The combination of 'unnervingly flawless self-control' with 'occasional tendency to engage in reckless, dangerous, and borderline self-destructive or death-seeking behaviour' in a character is SUCH catnip to me
summary: your soulmate has ghosted you? time to become an international terrorist.
wc: 5.3k
---
Questions used: 10. If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?
---
The first day you thought he was just napping.
By day three, you stop checking the window every time headlights pass your apartment building.
By day five, you start doing it again.
Jason should have been back by now.
Because logically, Jason being gone longer than expected is not unusual. Vigilante adjacent mercenary work probably does not operate on clean scheduling. There are explosions involved. International airspace violations.
Still.
A week feels strange.
The apartment feels wrong too.
His stupid boots are not by the door. His jacket is not slung over the couch. Nobody is stealing bites of cookie dough directly from the mixing bowl while claiming it’s “quality control.”
The reading nook sits empty. Fatson Todd has somehow migrated into Jason’s usual corner like he’s inheriting territory.
You stare at him suspiciously while curled beneath a blanket.
“This is bad, right?” you ask the plushie.
Fatson Todd offers no useful insights.
Which had not actually answered anything.
Next, you texted his family. Unfortunately, all they had to say is that Jason is fine. Dumb, but fine. Apparently he threatened them with bodily harm if they gave you any details.
After that, you waited. Because Jason had a key.
And the thing about Jason was that he appeared in places unexpectedly all the time now. Fire escapes. Balconies. Your couch at two in the morning claiming he “was in the area.”
So naturally, you kept expecting to hear the lock click.
You figured eventually he’d appear in your apartment like nothing is wrong. You even rehearsed your response. Or variations of responses depending on how mad you want to act.
Cool and casual:
oh wow look who remembered i exist
Maybe slightly emotional:
i was worried, idiot
Possibly dramatic:
i almost filed a missing persons report with batman
But the lock stayed still. The apartment stayed quiet.
By day six, desperation won and you decided to try the old faithful. You dragged your cooler down to Crime Alley with enough cookies to feed a small militia and left a note tucked beneath the lid.
for jason <3 pls stop acting mysterious and text me back
It had felt solid at the time.
Romantic, even.
Unfortunately, when you returned the next morning, five homeless men had somehow picked the cooler lock and were happily eating chocolate chunk on the curb.
One of them waved. “Those peanut-free?”
You blinked.
“…yes?”
“Oh good,” another said around a mouthful of cookie. “Frank’s allergic.”
So now this was your life. You got bullied by five homeless men and volunteered to bake them cookies weekly. You stared darkly at the tray of fresh snickerdoodles sliding into the oven.
That is when an idea struck you. If being nice and baking cookies doesn't wrok… you will have to get Jason’s attention some other way.
You have to become a criminal.
—
Post your latest cookie drop off (Anthony loved the snickerdoodle but asked if you can add caramel next time), you are contemplating your life of crime as you walk home.
You needed to do something dramatic enough to get the Red Hood’s attention. Preferably not dangerous-dangerous. Just a little concerning.
A little criminal.
You chew on your lip thoughtfully while waiting at a crosswalk.
What crimes even existed?
Grand larceny?
Absolutely not. You did not have the upper body strength for grand anything.
Auto theft?
You pause.
“…I don’t even have my full license yet,” you mutter to yourself.
Also Gotham cars probably exploded when hotwired wrong. That felt like important information.
Arson was obviously out.
Tax fraud sounded boring.
Blackmail required confidence.
You pass a tagged wall.
Graffiti, though…
Now there was something with flair.
Low stakes.
Artistic.
Very Gotham.
Batman probably saw graffiti constantly.
The Red Hood definitely did. And it is enough a crime where people intervene but criminals don't get arrested.
A tiny spark of determination settles in your chest.
Yes, this could work. You nod to yourself decisively and step off the curb—
A horn blares beside you.
You freeze mid-step.
The walk signal is still red.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
You just jaywalked.
Your heart launches directly into your throat while a taxi speeds past, the driver glaring at you through the windshield.
For one horrifying second, genuine panic grips you.
This was it.
Your descent into criminality.
First jaywalking.
Then graffiti.
Then somehow you’d end up with a rogues gallery nickname like the baker or something and several unresolved issues with Batman.
You stand there for a moment, breathing hard.
Then slowly you push the panic down.
You needed to get used to this feeling now.
The adrenaline.
The danger.
The lawlessness.
This was your life now.
You were living a life of crime.
Baby steps.
—
CRIME ATTEMPT #1
—
The spray paint situation is your first obstacle.
“This is criminal discrimination,” you mutter under your breath while standing in the Michael’s craft aisle at eight thirty at night.
Apparently Michael’s Arts & Crafts did not cater to aspiring vigilante bait.
You pick up the glitter silver can with deep resentment.
“…Fine,” you whisper. “We adapt.”
