red hood: *in the middle of helping a criminal's face to resemble Blue Water Lilies by Claude Monet* wait. hold up
criminal: *sobbing* h-huh?
red hood: *pulls a phone out hif his leather jacket pocket* just a sec
criminal: w-what?
red hood: i got a comment
criminal: a-are you LIVESTREAMING this??!?
red hood: *looks up for a second, then back down* what? no, that's ridiculous. i got a comment on my fanfic
criminal:
nearby thug: ship?
red hood: *without missing a beat* BatLantern. because i know it pisses him off and i'm trying to see if i can get disowned a second time
Had this idea that when thing settled down and Jason was in the Cave, he insisted his uniform be taken out of the case and just replaced with a plaque or something because it's morbid. Jason who when alone, picks up the costume and is like "damn I was tiny" and got some reason he picks up Tim's which is balled up in a laundry basket and he compares the weight and it strikes him that Tim's suit is at least three pounds while his is not even half that weight. No wonder I died. And he says as much to Tim, not in a jabbing away but in a sort of commentary way and Tim is literally sat there like
Because is Jason's ass for real? Tim goes into detail how Bruce barely let him patrol without constantly updating the suit. More padding, more coverage, more shock absorbition. Bruce was frantic to make sure Tim was protected because he couldn't save Jason. "By the end of my first month, I couldn't fucking walk," Tim tells him. "The man was literally one bruise away from rolling me in bubble wrap."
Bruce who overhears this just apologises like he did back then but it's the withdrawn, sort of guilt ridden apology a parent makes when they know they're doing the right thing but is sorry their kid is so upset. Jason understands and says as much, saving his pride with a shove on Tim's shoulder than he's lucky Bruce didn't send him out in a suit of armour from downstairs when he came back, the big old mama Bat. Tim laughs but Bruce just says without thinking that if he had his way, none of the kids would be out on patrol and then hastily excuses himself after saying something like "because none of you are focused enough" but Tim and Jason know.
do you guys think Jason takes advantage of the fact that he has so many underage vigilante siblings by telling them to secret shopper his goons and check that they adhere to the 'no selling to kids' rule? because i do and i think each child fucks up the job in their own spectacular way.
Nightwing, landing on a rooftop where Red Hood's speaking to one of his subordinates: yo, Hood, what's going on?
Jason: hey. just getting the report for that secret shopper thing i was gonna do with the Wayne kids.
Subordinate: yeah... uh, why are Bruce Wayne's kids taking part in this again?
Jason, without missing a beat: because non of their neighbours need their laws mowed and Brucie says it's important for kids their ages to start learning the responsibility of having a job. anyway, Damian was up tonight, right? who was he buying from, 'cause i already know they failed.
Subordinate: yeah, Rick let the kid buy from him, so he needs to be punished i guess. bought two eighths of weed and an ounce of coke without Rick even blinking.
Jason, frowning: yeah, call that guy up for me to 'speak' to-
Jason:
Jason: wait Damian bought what?
Subordinate: ...two eighths of weed and an ounce of coke?
Jason:
Dick: what's wrong?
Jason, shooting off a grapple: that little shit only gave me back the weed-
~
Jason: *crying with laughter in the middle of the street*
Dick, landing nearby: ...you ok Hood?
Jason: *wheezing*
Duke, faintly, from Jason's phone: ITS NOT FUNNY.
Dick: what's happened?
Jason: Duke- *wheeze* Duke was supposed to do his secret shopper assignment tonight, but he didn't read the memo properly and tried to buy from a group of four of my guys as Signal instead of himself,
Duke: -SHUT UP JASON.
Jason: *still struggling to breathe* so he- so he rocked up and asked to buy as Signal, and my guys all assumed he was arresting them for possession,
Dick: oh my god.
Jason: they dropped him everything they fucking had and bolted, and now he's panicking on the other end of Crime Alley because four peoples' entire product inventory is too much for him to carry in one go and he's scared of leaving any behind for kids to wander across, so he's- *collapses into more laughter*
Dick, in awe: he's just stuck guarding it?!
Duke, from Jason's phone, incredibly distressed: THE RATS ARE CIRCLING IN. I'M NOT USUALLY OUT THIS LATE. SOMEBODY NEEDS TO COME AND FUCKING HELP ME-
Jason: *loses it*
~
Dick: hey, Tim did his secret shopper thing tonight, right? how'd that go?
Jason: *head in his hands*
Dick: ...did the guy fail?
Jason, muffled: no.
Dick: then what happened?
Jason: i had him try to buy from the same guy as Damian, to see if he'd 'learned his lesson', and he refused to sell to Tim point blank.
Dick: ok...?
Jason: but then Tim got offended that he'd sold to Damian and not him, so he pulled a gun on the guy and robbed him instead.
Dick:
Dick: the fuck did he get a gun from-
Jason: i don't fucking know Dick.
~
*Dick and Jason getting food on patrol when Steph calls Jason*
Steph: so i did the thing and it didn't work but i don't think it didn't work because i'm a kid.
Jason: ...what do you mean?
Steph: well i walk up to these two guys and ask to buy, right? and they say sure, what do you want? and i go 'four', and these guys say 'four what' and i'm like ??? the fuck do you think? four drugs. and-
Jason: *puts his head in his hands as Dick chokes on his hotdog*
Steph: -they look at me like i'm the fucking idiot, like, you should know how to count if you're gonna be a drug dealer, it's not like you guys have cash registers to help you out, right? and they start arguing with me and telling me that clearly i'm already high—which, fuck you guys, my makeup is awesome tonight, i do not look like i did it while high, how dare you! so i said maybe they're high and i should call their boss and snitch for stealing his supply, and they were like 'nuh uh blondie, nuh uh!' all mocking and shit, so i kicked one guy in the balls and the other guy grabbed me and now they won't let me leave until i prove that you sent me.
Jason:
Dick: *crying*
Steph, brightly: so yeah, if you could come pick me up~
conversations overheard through the batkid com lines pt 64 (masterpost here)
Jason: *snicker* come on, it's fine. patrol's basically over, the kids are all back at the cave, the entire city is peaceful, you can take one sip.
Bruce, tired: for the fourth time, i don't drink on the job, Hood.
Jason: come onnnn~ we haven't had some adult-batfamily hang out time for ages. it's the only time i ever like you, you gotta partake.
Bruce: *grunt* i'm still Gotham's protector.
Jason: ok and you're also my legal adoptive father, so take the stick out of your ass and have a beer with me. come on- come onnnn, i got a spare flaaaaassskkk~
*a long beat of silence*
Jason: come on- that's it- open up, i'll tip it in, you just gotta swallow, there we go,
Dick, amused: you have got the be the only person on this planet that can peer-pressure Batman into drinking alcohol, Jay.
Bruce: -ok, no, take it away, i'm not falling for this.
Jason: DICK. I WAS SO CLOSE.
Dick: *wheeze* i'm sorry- i didn't mean to-!
Jason: YOU SUCK.
Dick: *cackle* just gimmie the other flask, don't waste it.
*faint sloshing*
Bruce, resigned: you shouldn't be doing this in your suits, if something were to happen...
Dick: B, buddy, we've been sneaking alcohol into our bat-water-bottles since Jason was first adopted. we know how to swing and drink.
Bruce: i still don't know how i never caught you,
Jason, mouth slightly full: 'oo were- *cough* you were a very self centred guardian back then, man. i could do anything, you weren't fuckin' looking.
Bruce: *sigh* yes, well, mistakes were made.
Jason: *laughs* you're good, we had fun.
Dick, wistful: man, we did have some fucking fun. i still remember- Jay, do you remember when you snuck out to that party and B found out you were gone in the middle of the night-?
Jason: OH- oh, the time that i came back at like three AM and he'd moved ALL THE FURNITURE?
Bruce: *light snort*
Dick: *wheeze* yeah-
Jason: fucking- i was gone for like four hours and you moved all the furniture in the front section of the house into the back ballroom so i got back and thought i was in a fucking fever dream, everywhere empty,
Dick: *high-pitched, giggling* and he- he told you that a bunch of people had broken in and stolen all of our stuff-!
Jason, mocking: 'well maybe if Robin had been around then he could have stopped the crime, but apparently he had better things to do tonight-', *cackle*
Bruce, clearly amused: ah, yes. how long did i hide our furniture for?
Jason: dude- like two weeks! you kept coming up with excuses as to why i shouldn't go further into the manor than usual- you slept on the fucking floor.
Bruce: listen- *chuckle* listen-
Jason: NO FUCK OFF YOU CAN'T DEFEND THAT! THAT WAS MEAN!
Dick: god- you know honestly, i think we were too stubborn back then to say it out loud, but shit B, you gave as good as we did- you were funny.
Bruce: i was childish and didn't understand how to be a parent, Dick. i was bitter, and i was taking it out on the people i was supposed to lead.
Dick: yeah yeah- i'm not saying you didn't have failings within your moral responsibilities, we all did; but looking back, you did not get enough credit for the shit you used to pull.
Jason: i will admit i laughed hard at some of the shit he did. to this fucking day, one of my favourite memories from the first year after i got adopted was that weekend you came back to the manor for a big case bust, and halfway through patrol you got into that huge argument and swung back to Bludhaven so you left all your shit at the manor, and B- *wheeze* and B,
Dick: we got into so many arguments, Jace. you need to clarify-
Bruce: he uh, *audibly holding back laughter* i think he's talking about the time you left your car here, so i- *snort*...i sold it.
Dick: ...oh my god- I REMEMBER THAT!
Jason: *still wheezing*
Dick: MY FUCKING BENTLY, THAT SHIT WAS A CLASSIC.
Bruce, unapologetic: i know, ...and i gave it to one of the gardeners at Drake Manor for fifty dollars and a pepsi.
Jason: *crying* oh my- hold me,
Bruce: you're gonna- Jaylad, you're gonna fall off the roof, come here- *snickering*
Dick: i- B i was so mad back then, you have no idea. like it- *laugh* i did not find it funny. i had no respect for the comedic genius of your moves.
Bruce: yeah, well, we've all grown since then. that was the point, wasn't it? being better for the kids?
Jason: it would be funny if you sold Tim's car though,
⋆˙⟡ chapter synopsis: after figuring out that your regular—jason—who you have a small crush on is actually red hood, he saves you from a robbery attempt, as a result, you ask him out on a date.
⋆˙⟡ pairing: jason todd 𝔁 cashier!reader.
⋆˙⟡ content warnings/tags: mild stalking (binoculars, rooftops—played for humor); references to vigilantism/violence; mild language; mention of hospitalization, injury (head wound, stitches, bruises).
⋆˙⟡ word count: 9.4k.
⋆˙⟡ author’s note: this is set in the same universe as @coffeelovingreader’s upcoming tim fic, so you’ll be meeting honey!reader here, who’s paired with tim. i also want to thank @fromrory, who helped me translate arabic for a specific scene in this fic. thank you for the support on part one, here is part two for everyone who asked!
✏ part one───GOT SOMETHIN’ IN MY SYSTEM! ౄ on AO3!
The convenience store hasn’t changed a bit since your hospital visit. You were halfway in the entrance, eyes trailing over the “OPEN” sign, which is still missing the “O”. The letters are glowing a dark purple, contrasting against the evening’s dark hues—it definitely makes this store look like you sell dirty magazines.
The bell above the door is cracking at the edges now, but it still gives out a sound that’s so loud you’ll never get used to it. Plus, it exposed your presence to Marjorie.
“I’m fine, Marj,” you raise your hands, gesturing to your more than intact skull. “See? I’m in one piece. Better than ever, in fact. I’m ready to get back to work. Do you need restocking? Cleaning?”
You’ll take anything at this point. Just to forget how cold the counter was when your head collided with it. How rough that robber’s grip was around your arm. How helpless you felt.
“You think I’m blind, huh?” Marjorie points, jabbing her finger in your chest. You huff out a breath in response to the push. “Look at you! You look half dead.”
“Thanks, Marj,” you deadpan, hands now on your hips.
“Don’t thank me. Thank that regular of yours. What’s the boy’s name? Started with a ‘J’, didn’t it?”
Right. The not-so-smart cover story you conjured up to explain what happened that night—that no, it wasn’t Red Hood who bridal carried you off to the nearest hospital. It was all Jason—a regular with a heart too big.
And hands big too.
You’ve definitely got issues you need to fix.
“Jason. His name is Jason,” you remind her. “I find it hard to believe you don’t remember him.”
You lean back against the counter. Marjorie cornered you as soon as you walked through the door. Your apron is hung over your shoulder. You wanted to get back to work as soon as you could. To have something to distract yourself with and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get the chance to see Jason again.
“Why would I?” Marjorie waves a hand. “Does he pay well?”
You raise a brow at her eager tone.
“He’s the Jason that buys the expensive cigarettes.”
Marjorie squints her eyes at you. Her wrinkles become even more pronounced with her furrowed brows.
“The Yellow Spirits?”
“Oh,” she gasps. “You’re talking about the Jason you have a crush on!”
God help you. You should have stayed at the hospital.
“That’s not—” you sputter a reply, “—that’s totally not what’s going on.”
Marjorie tilts her head at you. Her eyes glint. You don’t like what that means. You’ve raised your hands again. In protest now. And you hope they cover your flushed cheeks.
“You chose a good one,” Marjorie nods in approval.
“Please, do not talk like that.” You groan into your palms.
“He saved you, he’s not too bad on the eyes—”
“Oh, my god.”
