs and nods, having the audacity to look fake pitied.
“What did you do last night? Just patrol?”
His face reddens before he turns from you again, heading to the rug to start rolling it out. You join him, kneeling as you straighten out the rug along the floorboards he wants to line it up with.
“Ended up finding a date,” he says coolly, his hand pushing the rug to roll out across the floor. You stand to chase it, smoothing it as it flattens itself so it won’t have any bumps or ridges. Jason found a date. Of course he did. He has no issue finding those. Though…
“Oh! Did… they go to the movies with you?”
He moves along the floor with you, pulling at some spots and stamping down others.
“No, you still owe me that one. We went to the bar across the street. There uh… won’t be a second date.”
“Oh that’s too bad,” you tell him, but you already expected him to say something along those lines.
“Yeah I mean, having a panic attack in the bathroom doesn’t exactly scream boyfriend material.”
You fold your arms, about to be mad at this mystery woman on his behalf.
“Jason Todd if she left you at the pub while you were panicking and you didn’t call me I swear! What a bitch…”
“No that wasn’t a turn off, she still slept over. I just… don’t think we’d work.”
“And yet you broke your ‘no civilians’ rule for her?”
“She was really hot.”
You refuse to acknowledge how your face heats up.
“Also, forgot to say it, but I was right. That skirt looks really good on you.”
November, Three Years Ago
“So what, you go on these dates and they all magically want to sleep with you?” you ask as you absentmindedly flick your knife through the air, watching how the city lights bounce off of metal. You ask because Jason showed up covered in hickies, hickies that were not there when you saw him at breakfast with his family. Jason chuckles, and scoots on the ledge closer to you
“Sure, I mean, what’s not to want about a guy that looks like a ripped up Ken Doll and has crippling anxiety talking to you?” Jason asks, “I’m plenty charming if you can get over the autopsy scar.”
“You don’t get anxious around me,” you point out, and really you cannot recall a single time he’s had a panic attack around you when it hasn’t had something to do with a mission or his past. He’s more than fine doing normal activities with you, even ones that would look like dates.
“You’re different,” Jason explains, “I don’t have to lie to you.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“I’m different?”
“Yes, obviously. If I mess something up you’ll still be here. I literally spent hours trying to piss you off and somehow you wanted to be my friend after that.”
“So what do you do besides have a panic attack that makes you so successful?”
“Jealous?”
Asshole. You punch him in the arm lightly, scowling. You can just tell by the way he’s holding himself that he’s smiling all wide and shitty under his helmet.
“No but really. You could put yourself out there more. I’m sure you’re a lovely date. I always love spending time with you!”
You probably don't look impressed, so he continues.
“I usually panic, hook up, panic and lie my way out of there. It’s not malicious I just… can’t stay.” Jason explains, “I’ve been in successful relationships, I just feel stuck right now. It makes me sick to think of being some random person’s boyfriend.”
He tilts his head back towards the stars, and you can tell he’s trying to put up a wall, a silent challenge to you. You take the bait.
“You know, I’m glad I never got involved with you,” you start, and he turns fully towards you, “I’d be just another woman you’d sleep with and then abandon at three am because you say you have a polo game or you have to go test out the new car or something equally ridiculous the Wayne Manor has.”
“I’m surprised you don’t do more of that,” he counters, “I’m sure you’d be rolling in dates if you just tried a little harder. You’d be a great girlfriend for some random meathead!”
“Well I’m certainly not using your methods,” you say, “I mean, could you imagine me dry heaving my way into bed with a Pitcher?”
He jolts as if you’ve struck him. Instead of amping the banter up, he just answers.
“I don’t hear complaints.”
Of course he doesn’t, he doesn’t stick around long enough to know. But you don’t say that.
“How would you know?”
He laughs, full bodied and you know whatever you poked in his ego isn’t bruised.
“Because they… you know.”
You play stupid.
“They what?”
You can hear the low scoff, and you just know that you got him to do that really annoyed face where he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth.
“C’mon you’re a big girl. They finish.”
You laugh, and decide you can keep poking.
“And how do you know that they’re really…?”
You trail off, pretending to find your knife interesting again because you know it’ll piss him off.
“Are you trying to imply that they fake with me or something?”
Jason stands up, getting in front of you, his body finding it’s way between your knees. It’s his favorite way to pretend to intimidate you, he towers over you like this. It’s probably the last thing a lot of people has seen, but you just want to keep stirring shit up.