Ten minutes later, you are speed-walking through Gotham with a tote bag full of craft-store spray paint feeling profoundly unqualified for organized crime.
The December cold bites instantly through your coat. Wind whips down the alleyways hard enough to sting your eyes, but you keep going, scarf pulled high over the lower half of your face like the world’s least threatening supervillain.
Honestly, you look less like a criminal and more like someone about to lose a fight with seasonal allergies.
Still.
Commitment mattered.
You finally find the wall near Crime Alley by complete accident.
Tall brick.
Mostly empty.
A battered NO TRESPASSING sign hanging crooked nearby.
Your pulse spikes immediately.
Perfect.
This was exactly the kind of place vigilantes probably monitored.
The Red Hood would absolutely investigate suspicious graffiti activity here.
You glance around nervously before ducking into the alley, boots crunching against thin patches of snow.
Time to become mysterious.
You pull the silver spray can from your tote bag with trembling fingers. The little metal ball inside rattles ominously. Your breath fogs through the scarf while you stare at the blank brick wall.
Then you realize something horrifying.
You never actually planned what to paint.
“Oh no,” you whisper.
Your brain immediately empties itself.
What did criminals even paint?
Threats?
Symbols?
Cryptic warnings?
You panic instantly.
The spray can hisses accidentally when your finger jerks.
Twenty minutes later, the alley is covered in glittering silver and blue snowflakes.
The glitter paint catches the alley light beautifully, sparkling softly against the dark brick while snow falls around you in lazy white drifts.
You step back slowly, breathing hard through the scarf.
“…Wait.”
It’s actually kind of cute.
Not intimidating.
Not remotely criminal.
But cute.
The problem is that now you’ve committed to the bit.
So you shove your hands into your coat pockets and linger awkwardly near the alley entrance waiting to be arrested.
Or confronted dramatically.
Or at minimum mildly questioned.
This was still Gotham.
Surely suspicious alley graffiti would trigger SOME kind of vigilante response.
You wait ten minutes.
Nothing.
Fifteen.
Still nothing.
A stray cat walks past and ignores you completely.
“Oh, come on,” you mutter.
By twenty minutes, your toes have gone numb.
The Red Hood does not appear from the shadows.
Batman does not descend dramatically from a gargoyle.
Nobody even yells at you.
Eventually you trudge home offended.
Honestly?
Rude.
You committed crimes for him.
The least he could do was acknowledge them.
—
The next morning, Gotham Instagram discovers the alley.
You learn this while eating cereal in your pajamas and scrolling half-asleep through your phone.
@gotham.city.aesthetic: ❄️ whoever made the snowflake alley downtown… i owe you my life actually
Attached is a professionally edited reel of your graffiti set to melancholy indie music.
You sit bolt upright.
“What.”
More notifications flood in.
People are taking photos there.
Someone proposed there apparently.
A local influencer called it: “a symbol of fragile beauty surviving gotham’s darkness 🥺”
There is now a location tag called:
#snowflakealley
You stare at your screen in horror.
This was not the intended outcome.
This was supposed to summon Jason Todd.
Not accidentally improve Gotham morale.
—-
CRIME ATTEMPT #2
—-
Mugging, you decide, is probably the fastest way to get the Red Hood’s attention.
Vigilantes loved muggings. That’s how Jason and you met after all.
Which means all you have to do is create one tiny robbery scenario where you steal from a sweet grandma and Jason will practically materialize from the shadows himself.
Perfect.
Unfortunately, Crime Alley at nine p.m. contains absolutely no muggable people.
This city was unbelievable.
Where were the old ladies with purses?
Where were the businessmen carrying suspiciously robbable briefcases?
You specifically picked nine p.m. because movies suggested that was prime mugging time.
Instead Gotham apparently believed in bedtime.
A taxi splashes through a puddle nearby.
You sigh dramatically into your scarf.
Maybe you needed to think bigger.
Big risks equaled big rewards.
That was probably what criminals said.
Your eyes narrow on the next pedestrian approaching down the sidewalk.
Not an old lady.vBut non-threatening.
Average height.
Beanie.
Holding grocery bags.
You could absolutely rob that man.
Probably.
Your pulse immediately skyrockets as you step into his path.
The poor guy startles hard enough to almost drop his groceries.
“HEY,” you blurt.
Excellent opening.
Very criminal.
The man blinks at you cautiously.
“…Hi?”
Okay.
Commit.
You square your shoulders and point at him dramatically.
“Hand over your money.”
Silence.
A car alarm chirps somewhere in the distance.
The man stares at you for a long moment. “Are you lost?” he says.
You panic slightly.
Stay focused.
You lower your voice another octave, which unfortunately just makes you sound congested.
“Give me money.”
The man’s expression shifts instantly from confused to deeply concerned.
“I mean…” He adjusts the grocery bags awkwardly. “I can buy you a bus ticket if you need help?”