“—he pays well. The most important bit. If he asks for a date, do not act frugal. Go somewhere expensive, kid. You’re completely hopeless, so I have to help you.”
“Can I just,” you try to change the subject, “organize the cigarette stand or something?”
Marjorie sighs. There’s a small piece of actual worry in her tone. For a moment, you think you imagined it. She steps closer to you, raising her hand to grab your shoulder. You have to lean down a bit to reach her height.
“Only if you don’t steal Yellow Spirits for your boyfriend.”
Never mind.
“I’ve never shoplifted.”
“Look at you,” she grips your shoulder tighter. “You haven’t denied the fact that he is your boyfriend.”
“I can’t tell if you’re threatening me or not, Marj.”
“Just don’t make out in the shop.”
“You’ve actually gone crazy in the time I was in the hospital.”
“I don’t care if he played hero. He pays just like any customer.”
“So,” you tut, “no favoritism?”
“You can show that favoritism outside the shop. However you want to.”
She lets go of your shoulder, but not before patting you in the most affectionate way that Marjorie is capable of. She looks you up and down, eyes trailing to the small stitches peeking out of your clothes. You pull down your sleeves by instinct.
“Only the cigarette shelf,” she says.
“Only the cigarette shelf,” you parrot back. “And maybe the counter? Please?”
“Okay, fine,” Marjorie groans. “But you’re out of here by five. Or six.”
“That’s so soon,” you look at the clock—4:12 PM.
“It’s your fault for coming in at all,” she clicks her tongue. “Be thankful I’m letting you go instead of locking you up in here.”
You nod your head. She returns the gesture and starts walking back to her little manager’s office, which is huddled at the back of the convenience store. She slams the door.
You sigh. The stitches still feel a bit raw. You try to limit your movements as you step behind the counter. The cigarette shelf is the same as you left it. Marjorie didn’t keep the shop open for some reason. You think it’s because she secretly cares about you and misses your presence.
You unlock the stand. The Marlboros and Yellow Spirit packs catch your eye.
You can’t get Red Hood—Jason out of your mind. No matter how hard you try. Your hand lingers on the cigarette pack. In your mind, you try to remember his lighter—the silver was cold to the touch. You want to trace the Latin engraving again. Somehow, that leads to the thoughts of his scars resurfacing—the river-like form of them as they trail down his arms. The way he gestured you to light his cigarette, the way he leaned in and you—in your awestruck reverie, lost in his dim sea-green eyes—lit it for him.
You shut the cigarette shelf shut. Fuck. You’re actually doomed. Absolutely doomed.
You’re just glad Jason wasn’t here to see Marjorie figure out your…crush, if that’s what you could call it.
What you don’t notice is the motorcycle across the street. It’s parked in a way that you can barely see it from the counter window. You don’t notice the biker who hasn’t moved from his spot, the very same man who has scars like rivers and green eyes hiding under the helmet.
Jason’s grip around the handlebars tightens. From your flushed face and constant stares at the cigarette shelf, he can only hope you were thinking about him.
He knows he’s acting like a complete creep right now.
It’s not like this is the first time he’s watched you. He stopped by during the days he was free from patrolling. Even subconsciously circled your store while on patrol. He’s gotten weird looks from Tim already.
That night, he didn’t even notice him sneaking up. It was two weeks ago. The rooftop near the store.
+++
Jason had his binoculars out—binoculars, like some kind of birdwatcher—and Tim had landed behind him without a sound. Which was ironic, considering the stern lecture that followed.
Tim had snatched the binoculars right out of his hands. Peered through them. Spotted you behind the counter, restocking the cigarette shelf.
“Is this the cashier from the robbery?”
Jason had snatched the binoculars back. “Mind your business.”
“You’re stalking them.”
“I’m protecting them,” Jason swung a kick near where Tim was standing, getting a quiet swear as a response.
“Sure,” Tim rolled his eyes. “Do they know that you watch them? I, personally,” he laid a hand on his chest, “would want to know if a vigilante was stalking me. This is a horrible basis for a relationship.”
“Do I badger you about your honey?” Jason swung again, and that time it hit the target.
Tim stumbled and barely caught himself. His ears went pink.
“She’s not my—” He stopped midway. “You know what? Continue stalking your cashier.”
“They’re not my cashier.” Not yet anyway. Jason shoved the binoculars back into his jacket. “And you’re the last one to talk about stalking.”
“I don’t stalk. It’s called being prepared. Totally the opposite of whatever you’re doing here.”
“What you call being prepared is actually being a freak, Drake.”
Tim crossed his arms. Leaned against the ledge. Looked out toward the store—toward you, still behind the counter, completely oblivious.
“Fine,” Tim said. “But if you’re going to keep doing this, at least talk to them. The binoculars thing is sad.”
The city hummed below. Somewhere, a siren wailed.
“Just don’t screw it up,” Tim said finally. “They seem nice.”
“They are.”
“Then stop watching from rooftops and go inside.”
“Tomorrow,” he said.
Tim snorted. “You said that last week.”
“This time I mean it.”
“Sure you do.”
Jason swung at him again. Tim dodged. Grappled away with that stupid, smug look still on his face.
Asshole.
But he wasn’t wrong.
+++
Tomorrow, he told Tim. Today is tomorrow.
God, this is so stupid.
Screw it.
He takes off the helmet. The fresh Gotham air bites at his cheeks. It oddly feels exhilarating. The idea of seeing you after so long is running through his bloodstream like fire.
It only takes him a few seconds to cross the street. In his complete daydream, he doesn’t even look both ways. His gaze is locked onto your figure. The way you move behind the counter. He notes the way you bite down on your lip while counting the cigarette packs. The way you readjust your collar and expose just a small piece of your neck.
He probably mirrors your flushed look right now. Who could blame him? He can’t take his eyes off of you, no matter where you are—in a sketchy convenience store, leaning on the counter, or in a hospital, berating him as if he’s not one of Gotham’s most feared men.
His hand grabs the door handle, twisting it. In his mind, he’s a man with blood caked into his skin, running through the grooves of his fingertips. But you don’t seem afraid to get your hands dirty by luring him in—lighting his cigarette with the smoke spreading between the two of you.
You scare him more than anyone. That spurs him on more than anything.
He steps through the entrance. The bell above rings. It only takes you a minute to turn, eyes trailing to him. Your lips form into a small “O” as you take in his figure. It’s as if there is lightning playing on his skin.
Just as he planned, your eyes first trail to his exposed tattoos. He can’t fight back the smirk that’s forming on his lips.
“Cat got your tongue?”
Teasing bastard.
His voice sounds as if it’s been dipped in honey—hoarse at the edges, but luring you in with a promise of something more.
You completely forget the key to the cigarette shelf in your hands. Your fingers flex, tightening around the sharp key.
“Oh—” you feel the edges dig into the skin of your palm, “—Crap.”
The smirk on Jason’s face disappears, replaced with a frown. He steps near the counter, gesturing for you to move closer. His hands are outstretched. There are faint callouses spread throughout the skin. You can trace a single scar over his palm.
He notices your stare and chuckles in response. The sound is light, escaping his lips with a hiss.
“I’m not going to bite your head off.”
Speaking of biting… Your eyes trail back to his arms. You manage to take a step closer to him, placing your hand in his. He turns your hand palm up. He does this while keeping eye contact with you.
In any other situation, you’d rip your gaze away from him. You’d find something else to focus on to somehow ignore the heat spreading from your palm to your entire body.
His fingertips trace the skin irritated by the key’s edges. There’s a small trace of red across your palm, but the skin isn’t cut.
“No blood. Lucky you.”
“For once,” you snort.
He doesn’t let go. His grip stays firm around your hand, but it never gets too much. He softly tugs your palm near him—like an offer. It’s more like he’s pleading for something. You’re the one leaning over him, looking down on him. His elbows are on the counter, the cold of the surface is probably seeping into his skin, but if he feels as flushed as you do—which you think he definitely does, considering the pink hue of the tips of his ears—the sensation won’t bother him.
He seems to be focused on you to care anyway.
You lean closer, your body following how his hand tugs you towards him. You swallow. He’s so close. Too close. Too close for a convenience store with Marjorie in the room next to you two.
“Someone might see,” you warn, but your voice is missing the bite.
“Let them see,” he mumbles while bringing your knuckles to his lips.
He doesn’t kiss like a gentleman from a black-and-white movie. His lips are surprisingly warm. They’re softer than you expected. His lips don’t leave your knuckles. The skin just above the bones is slightly bruised. You don’t remember how or when the bruises formed. Probably in the struggle.
You can’t focus on the whys and hows, especially now.
Jason’s eyes are half-closed. You can still see the sparkle of his eyes behind those lashes. It’s as if he’s memorizing the feel of your skin, the grooves of it, the way the colors bloom into faint purples and yellows.
His brows furrow at the sight of the bruises. You want to say something. You’re sure he’s spiraling—blaming himself or something ridiculous. You’re about to form at least a single word, but the sensation of something warmer on your knuckles knocks the breath out of your lungs.
You feel the barest slip of something softer. Wetter. It slides across the purple-yellow bruise.
For a moment, you both stay frozen in time. You don’t move your hand, half flustered beyond measure and half too curious to see what he will do. Jason doesn’t look up, but you can see his eyes widen. He’s surprised himself just as much as he surprised you. You think he’s more baffled by the fact that you haven’t stopped him.
You tilt your head, taking in his expression. His lips are parted against your skin, like he couldn’t help himself. As if he had entirely forgotten where he was.
Your fingers curl.
“Jason?”
He pulls back. His lips are glossed over. His ears are pink at the tips.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling back.
You almost whine at the loss of contact.
Will he be creeped out if you tell him to continue?
Definitely.
He started it, though.
“Don’t be,” the words escape your lips before you can stop them.
Jason’s expression contorts. His lips are stuck between a crooked half-smile and being parted in a gasp. You can’t tell which one you want more—for him to take the lead again, or for him to be under your mercy for once.
“You’re going to get me in so much trouble,” you say, voice so quiet only he can hear it.
He’s so close you’re sure your breath grazes his ear as you speak. He leans towards the sensation.
“Worth it.”
He turns your hand over, pressing another kiss to your palm. Right near where the key dug in.
Your knees feel weak.
“I,” you try to find the words, “can’t tell if you’re doing all of this on purpose just to fluster me.”
“Maybe,” he doesn’t deny it. His thumb traces circles on your wrist. “Is it working?”
Before you can answer—before you can even think about answering—the office door creaks.
You yank your hand back like you’ve been burned.
Jason doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even move. Just looks at you with those stupid green eyes, that stupid little smirk, like he knew exactly when Marjorie was going to interrupt.
Bastard. Charming bastard. But still.
The door doesn’t open all the way. Just a crack. Marjorie’s voice slips through.
“I’m making coffee,” she calls out. “Anyone want some?”
You glance at Jason. He glances at you.
“No coffee,” you say, voice too high. “We’re good. We’re fine. Everything’s normal.”
“Didn’t ask if everything was normal. Asked if you wanted coffee.”
“No. Thank you. No coffee.”
The door creaks shut.
You exhale, pressing your forehead against the counter. The laminate is cold. It does nothing to cool you down.
Marjorie opens the door again, and you’re sure you feel your heart actually jump out of your chest. Jason only snorts at your expression.
“Kid, you’re going home.”
“Wait, what?” you ask, voice still high.
“I gave you one rule,” Marjorie pops her head out of the manager’s office. “Do you even remember it?”
“Don’t shoplift?”
“You shoplifted Marjorie’s stuff?” Jason asks you with an insufferable grin that you desperately want to wipe off his face.
Maybe with a punch.
Or a kiss.
He seems like the type of guy to enjoy both.
“No!” Marjorie’s voice rings out in the whole shop. “Don’t-make-out-with-your-boyfriend rule during work! Even if the shop has no customers in the building.”
Jason looks back at you. The grin has grown even bigger—it’s now a full-blown smile. Giddy even. Your heart tightens.
“He’s not my boyfriend!”
“He’s not?”
“I’m not?”
“You haven’t even taken me out on a date yet!”
“A shame,” Marjorie tuts. “You know, the pier is a good idea for a date. They’ve got good hot dogs there.”
Jason’s grin falters for a second. Suddenly, he rises from the counter. There’s a familiar flicker in his gaze.
“Then let me give you a ride home. We can plan out the date then.”
“I,” you sputter, “I mean, yes! But only if you want to. Not that I’m against it. It’s just a pier date is kind of expensive. Minus the hot dogs, I guess—”
“It being expensive is the main point,” Marjorie’s voice rings out again.
“I know what I said,” his voice is full of certainty. “I could give you a ride home.”
“On your motorcycle?”
He tilts his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Better hold on tight.”
Marjorie clears her throat. “I’ll be in my office. Locking the door. Not listening.”
She disappears. The door clicks shut.
“It’s just a single ride,” he says.
“Just a single ride?” you mentally scold yourself for repeating it. “That sounds like it means something else.”
“Well, now that you point it out—”
“—just, give me five minutes.”
Jason nods with a breathless chuckle. He steps back. The bell rings as he opens the door.
“I’ll be outside.”
And he’s gone.
And you’re about to melt on this very spot.
You press your palms against your eyes. Count to ten. You grab your bag from under the counter. You snatch a Marlboro from the cigarette shelf and hope Marjorie will forgive you for this one transgression.
Marjorie’s door cracks open.
“Five minutes,” she says. “Not six.”