“I’m saying you probably can’t tell the difference.”
He takes the bait.
“You sure about that?”
“Oh, yeah,” you moan out, breathy and a very good imitation of how you actually sound in bed.
His shoulders slump, and if you could see his face right now you’d be able to see that wiped the smile right off of it.
“Please… Jay, please, yes!” you moan a little louder, throwing your head back and closing your eyes, really selling it. He steps back, not too far, but now he’s no longer crowding your space. You’re winning!
“Jaso-“
“Hey Jason!” Barbara’s voice crackles through the communicators, “You do know your comm is open, right? We can hear this.”
You scream, smile peeling across your face as you cackle with laughter, leaning forward and grabbing the open edges of Jason’s jacket to hang onto him as you’re almost certain tears are about to fall.
"I vote that we separate those two," Tim's voice is the next one over the communicator. Fuck, you think, that would actually make this the worst patrol schedule if you had anyone other than Jason.
“Yeah, our bad,” he mutters sheepishly, and then turns off his side of the communicator promptly. It's then that he starts laughing too, doubling over practically on top of you.
“You’re such a bitch,” he laughs, his voice high and playful like you rarely hear it. You stay there, sobbing with laughter, gripping onto each other as if you’ll fall from the roof if you let go.
Jason Todd has been through it, and he knows that he doesn't have time for many friends. Enter you: Optimistic, way too pretty, and ready to prove him wrong. A When Harry Met Sally retelling with two vigilantes who can see everything but whats right in front of them, a splash of miscommunication, and friendship that endures despite Jason's best efforts.
warnings and notes for the series: swearing, smoking, drinking, canon typical violence, smut in later half, angst with a fluffy ending, side dickkori and roydonna, side jaytemis and reader x reciever on the bludhaven brawlers, absolutely no hate for artemis but a lot of hate for the reciever, slight ooc jason in ch 1 but its for a reason
rest of the series here
October, Four Years Ago
Gotham has changed, you think, not much, but enough that it’s surprising you a little. For instance, this restaurant is new. Almost glittering in how clean it looks. Not that Gotham doesn’t glitter, but it’s different. The glitter of Gotham is like pigeon feathers, iridescent in a subtle way, mistaken for oil and grime, but beauty nonetheless. You’ve missed this place.
“What are you getting?” Donna Troy, in an unassuming creme sweater, interrupts your train of thought as she places her menu down on the table.
“I don’t know, maybe the coq au vin, haven’t had that in a while,” you muse, and put your own menu down. You’re not settled on it, but it feels like a good choice. You’ve been flying by the seat of a few good choices lately, letting feeling guide you where logic can fail.
“I’m so glad Dick got us this reservation,” Kori says, “There’s so many things I haven’t tried. Do you think it would look odd if I brought home a few meals?”
“How is Dick, by the way? I feel like it’s been ages since I’ve seen him,” Donna asks.
“You know how the internet says human men get all… weird and project obsessed when they buy a home?” she starts, “It’s either we’re on a mission, he’s at his day job, or we’re ripping up a wall together. Equally romantic and infuriating.”
You’ve been on the receiving end of at least eight phone calls about house projects, how Kori would wake up to Dick having shut off the water to install new pipes, or the cabinets being torn from the wall in a speed that would have you thinking Dick was the one with alien powers instead of hers. Despite the amount of times she tells you she wants to kill him, theres a dreamy tone to her voice that makes it clear she’s fawning over him as she helps him with all of the insane projects. And the house looks good, too, so you really cant fault his work. Its one of those really nice rowhomes, the kinds celebrities would own in a bigger city, with enough rooms for all of their hobbies and hosting and space to hide their secret identities. You’d have asked to move into it if it didn’t feel embarrassing.
“And how’s Mike?”
“Oh he’s… you know, house hunting,” you’re not sure how to answer.
“You guys are moving in? Thats great!”
“The opposite, actually,” you admit, wishing the waitress would come back right now and change the subject at least for a moment.
“We broke up, like, a while ago. Its fine though! I’m fine, I have my whole life ahead of me. That’s why I’m here, actually, moving back home.”
You hope it doesn’t sound too pathetic, that the chair wont be over a trap door that opens up into an abyss of pitying stares and concerned frowns. Its been two days in reality, but that would only make it worse.