You stare at him.
“No,” you say carefully. “This is a robbery.”
The man goes pale. “Oh my god.”
Finally.
Recognition.
Fear.
Respect.
“You’re being robbed?”
“What?”
His gaze darts around the alley frantically. “Did somebody take your wallet? Are they still here?”
“No! I’m robbing YOU.”
Then his entire expression softens in a way that immediately offends you.
He lowers his grocery bags carefully onto the pavement like he’s approaching a frightened animal.
“Okay, sweetheart,” he says cautiously. “Can I call someone for you?”
You stare at him.
“What.”
“A friend? Your parents? Somebody who can pick you up?”
“I’m committing a CRIME.”
“You seem overwhelmed.”
“I’m threatening you!”
Before you can recover, headlights suddenly sweep across the alley.
A police cruiser rolls slowly past the entrance.
The man’s eyes widen immediately. “Oh thank god.”
“No no no no—”
The cruiser stops.
A cop steps out, one hand already resting near his belt while he looks between the two of you.
The man points directly at you.
“This poor girl needs help.”
You actually recoil. “WHAT.”
The officer’s expression shifts instantly into concern.
“Miss?” he asks carefully. “Are you alright?”
“I’m robbing him.”
The cop blinks once.
The man gives him a deeply sympathetic look. “I think she’s having some kind of episode.”
“I AM ACTIVELY THREATENING YOU.”
“You’re shivering pretty badly,” the officer notes gently.
“That’s because crime is stressful!”
Ten minutes later, you are sitting in the back of the police cruiser wrapped in an emergency blanket while the officer gives you hotline numbers and tells you that “vigilante-adjacent emotional situations” are more common than people think.
—-
By late Christmas eve, you are officially out of ideas.
Crime has failed you.
The Gotham Police Department had gently encouraged therapy.
And Jason Todd was still ignoring every single attempt you made to reach him.
Which meant you were now curled sideways in his armchair in the reading nook at one in the morning feeling deeply, catastrophically pathetic.
Fatson Todd is tucked beneath one arm like emotional support artillery while snow taps softly against the apartment windows.
Your chest aches.
Maybe honesty really is the best policy.
No more crimes.
No more emotional terrorism.
No more failed muggings.
Just try talking to him.
You open Twitter for the first time in years because it’s probably the only place where he hasn’t blocked you yet. You smile when you see the handle. @boomeringue. It used to be the username you used for everything from twitter to club penguin.
You try to keep it brief. You don’t want to seem overbearing:
@redhood city square. christmas eve. 8pm.
You stare at the tweet for a long moment before hitting post.
Hopefully, by some miracle, he’ll see it and you can finally talk.
—
Wayne Manor is miserable on Christmas Eve.
The tree is lit.
The garlands are up.
There’s music playing softly somewhere down the hall.
And yet the entire manor somehow feels like somebody kicked a puppy directly into the holiday spirit.
Jason is sitting in the armchair nearest the fire looking like human seasonal depression in a leather jacket. Which means everyone else is suffering too.
Dick breaks first. “This sucks,” he announces.
Nobody disagrees.
Even Alfred pauses briefly while serving dessert.
“Master Richard,” he says diplomatically.
“No offence, Alfred,” Dick says immediately, “but if she was here we’d have chocolate mousse right now instead of fruitcake.”
“None taken, sir.”
Tim pokes at his slice with visible despair. “She would’ve decorated the cookies.”
“She would’ve made hot chocolate,” Steph mourns.
“She would have laughed at my joke about superman and mistletoe," Duke adds quietly.
Damian scowls down at his tea. “Todd has ruined morale.”
Jason doesn’t look up from the glass in his hand.
“Can all of you shut up.”
“No,” Dick says instantly. “This is weird. You’re weird.”
Jason’s jaw tightens.
For the last week he has been moody, snappy, and Cass once caught him sobbing to All too Well on his bike.
Which, in fairness, narrows his behavior down very little.
Steph finally snaps.
“Okay, I’m saying it,” she declares. “Go apologize to your girlfriend.”
Jason’s expression hardens instantly.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Oh my god,” Tim mutters.
“And she’s not my soulmate,” Jason says flatly. “Drop it.”
Silence falls across the room.
Even Alfred stops moving for half a second.
Dick stares at him. “Jason.”
“I mean it.”
Something ugly twists briefly across Jason’s face before disappearing behind that familiar hard expression again.
“We got confused,” he says shortly. “That’s all.”
Nobody responds immediately because that explanation makes absolutely no sense and noody believes it.
And because Bruce, unfortunately, now looks like he wants to have a father-son conversation.
Before that catastrophe can occur—
Ping
Barbara’s laptop lights up on the coffee table.
Everyone turns automatically.
Barbara frowns down at the incoming alert. “That’s weird.”
“What?” Duke asks.