“Okay, goodbye!” You run past the counter, throwing a wave over your shoulder. “I’ll definitely clock in after well, all of this?”
”Just go!”
Your apron is left forgotten on the counter.
“Kids these days.”
+++
The bell hasn’t even stopped ringing behind you before you spot the bike.
The motorcycle is parked right outside, and somehow it’s exactly what you expected. Matte black, all of it—the tank, the hardware, the mirrors catching nothing but grey Gotham sky. A leather bag is buckled to the tank, worn at the edges in the way that suggests it’s been there a long time. It’s a heavy thing, broad, and low to the ground.
You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to.
Of course, this is his bike.
Jason is already near it, helmet tucked under his arm. He’s got a second helmet hanging off the handlebars.
You stop dead on the sidewalk.
“You weren’t kidding about the motorcycle.”
“I don’t kid about things that go fast.” He holds out the extra helmet. “You scared?”
“No.”
“Good.”
You take the helmet. It’s heavier than you expected. You fumble with the strap for a second before his hands cover yours.
“Let me.”
Oh, my god. His hands are way too close.
You totally haven’t daydreamed about this.
He buckles it under your chin. His knuckles brush your jaw. His eyes don’t leave yours the whole time, while your gaze flickers between him and his knuckles—the skin is almost white, as if he’s nervous.
“There,” he says. “Now you won’t die.”
“Comforting,” you quip. “You’ve got a way with words, Todd.”
He swings his leg over the bike with a chuckle. The suspension dips. He twists the key, and the engine rumbles to life. The sound is low and guttural, like something waking up.
He looks back at you. As if he’s expecting something, he jerks his head toward the seat behind him. The idea of actually getting on his bike is too much. What will you even hang onto? His shoulders?
Hopefully, his waist.
Maybe staying in the store was a better idea.
“You coming or not?”
Get it together.
You step closer. The bike is taller than you expected. You put a hand on his shoulder for balance—his shoulder is solid, warm through his jacket—and swing your leg over. The seat is narrow and firm. You can feel the engine humming through it, a vibration that settles right in your chest.
“Hold on,” he says.
“To what?”
He reaches back. Grabs your wrists and pulls your arms around his waist.
“That.”
Everything about him is firm. Your chest presses against his back. He’s warm. You place your cheek against his shoulder. You can smell leather and smoke and something underneath—soap, maybe.
“Don’t let go,” he says.
Then the bike lurches forward, and you hold on tighter. You can feel how his entire body strains beneath your hold, as if your touch is affecting him, just like what his touch does to you.
The city blurs past. Streetlights smear into streaks of orange and yellow. The wind is cold against your cheeks, but his body blocks most of it—broad shoulders, that stupid jacket, the way he leans into every turn like he’s part of the machine.
You lean with him. It may be instinct. You can’t help it, your fingers twitch—just where your knuckles graze his torso. The skin beneath his shirt is warm despite the biting cold air. Your knees feel weak. You can make out the small shape of something square in his jacket pocket—maybe a lighter. The one that exposed him to you.
Never in your life have you been so thankful for someone’s smoking habits.
You let go of his waist, one hand staying looped around him and the other digging in your pocket. Jason looks back, silently asking if you’re okay. You tap a finger on his torso. You hear a huff through his helmet as a response.
You take the Marlboro pack you borrowed—or stole—from the cigarette shelf. Leaning your chest even closer to his back, you slide the pack into his pocket.
“So, you do shoplift,” Jason says, the words are muffled through the helmet.
“For you,” you wrap your arms around his waist again.
“I’m the luckiest man in the world.”
You groan against the crook of his neck. He chuckles in response.
At a red light, his hand comes down to rest over yours and squeezes once. The touch is reassuring. You move your head, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.
“Doing okay back there?”
“Ask me when I can feel my legs again!”
“I’d rather ask now,” he says, his voice just below a whisper. You can hear the sound reach you, consider how close he is. “I can feel you blushing, you know. You’re warm.”
“Shut up.”
He laughs. The sound vibrates through his back, through your chest, through the bone. You tighten your arms around his waist. He turns slightly. You raise your head in response. His eyes are locked onto yours. Before you can ask what he’s planning, his lips graze your forehead. It’s a bit of an awkward movement, considering the helmet, but it gets your cheeks hot either way.
The light turns green. He twists the throttle and the world speeds up again.
+++
He pulls up in front of your building. The engine cuts out. The sudden silence is almost louder than the roar. You don’t let go right away. Neither does he. Your legs have completely given up on you from the ride. Plus the feel of his torso under your hands, the kiss on your forehead—
“We’re here,” he says.
“I can see that.”
His thumb traces a circle on your knuckles, just like in the store. Then he pulls away, swinging off the bike. He offers you a hand.
You take it. Your legs are wobbly. He steadies you with a hand on your elbow.
“Told you,” he says. “Not going to let you fall.”
You unbuckle the helmet and hand it back to him. His fingers brush yours. You almost lean in, instinctively searching for his touch.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Seven. The pier.”
“You’re really set on those hot dogs.”
“I’m really set on you.”
You might actually melt.
“Goodnight, Jason.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
You’re about to step back towards the apartment entrance, but a thought stops you.
“How do you know where I live?”
He doesn’t answer right away. You can see how his fingers twitch.
“The hospital,” he says. “They gave me your paperwork. Thought I was your emergency contact.”
“You didn’t correct them?”
He looks at you. There’s something soft in his expression, a familiar glint in his eyes. The streetlights reflect in his gaze.
“Didn’t seem like the right time to argue.”
You can’t turn around. Not yet. There’s a thought forming—one that you’re not sure how it will end, but the warmth spreading in your body moves you on its own despite the cold. Despite the beating of your heart.
You take a step near Jason. His eyes follow you. There’s confusion in his expression as his brows furrow. You lean over, and your lips brush his cheek. His skin is surprisingly soft—even the faint scar running down the cheek is tender.
He goes very still.
You pull back. Your face is hot. Your heart is loud in your ears. You’re sure you look ridiculous.
“Thank you,” you whisper. “For the ride. For the hospital. For—” you gesture vaguely at all of him, “—everything.”
Jason blinks. His lips part, but close just as soon.
“Yeah,” he says. His voice is rougher than before. “Yeah, I—” He clears his throat. “Any time, sweetheart.”
The nickname lands differently now. Like there’s something tangible here. Like you won’t only hear him say that in some sketchy shop, behind a counter.
You turn towards your building. Your hand is on the door when he speaks again.
“Hey.”
You look back.
He’s still standing by the bike. One hand is in his pocket. The other is holding both helmets. The white streak in his hair catches the streetlight.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Seven. The pier, remember?”
“I know.”
“Just wanted to make sure.”
You smile. It’s as if you can’t help it.
“Goodnight, Jason.”
“Goodnight.”
You slip inside and close the door. You lean against the wood. There’s no one else in the apartment lobby. The silence doesn’t bother you one bit. The beating pace of your heart is still ringing in your ears.
Through the glass, you watch him stand there for a long moment. Then he shakes his head—at himself, probably—and swings a leg over the bike.
The engine rumbles. The taillight disappears around the corner.
You press your finger to your lips. His cheek was so soft.
You’re so gone.
+++
You don’t get a wink of sleep. You’re mostly sure it’s not because of the concussion. You’ve been staring at the ceiling fan in the middle of your bedroom. It turns and turns nonstop, just like your wandering thoughts.
The sheets feel too warm, bordering on hot. Maybe you’re even sweating. You turn on your stomach. The pillow isn’t cold like before. You punch it and groan into the cushion
All of this because of a date. You haven’t been on a date with a guy you actually wanted to impress in a while. And you really want to impress Jason.
You turn on your back. The ceiling fan is still turning. The faint buzz is starting to annoy you. You try to close your eyes—to force yourself to sleep—but every time you do, you’re back on that motorcycle. His back against your chest. His hand over yours at the red light. His lips on your forehead.
His lips on your forehead.
Seven o’clock. The pier.
Does he even like hot dogs? Or those carousels? Would he want to take pictures in a photo booth? Will he hold onto the picture?
You flip onto your side. Your phone screen blinks 2:47 AM at you. The ceiling fan is still turning. The whole apartment has gone quiet. It’s as if you’re holding your breath.
You have no idea what to wear.
You’ve known this man for what amounts to a handful of shifts, one robber, one hospital visit, one motorcycle ride, a kiss on your forehead, and weeks’ worth of interaction back when you thought Jason and Red Hood were different people.
Now you know something about Jason Todd that most people in this city don’t know. The man who saved your life, made sure you were safely transported to a hospital, sat in the waiting chair as you dozed off to sedatives, is the same person who patrols Gotham with guns on his back, helmet over his face, and a reputation that strikes fear in the heart of most.
You know he’s Red Hood. You’ve known for a few weeks—since the robbery attempt he saved you from. And that’s big, obviously. That’s the kind of thing that should make a normal person reconsider the whole situation from the ground up. But here’s the thing, you can’t reason around—
You’re not actually afraid of Red Hood.
You’re afraid of how little you know Jason.
Red Hood, you’ve seen. Red Hood walked into your store bleeding and smelling like smoke and gunpowder, calling you sweetheart just like a certain regular of yours—Jason. You just never connect the dots. You didn’t even have the chance before someone pointed a gun at you for a few hundred bucks. Red Hood saved you from that—he’s a known quantity. Terrifying when he wants to be, yes, but known.
Jason Todd is a person. A real one. A person who gets pink in the ears and gets nervous whenever you flirt back. He traces circles on your knuckles. He didn’t leave your side in the hospital—most of you don’t even remember other than IV bags and the mumbling of nurses. He apparently listed himself as your emergency contact. He kissed your hand in front of Marjorie and didn’t flinch when she walked out.
And tomorrow you’re going to take that person to a pier. A date you asked for, half-awake from a concussion in a hospital bed.
And he’s going to eat a hot dog, and you’re going to eat a hot dog, and then what? Will you make conversation? About what? You know he smokes Yellow Spirits, and he might speak Latin, but you’re not completely sure. You know how his expression shifts when someone actually takes the first step. You know how he tugs on his clothes when he’s nervous and thinking of something witty to say. You know he worries often, but doesn’t want to show it.
But you don’t know his favorite anything. You don’t know what vices he has other than the cigarettes. You don’t know what he does when it isn’t patrol. You don’t know what he sounds like when he’s tired, or bored, or genuinely happy about something unrelated to getting a reaction out of you.
You groan. Your pillow gets turned over and punched once more for good measure.
You really need to pull yourself together.
+++
Across the city, Jason is also staring at his ceiling.
He’s been staring at it for three hours.
Though he’s on his couch instead of his bed. The sheets were too soft. The couch is just the perfect balance between comfortable and rough that keeps him on the line between half-awake and thinking about you.
There’s a live police scanner perched on the table, just a step away from the couch. He’s been listening to GCPD officer Hunnigan complain about someone leaving cupcakes outside the precinct, worried about the possibility that there might be a bomb in the box.
There’s no chatter about your neighborhood. Thankfully.
The thing keeping him awake isn’t the date—or not just the date. He’s done things that require significantly more nerve than a pier and a hot dog. He’s bled on rooftops and talked his way out of more situations than he can count. A date shouldn’t be the thing that has him counting ceiling cracks at 3 AM.
He should probably look into fixing those cracks. You probably won’t like it when you come over.
Then it hits him—his mind is so used to the idea of you actually wanting him fully. He’s even thinking of you visiting him. Not if, but when. Jason can’t remember the last time he let himself actually enjoy something and think he deserved it at the same time. He can only dirty his hands with blood for so long before his being starts wanting something else. Someone else.
You asked him out—took the lead like no one else. Made all of this real when he thought it was temporary.
That’s the part he can’t stop turning over.
His phone buzzes.
Goldie is calling.
Jason stares at the screen. It buzzes again. He picks it up.
“Why are you calling me at three in the morning?”
“Just got back from patrol,” Dick says, still slightly out of breath. “Saw you were online. Figured you’d ignore a text.”
“I would have.”
“I know.” There’s a pause. The sound of him moving around—setting something down, pulling off a boot, probably. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Jason.”
“It’s nothing, Dick.”
“Is it the date?”
How did he even know— Tim.
“It’s the date,” Dick says.
“Goodnight.”
“Hey—hey, don’t hang up. I’m not going to make fun of you,” Dick pauses for a second. “Much.”
Jason drops his arm over his face. He lets out a muffled groan. He stares at the ceiling.
What is actually going on with him?
The fact is, he doesn’t know the answer to that. He doesn’t know what your apartment looks like. He doesn’t know if you take your coffee with anything in it. He doesn’t know what you sound like when you’re not behind a counter, on familiar ground, armed with a job to do and a register to hide your hands behind.
He knows the way you bit your lip, counting cigarette packs. He knows the color your knuckles went when you gripped the counter during the robbery. He knows you shoplift Marlboros for company and that you’ve been thinking about him—he’s almost certain—the same way he’s been thinking about you.
He knows all of that.
He doesn’t know you.
“I don’t actually know them,” Jason says. “Outside the store. I know how they act behind a counter. That’s the whole of it. Which, I guess, isn’t that big of a problem, but it is big to me. What if I want to give them flowers for the first date they themselves asked me out on, and I don’t even know their favorite color to get the proper flowers? Do they even like flowers?”
There’s silence on the other end. He should have never mentioned the flowers. Dick will never let him live it down. But a few tulips would be nice.