“Oh congratulations! It must feel good to be home,” Donna is quick to bring a smile back on her face, “And if you want to get back out there, I can help. We can double date or something!”
You smile, but shake your head.
“No, its alright, I think I need a little mourning period before I get back out there.”
The rest of lunch goes on easily, no looks of pity tossed your way as you smiled and shared and picked off of each other’s plates. So when you’re done and Donna has to leave, you see no reason why hte good times cannot keep rolling with Kori. The two of you fall into step easily on the pavement, taking a walk down the block to the familiar sight of your favorite bookshop, a stop you’ve been taking since childhood. Coffee table books, thats what Kori had said she’d wanted to find, and so you led her to the top floor. It held all the architecture books, the art era guides, the picture books of cinematography of different series. You know they recently released the Dune book, and Kori loves the series. You’re keen on dragging her to find her that one in particular, an easy buy for her and a good start for the collection.
You weave in and out of the rows, breaking when opens spaces gives way to tables with books curated by the staff, different themes and trends as you scan them for the cover with the big vast deserts of Arrakis to greet you finally.
“Is that Jason?” Kori asks, pointing at a familiar tuft of black hair that she absolutely recognizes. It snaps you out of your search completely, delayed and deterred now by maybe your least favorite Gotham resident. God Dammit. Just what you needed. Gotham is a big city, so how is it you’re running into him so quickly?
“Yeah, I think it is,” you say, not tearing your eyes off him as he rounds the side of the bookshelf. He’s got stubble, the beginnings of a mustache and you can’t help but think it’d be a good look on him if it grew in properly. But thats a thought that single you pushes away because he's married. He told you he was planning on marrying Artemis last time you met.
“You know what? I forgot Dick wanted me to…” she does’t finish her sentence, or maybe you don’t hear it, because Jason moves towards you as if caught in your orbit.
“Look at this, a reunion!” he holds open his arms, two books in one hand, and for a moment you think he means to hug you. He doesn’t, though, raising his free hand to wave at Kori as she unsubtly leaves this floor of the shop and probably the shop altogether.
“The logical optimist, how goes it?”
He’s fucking with you, and you urge yourself to not look as annoyed as you feel.
“Logical and optimistic,” you say, “And you’re probably still just as irritating, right?”
Jason Todd only smiles as he falls into place with you, picking lazily at the row you were standing against. It’s then that you notice the two books in his hand. A copy of Therese Raquin and the new edition War and Peace with the fancy red cover that you’d already preordered and had coming on the way.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he hums, and leads you along the shelves, seemingly looking for something.
“Still reading that same book though, huh?”
“I’m a romantic,” Jason shrugs, smiling widely at you before his eyes go wide, obviously finding what he came for. It’s a copy of Ecstacy by Irvine Welsh, tales of Chemical Romance. Fitting for a Jersey boy to pick out the novel where the best Jersey band got its name.
“You’re a Welsh fan too?” you ask, but your voice holds no surprise. He seems like the kind of guy that would actually read more contemporary stuff, the classics and the french social novels are the real surprise. Big scary killer man doesn’t scream yearning romance, after all. Though, in this sweater and jacket and with twine tying the two books he already had together, he doesn’t look all that big or scary.
“Of course,” he says, “I like any author that won’t sugarcoat how vile humanity can be, its almost tolerable that way. He’s insane, you think, or at least just very maladjusted. You keep following him though, fully of your own volition even though you never thought you’d want to do something as normal and domestic as book shopping with Jason Todd. He stops again and you spot something, reaching for it as you marvel at the binding. You guess you and Jason are a bit similar, at least in this way, and you collect special covers and art editions of your favorites too. Pulling it down, you turn the book in your hand; Beautiful sprayed edges in swirling patterns, a shiny dust jacket with pressed crimson letters standing out against the deep black of the cover.
“Frankenstein?” he asks, taking the book from your hand, turning it over once himself, before putting in his growing pile. You reach to grab it back for him, but he holds the books away, fully stretching his arm out and far from you.
“Lemme buy it,” he offers, “I think I give you enough grief anyway, this is like a… peace offering.”
He’s smiling as he says it, not smirking or sneering or clearly mocking you. And maybe nice married Jason Todd is kind of someone you’d be willing to be friends with.