She opens the file.
Then immediately straightens.
“Oh, that’s bad timing.”
The room shifts instantly.
Jason sits forward slightly.
Bruce is already on his feet.
Barbara answers the incoming GCPD call on speaker. “Oracle.”
“We’ve got a flagged threat tied to tonight’s Christmas market,” a dispatcher says quickly. “Cybercrimes escalated it to major incidents.”
Barbara’s eyes skim rapidly across the report.
The dispatcher lowers his voice ominously.
“We think the suspect may be operating under the alias Eringue.”
Silence.
“Potential extremist,” the dispatcher continues confidently. “Possibly foreign.”
Bruce’s expression sharpens immediately. “What’s the threat level?”
“Potential bombing,” Barbara says grimly. “Christmas Eve market. High civilian density.”
That gets everyone moving instantly.
Finally,
Action.
Dick stands so fast he nearly knocks over the fruitcake.
Duke’s already reaching for comms.
Tim peers over Babs’ shoulder for the report.
Damian actually looks excited for the first time all evening.
“The mayor doesn’t want the festivities disrupted publicly,” she says. “So GCPD’s sending bomb squads in plainclothes while we establish perimeter positions.”
Bruce nods once. “Assignments.”
“Nightwing and Spoiler cover east exits. Robin with Red Robin on rooftop surveillance. Signal monitors crowd movement.” Barbara pulls up the city map. “Red Hood takes the central market.”
Across the city, entirely unaware you had accidentally triggered Gotham’s anti-terror response, you were standing in a flower shop holding two bouquets with increasing distress.
“Do these look too breakup-y?” you asked nervously.
The cashier blinked. “The… roses?”
“No, roses are romantic.” You frowned down at the white lilies in your other hand. “The lilies feel profound.”
Outside, Gotham police quietly established a bomb perimeter around the Christmas market.
You picked carnations.
—
The Gotham Christmas market is operating under active anti-terror surveillance.
Fortunately, none of the civilians know that.
Families drift between vendor stalls beneath glowing string lights while Christmas music crackles softly through overhead speakers. Kids clutch cups of hot chocolate with mittened hands. Someone nearby is aggressively roasting chestnuts.
Meanwhile every available vigilante in Gotham is perched somewhere overhead waiting for a potential bombing.
“East side clear,” Nightwing says through comms.
“Couple arguing near the skating rink,” Spoiler adds. “The boyfriend definitely cheated but probably not terrorism related.”
Robin crouches at the edge of a rooftop overlooking the market, cape snapping sharply in the winter wind.
“A man near the fountain has been pacing for seven minutes,” Damian reports.
Red Robin glances down at his scanner. “He’s waiting for his wife. Elevated heart rate but no weapon signatures.”
“Disappointing,” Damian mutters.
Below them, plainclothes bomb squad officers weave carefully through the crowd pretending to browse holiday stalls.
Oracle’s voice cuts cleanly through the comm network.
“Reminder: the mayor's office does not want panic. Keep movement controlled unless we confirm a threat.”
Jason stands on a roof closest to the square with his helmet on, arms crossed tightly over his chest while snow drifts slowly onto his jacket.
“West perimeter,” Signal says suddenly. “Guy in the green parka keeps touching his pockets.”
Jason’s attention snaps over immediately.
The man pulls out:
“A candy cane,” Nightwing sighs.
“Oh come ON,” Steph groans.
A child drops hot chocolate nearby. Jason flinches instinctively at the sound hitting pavement.
Oracle’s voice crackles suddenly through the comms.
“Hold.”
Every channel goes quiet instantly.
Barbara’s typing echoes faintly in the background before she says:
“Red Hood.”
Jason straightens automatically. “What.”
“Your soulmate just entered through the west gate. I see it on camera three.”
Silence detonates across the network.
Every Bat immediately turns toward the west entrance.
Jason’s stomach drops hard enough to hurt.
“No,” he says instantly.
And then he sees you.
Winter coat.
Scarf.
Flowers tucked carefully against your chest.
Flowers?
Nightwing squints through binoculars from the rooftop.
“…Is she on a date?”
Jason’s grip tightens so hard around his gun holster it creaks.
Spoiler gasps dramatically. “OH MY GOD SHE’S ON A DATE.”
“She brought flowers,” Duke says weakly.
“Perhaps she finally located a man with emotional intelligence,” Damian offers.
Jason genuinely considers violence.
Not because you’re on a date.
You should be on a date.
You should move on from this entire disaster and find someone normal and alive and uncomplicated who doesn’t vanish for two weeks because he’s too damaged to process affection correctly.
Still. It's been two weeks.. Did you move on that quick?
The sight of those flowers in your hands makes something ugly twist low in his chest.
Dick’s voice softens slightly. “Jay…”
“She deserves better,” Jason says flatly before anyone can say it first.
The words land heavily across the comms.