“Oh,” Dick says, his voice too soft for Jason’s liking. “Jay.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“That’s a very loaded oh, Jay, Dick.”
“Okay.” Dick pauses again. He can hear Dick opening what sounds like a cupboard. “Can I say something?”
“Are you seriously eating while giving me a lecture?” Jason deadpans. “You know what—sure, you’re going to say it anyway.”
“I don’t think you’re scared of not knowing them,” Duck says it slowly, like he’s gathering the right words as he goes on. “You’re scared of them knowing you. Right? That’s what it actually is.”
Jason doesn’t answer, which is an answer on its own.
He never expected you to actually ask him out, like you wanted him to stay in your life. For a moment, his heart stopped beating when the lighter fell out of his pocket that day. He was afraid you were going to look at him with an expression filled with fear, worse than you gave the bastard robber who hurt you. Every smile from you across the counter was one of the very few moments of kindness he allowed himself to have, and now, you’re giving him the chance to have more.
He doesn’t know if he deserves it.
“Yeah,” Dick’s voice rings out again. “Okay, here’s the thing, though—they knew enough about you to have asked you out, you already said yes. That counts for something.”
“It’s only a date, Dick. What if I’m not exactly what they thought I was?”
Dick stays silent for a moment. “You can’t assume before they tell you that themselves,” He clicks his tongue. “I’m just saying—go. Talk to them like a person. You’re good at that.”
“I’m genuinely not. But thanks.”
“Wear something without a bullet hole in it.”
“I have several jackets,” Jason bristles. “I’ll have you know they like my jackets very much.”
“How adorable,” Jason can imagine the ridiculous smile in his voice now. “Goodnight, little wing. Make sure to buy them flowers. It’s a gentlemanly thing to do.”
“Wait, what kind of flowers—”
The call ends.
Jason holds the phone above his face for a second. His hold on the device loosens. He sets it on his chest.
The scanner crackles. Officer Hunnigan has concluded that the cupcakes are not a bomb. Gotham finally breathes out.
+++
The morning takes the longest and shortest amount of time you’ve ever experienced. It’s all a haze—your schedule passes by in a blink, but somehow you remember every impatient second.
Your bed felt too soft to leave, but you couldn’t waste a single second. You flung the sheets off your body and took in the cold breeze in stride.
By stride you mean that you burnt your food. You had completely forgotten about the eggs sizzling, too busy with the plants—the basil that you call Basil, and the palma you call Paloma—that needed watering. You had to make do with half burn sunny side ups.
Choosing an outfit was even more hectic. After staring into the mirror and rummaging in your closet for a concerning amount of time, you finally decided on a combination that checked all the boxes for you. A teal check shirt—that reminds you of the color of Jason’s eyes—hanging open over a cream lace-trim shirt—perfectly fitting for the pier. The leather at the waist of the wide beige pants reminds you of all of Jason’s leather jackets. You wonder how he’ll look tonight.
At half past four, you end up in a small antique stall near your apartment, turning something over in your hands. You’ve seen him handle his lighter with care, like it’s something precious to him. While you genuinely don’t want to encourage his smoking, you so want to get him a gift that isn’t too much, but not too little at the same time. You’re turning a cigarette case over in your hands.
Silver, engraved, scroll-work pressed into every edge, a cross at the center of it. It’s not entirely identical to his lighter—different enough to be its own thing. Definitely old enough to have some history to it already. You turn it over once. It catches the shop light.
You buy it, putting it in your jacket pocket.
+++
He’s already there.
You see him from a distance—near the carousel, one elbow on the railing, looking out at the water. He’s wearing a distressed leather jacket, worn brown at every edge, open over a teal silk button-up that’s soft enough to have been washed a hundred times. He looks like he found the clothes in a very good pile and put them on without thinking, which means he thought about it, which you clock and feel a warmth already settling in your chest.
His white streak catches the late light. He looks like he’s exactly where he wants to be, like he was meant to be here, like the tourists flowing around him are the ones out of place, like absolutely nothing in the world could make him look uncomfortable standing exactly where he’s standing.
Of course he does.
He turns before you reach him. Some trained thing—he turns and hides one side of his body quickly. Strange. His eyes land on you, and he straightens up, one hand coming out of his pockets.
You cross the last of the distance.
The first thing he does is look at you—actually look, the way he does from across a counter but without anything between you—and then his gaze drops once, sees your outfit, and something shifts in his expression that isn’t quite a smile yet.
“What?” You ask.
“Nothing.”
“That’s a very specific tone for nothing.”
He nods toward you. “You’re wearing—” He stops. Looks down at his own button-up, then back at you. The teal of his shirt against the warm brown of his leather.
Teal. Both of you. Without any coordination whatsoever.
“We match,” he says.
“We do not—”
“We match a little.”
“That’s—I didn’t—” You look down at yourself, then at him, then back at yourself. “This is what I always wear.”
“Me too,” he says, and the corner of his mouth pulls up.
“You’ve got that smirk on your face,” you point at him.
“I’m literally not doing anything,” he raises his hands as a laugh escapes him.
“You’re smiling about it. Look at you—all giddy about us matching.”
“I’m not smiling. I might be giddy about—” Jason stops mid-sentence.
“About what?”
“About the flowers I got for you,” he finally says. “I didn’t know your favorites, so I badgered the receptionist at the flower shop for a good hour before the entire staff settled on tulips.”
Now you realize why he was hiding his side—he was covering the flowers. A small bouquet sits easily in his hand—five or six tulips, stems still green and dewy, heads just beginning to open. Petals in soft blush and cream, edges faintly flushed like they’ve caught a little sun. The stems are gathered loosely, tied with thin twine, wrapped in simple brown paper that crinkles when it moves.
“Oh, Jay,” you can’t contain the surprised tone in your voice. “Thank you. I’ve never gotten flowers on a first date. This is so thoughtful.”
Your fingers brush as he hands the bouquet to you.
“I’m glad you like them,” he says, voice slightly shaky.
“Like them? I love them.”
The smell is divine, too. The petals are soft to the touch as your fingers graze them.
Maybe you shouldn’t have been worried at all. Maybe—just maybe—tulips, hot dogs, and the pier in the evening is the perfect date.
+++
The hot dogs are, in fact, good.
You eat them at the railing overlooking the water. The bay is grey and moving, catching the last of the afternoon light in pieces. The carousel music drifts from behind you—the looping kind that should be annoying but, thank god, isn't. Gulls argue overhead—which is annoying.
You are aware, with the particular sharpness that comes with being out of your element, that this is the longest uninterrupted conversation you've ever had with him. There’s just the railing, the water, and the fact that you don’t actually know what to say to him.
You learn things. Even if it all goes a bit slowly.
He doesn’t volunteer much, but if you hand him a thread, he’ll follow it—you mention the weird overnight hours your store keeps, and he tells you about a diner upstate that only opened between 10 PM and 3 AM, best pie he’d ever had, in the middle of nowhere, and he’d stumbled into it during—he pauses—a long drive. You don’t ask about the drive. You can guess.
You tell him that your landlord doesn’t let you keep pets, that you’d love to own a cat. You tell him you almost switched jobs twice, but something about the night shift felt like your own city, like Gotham belonged to you in some small way between midnight and six.
He looks at you when you say that. Something shifts in his expression.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know that feeling.”
“I bet you do.”
A second passes. He looks back at the water.
“I don’t talk about it,” he says. “The other thing. In case you were—”
“I know,” you say. “I’m not asking.”
“Good.”
“I mean—I have questions. Objectively. I think anyone would.”
“But you’re not asking me about it.”
“Not yet, but I know it’ll take time. I can wait. I’m willing to wait.” You allow.
Wait for him.
That pulls the corner of his mouth up.
+++
The cigarette case comes out somewhere between the hot dogs and the carousel. It had to—or you’d probably melt on the spot if it stayed in your pocket for any longer.
“I got you something,” you say. Then, immediately, “it’s not a big deal. Don’t make a whole thing of it.”
You’re not sure your heart can take it.
You hold it out. He goes still in response. His eyes trail over the engraving. His fingers graze yours as you hand it to him.
“I’m not sure if you already have one,” you say. “I mean, if you do—I’m not trying to replace it. And then the bouquet, this case feels a bit underwhelming in comparison,” you stop. “I’m doing the thing. Blabbering. Sorry.”
"I like listening to you," he says, and you have to ignore the heat in your cheeks. “You don’t have to explain yourself if you don’t want to,” he stammers. “I’m glad you thought of me. Thank you.”
He has no idea how long you’ve been thinking of him.
His thumb traces the cross at the center, then the scroll-work at the edges. He puts it in his jacket pocket.
“It’s so you have something to remember me by,” you say. “In case this goes terribly, and we never speak again.”
“If this goes terribly,” he says, “you can have it back, as a keepsake.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Then we’d better hope it doesn’t go terribly.”
+++
It doesn’t go terribly.
It goes strange, though. Not bad-strange. The particular strangeness of two people who know pieces of each other, trying to find the whole. You catch yourself mid-sentence more than once, reaching for a thing to say and realizing you don’t actually have the context for it—you don’t know his schedule, you don’t know who he spends time with when he isn’t patrolling, you don’t know if there's a life outside of this city that he misses or if Gotham is the whole of it.
You ask about the languages. He'd dropped it into the conversation casually, like it was nothing, like he wasn’t watching to see how you’d react.
“How many?”
“A few.”
“That’s not a number, Jason.”
“Six.”
“Six?”
“It‘s useful.”
“I’m sure it’s incredibly useful for—” you pause, gesturing vaguely at all of him—“what you do. But also, six?”
“Would you like me to prove it?”
“I absolutely would.”
His gaze doesn’t leave yours. You feel the weight of it.
“Enta ahla min al-qamar nafsu.”
You try to make sense of it—five or six words in something that sounds like it came from further down his heart than the other words he’s told you.
“What was that one?” You ask.
“Arabic.”
"What did it mean?”
He pauses for a second. His eyes trail to the sky. “That the moon is out.”
You look up. The sky is not yet dark enough for the moon. You look back at him.
He’s already looking at the water.
Liar, you think, and feel your face go warm without knowing exactly what those words meant.
“You like showing off,” you say.
"I like to show off when you’re paying attention.”
“I’m always paying attention.”
“I know,” his tone is so light. “That’s the thing. You’re impressed with me.”
The carousel music turns behind you. The water moves. Your heartbeat is louder than any background noise. You try to snap your gaze away from his. A small photo booth catches your attention.
“You’re too cocky,” you start. “I have the perfect idea to humble you.”
“Really?” Jason raises a brow. “I’d like to see you try.”
You gesture to grab his wrist. He lets you go with no complaints. Your fingertip grazes his pulse point. You can feel the unsteady beat of his heart. He moves his hand, pinky settling against yours, and then his palm covers your hand entirely, and his thumb traces that small circle on your knuckles—the same one as always, the one he probably doesn’t know he does.
You lead him towards the photo booth. The city glitters across the water. The string lights along the restaurant edge blink on, stringing gold over the railing. The crowd moves in tandem. His hand sometimes settles on your back, grazing the clothed skin—like he’s making sure you get through the crowd.
“Photo booth?” Jason’s expression changes.
“Afraid of getting your picture taken?”
He snorts. “C’mon.”
Now he’s the one leading you towards the booth.
+++
The booth is near the front of the pier, tucked between a posters-and-prints shop and a churro stand. The curtain is dark red and crooked. You look at it and then at him.
“On second thought, I don’t think we’re going to fit.”
“We’ll fit.”
You fit barely. His shoulder is pressed against yours, arm behind you to make room, and your knees are almost touching in the cramped plastic seat. The screen counts down.
3—2—1—
The first shot: you, mid-laugh at something he said too low to be anything but for you, and him, watching you laugh like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. Like he wants to bottle the sound up to hear it over and over again.
3—2—1—
Second shot: you make a face. He doesn’t. His one arm is around your shoulders, chin tilted down, smiling into the top of your head.
3—2—1—
You turn toward him. He turns toward you. You can feel his nose graze your cheek as you turn. His eyes have never looked so dim—a small sparkle against the sea-green. You swallow.
The machine spits out two warm strips. You take yours. The last frame: his mouth against your cheek, your lips are parted, both of you slightly blurred, mid-motion.
You look at it for a long moment.
He looks at his copy for a moment too. Then he takes out the cigarette case— your cigarette case, the new one, still without a single cigarette in it—opens it, and tucks the photo strip inside against the silver interior. He closes it and puts it back into his pocket.
+++
The pier is quieter now. The crowd has thinned out—families with young kids gone home, couples migrating toward the bars and restaurants furthest down. The string lights are brighter against the darkening sky. The water is black and restless.
You walk with your shoulders touching. His hands find yours again. You two try to talk about the small things.
He tells you about a book he’s reading. You tell him about the plant Marjorie keeps forgetting to water, the one you’ve been secretly taking care of for months.
“I knew it,” he says.
“Knew what?”
“You’re a plant person.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“That’s absolutely a thing.”
You roll your eyes. He squeezes your hand.
You pass a bench near the end of the pier. It’s old, wood slats painted green, chipping at the edges. The railing in front of it looks out over the water. No one else is around.
“You wanna sit?” He asks.
“Do you want to sit?”
“I asked first.”
You roll your eyes again, but the gesture has no bite.
You sit.
The wood is cold through your pants. The wind is picking up, coming off the water in gusts. Jason shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders before you can say anything. It’s warm. It smells like him.
“Now you’re going to be cold,” you note.
“I run hot.”