You walk around the rest of the store, all three floors and every room, watching Jason add books to his pile and commenting on his choices the whole time. As it turns out, you do have similar tastes. Dick was probably right to assume you’d get along when he offered him to give you a ride. He likes mostly the classics, but modern crime and neo-noir thrillers as well, and horror about transformation.
Jason leads you over to the checkout, placing the books neatly on the counter face down so they’re quicker for the clerk to scan them out. Its then that you notice his hands, scarred but well manicured, and not a sign of a wedding band, not even a tan line or an indent.
He chuckles as he notices your eyes trained on his hand. The clerk bags the books, a small canvas bag with a linocut print of the stores logo pressed to it.
“Never made it to the alter, by the way,” Jason says, “Betcha didn’t predict that.”
He says it as if he expects you to have some type of sick satisfaction about it, as if you’ll gloat. Bile rises in your throat, the taste of the red wine sauce coming back.
“I’m so sorry,” you say, fingers flexing as if you want to reach out to him, but you feel like maybe he isn’t a hugger, “Could I ask what happened?”
He chuckles, head tilting as he leads you away from the till.
“I figured you would,” but his words have no bite, “Said she didn’t love me anymore, and I was okay with that. You know, I don’t want to date someone that doesn’t want to date me.”
That makes sense, obviously. You wouldn’t want to either. And maybe thats part of why Mike left, a change in heart or feeling that doesn’t need to be hard or mean.
“And then last week I found out she was with someone else, her kind, Amazonian, you know?” He shifts the bag on his shoulder, and says the words without anger. He’s not jealous, or mad that his ex had already moved on. Brave of him, you think, and much more level headed than you expected.
“And how can I compete with that? Right? I mean, I’m six foot too, but I am not a beautiful woman.”
Your face falls as he puts himself down, not certain how to comfort someone you’ve only known to be prickly. You reach out, fingers brushing the fabric of his jacket in an awkward fumble of an apology. You open your mouth to speak before he cuts you off.
“I’m fine, really. I was hopeful… and now I know not to do that again,” he laughs, clearly finding it funny to punch down upon himself.
He changes the subject quickly, and you think maybe it’s because you look real sorry for him. You are real sorry for him, though, because you think he does deserve to be happy, even if he’s infuriating.
“Hows the football player?”
He doesn’t say Mike, but you can tell its not because he doesn’t remember his name, he doesn’t want to say it.
“He’s fine,” you say, then falter, “…I hear he’s fine.”
Surprisingly, he doesn’t press, just watches.
“We broke up,” And then, “Six days ago.”
You’re not sure why you’re honest to him when you lied to the girls. Hell, you hadn’t even told them why you were in Gotham.
“I’m sorry,” Jason offers, the words stiff.
“You don’t sound so sorry,” your voice bratty, teasing him. He breaks out into a smile, and laughs.
“I am! I am,” he rubs your shoulder as he leads you towards the basement stairs of the bookstore, where the cafe and bar were located.
“Let me hear your complicated order for the cafe, my treat for feeling sorry.”
Your order isn’t complicated, not really.
Your first choice is a glass of red from Argentina, if not that then a glass of white from Italy, and if not that your third choice is a glass of rose from California. Jason only rolls his eyes once before holding out a thick black credit card for the lady at the counter to take before he gathers up the tray of pastries you begged him not to splurge on and the two glasses for you both. Its thoughtful, and almost has you wondering if Jason has somehow been replaced with a doppelganger or something.
Jason holds your glass of rose out to you, and you take it as you sit at the little loveseat with a table in front of it, the book bag lazily on the corner of it, Jason’s glass of ‘whatever red’ and a black coffee in front of him. Surprisingly, its easy to talk to Jason about this.
“When me and Mike started seeing each other we wanted exactly the same things. We wanted to live together and be in love but never get married,” you gesture as if thats the obvious choice, “because all of our married friends… we noticed it ruined their relationship. Nobody ever has sex anymore once they get married.”
You leave out the fact that Dick and Kori definitely still have a lot of sex, but they’re different. Mike, also, didn’t know them. All of Mike’s buddies wives seem like they sleep separately, and some even do. They have two to four kids, and then they avoid each other like the plague. There have been countless WaG dinners where the only topic was sex, or more accurately, the lack of it. Jason’s eyes widen in surprise, but then steel themselves again, biting back whatever comment he wanted to make to continue being a good listener.