For one brief second, nobody jokes. Then Oracle cuts through the silence sharply.
“Can you people be serious for ONE second?”
Barbara sounds genuinely appalled.
“There is an active potential bomb threat at this location,” she snaps. “And his soulmate is standing in the middle of it.”
Jason freezes.
Right.
The threat.
Your flowers suddenly stop looking romantic and start looking terrifyingly vulnerable.
Oracle’s voice hardens instantly into mission mode.
“Red Hood, get her out of there now.”
Jason moves before anyone can say another word.
“One minute,” Batman says sharply through comms.
Jason ignores him completely.
The rooftop door slams hard enough behind him to rattle the stairwell as he tears downward three steps at a time. Snow and cold air still cling to his armor while Oracle continues talking in his ear about evacuation routes and threat containment.
He barely hears her.
All he can think about is you standing in the middle of a potential bombing with flowers in your hands.
Idiot.
His idiot.
Jason yanks the helmet off halfway down the stairs and shoves it into an abandoned maintenance cabinet without slowing. Next go the guns. Holstered beneath his jacket where civilians won’t see them.
By the time he hits street level, he barely looks like Red Hood at all.
Just Jason.
Just a man sprinting through Gotham Christmas crowds with panic clawing up his throat.
He spots you near the center fountain immediately.
You’re standing on your toes slightly, scanning the market crowd with your bouquet tucked against your chest. When he shouts your name. Your head snaps toward him instantly.
Your entire face lights up.
Relief crashes across your expression so openly and immediately it almost stops him in his tracks.
“Jason!”
You hurry toward him through the crowd, smiling so brightly it physically hurts to look at after two weeks of silence.
Jason reaches you and immediately grabs your hand.
“We need to go,” he says.
“What?”
“There’s a threat. C’mon.”
He starts pulling you quickly through the market crowd toward the nearest exit, grip tight around your wrist while his eyes scan rooftops and civilians automatically.
Behind him, Oracle is feeding him updates through comms.
“No suspicious movement near the north barricade—”
“Bomb squad entering west side—”
“Red Hood, keep moving.”
You stumble slightly trying to keep up.
“Jason, wait”
“No time.”
“What do you MEAN no time??”
“There’s a potential attack here.”
Your eyes widen instantly.
“Oh my god.”
“Exactly.”
Jason keeps moving, pulse pounding violently now.
If something goes off before he gets you clear—
“Jason,” you say again, tugging against his hand this time. “Wait, hold on.”
“We are literally not holding on.”
“No, listen to me first!”
Jason finally slows just enough to look back at you.
You stare up at him, confused now.
“…Did you get my message?”
Jason pauses.
The crowd noise dulls strangely around him.
“…What message?”
“The tweet,” you repeat slowly. “I asked you to meet me here at 8”
Jason stares.
Snow drifts lazily between the market lights while Gotham continues bustling around you completely oblivious to the active anti-terror operation currently unfolding in the background.
“You…” Jason says faintly. “You sent that?”
“Yes?” Your eyebrows knit together. “Why else would you be here?”
Oh my god.
Behind Jason, somewhere across the rooftops, half the Batfamily is currently preparing for a bombing because of a twitter account you made when you were 12.
You keep talking before he can process that information.
You shift awkwardly beneath his silence.
“…Okay, well now I feel stupid,” you mutter. “But you blocked my number, which was honestly insane behavior by the way, and nobody would tell me where you lived, and I even tried the cookie cooler thing again but homeless people stole them—”
Jason actually stops breathing for a second.
“Who?.”
“That’s not important.” You wave it off immediately. “The point is I had to escalate.” You sound genuinely defensive about this.
Jason’s eyes sting suddenly. There is no threat. For a moment when he saw you standing there, he was terrified. All his neurons fired with a single message of get her out.
He pulls you into him so suddenly you gasp.
The bouquet crushes awkwardly between your coats while his arms lock around you hard enough to almost lift you off the ground. Jason buries his face against your hair immediately like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.
His shoulders shake once.
“Oh,” you say softly.
His breath catches sharply against your temple.
“I missed you.” You keep talking. “I almost became a criminal.”
“Almost?”
“I jaywalked.”
“…Oh my god.”
“And then I did graffiti but it accidentally became an Instagram spot instead of a threat to society.”
You keep ranting on but Jason is barely hanging onto your words because a realization washes over him like warm water. You came here for him.
Not because fate told you to.
Not because a timer forced you to.
But because he disappeared and you refused to let him go quietly.
Your voice keeps tumbling out in nervous little bursts.
“And then the mugging thing didn’t work either—”
“The WHAT.”
“Again, not important.”
Jason’s chest cracks open.
Because suddenly he sees it.
Not a mistake.
Not confusion.
Not some dead soulmate’s empty place he accidentally crawled into.
You.
Choosing him over and over again anyway.