“That’s not—” you stop to shake your head. “Smooth. Very smooth.”
He lets out a breathless laugh.
You sit in silence for a while. The water moves. The string lights flicker. Somewhere, a boat horn sounds in the distance.
“The moon’s finally out,” you say. You reach over, turning his face towards yours with your fingers on his chin. “What did you actually say before?”
He swallows. His eyes are wide. The green is almost gone, swallowed by the night.
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
He looks at you for a long moment. His thumb brushes your jaw.
“No,” he says. “Not yet.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“I will. Someday.” His hand drops and finds yours on the bench. “But not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want you to wonder.” His mouth twitches. “Because I want you to think about it on the walk home. And tomorrow morning. And the next time you see me.”
He leans in. His lips graze your forehead. They’re soft on your skin.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll walk you home.”
+++
The walk is everything you expected it to be. His hand is in yours. He didn’t come to the pier with his motorcycle. Your heart hopes it’s because he wanted to walk you home, wishing to spend even longer with you. His jacket is still around your shoulders.
You haven’t returned it. It’s not like he has asked for it back. You have a feeling that he won’t.
The streets are empty. You don’t feel afraid, not with Jason by your side. A cat darts across the sidewalk and disappears into an alley. Somewhere, a door slams. A radio plays from an open window—some song you don’t recognize.
Jason’s thumb traces circles on your knuckles.
You stop in front of your building. Everything feels different from last night.
You turn to face him. His hands fall and find your hips. Your hand finds his chest—the teal button-up, the one that matches yours, the one you’re going to think about every time you open your closet. Your other hand grips the bouquet closer.
“Tonight was good,” you say.
“Tonight was great.”
You lean up. Your lips graze his skin as you kiss his cheek. His skin is warm.
“So, the day after tomorrow,” you say. “It’s my day off.”
“I know.”
“Right,” you raise a brow. “You already know my schedule.”
The tips of his ears turn a light shade of pink. You can see the faint dust of the same color across his freckled cheeks.
“I’ll visit,” he says, fingertips tracing small circles on your hips.
You pull back. Your hand is on the door.
“Jason?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For the tulips. For not being weirded out by the cigarette case. For—” you gesture with your hands, “—everything, I suppose. I know I say thank you a lot,” just like last night, “but I mean it. Every single word.”
He smiles at your nervous expression.
“Any time, sweetheart.”
You should go inside. You know you should go inside. But you don’t move. Neither does he.
“I’m going to figure out what you said, by the way.”
His expression flickers.
“You can try.”
“Is that a challenge?”
His mouth curves. “More like a promise.”
You two end up with your gazes locked onto each other. The streetlight buzzes. The city hums. Somewhere, a siren wails in the distance. It’s close, then far, then gone.
“Goodnight, Jason.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
You slip inside and close the door. Your grip around the handle is strong, knuckles straining.
Through the glass, you watch him stand there for a moment. His hand is in his pocket—touching the cigarette case, probably, or the lighter, or both—and then he looks up at the window. He knows you’re watching.
You think about the weight of his gaze on the walk up the stairs. And in the shower. And in bed, staring at the ceiling.
You’re so gone, but you don’t mind at all.
⋆˙⟡ extra notes: thank you to jo again for witnessing me write this wip & rory for translating the arabic text for me. honestly, it was such a ride to make this. i wanted to keep it a tad realistic, reader won’t jump into a relationship with a vigilante they don’t know yet. there are two scenes here in which jason drops them off. they are similar because they are parallel scenes, showing the progression of the relationship before and after the date.
⋆˙⟡ tag list: the people who asked for part two — @cnqfeusd ; general tag list — @simpingmyassoff @deluludaydreamerr @mistbornwithawritingproblem @eas-8 @borednessa @xolollipop @cherryseascns @yuunarii-arii @fromrory @coffeelovingreader @loserinadress @currentblasphemy ! if anyone wants to be added or removed send me a message.
✏ 𝒹𝗁𝖺𝗓𝖾𝆑𝖺𝗐𝗇───all rights reserved; even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, modified or fed into ai ࣭ ౄు
hopeless romantic!jason who never let's your hold the umbrella yourself — or anything, to be completely honest — whenever he's with you. he will also make sure that he's the one standing on the side of the road in case any car drives on a puddle;
hopeless romantic!jason who keeps a polaroid of you in his wallet and uses the photo strip you got in a photo booth during one of your first dates as a bookmark;
hopeless romantic!jason who has to kiss you before going out, it doesn't make any difference if he's going on patrol or to the nearest bodega to grab a late night snak. specifically, he's obsessed with kissing the beauty marks on your face (and all over your body);
hopeless romantic!jason who definitely burned a cd for you in the past with all of the songs that remind him of you;
hopeless romantic!jason who has a picture of you as his wallpaper;
hopeless romantic!jason who loves going to the cinema with you and holding your hand the entire time, occasionally bringing it to his lips whenever he notices your eyes getting glassy;
hopeless romantic!jason who always writes long notes at the beginning of every book he gifts you;
hopeless romantic!jason who may or may not love watching you sleep whenever he's having one of those nights. he traces the soft curves of your face with his attentive eyes and wanders what he did to deserve you.
A/N: Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!
fem!jason todd is insecure about her body ╱ mdni, talks about body hair, oral sex, fingering ˚.✦
You don’t like to bother her when she’s reading, especially before bed. It’s her little ritual, the one thing that helps her wind down and sleep nicely. But tonight you’re needier than ever. It’s been a whole month since the last time you two really touched each other, and you miss your girlfriend so badly it hurts. You miss her tongue, her soft moans, and especially that pretty, puffy cunt of hers.
“Babe,” you whisper carefully, scooting closer until your head rests on her shoulder. “Baby…”
“Yes, love?” Jay answers, still not lifting her eyes from the book as she turns another page.
“I miss you,” you say, hoping she’ll catch what you really mean. Your fingers trace slow lines along her bare arm while you press tiny kisses to her shoulder.
“I’m right here.”
She sets the book down slowly. “Oh… you miss me like that.”
You nod, already sliding your hand under the hem of her oversized sleep shirt. Your palm finds the warm skin of her thigh and squeezes. “Yeah. Been thinking about you all day.”
Jay bites her lip, the shy little habit she has when she’s feeling exposed. She shifts on the bed and you can tell something’s on her mind. You tilt your head, thumb stroking her cheek.
“Is there something wrong, baby?”
She hesitates, cheeks turning pink. Her voice comes out small and insecure. “Lately I’ve just… I've been feeling really weird about my boobs. They feel too big sometimes, like they’re in the way or… I don’t know. And I haven’t shaved in a while down there. It’s all grown out and messy. I feel gross.”
Your heart squeezes at how vulnerable she sounds. You lean in and kiss her softly, then pull back just enough to look into her eyes with a filthy little smile.
“Jay… oh my god, you’re perfect. Your tits are fucking gorgeous, so soft and heavy. I love how they spill out of my hands when I grab them. And as for not shaving?” You let your voice drop lower, rougher, because the thought alone makes you clench. “I prefer you unshaved. I love it when your pussy’s all natural like that. Makes you look so fucking filthy and real. Turns me on like crazy.”
Her breath catches, eyes widening a little. “You… you do?”
“Mhm.” You slide your hand higher, fingers brushing the soft curls between her legs. She’s already a little wet, you coat yourself in her slick before bringing your fingers to your mouth. “Lemme have a real taste? Please?”
“O-okay… You don’t have to go all the way if you don’t want t–”
“Oh, shut up.”
You push her gently onto her back and crawl between her thighs, spreading them wide. Jay’s breathing is already faster, her hands gripping the sheets like she’s nervous but excited. You hook your fingers in her panties and slide them down slowly, revealing that pretty puffy cunt covered in dark, soft hair. It’s messy and so fucking hot you can barely think straight.
“Look at you,” you murmur, voice thick with want. You lean in and press a slow, open-mouthed kiss right on her mound, inhaling loudly her warm scent.
“Don’t do that! Why did you smell me?” She looked terrified for being this wet.
“Jaybabe, I fucking love your smell. I think you know that,” you mention, looking up at her and arching your eyebrows. She remembers all the times she comes back from the gym and you insist on sniffing her armpits and pussy, or how many times she’s caught you touching yourself with her used panties in your nose.
She lets out a shaky whimper when you part her lips with your thumbs, exposing the slick pink inside. You don’t rush. You eat her out nice and slow, savoring every drop of her. Your tongue drags lazily through her folds, licking up her wetness mixed with that natural hair. You suck gently on her clit, then dip lower to push your tongue inside her, tasting her deep while her soft bush tickles your nose.
Jay’s hips twitch, her fingers threading into your hair. “Oh god… it feels so good… you really like it like this?”
You pull back just enough to answer, lips shiny with her juices. “Love it. Love how wet and sloppy you get. Fuck and your tits… babe, please...” You don’t finish the phrase because you can’t help the urge to go back to her cunt, lapping between her folds to hear her whimpers.
“W-what? What were ya ahh gonna say?” Jay manages to say, head dropping to the pillow when you suck on her clit just how she likes it.
“Spill your tits for me, yeah? The view is already pretty from down here but I missed them too,” you pout a little, resting your cheek on her thigh.
“You’re such a–” She gets interrupted by you taking a bite out of her thigh. “Ow! Alright, alright. There ya go, you bastard.”
You smile dumbly at the view, they don’t even fit in your hand. Light pink nipples already hard, big areolas and heavy, perfect to fidget while you play with her pussy. You pinch her nipples just the way she likes, she’s moaning louder now, thighs trembling around your head as you keep savoring her, licking and sucking like you could do this for hours.
“Sososo pretty,” you mutter, voice muffled and wet. You use your finger to tease her entrance, drawing circles but not pushing inside.
“B-babe, please! Nghh, s’good… too good ah!” Jay is talking nonsense at this point, toes curling every time you graze her sweet spot, feeling the vibration of your lips when you talk.
“Can’t believe you feel insecure about this gorgeous pussy and your pretty tits…” you say as you finally push inside two fingers so easily. “They’re so pretty and ugh! Wish you’d let me ride those tits.”
The whole idea, mixed with your fingers reaching her cervix and your voice teasing her clit makes her cum too fast. She tries to muffle her loud moans with the back of her hand, you don’t let her, obviously. You want to hear every last sound your girlfriend wants to make.
“So hot,” you whisper, crawling up, leaving a kiss in her mound before attacking her boobs with marks. “Gonna suck them dry.”
When she finally recovers her breath and a little of her dignity, Jay mutters, not even looking at you: “You… you can ride my tits if you want.”
“Huh?” Your head snaps up to her, eyes glistening. “For real?”
“Uh, we can try. If you want… I’m down if you are.”
You practically jump her, straddling her lap before taking her face between your hands and kissing all over it. “Have I told ya how much I love you. It’s so dumb how gone I am for you.”
conversations overheard through the batkid com lines pt 55 (masterpost here)
Jason: -like seven minutes out, but it's really quiet so i don't think it would be worth teaming for.
Dick: copy, i'm almost done over here anyway, then me and Robin are going back to the cave.
Tim: so. did Hood tell you guys that he's at war with all the middle-aged moms in his neighbourhood?
Jason: -oh don't get me started.
Dick, snickering: the 'middle-aged moms'? are you fighting a bunch of Karens from the home owners association?
Jason: oh i got banned from the hoa like, a year ago. which is really ironic because they like Red Hood. they just don't like me.
Damian: are these the women who insulted your skincare that you told me about? said you needed to moisturize more?
Jason, intently: -Damian let me tell you i fucking hate these women. i hate them.
Tim: *evil cackling*
Dick: what's even happening? since when do you have bad neighbours?
Jason: oh my- i didn't even do anything, they just hate me for no reason.
Tim: dude, you dislocated a kid's shoulder.
Dick: wait, what?
Jason: NOW HOLD ON-
Damian: yeah be fair Red, that wasn't Hood's fault.
Tim, laughing: yeah but it's still funny.
Dick: wait wait wait- hold on now, hold on- somebody tell me the whole story, i need to hear this.
Damian: one of the spoilt brats in the building across from Hood's tried to break in to steal alcohol, and he dislocated his shoulder in one of the traps set up.
Jason: i fuckin- that kid was lucky. if he'd tried the other window he would have been shot with a dart to the face, so i don't wanna hear it. i came home from the library and the little twerp was sobbing on the floor of my bathroom as if he was the victim, and then i had to fix him up!
Dick: oof. ...to be fair you do have a lot of traps in your apartment Hood. like, more than i do.
Jason: -because the kid likes them! he likes trying to break through them when he comes round, it's our thing!
Damian: and that shit-stain of a preteen ruined the set up for me! i came by like an hour later and it hadn't been reset. waste of a B&E run.
Jason: yeah, because i was over the road getting yelled at by fucking Caroline, who apparently thinks her son has right of way in other people's private property.
Dick: *laugh* she got mad at you?
Jason: YEAH- she was like, 'i'll sue you for assaulting my son' and i'm fucking looking at her like, bring it the fuck on, bitch, i have access to Bruce Wayne's lawyers! lets see who wins! and then she- and then holy fuck D, you aren't gonna believe this but i swear to god she said this word for word,
Tim: *wheeze*
Jason: she fucking goes- 'that Red Hood man does not spend his every spare second protecting our streets and their people just for people like you to move in and provide danger for our children.'
Dick: WHAT.