“And we always said we wanted to fly off to Norway or Belgium and have sex all over the house and all these things that you couldn’t do if you settled down and had a family,” you pause to sip before you continue, “But even without a family we still didn’t do any of those things. Not once, not even oral on the back patio or something risky like that! Mike sat me down last week and said the thing is, I don’t know where you are half the time, babe. You take these business trips and all of these late nights, and we say we have these plans so we don’t have a family, but I think I want one. I’m jealous of my friends that get to go to their kid’s dances or graduations. This is what I want.”
You pause to take another drink, and look over at Jason. The thing is, he doesn’t look like he’s judgemental about it at all. He’s just… listening. It makes your eyes sting, so you look to your glass instead of him.
“And I said: well I don’t. I mean, I really don’t. I don’t want a relationship without passion. I don’t want to be stuck as a wife and mother if I cannot do everything I want to. I even thought about telling him about my night activities, but I stopped myself because that still wouldn’t change the fact that we’d grown apart even without a wedding. And then it was over, and he left.”
You take a deep breath.
“The thing is, I feel really fine.”
You’re not sure if you’re convincing him or yourself, eyes now burning because you refuse to cry, refuse to mess up your mascara. Jason holds out his glass, clinks it against the rim of your own. And thats the best comfort it could be, really. He doesn’t offer jokes, or sympathy, or scorn. Just an acknowledgement that it sucked and that he could relate. All by bringing the rims of your glasses together and ringing out like a bell.
“Did you at least get the house?” he asks, and your eyes don’t feel as painful anymore. Like maybe you really do feel fine.
“Selling it. That way When my transfer goes through I can move back here and buy a better place than my old apartment. Thats why I’m here, actually.”
“Better than my turf?”
“Oh way better. Maybe a townhouse that actually has heat, and doesn’t have the most irritating biker revving his engines on the street all night.”
He laughs again, loud and cutting over the quiet music of the cafe. You finish off your glass, picking at the croissant you told him not to buy, nails tearing into the fluffy dough at the center.
“You know,” he says as he regains himself, calms his breathing, “The first time we met, I didn’t like you.”
It’s your turn to laugh, and the tears return again, but this time for a good reason. You drop the croissant back on the little plate, covering your mouth as you crack up.
“I didn’t like you either!” you exclaim. You don’t say you like him now, but you don’t dislike him anymore.
“Can I apologize for that? Like, the whole thing, I was arguing on purpose.”
“I figured you were,” you tell him, and then, “Would you like to grab dinner sometime? I might need someone’s ear to talk out all this house hunting.”
Not Because We're Lonely... A Jason Todd x Reader When Harry Met Sally AU!
Jason Todd has been through it, and he knows that he doesn't have time for many friends. Enter you: Optimistic, way too pretty, and ready to prove him wrong. A When Harry Met Sally retelling with two vigilantes who can see everything but whats right in front of them, a splash of miscommunication, and friendship that endures despite Jason's best efforts.
warnings and notes for the series: swearing, smoking, drinking, canon typical violence, smut in later half, angst with a fluffy ending, side dickkori and roydonna, side jaytemis and reader x reciever on the bludhaven brawlers, absolutely no hate for artemis but a lot of hate for the reciever
Jason Todd has been through it, and he knows that he doesn't have time for many friends. Enter you: Optimistic, way too pretty, and ready to prove him wrong. A When Harry Met Sally retelling with two vigilantes who can see everything but whats right in front of them, a splash of miscommunication, and friendship that endures despite Jason's best efforts.
warnings and notes for the series: swearing, smoking, drinking, canon typical violence, smut in later half, angst with a fluffy ending, side dickkori and roydonna, side jaytemis and reader x reciever on the bludhaven brawlers, absolutely no hate for artemis but a lot of hate for the reciever, slight ooc jason in ch 1 but its for a reason
rest of the series here
October, Four Years Ago
Gotham has changed, you think, not much, but enough that it’s surprising you a little. For instance, this restaurant is new. Almost glittering in how clean it looks. Not that Gotham doesn’t glitter, but it’s different. The glitter of Gotham is like pigeon feathers, iridescent in a subtle way, mistaken for oil and grime, but beauty nonetheless. You’ve missed this place.
“What are you getting?” Donna Troy, in an unassuming creme sweater, interrupts your train of thought as she places her menu down on the table.