All his life Jason had wanted one impossible thing: Someone who would fight for him back.
Willis didn’t.
Catherine couldn’t.
Bruce loved him, yes, but even that love always came tangled in grief and rules and distance.
But you committed crimes for him.
Badly.
Terribly.
Emotionally.
But still. His shoulders shake once before he can stop them.
He is such an idiot. He was so scared that he wasn't your soulmate that he failed to consider that you are exactly what he needed. Someone who’ll fight for him. Of course the universe gave him you.
You’re still talking softly against his chest.
“…and honestly the graffiti turned out kind of nice actually—”
Jason laughs once.
You pull back just enough to look at him properly and see that his eyes are wet.
Your entire expression crumples instantly.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “Jason.”
He looks wrecked. Like he’s been holding himself together by force for weeks and finally ran out of strength.
“I’m sorry,” he says roughly. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
And that’s when you realize.
He thought you were really angry.
“Oh no no no,” you say immediately, grabbing his jacket. “Wait, Jason, it’s okay. I’m not really mad, you’re here now!”
That undoes him completely.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, like the words aren’t enough but he has nothing else to offer. “God, I’m so sorry.”
Then quieter.
Smaller somehow.
“I thought…” His jaw tightens painfully. “I thought I was ruining your life.”
Your face falls instantly.
“What are you talking about?”
“The bracelet broke,” he blurts suddenly. “And your timer stopped before we met and I just—I thought maybe your real soulmate died and we got it wrong somehow and you deserved someone better than—”
You cover his mouth with your hand. “Do not finish that sentence, Jason. That is the dumbest thing I have ever hear”
He laughs into your palm before gently removing it. “I love you so much.”
Your breath catches sharply enough that Jason’s expression immediately shifts into panic like maybe he said too much..
So you kiss him.
Immediately.
One hand grab his face at once as you pull him down into you, flowers crushed hopelessly between your coats while Jason makes this startled sound against your mouth before kissing you back like he’s starving for it.
Jason’s hands slide into your hair while your fingers curl tight into the collar of his jacket, pulling him closer every single time he tries to breathe. The cold air disappears beneath the warmth of him entirely. Snow melts against your cheeks. Christmas music hums faintly somewhere behind you but it feels very far away now.
All you can process is Jason.
Jason kissing you back like he means it.
Like he’s relieved.
Like he’s still a little afraid this might disappear if he stops.
Around the square, Gotham’s vigilantes are collectively witnessing far more intimacy than anybody signed up for tonight.
Then Jason’s comm crackles violently in his ear.
“HELLO?” Oracle snaps. “Potential bomb threat? Massive public gathering? Ringing any bells??”
Jason breaks away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard.
His eyes are still half-lidded when he presses a hand to the comm.
“There’s no threat,” he says hoarsely.
“…What.”
Jason glances down at you.
At your flushed cheeks.
Your crushed flowers.
The fact that you are very obviously not an international terrorist.
His mouth twitches helplessly.
“Go home,” he tells Barbara simply.
He kisses you again.
The bouquet finally slips from your hands somewhere between kisses.
Flowers scatter across the snow near your boots.
You pull back suddenly.
“Oh!”
Jason looks alarmed for half a second like maybe something exploded after all until you crouch quickly to grab the roses.
“No wait,” you mumble, laughing breathlessly now. “I forgot.”
Jason’s still staring at you like he hasn’t fully recovered from the fact that you kissed him back.
You straighten again and hold the bouquet out toward him properly this time, cheeks pink from cold and kissing and emotional terrorism.
“I got you these.”
Jason blinks.
The market noise seems to disappear completely around him.
“…You got me flowers.”
You frown slightly. “Well, yeah.”
Like that’s obvious. Like people bring Jason Todd flowers every day.
“It’s a date,” you explain softly. “I was trying to be romantic before you started your mysterious self-destructive disappearing act.”
His throat works visibly.
“Oh my god,” you say immediately. “No wait, are you crying AGAIN?”
Jason laughs once through it, embarrassed and wrecked all at once while taking the bouquet from your hands with absurd care like it might break.
“Thank you,” he mutters hoarsely.
You smile a little helplessly at that, shifting closer automatically beneath the market lights while snow drifts softly around you both.
Around you, the Christmas market buzzes warmly with music and laughter and the smell of cinnamon.
A perfect date setting, honestly.
You open your mouth.
“So,” you say carefully, “do you maybe wanna—”
“Can we go home?”
The words leave Jason immediately.
Jason looks suddenly overwhelmed by the entire concept of being perceived.
“I just…” He exhales hard through a laugh, eyes still suspiciously wet. “I think if we stay here much longer I might actually lose my mind.”
Your chest aches so violently it feels unfair.
“Okay,” you say softly.
Jason reaches for your hand automatically after that, intertwining your fingers like it’s instinct now. The flowers remain tucked carefully against his chest while the two of you begin walking slowly out of the market together.