Jason: YEAH- YEAH EXACTLY, THAT'S WHAT I WAS LIKE-! guys you have no idea the self control i had to have to not go back later with the helmet on like 'yo i hear you messing with my boy Jason, the fuck is wrong with you?'
Tim: *louder cackling* PLEASE- please, Hood please do that,
Dick: so what happened after?!
Jason: ugh, this bitch starts lying to all the other moms in the neighbourhood about how i attacked her kid in the street and how he did nothing wrong and i was just an egotistical prick who didn't like when children played outside- mind you i have fucking security footage of what actually happened,
Dick: oh so you're- you're literally in an all out war with them?
Jason: SOME of them; there are a couple moms whose kids i've actually babysat and who know me and that, those ones aren't taking Caroline and her posse's shit, so now me and my girls are in a turf war with these other bitches-
Tim: i've seen- *cackle* Wing, you gotta start going around Crime Alley during the day more. i went to a pottery class with Hood last week over there and afterwards we ran into one of the woman that has beef with him; they are feral.
Jason: WE WERE IN THE MIDDLE OF A PUBLIC GROCERY STORE. I WAS TRYING TO BUY ONIONS. PEACEFULLY. and this bitch comes up to me throwing shade like 'oh you should really move out because we don't take aggressiveness lightly' and i'm like ME?!?!? IN THIS SITUATION, ME AGRESSIVE??
Tim: *wheeze*
Dick, audibly amused: i mean you do carry guns around, that isn't exactly non-agressive,
Jason: BUT THAT'S WHAT DRIVES ME CRAZY, IS THAT THEY DON'T CARE ABOUT THE GUNS. THAT'S NOT WHAT BOTHERS THEM! fucking- half the women that want me gone are carrying, and they all love Red Hood, but this woman was talking to me like 'it's obvious from the build of your body that you want to be intimidating; nobody works out like that unless you want the power',
Dick: *blows raspberry, dissolving into a loud cackle*
Jason: and i'm fucking standing there; coupon book out, sunscreen across the bridge of my nose, Tim next to me in a Hawaiian shirt holding the bag of pottery mugs we just made and painted together, staring at these onion prices; and i'm just like 'ok well first of all me being this jacked was a non-consensual operation and i don't appreciate you bringing up past trauma, Cindy.',
Dick: HOLY FUCK- *louder cackling*
Jason: -and now Cindy's telling me that people as strong as me don't go through trauma like that and that i'm making fun of real victims by implying such a thing-
Damian: this is insane,
Jason: -AT WHICH POINT TIM DECIDES IT WOULD BE A GOOD IDEA TO WHIP OFF HIS GLASSES AND SAY 'you know you keep coming back to how built my brother is; if you want to suck his dick you can just say that',
Dick: *uncontrollable wheezes* T-HIM-,
Tim: I REGRET- *cackle* I REGRET NOTHING.
Jason: -and now this bitch is threatening to call the police for sexual harassment, to which some random other woman who wasn't even INVOLVED in the conversation butts in, and she goes 'you know i've been listening to this conversation for the past five minutes, and i gotta say lady, you don't seem like the kind of person anybody wants to sexually harass',
Dick: *in awe* OH-?!
Damian: HOLY FUCK.
Jason: YEAH- YEAH. AND SO NOW I'M FUCKING STANDING THERE AS CINDY STARTS GETTING INTO A FIGHT WITH THIS RANDOM STRANGER, AND I'M JUST HOLDING MY FUCKING ONIONS, SIDE-EYEING TIM JUST 'so do you think we can leave?' BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE THIS NO LONGER INVOLVES ME-,
Tim: -can i just say by the way? hands down, best day of my week.
Jason: yeah also i think Cindy's started an anti-me Facebook group. so.
*a beat*
Dick: ok but on a scale of 1 to 10 how funny would it be if we joined the group with the old official public Batman account?
⋆˙⟡ synopsis: when red hood stumbles into your shitty convenience store at 2 am looking for marlboros, you don’t expect him to come back—but he does, except now he’s jason, your cute regular.
⋆˙⟡ author’s notes: i’ve probably said this like fifty times, but i’m restarting my dcu taglist. i’ll make a proper post soon, but if anyone is interested you could leave a comment or send me an ask. even though there is a afab presenting picture in the moodboard, that does not dictate reader’s gender—i have always written gen!reader.
Your clenched hand bangs on the “OPEN” sign for the third time this night. One letter is always burnt out—the “O”, to be specific. As a result, the small convenience store you work for has the word “PEN” basically written on its front door. Let’s say it doesn’t naturally garner any paying customers after normal shopping hours. Well, any normal customers, that is. You’re pretty much desensitised to every stranger who walks through the door.
“Does this make my store look like we sell dirty magazines?” Your manager, an old lady whom you’ve just learned to call ma’am instead of her real name—Marjorie—barks your way before opening the door to finally head home.
How nice that she never stays around for the night shift. Fantastic choice of words to end her stay here for tonight, too.
“More like a stationery shop,” you say, trying to align the sign to the center of the door, “I’m not sure people expect us to be selling anything… mature at a convenience store. You know, with there being aisles full of groceries.”
“I’ll be damned if a stupid sign ruins the reputation of this store, do you hear me? This building has been in my family for generations.” She’s still pointing at you, even though she’s half out of the door. “Take care of the place, don’t forget to clean up.”
“Sure, ma’am.” You try your best to hold back the sarcasm in your voice, but it fails, and you receive a nasty side glare from the woman.
You groan, turning back on your heel to return to the counter. It’s made of old wood-grain, laminated. Already chipping at the edges. It sits catty-corner to the door so you can see both the entrance and the back aisle. Which you have to, since the cameras—inside and out—are definitely fake.
There’s an old-school bell on a spring, attached to the door. It announces every customer, loud and impossible to muffle. Hearing bells at two in the morning isn’t ideal, but the store runs on pure spite, and your rent needs to be paid somehow.
Speaking of the devil, you hear the bell ring.
You straighten your spine, mentally readying yourself for another of Marjorie’s scoldings. You wonder what you forgot to do now, or who will be the recipient of her wrath. Raising your head, you open your mouth to muster some kind of excuse for whatever she’ll throw at you, but you stop dead in your tracks.
The person who walks through the door isn’t the short, hot-tempered old lady you’ve been working with for the past few months.
No.
You first notice the blood. The way it’s still wet, clinging onto the helmet, which is in the same shade. A man whom you have never seen in person stands just a few feet away from you. A hip holster hangs off of him, with something metal shining under the unbearable fluorescent lights. You don’t have to guess. It might be a gun, or he might have a knife stashed in another holster you haven’t spotted yet.
You’ve seen freaks in this shop—the guy who tried to pay with a bag of loose teeth, the woman who screamed at the beer cooler for ten minutes. Some are even sort of endearing when you learn how to handle them.
But you haven’t seen Red fucking Hood. And you sure as hell don’t know how to handle him.
What the actual hell? Marjorie didn’t train you for this. There isn’t a “how to deal with a vigilante showing up” section in any manual.
You freeze on the spot. Your hands grip the cold counter. For a moment, you think of taking the energy drinks from the small cooler and just throwing them at the man so maybe, just maybe, he’ll find the attempt pathetic enough and let you go. You can hear him step closer. You’re sure the metal cans won’t save you now.
You take a single step back. You hit the cigarette wall behind you. Marjorie would kill you if she found the cigarette wall in a mess, but it won’t really matter if the man approaching you gets to you first.
God, he is bigger in person. What the hell does he even eat to look like that?
What are you even thinking right now?
It only takes him a few steps to reach the counter from the entrance. A small trail of dirty footsteps follows him, and you grimace at the drops of blood sticking to his boots. There’s a small… handle sticking out of a holster lower on his leg.
Oh, that’s where the knife is. Lucky you.
You swallow down the breath stuck in your throat as he stands in front of the counter. He looks everywhere but at you, eyeing the energy drinks beside you and the cigarette wall. Instinctively, you raise your hands in front of you, as if to show him you won’t try anything stupid, like throwing energy drinks at him.
You can swear you hear something like an amused scoff coming from underneath his helmet as he looks back at you.
So, he finds this funny, huh.
“I’m not going to bite your head off.” He speaks first, because you sure as hell won’t talk to him first. You doubt Marjorie would scold you for customer service when the customer is Red Hood himself.
“So the knife there is just for show?” The words escape your lips without your permission, and you regret it instantly.
“I do love a good accessory,” he clicks his tongue, as if he’s being hilarious.
He raises a hand, and you watch the way the leather of his gloves flexes. They’re dark in color, tactical, fitted, covering to his wrist. The fabric leaves a piece of his forearm exposed. Your eyes trail over the showing skin. There are a few scars littered on the surface, running down his arm like rivers.
“You can drop your hands,” his voice breaks you out of your thoughts… about his arms?
“So, you aren’t suspicious or anything?” You drop your hands to your sides, “What if I—”
“You don’t scare me, sweetheart. It’s mostly the other way around.” He says the word “sweetheart” a little too easily. It almost sounds like honey rolling of his tongue. If he didn’t have a gun and knife strapped to him, maybe you’d even blush.
You hope you aren’t visibly blushing. The heat in your cheeks is your problem, not his.
“I could call the cops,” you challenge, a newfound confidence seeping into your words.
“And they’d definitely come here. After half an hour, give or take. But I’d already have taken what I came here for.”
Yep, he’s actually going to do something horrible. You thought Red Hood took care of criminals, not some cashier like you, who, yes, might have skimmed some dollars out of the cash register a few times. But that doesn’t warrant a visit from Red Hood himself. Your jaw tightens, while your hands clench. You’re sure your nails are digging crescents into your palm right now.
“And what would that be?”
If you’re going to be beaten up or robbed by Gotham’s most smart-mouthed vigilante, you’re not going down silent. Maybe you should scream. Just to make this harder for him.
He puts his other hand on his hip. For a moment, you think he’s reaching for his holster, but his voice from the helmet reaches you again.
“I want a cigarette.”
What.
“You want a what?”
Red Hood points a finger at the cigarette wall behind you. You follow the gesture to the Marlboros sitting in the middle row, just behind the locked glass screen. The “21+” sign is hanging on the screen with the paint already peeling off its surface.
He wants a fucking cigarette. And he’s saying all of this as if he didn’t just threaten you a moment ago.
“Seriously?”
“I am over twenty-one, if you’re wondering.”
“That’s not,” you groan. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
He shrugs. Throwing that energy drink can might have been an actual good idea.
“I can’t show you my ID, unfortunately,” he gives you a faux sigh through his helmet. Both of his hands are on his hips now, and you somehow calm down seeing that he’s not reaching for a weapon. “Secret identity and all. You understand, no?”
“You just had to mess with me, huh?”
“Couldn’t help myself.”
You turn your back slowly, still trying to keep an eye on him, all while letting out an annoyed huff. He mimics the sound of your sneer right back at you. You snap your head back at him. He, on the other hand, looks at one of the shelves, as if he didn’t do anything at all. You can feel something akin to a laugh building up in your body because he looks ridiculous, if you ignore the blood. His hands are on his hips, showing you he’s not going for his weapons. He’s looking away like a child caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
You open the cigarette wall with a turn of your keys. The glass screen moves, and you grab a single pack of Marlboros. You scan the pack in silence. It’s not like the heavy and tense silence from before, when he first walked through the door, bloody and intimidating. Now it feels like he’s actually a customer. A weird one, but it’s Gotham. You’re not surprised.
“Smoking is bad for you, y’know,” you say quietly, almost mumbling. Though he hears you anyway.
“You worried, sweetheart?”
“Oh, of course,” you answered with a raised brow, hoping the sarcasm was obvious in your voice. “Who else would walk in bloody in the shop just to buy cigarettes?”
He reaches for his pocket. Your eyes trail to his forearms again. You hadn’t noticed before, but the veins on his arms are barely visible. Though you can see the way they are indented in his skin, between the scars. He lays a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter. To his credit, the money at least isn’t bloodied.
“Next time at…” he looks at the clock on the wall behind you, the cracked glass shows that it’s eight pm now. “How does five sound?”
“If you don’t come with your accessories and blood, maybe. Just maybe.”
You hand over the cigarette pack to him. Your fingers brush his, and for a split second, his fingers freeze. It’s like he’s surprised and flustered by the contact.
“A deal breaker, then?” He lets out a cough before grabbing the Marlboros and taking a step back from the counter.
You tilt your head, trying to figure out in your mind what he looks like right now behind that helmet. His voice sounds hoarse. All because you touched him. Though he hasn’t expressed any discomfort yet.
“No,” you answer. “Not exactly…”
God, why is your stupid heart talking instead of your brain?
He perks up. You can see it in how his shoulders pick up. His grip on the cigarette pack changes; he’s now twirling it between his fingers.
Yep, you’re never leaving your apartment ever again.
He does have big hands, though.
“Five o’clock, then,” he says, like it’s already decided. Like you already said yes.
“I didn’t agree to anything.”
“You didn’t say no either, sweetheart.”
There it is again. That word. Dripping off his tongue like he’s known you for years. Like he has any right to call you that when you can’t even see his face.
He tucks the Marlboros into his jacket pocket. Takes a step back. Then another.
You should feel relieved. You are relieved. Probably.
“Same time tomorrow,” he says from the door. The bell hasn’t rung yet. He’s waiting. For what, you don’t know.
“Same blood?” you ask, because your mouth has officially divorced your brain.
He tilts his helmet. That same amused energy from before.
“Maybe less. If you’re lucky.”