“I don’t know, maybe the coq au vin, haven’t had that in a while,” you muse, and put your own menu down. You’re not settled on it, but it feels like a good choice. You’ve been flying by the seat of a few good choices lately, letting feeling guide you where logic can fail.
“I’m so glad Dick got us this reservation,” Kori says, “There’s so many things I haven’t tried. Do you think it would look odd if I brought home a few meals?”
“How is Dick, by the way? I feel like it’s been ages since I’ve seen him,” Donna asks.
“You know how the internet says human men get all… weird and project obsessed when they buy a home?” she starts, “It’s either we’re on a mission, he’s at his day job, or we’re ripping up a wall together. Equally romantic and infuriating.”
You’ve been on the receiving end of at least eight phone calls about house projects, how Kori would wake up to Dick having shut off the water to install new pipes, or the cabinets being torn from the wall in a speed that would have you thinking Dick was the one with alien powers instead of hers. Despite the amount of times she tells you she wants to kill him, theres a dreamy tone to her voice that makes it clear she’s fawning over him as she helps him with all of the insane projects. And the house looks good, too, so you really cant fault his work. Its one of those really nice rowhomes, the kinds celebrities would own in a bigger city, with enough rooms for all of their hobbies and hosting and space to hide their secret identities. You’d have asked to move into it if it didn’t feel embarrassing.
“And how’s Mike?”
“Oh he’s… you know, house hunting,” you’re not sure how to answer.
“You guys are moving in? Thats great!”
“The opposite, actually,” you admit, wishing the waitress would come back right now and change the subject at least for a moment.
“We broke up, like, a while ago. Its fine though! I’m fine, I have my whole life ahead of me. That’s why I’m here, actually, moving back home.”
You hope it doesn’t sound too pathetic, that the chair wont be over a trap door that opens up into an abyss of pitying stares and concerned frowns. Its been two days in reality, but that would only make it worse.
“Oh congratulations! It must feel good to be home,” Donna is quick to bring a smile back on her face, “And if you want to get back out there, I can help. We can double date or something!”
You smile, but shake your head.
“No, its alright, I think I need a little mourning period before I get back out there.”
The rest of lunch goes on easily, no looks of pity tossed your way as you smiled and shared and picked off of each other’s plates. So when you’re done and Donna has to leave, you see no reason why hte good times cannot keep rolling with Kori. The two of you fall into step easily on the pavement, taking a walk down the block to the familiar sight of your favorite bookshop, a stop you’ve been taking since childhood. Coffee table books, thats what Kori had said she’d wanted to find, and so you led her to the top floor. It held all the architecture books, the art era guides, the picture books of cinematography of different series. You know they recently released the Dune book, and Kori loves the series. You’re keen on dragging her to find her that one in particular, an easy buy for her and a good start for the collection.
You weave in and out of the rows, breaking when opens spaces gives way to tables with books curated by the staff, different themes and trends as you scan them for the cover with the big vast deserts of Arrakis to greet you finally.
“Is that Jason?” Kori asks, pointing at a familiar tuft of black hair that she absolutely recognizes. It snaps you out of your search completely, delayed and deterred now by maybe your least favorite Gotham resident. God Dammit. Just what you needed. Gotham is a big city, so how is it you’re running into him so quickly?
“Yeah, I think it is,” you say, not tearing your eyes off him as he rounds the side of the bookshelf. He’s got stubble, the beginnings of a mustache and you can’t help but think it’d be a good look on him if it grew in properly. But thats a thought that single you pushes away because he's married. He told you he was planning on marrying Artemis last time you met.
“You know what? I forgot Dick wanted me to…” she does’t finish her sentence, or maybe you don’t hear it, because Jason moves towards you as if caught in your orbit.
“Look at this, a reunion!” he holds open his arms, two books in one hand, and for a moment you think he means to hug you. He doesn’t, though, raising his free hand to wave at Kori as she unsubtly leaves this floor of the shop and probably the shop altogether.
“The logical optimist, how goes it?”
He’s fucking with you, and you urge yourself to not look as annoyed as you feel.
“Logical and optimistic,” you say, “And you’re probably still just as irritating, right?”
Jason Todd only smiles as he falls into place with you, picking lazily at the row you were standing against. It’s then that you notice the two books in his hand. A copy of Therese Raquin and the new edition War and Peace with the fancy red cover that you’d already preordered and had coming on the way.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he hums, and leads you along the shelves, seemingly looking for something.