You bump your shoulder lightly against his while weaving through the crowd.
“I still cannot believe you ghosted me over a bracelet,” you mumble.
Jason looks offended immediately.
“It was broken.”
“I have, like, twenty bracelets.”
“It symbolized you.”
“It was from a retreat gift shop.”
Jason tightens his grip on your hand slightly. “It mattered to me.”
Your expression softens instantly.
Then you remember something and squint at him again.
“Well I can’t believe you thought I’d stop talking to you forever.”
“You accidentally became a terrorist to contact me.”
“I became emotionally resourceful.”
“You triggered bomb squad deployment.”
“You blocked my number.”
“That does not justify federal crimes.”
“I also jaywalked, did graffiti, and tried mugging.”
He shook his head at that and slung an arm around you, pulling you closer to kiss your temple.
“I’ll let you know the next time I have a self destructive spiral”
“That’s all I ever wanted” You say, “Now come on, Fatson missed his papa”
---
a/n: so you can probs tell how long this sat in the drafts from the christmas eve setting. also add me on club peguin @boomeringue
---
taglist: THE TAGLIST IS NOW CLOSED (cause i am bad at it and its not working). to stay updated with the story follow: #goblin-writes
summary: jason thinks he is invincible after the retreat. the world (and his mind) proves him wrong
wc: 2.3k
---
Questions used:
10. If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?
---
“That rug has to go”
“No way! The texture is the only reason I get out of bed”
“It’s an allergen trap is what it is”
You snort softly, fingers bunching instinctively in the fabric of his jacket. Somewhere over the last few weeks, touching Jason stopped feeling terrifying and started feeling natural.
The Outlaws’ jet is already running behind you, engines rumbling low across the rooftop, but Jason has somehow managed to completely forget he is supposed to be leaving Gotham, and is instead discussing your decor choices”
You are tucked against the front of his jacket near the edge of the landing pad, hidden just enough from the worst of the wind by the broad line of his body. Snow drifts lazily through the floodlights overhead, catching in his dark hair before melting away again. Jason’s gloves are off. Which means his hands are warm.
Which means your brain has not processed a single coherent thought in at least three minutes.
“I was thinking,” he murmurs, “I could bring more stuff over when I get back.”
Your stomach flips instantly.
“More stuff?”
“Mm.” His hand squeezes around yours once. “Already got the backup gear there.”
“You mean the one you left on purpose?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“And the books.”
“You’re the one who made me a reading nook.” he points out reasonably.
“And the coffee beans,” you continue weakly.
“I had to intervene.” He sounds deeply serious about this. “All you had was instant coffee. I couldn’t morally allow that.”
You laugh again, softer this time, because he’s smiling now too. It still feels a little unreal every time you see it.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, “if I’m over there all the time anyway…”
Your heartbeat stumbles.
All the time.
Before you can answer, a voice bellows from the jet behind him.
“HOOD. WE ARE LITERALLY ON A TIMER.”
Jason doesn’t even blink.
“Ignore them,” he says immediately.
You bite back a smile. “Your team sounds upset.”
“They’re dramatic.”
“You’re making them wait.”
“They can’t leave without me.”
The jet engines hum low behind you.
Snow hisses softly against concrete.
Jason’s heartbeat sits slow and steady beneath your hands.
You suddenly become very aware of how close he is.
Again.
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes like he caught himself doing it.
Then his hands slide lower, fingers hooking lazily through your belt loops and tugging you in closer.
“You gonna miss me, angel?”
The rooftop suddenly feels about ten degrees warmer.
“Maybe,” you mumble.
“Mhm.”
“A normal amount.”
Jason hums thoughtfully like he’s considering this very seriously. “Interesting.”
“What?”
“Cause your arms’ve been around me for,” he glances at the jet casually, “roughly the last twenty minutes.”
Your face burns instantly.
“You’re clingy too!”
“Never denied it.”
Unfortunately, that is true.
His grin softens slightly at the edges as he looks down at you, snow catching briefly in his lashes.
Then his attention shifts.
To your wrist.
His fingers slide gently from your belt loop to your wrist instead, hooking his pointer under the lilac beads. Before you can blink, he slides the bracelet off your wrist and presses a quick kiss against the skin underneath.
The sound that leaves you is deeply humiliating. Jason maintains eye contact while he slips the bracelet onto his own wrist.
Against black leather and scarred hands, the lilac beads look impossibly smooth.
“I’m taking it with me,” he says with a dumb grin.
And god help you, the retreat really has ruined your emotional stability because that is somehow the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you.
“You better bring it back in one piece,” you mumble. “It’s very special to me.”
You see it happen in real time, the teasing easing out of his expression until he’s just looking at you again. Snow drifting between you. Gotham roaring somewhere far below.
You haven’t kissed since the motorcycle ride weeks ago.