The bell rings. He’s gone.
You stare at the door for a full ten seconds. Then, at the crumpled bills on the counter. Then at the trail of dirty footprints leading to the entrance.
Then back at the door.
What the hell just happened?
You grab the nearest energy drink can—not to throw, just to hold. The metal is cold against your palm. Your heart is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm.
And you hate yourself a little for already knowing you’ll be here at five o’clock tomorrow.
+++
“Wait, say that again,” Marjorie points at your face, as if you’re in the wrong. “A vigilante walked through my doors and threatened my employee?”
“He didn’t really threaten me,” you point out, but the exasperated look on the woman’s face makes you backtrack. “I mean, he looked scary. He didn’t lay a hand on me, though.”
Unfortunately.
You should have stayed home.
“You said he had a gun!”
“And a knife.”
“Oh, my god. And he smokes, too. Children these days.”
“I don’t think his smoking is the main issue here,” you move past the counter to the aisles.
You didn’t call Marjorie about what happened last night as soon as he had left. In her book, if something isn’t bleeding or broken, calling isn’t necessary. You cleaned the drop of blood from the counter and closed up last night. The streets felt just a tad brighter under the streetlights, knowing a certain vigilante might be looking out for you. Who knows, maybe he’ll appreciate the fact that you sold him the cigarettes without calling the cops on him.
Now you’re here, the next day. You’ve been buzzing around the shop all day. The sticky floors, even though you cleaned them yesterday, are still holding onto the grime. The fluorescent light bulb above the counter needed a few hits before it stopped flickering. You’ve been listening to the rattle of the beer cooler since you clocked in.
Marjorie’s incessant badgering about Red Hood unfortunately did reach your ears over the cooler’s rattle.
“Did he hurt you?” She asks again, and you, surprisingly, find the concern a bit endearing.
“Aw,” you coo, “you do care about me, Marj.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, idiot,” she scowls. “Who else would work for me if you died, or worse, quit?”
“No. He didn’t hurt me,” you deadpan. “He didn’t take anything. He paid for a Marlboro and took off.”
You haven’t mentioned the fact that he might visit again. You’re not planning on Marjorie finding out. She’ll leave in a few hours, and you will hang onto that stupid and foolish hope that a man whose face you’ve never seen will come to see you. You spent a few more minutes today in front of the mirror, too.
God, what are you doing?
“Marlboro?” Marjorie raises a brow. “He doesn’t even have taste. He should have gotten one of those… what are they called?”
“Yellow Spirits?”
“Yes, those.”
“You’re only saying that because they cost more.”
“If he’s bothering my employees, the least he can do is pay me.”
You bend down to the box near your feet. It’s full of some brand of cereal you can’t remember the name of. Something generic for an even more generic convenience store.
Marjorie approaches you near the aisle. Her brows are furrowed, and her wrinkles are even more pronounced today. The corners of her mouth are pulled into a thin line. As if she’s actually worried.
She starts digging into her pocket. You turn your head, curious about what she’s doing. She pulls out something that looks like a… taser?
“Marjorie, what is that?”
“Kid, we both know I don’t have the means to get you a gun,” she clicks her tongue, gesturing the taser your way, “but this should do the trick. It ain’t one of those harmless ones either. It packs a big punch.”
You grab the taser from her hand. It feels heavy in your grip. You imagine using it against anyone, though you don’t think you’ll be pointing it towards Red Hood anytime soon. First, stupidly enough, you hope he won’t give you a reason to use it. Secondly, you’re sure it won’t work against a man shaped like a mountain.
“Thanks, Marj,” you pocket the taser in your apron, the one Marjorie forces you to wear all your shift.
“It’s Marjorie,” she scoffs. “Now, I’ll get going. My heart cannot take another one of your ridiculous night stories. My poor knees need a break.”
As if she’s the one restocking.
She’s already half out of the door before you can even say goodbye. Not that she’d say it back. So much for her poor knees.
You turn back to the aisle. There are still a few more boxes unopened. The shop is relatively small one, so you’re not too worried about the amount of work waiting for you.
You look at the cracked clock near the register. There are a few minutes left before it strikes five. You bite your lip. There’s a strange feeling of impatience and exhilaration mixing in your stomach, all like a bad concoction.
This is how crazy people die in those superhero movies, all because they think that they’ve got a connection with a murder. You are very much that type of crazy person. It’s almost like Gotham has entirely changed you, making your eyes locked onto the door, awaiting a certain someone.
To your utter surprise, the bell rings. You feel your knees getting weak. You step away from the aisle that was blocking your way to the front door, half expecting Red Hood to show up and actually rob you or something; you’re not sure what people like him get up to.
Your heart is beating against your chest. There’s something deeply wrong with you. You consider running out the back door, but you’re already in the line of sight of the entrance.
He already saw you.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sweetheart.”
The “he” turned out to be not a bloodied costume-wearing vigilante, but your loyalest regular—Jason Todd. You still don’t understand why he keeps visiting. A small part of your heart hopes it’s because he finds the cashier, you, cute.
He’s wearing a black T-shirt. It’s cut off around the forearms. You see familiar faint scars. You’ve never asked Jason about them. He did notice you staring once, and he explained that he had had a few accidents with his motorcycle. Your heart pangs uncomfortably at the reminder of him being in pain. The shirt clings to his chest in a way that will not leave your mind this entire week. It rides up slightly around his waist, exposing just a small part of his skin. You can see the tattoos peeking out from underneath the fabric, just above the leather belt around his hips.
This is too much. Way too much for a full day shift.
Wow. Both him and Red Hood. That’s low. Even for you.
You feel a sense of disappointment, as if you were played by Red Hood. But it’s not like he owed you anything.
Jason tilts his head. A few of the white strands of his hair fall down on his forehead. They frame his face in an effortlessly handsome way, so much so that you want to punch the subtle grin off his face. You’re sure Marjorie would fire you for that, considering Jason is probably the only customer of this shop she actually likes.
“Jason,” you finally get the words past your lips, “it’s just you.”
“Just me?” he places a hand on his chest in faux hurt.
He steps into the shop. His gate is steady. In a way that is the opposite of yours. You’re sure you’re shaking like a leaf right now, gripping the bag of cereal even harder. You scold yourself mentally for freezing up like this.
You can see the way Jason’s face shifts. Maybe he noticed how off you are today. He’s always so perceptive, a trait you haven’t yet decided is stupidly attractive or attractively dooming for you. It reminds you of that one time you tried hiding a burn you had gotten in the shop from him, but he still noticed. He walked to the pharmacy across the street just to buy a weird cream you had never heard of, but you appreciated the gesture either way.
No one had really done that for you before. Not without expecting something in return.
He reaches you in just a few steps. You wonder how he moves so quickly. In a way that doesn’t tick you off either. He raises his hands, almost to show he’s trying to calm you down.
“You okay?” He asks, voice laced with concern. His tone is softer, too. Like cigarettes wrapped in velvet fabric.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I feel like a million bucks.”
Who even says that?
You cough, trying to clear your throat. With a tilt of your head, you gesture to the register. Jason follows your gaze. He lets out a small sigh and follows you to the counter.
“So,” you try to force your voice to sound chirpy. It seems wrong. “What can I get you?”
By the look on Jason’s concerned face, you’re sure he noticed the strain in your voice, too. The soft glint in your eyes makes your heart tighten. You can’t take your anger out on him. It’s unfair.
“Is there anything I can do?” Jason offers, and the guilt in his voice makes you want to crawl under the counter.
For a moment, you wonder why he’s so hell-bent on comforting you. Especially when he has nothing to do with your stupid infatuation with a vigilante. Well, you have a small crush on Jason, too, but the future you will be the one who unpacks that.
“It’s nothing,” you lie, already reaching for the yellow Spirits behind the glass. Your fingers fumble with the keys. “Rough night. You know how it is.”
“I don’t,” he says, leaning against the counter. His forearm brushes against the chipped wood. You watch the muscles shift under his skin. “But I’ve got time if you wanna talk about it.”
“You’re buying cigarettes, not listening to me talk all day. This isn’t therapy.”
“Same thing, sweetheart.”
There it is. Sweetheart. The same word Red Hood used. Your brain short-circuits for half a second before you remember—Jason has been calling you that for months. Way before last night.
It doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself. It’s just a word.
“You’re staring,” Jason says, amused.
“I’m obviously glaring,” you correct, shoving the yellow pack across the counter. “There’s a big difference.”
He doesn’t reach for the cigarettes. Instead, he tilts his head—and there. That’s the same tilt. The same one Red Hood used when he found you funny. Your stomach flips.
“You glare at all your customers like that, or just me?”
Two can play that game.
“Just the ones who show up at five o’clock looking like that.”
“Like what?”
You gesture vaguely at all of him. The arms. The chest. The stupid white streak in his hair.
“Like you just walked off a movie set.”
Jason’s grin spreads slowly. You feel heat pool up in your stomach. Suddenly, it feels like you’re back to last night. As if he is again, right in front of you, and you’re not sure how to handle this. How to handle Jason and Red Hood.
God, you’re going to hell. If there’s even one.
“So you have noticed.”
‘I notice when my regulars change their look,” you say, deflecting. “New shirt?”
“This old thing?” He plucks at the fabric, tugging on it a bit too harshly. You wonder if he’s nervous. “You like it?”
Jason—to your surprise and amusement—sounds actually nervous. The idea that you can fluster him lights your skin on fire.
“I liked the leather jacket better.”
“Noted.”
He’s still not taking the cigarettes. He’s just looking at you. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The same way Red Hood looked at you—like you were interesting. Like you weren’t just another cashier.
“You’re doing it again,” you say.
“Doing what?”
"Looking at me like I’m hiding something. Which I am definitely not."
Jason laughs. It’s low, warm, and it does something stupid to your chest.
“Maybe you are hiding something,” he says. “You’re harder to figure out than most.”
“That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received.”
“It’s not backhanded,” he says, and you can get drunk on the flustered tone of his voice. “I’m just bad at words.”
“You’re a regular. You come here three times a week. I’ve learned that you’re not bad at anything.”
His eyebrows go up. “Anything?”
Shit.
“I meant—talking. I meant talking.”
“Sure you did.”
He finally takes the cigarettes. His fingers brush yours—deliberate this time. You’re sure of it. His hand lingers for half a second, in a way that’s longer than necessary.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.
“You’re already here today.”
“And?”
You stare at him. He stares back. The fluorescent light buzzes. The beer cooler rattles. Somewhere outside, a car alarm starts wailing.
“You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?” you say.
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
“Fine. Same time tomorrow.”
“Good.”
He tucks the yellow pack into his back pocket. No jacket today means you can see the outline of his wallet, the curve of his—
Stop it.
But he’s totally doing this on purpose.
Jason steps closer to the counter. You can see the faint freckles dotted across his pale skin. There’s a light scar running down his cheek. You wonder how a motorcycle accident could do all of this. You know he’s hiding something from you. For a second, you wonder what it would feel like to count his freckles and trace the scar.
You can see the muscles in Jason’s shoulders flex as he leans over the counter. His hand reaches for his other pocket. He takes out a lighter you haven’t seen before. A raised cross spreads across its surface, darkened in the grooves.
He places it on the counter between you, sliding it toward you.
You pick it up. It’s heavier than you expected. Warm from being in his pocket. Your thumb traces the engraving. Along the edge of the metal, barely noticeable unless you know to look, a Latin phrase is etched in fine, precise lettering—worn just enough to suggest it is carried often, turned over in someone’s hands.
“What’s this say?”
“Something stupid that I got when I was nineteen.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Light it up for me?”
You look up. “What?”
“The cigarette.” He pulls the yellow pack from his back pocket—when did he grab that?—and taps one out. Holds it between his fingers. Doesn’t move to light it himself, just looks at you. “You’ve got the lighter.”
“You have hands.”
“And you’re holding it.”
The fluorescent light makes his eyes look greener than usual. Or maybe that’s just the angle. Or maybe you’re hallucinating because of what is happening right now.
“You want me to light your cigarette,” you say slowly, “over the counter. In the middle of my shift.”
“I want a lot of things,” he says. “Right now I’m just asking for a light.”
Your heart is doing something stupid. Your hands are definitely not shaking as you flick the lighter. Once. Twice. On the third try, a flame catches.
Jason leans in, closer than he needs to. His fingers brush yours as he brings the cigarette to the flame. His eyes don’t leave yours. You can’t take your gaze off the sea-green color of his eyes.
The cigarette catches. He takes a slow drag. Exhales away from your face—polite, even now—and the smoke curls up toward the flickering lights.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
He picks the lighter off the counter. His fingers linger over yours again.
“Same time tomorrow? Actually, I might be a little late.”
“You’re already here today.”
“And?”
You can’t think of a single clever thing to say. Your brain is full of smoke and green eyes and the weight of a silver lighter that’s no longer in your hand.
“Fine,” you manage. “Same time tomorrow.”
“Good.”
He tucks the lighter back into his pocket. The cigarette hangs from his lips. He’s halfway to the door when you call out.
“You forgot your cigarettes.”
He glances at the yellow pack still sitting on the counter. Then back at you through the smoke.
“No, I didn’t.”
The bell rings.
He’s gone.
+++
The next night is different. The fluorescent lights are too rough on your eyes. The counter is too cold. The rattling of the beer cooler is too loud. Marjorie didn’t drop by today either. You find yourself missing her incessant badgering, even if it does get a bit too much sometimes.
You feel lonely.