“Still reading that same book though, huh?”
“I’m a romantic,” Jason shrugs, smiling widely at you before his eyes go wide, obviously finding what he came for. It’s a copy of Ecstacy by Irvine Welsh, tales of Chemical Romance. Fitting for a Jersey boy to pick out the novel where the best Jersey band got its name.
“You’re a Welsh fan too?” you ask, but your voice holds no surprise. He seems like the kind of guy that would actually read more contemporary stuff, the classics and the french social novels are the real surprise. Big scary killer man doesn’t scream yearning romance, after all. Though, in this sweater and jacket and with twine tying the two books he already had together, he doesn’t look all that big or scary.
“Of course,” he says, “I like any author that won’t sugarcoat how vile humanity can be, its almost tolerable that way. He’s insane, you think, or at least just very maladjusted. You keep following him though, fully of your own volition even though you never thought you’d want to do something as normal and domestic as book shopping with Jason Todd. He stops again and you spot something, reaching for it as you marvel at the binding. You guess you and Jason are a bit similar, at least in this way, and you collect special covers and art editions of your favorites too. Pulling it down, you turn the book in your hand; Beautiful sprayed edges in swirling patterns, a shiny dust jacket with pressed crimson letters standing out against the deep black of the cover.
“Frankenstein?” he asks, taking the book from your hand, turning it over once himself, before putting in his growing pile. You reach to grab it back for him, but he holds the books away, fully stretching his arm out and far from you.
“Lemme buy it,” he offers, “I think I give you enough grief anyway, this is like a… peace offering.”
He’s smiling as he says it, not smirking or sneering or clearly mocking you. And maybe nice married Jason Todd is kind of someone you’d be willing to be friends with.
You walk around the rest of the store, all three floors and every room, watching Jason add books to his pile and commenting on his choices the whole time. As it turns out, you do have similar tastes. Dick was probably right to assume you’d get along when he offered him to give you a ride. He likes mostly the classics, but modern crime and neo-noir thrillers as well, and horror about transformation.
Jason leads you over to the checkout, placing the books neatly on the counter face down so they’re quicker for the clerk to scan them out. Its then that you notice his hands, scarred but well manicured, and not a sign of a wedding band, not even a tan line or an indent.
He chuckles as he notices your eyes trained on his hand. The clerk bags the books, a small canvas bag with a linocut print of the stores logo pressed to it.
“Never made it to the alter, by the way,” Jason says, “Betcha didn’t predict that.”
He says it as if he expects you to have some type of sick satisfaction about it, as if you’ll gloat. Bile rises in your throat, the taste of the red wine sauce coming back.
“I’m so sorry,” you say, fingers flexing as if you want to reach out to him, but you feel like maybe he isn’t a hugger, “Could I ask what happened?”
He chuckles, head tilting as he leads you away from the till.
“I figured you would,” but his words have no bite, “Said she didn’t love me anymore, and I was okay with that. You know, I don’t want to date someone that doesn’t want to date me.”
That makes sense, obviously. You wouldn’t want to either. And maybe thats part of why Mike left, a change in heart or feeling that doesn’t need to be hard or mean.
“And then last week I found out she was with someone else, her kind, Amazonian, you know?” He shifts the bag on his shoulder, and says the words without anger. He’s not jealous, or mad that his ex had already moved on. Brave of him, you think, and much more level headed than you expected.
“And how can I compete with that? Right? I mean, I’m six foot too, but I am not a beautiful woman.”
Your face falls as he puts himself down, not certain how to comfort someone you’ve only known to be prickly. You reach out, fingers brushing the fabric of his jacket in an awkward fumble of an apology. You open your mouth to speak before he cuts you off.
“I’m fine, really. I was hopeful… and now I know not to do that again,” he laughs, clearly finding it funny to punch down upon himself.
He changes the subject quickly, and you think maybe it’s because you look real sorry for him. You are real sorry for him, though, because you think he does deserve to be happy, even if he’s infuriating.
“Hows the football player?”
He doesn’t say Mike, but you can tell its not because he doesn’t remember his name, he doesn’t want to say it.
“He’s fine,” you say, then falter, “…I hear he’s fine.”
Surprisingly, he doesn’t press, just watches.
“We broke up,” And then, “Six days ago.”
You’re not sure why you’re honest to him when you lied to the girls. Hell, you hadn’t even told them why you were in Gotham.
“I’m sorry,” Jason offers, the words stiff.
“You don’t sound so sorry,” your voice bratty, teasing him. He breaks out into a smile, and laughs.
“I am! I am,” he rubs your shoulder as he leads you towards the basement stairs of the bookstore, where the cafe and bar were located.
“Let me hear your complicated order for the cafe, my treat for feeling sorry.”
Your order isn’t complicated, not really.
Your first choice is a glass of red from Argentina, if not that then a glass of white from Italy, and if not that your third choice is a glass of rose from California. Jason only rolls his eyes once before holding out a thick black credit card for the lady at the counter to take before he gathers up the tray of pastries you begged him not to splurge on and the two glasses for you both. Its thoughtful, and almost has you wondering if Jason has somehow been replaced with a doppelganger or something.
Jason holds your glass of rose out to you, and you take it as you sit at the little loveseat with a table in front of it, the book bag lazily on the corner of it, Jason’s glass of ‘whatever red’ and a black coffee in front of him. Surprisingly, its easy to talk to Jason about this.
“When me and Mike started seeing each other we wanted exactly the same things. We wanted to live together and be in love but never get married,” you gesture as if thats the obvious choice, “because all of our married friends… we noticed it ruined their relationship. Nobody ever has sex anymore once they get married.”
You leave out the fact that Dick and Kori definitely still have a lot of sex, but they’re different. Mike, also, didn’t know them. All of Mike’s buddies wives seem like they sleep separately, and some even do. They have two to four kids, and then they avoid each other like the plague. There have been countless WaG dinners where the only topic was sex, or more accurately, the lack of it. Jason’s eyes widen in surprise, but then steel themselves again, biting back whatever comment he wanted to make to continue being a good listener.
“And we always said we wanted to fly off to Norway or Belgium and have sex all over the house and all these things that you couldn’t do if you settled down and had a family,” you pause to sip before you continue, “But even without a family we still didn’t do any of those things. Not once, not even oral on the back patio or something risky like that! Mike sat me down last week and said the thing is, I don’t know where you are half the time, babe. You take these business trips and all of these late nights, and we say we have these plans so we don’t have a family, but I think I want one. I’m jealous of my friends that get to go to their kid’s dances or graduations. This is what I want.”
You pause to take another drink, and look over at Jason. The thing is, he doesn’t look like he’s judgemental about it at all. He’s just… listening. It makes your eyes sting, so you look to your glass instead of him.
“And I said: well I don’t. I mean, I really don’t. I don’t want a relationship without passion. I don’t want to be stuck as a wife and mother if I cannot do everything I want to. I even thought about telling him about my night activities, but I stopped myself because that still wouldn’t change the fact that we’d grown apart even without a wedding. And then it was over, and he left.”
You take a deep breath.
“The thing is, I feel really fine.”
You’re not sure if you’re convincing him or yourself, eyes now burning because you refuse to cry, refuse to mess up your mascara. Jason holds out his glass, clinks it against the rim of your own. And thats the best comfort it could be, really. He doesn’t offer jokes, or sympathy, or scorn. Just an acknowledgement that it sucked and that he could relate. All by bringing the rims of your glasses together and ringing out like a bell.
“Did you at least get the house?” he asks, and your eyes don’t feel as painful anymore. Like maybe you really do feel fine.
“Selling it. That way When my transfer goes through I can move back here and buy a better place than my old apartment. Thats why I’m here, actually.”
“Better than my turf?”
“Oh way better. Maybe a townhouse that actually has heat, and doesn’t have the most irritating biker revving his engines on the street all night.”
He laughs again, loud and cutting over the quiet music of the cafe. You finish off your glass, picking at the croissant you told him not to buy, nails tearing into the fluffy dough at the center.
“You know,” he says as he regains himself, calms his breathing, “The first time we met, I didn’t like you.”
It’s your turn to laugh, and the tears return again, but this time for a good reason. You drop the croissant back on the little plate, covering your mouth as you crack up.
“I didn’t like you either!” you exclaim. You don’t say you like him now, but you don’t dislike him anymore.
“Can I apologize for that? Like, the whole thing, I was arguing on purpose.”
“I figured you were,” you tell him, and then, “Would you like to grab dinner sometime? I might need someone’s ear to talk out all this house hunting.”