Ridiculous.
Maybe it’s because Jason didn’t show up today, and you’ve been staring at the front door like a kicked puppy. You’ve been lied to by him and Red Hood two times already. Or maybe, you’re just a fool to think that either of them would actually show up for you.
You sigh, leaning your elbow over the counter. The cold surface bites at your skin, but you don’t really care. Your thoughts are buzzing in your head nonstop. It’s all like an ambience you want to shut out.
The bell rings.
Your head snaps up, eyes trailing to the door.
A man walks in. Average height. Average build. Grey hoodie. Jeans that don’t quite fit right. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold—or against something else. You can’t tell. His face is the kind you’d forget five seconds after looking away.
Nobody, you think. Just another nobody.
You straighten up anyway, because Marjorie might not be here, but her voice lives in your head rent-free. “Don’t slouch,” she’d say. “Makes you look like you don’t care. Customers can smell apathy.”
“Evening,” you call out, forcing something pleasant into your voice.
He grunts. Doesn’t look at you. Wanders the aisles like he’s searching for something. You watch him pick up a bag of chips. Put it back. A candy bar. Put it back. A Gatorade—blue, the electrolyte one—he holds onto that one.
His hands are shaking.
Late at night, you tell yourself. Long shift. You shake too, sometimes, when you’re running on three hours of sleep and bad coffee. Don’t judge him too quickly. Just mind your own business.
He walks to the counter. Sets the Gatorade down. The bottle thuds against the laminate—harder than it needs to.
“That everything?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the bottle.
“Sir?”
He looks up.
And there it is. That thing in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. He’s not looking at you like a customer—he’s looking at you like you’re not even there.
“Two eighty-nine,” you say, voice smaller than you want it to be.
He reaches for his pocket. Pulls out a crumpled five. Smooths it on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times. His fingers are pale and knuckles white.
You make a change and slide it across. He doesn’t take it.
“Sir? Your change.”
He blinks and pockets the money without counting. “Thanks.”
Then he walks to the door.
Good, you think. He’s leaving. You were wrong. He’s just some guy.
He stops at the door and doesn’t turn around. He keeps just standing there. His one hand is on the frame. The bell is hanging inches from his head.
A cold feeling, like a wretched thing crawls up your spine. Lock the register, you think. Your keys are in your pocket. Lock it. Call—
He turns around.
The Gatorade is still on the counter, just as he left it.
He walks back, and not slow this time—fast. His footsteps don’t echo—they thud. Every step is a warning call.
“I changed my mind,” he says.
“About the Gatorade?”
“About all of it.”
His hand goes to his waistband.
You know before you see it. Before he pulls it out. You know.
The gun is small and black. It’s the kind that fits in a waistband without printing. God, how did you not see it before? He holds it at his side, not pointing it at you yet—but the threat is there.
“Open the register,” he says. His voice isn’t flat anymore; it’s shaking.
A scared man with a gun is worse than an angry one.
Your hands go up automatically. “Okay,” you say. “All right. I’m opening it.”
Your fingers find the keys in your apron. You don’t look away from him. Never look away from the gun.
The register drawer slides open with that familiar ka-ching that’s never sounded so loud before. Now it rings out loudly in your ears over the deathly silence.
“Take it,” you say. “It’s all there. I’m not going to stop you.”
He steps closer, and the gun comes up. It’s pointed at your chest now.
“The safe,” he says. “Open the safe.”
“I don’t have the code. The manager—she doesn’t give it to the night shift. I swear.”
His jaw tightens. His finger moves to the trigger.
This is how I die, you think. In a convenience store that says “PEN” on the door, and just for a register with maybe two hundred dollars in it.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I’m not. Please—”
He reaches across the counter. Grabs your arm, and he grabbed it hard. His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise.
“Then you’re gonna call her. Right now. And you’re gonna get the code.”
“She won’t—she’s asleep, she’s old, she won’t—”
He yanks and pulls you halfway across the counter. Your hip slams into the edge. Pain shoots up your side.
“I said call her.”
Your head hits something on the way down. The corner of the register, or the counter edge. You’re not sure. All you know is white-hot pain and then warm wetness dripping into your hair.
The bell rings.
You barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.
But he does.
The robber turns. Just for a second. Just long enough to see who walked in.
And then he’s not holding you anymore. Because someone else is holding him.
Red Hood moves like water, like something that was never human to begin with. Your eyes can’t even catch up with his movements.
One second, he’s at the door. Next, his hand is wrapped around the robber’s wrist, twisting until you hear something crack. The gun clatters to the floor. The robber screams—a high, wet sound that barely registers in your foggy brain.
You’re on the ground. When did you fall? The linoleum is cold against your cheek. Sticky, too. There’s blood in your eyes. Your blood. From your head.
Oh, you think. That’s not good.
Red Hood doesn’t say a word—he just moves. A punch to the gut. An elbow to the back. The robber crumples like paper, gasping for air he can’t catch. Hood pins him to the ground with a knee to the spine.
You try to push yourself up. Your arms won’t cooperate. They’re shaking. Everything is shaking.
“Stay down,” Hood says. His voice is modulated. But there’s something underneath it. “Don’t move your head.”
You blink. The world swims. The fluorescent lights blur into halos. You can see his boots—heavy, and splattered with something dark—stepping over the robber’s body, coming towards you.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Look at me.”
You try. Your eyes find the helmet. The white lenses. The shine of blood—not his, not his—on his chest plate.
“There you go,” he says. His voice is softer now. The modulator can’t hide that. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
“You came back,” you slur. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.
“Of course I came back.” He crouches down. His gloved hands hover over you, like he wants to touch but doesn’t know where it’s safe. “I said five o’clock, didn’t I?”
“You’re late. So fucking late.”
A sound from under the helmet—a laugh, a broken one. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”
Something falls from his jacket. A glint of silver. It skids across the floor and stops near your outstretched hand.
The lighter.
The silver one. The engraved one. Jason’s.
Your brain snags on it like a needle on a record. That’s—that’s his. That’s the one he put in your hand. The one you flicked. The one that was warm from his pocket.
“That’s,” you start, but the words won’t come. Your vision is going dark at the edges. “That’s Jason’s.”
Hood goes very still.
“Jason,” you repeat, because it’s the only word that matters. “You’re—you’re him. You’re—… oh my god.”
“Don’t,” he says. His real voice. The modulator must have cut out. Or maybe your ears are just giving up. “Don’t talk. Just stay awake. Please.”
You try. You really do. But the dark is pulling at you, soft and heavy, and the last thing you see is the lighter—silver and warm and his—sitting on the dirty floor between you.
The last thing you hear is his panicked voice.
“Stay with me. Don’t—shit. Stay awake. Please.”
Then nothing.
+++
The beeping is the first thing you hear.
You can barely find the strength to open your eyes. Your eyelids feel too heavy. There’s a sterile smell around whatever room you are currently in.
The walls are stark white. They stretch unbroken except for the occasional monitor, its screen blinking in steady, indifferent rhythms. A faint antiseptic smell lingers in the air, sharp and clean, threaded with something metallic beneath it. The bed sits at the center, too narrow, sheets pulled tight.
And, you’re in it.
You look to the side of the bed. There’s a small table near you. On top of it, there is a small card. You try to raise your hand, and it’s a miracle you manage to. You grab the card and open it. Your eye recognizes Marjorie’s handwriting.
Get well soon, kid. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, not much an old lady like me can do. You take all the time you need while you’re at the hospital. The GCPD will investigate this even if I have to break down their door. Call me when you’re ready to talk.
— Marj.
You knew she cared about you. Too bad you had to survive a robbery to get proof of that.
Fuck.
You got robbed. Almost shot at. Just for a few hundred dollar bills and a safe you don’t even know the code to.
You thought you were going to die.
Until he showed up.
You push yourself off the bed. The room spins. Your head throbs. You press a hand to your forehead and feel the bandage there, rough against your fingertips. Stitches. Great.
You look around. You’re in a private room. How the hell did you get a private room? Marjorie can barely afford to keep the store’s lights on. Maybe the hospital made a mistake. Maybe you’re in the wrong bed. Maybe—
The window.
There’s something at the window.
A shape, dark against the night sky. You’re on the third floor—you remember that much from the ambulance ride, the stretcher, the paramedic with kind eyes telling you to stay awake, honey, stay with me—
The shape moves.
A tap, glass against knuckle.
You squint. Your vision is still blurry, but you’d know that silhouette anywhere—the shoulders and the faint movement of dark curls.
Jason is standing on the fire escape.
He doesn’t come in. Just stands there and watches you.
You should be scared. You were scared the first time. But now? Now all you feel is something warm and stupid blooming in your chest.
You reach over and fumble with the window latch. Your fingers are clumsy—the head injury, probably—but you get it open. Cold air rushes in. Gotham smells like rain and exhaust and something that might be smoke in the distance.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says. You can hear the exhaustion underneath.
“You’re not supposed to be on a fire escape,” you shoot back. Your voice comes out hoarse. “Looks like both of us are starting this conversation in horrible ways. But I could scream, and they’d drag you out of here.”
“You wouldn’t,” he tilts his head, like he’s daring you to try.
He could probably cover the distance between you in a second. He’d have his hand over your mouth before you could even let out a squeak.
Why are you imagining his hand on your mouth right now?
“Are you gonna come in?” you ask, trying to get your mind out of the gutter. “Or are you gonna stand out there all night like a creep?”
His hair is a mess—curls sticking up everywhere, the white streak catching the dim light from the monitors. There’s a cut on his cheekbone, fresh. Dark circles under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. He’s wearing the same black shirt from before, the one cut off around the forearms, and you can see the scars now with new eyes. You’re sure the scars are not from a motorcycle.
“You look like shit,” you say.
He laughs. “You’re one to talk.”
“Fair.”
He climbs through the window, but doesn’t sit on the bed—stands near it, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets. The jacket is different tonight. You wonder if he’s wearing anything like armor underneath it. Or maybe, tonight, he’s just your Jason, not Red Hood. Or maybe both. They have always been the same. You were just too blind to see it.
“The lighter,” you say.
He goes still.
“It fell out of your pocket. During the fight. I saw it.”
Jason stares at you. Something passes over his face—fear, maybe, or relief. You still haven’t quite figured that one out, yet.
“I know,” he says.
“Is that how you wanted me to find out? Or did you just get sloppy?”
He flinches. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. You were bleeding. You passed out. I—” He stops. His jaw tightens, as if he’s chewing on words he can’t bring himself to say.
“You what?”
“I panicked.” The words come out rough. Broken. “I don’t panic. I don’t. But you were on the ground, and there was blood in your hair, and I thought—I thought you were—” He can’t finish the sentence.
You reach out. Your hand finds his. His fingers are cold—from the fire escape, from the night, from whatever he was doing before he got here. You hold on anyway.
“I’m not dead,” you say.
“I can see that. And you’re not good at bedside manners.”
“So stop looking at me like I’m gonna disappear. Plus, I’m the one in the hospital bed. If anyone has to work on their bedside manners, it’s you.” You jab a finger in his chest. The skin behind the fabric of the jacket feels like a wall.
Definitely not the time to be thinking about his chest.
He looks down at your hands. Then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. The tension cracks.
He doesn’t talk right away. Instead, he pulls his hand around you—gently, like he’s afraid of hurting you, and reaches into his jacket pocket. When his hand comes back out, he’s holding the lighter.
The silver-engraved one. He turns it over in his fingers.
“I came back for it. After the ambulance took you. It was still on the floor.”
“So you didn’t come to see me?”
He gives you a look. That look, the one that says you know exactly why I’m here.
“I came to see you,” he says. “I’ve been out there for three hours.”
“Three hours?”
“You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”
You stare at him. This man. This impossible man. Buys cigarettes from you three times a week. Calls you sweetheart like it’s your actual name. Climbed through your hospital window at—what, two in the morning?—just to make sure you were okay.
“You’re an idiot,” you say.
“I’ve been told.”
“A stupid idiot.”
“Also been told. Also, stupid and idiot are synonyms.”
You grab his wrist. Pull him toward the bed. He stumbles—actually stumbles, like you’ve caught him off guard—and ends up sitting on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell the smoke on his jacket and the gunpowder. It’s intoxicating. It reminds you of the time his nose was almost brushing yours as you lit his cigarette.
“You’re staying,” you say.
“I can’t—”
“You can. The nurses don’t come in until six. That’s—” you glance at the clock on the wall, the one with the cracked glass that reminds you of the store, “—four hours. You’re staying for four hours.”
“Four hours,” he repeats.
“And then you’re gonna come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And you’re gonna keep coming back until I’m out of here. And then you’re gonna come to the store. And you’re gonna buy your stupid yellow cigarettes or the Marlboro ones, I don’t care. And you’re gonna let me light them for you. With your lighter. And you will ask me out on a date. Preferably not one that starts in a convenience store.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s a lot of demands for someone who just woke up from a concussion.”
“I’m very good at multitasking.”
He laughs again, and it’s louder this time.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Okay. Four hours. And I will take you out on that date.”
He doesn’t leave after four hours. Instead, he stays until the sun comes up.
The nurses find him there in the morning— asleep in the visitor’s chair, his hand wrapped around yours, the silver lighter sitting on the bedside table.
They don’t ask questions. Thank god.
This is Gotham, after all.
⋆˙⟡ taglist: @coffeelovingreader @cherryseascns @yuunarii-arii @simpingmyassoff (if anyone wants to be added or removed please let me know).