Suddenly the space between you feels very, very small.
Jason leans in slightly.
You do too.
“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU MISS THIS EXTRACTION WINDOW BECAUSE YOU’RE FLIRTING—”
You’re still laughing when he kisses your forehead quickly, almost like he can’t help himself.
“I’ll be back soon”
—
.
.
.
—
“Batman?”
The word leaves Jason before he even knows he’s saying it.
Dust chokes the air around him, thick enough to taste. Something heavy presses across his back and legs. Concrete. Metal. Smoke. His ears ring violently, drowning out everything except the distant crackle of fire and… Laughter.
High. Sharp. Wrong.
For one awful second, he’s fifteen again.
The warehouse smells the same.
Explosives.
Blood.
Burning plastic.
His chest seizes so hard he almost can’t breathe.
“Bat—”
The Joker’s laugh echoes somewhere beyond the rubble, warped by memory and concussion and pain until Jason can’t tell if it’s real or buried inside his skull.
This is how it happened.
This is—
Something digs sharply into his wrist.
Jason’s eyes snap open.
Purple.
The lilac bracelet is tangled against a slab of broken concrete, beads pressed hard into his skin.
The rooftop flashes through his head instantly.
Snow.
Your laugh.
I’m taking it with me.
His lungs finally drag in air.
No, he is not fifteen anymore.
He is not small enough to die like that again.
Jason grits his teeth and shoves upward with a yell that tears through his ribs. Concrete shifts an inch. Then another. Pain explodes through his side, hot and vicious, but he keeps pushing anyway, muscles straining hard enough to shake.
The rubble gives.
Cold air slams into him all at once as he drags himself free, collapsing onto shattered pavement with a rough cough.
Someone is shouting his name in the distance.
Roy, maybe.
Jason barely hears it.
He rolls onto his back, staring up at the ruined ceiling above him while snow drifts through the hole in lazy white flakes.
His ribs are definitely broken.
Again.
But he’s alive.
Alive enough to crawl out this time.
Alive enough to survive it.
The thought barely settles before something taps weakly against the concrete beside him.
Clack
Jason’s breathing stutters.
Another sound follows.
Clink
Small.
Fragile.
Wrong.
He turns his head slowly.
The lilac bracelet lies half-buried in the dust beside him.
Broken.
For a second, his brain refuses to process it. The beads are scattered across the cracked pavement, some lodged between chunks of concrete, others rolled farther into the rubble. The string hangs loose and snapped, one fractured bead dangling from the end like it’s trying not to fall apart completely.
Jason just stares.
Then his pulse drops straight into his stomach.
“No, no—”
The words leave him rough and breathless.
He pushes himself upright too fast and immediately regrets it. Pain rips through his ribs sharp enough to blacken the edges of his vision, but he barely notices. His gloves scrape uselessly against broken concrete as he reaches for the nearest bead.
One of them has split clean down the middle.
He grabs another one.
Cracked.
Another.
The rubble shifts under his knees while he searches frantically through ash and shattered concrete, fingers shaking hard enough he keeps dropping the beads as soon as he finds them.
You better bring it back in one piece.
The memory hits so clearly it almost makes him nauseous.
Jason swallows hard and digs deeper into the debris, ignoring the wet warmth spreading beneath his armor where something in his side definitely should not be bleeding this much.
There has to be more.
There has to—
A bead slips from his fingers and disappears somewhere beneath the rubble.
“No, come on,” he mutters hoarsely, shoving broken concrete aside with bare hands now. “C’mon…”
Pain tears through his ribs hard enough to make his vision pulse white, but Jason barely registers it. Dust grits beneath his gloves while he digs frantically through fractured cement and twisted metal, searching for tiny flashes of lilac between the debris.
Another rolls loose near his knee when he shifts a slab aside. He grabs for it too fast and nearly drops it again because his hands won’t stop shaking.
“Jay.”
Roy’s voice sounds distant. Muffled.
Jason ignores him.
“There was another one,” he mutters instead, eyes darting across the rubble. “I saw— there’s still another—”
“Dude.” Boots crunch against broken concrete beside him. “The building’s coming down.”
Jason finally looks up long enough to glare. “Then help me look.”
Roy blinks.
Because Jason Todd is kneeling in the middle of a failed mission, bleeding through his armor, digging through rubble for little purple bracelet beads like his life depends on it.
Artemis lands beside them both with a heavy thud.
“We need extraction now,” she snaps. “Whatever that is can wait.”
“It can’t,” Jason says immediately.
The words come out too fast.
Too sharp.
Roy and Artemis exchange a look.
Jason hates that look.
The concerned one.
Artemis swears under her breath. “That was not a suggestion, Todd.”
Roy crouches suddenly, reaching into the debris near Jason’s knee.
“There.” He lifts something small between two fingers. “Got one.”
Jason’s gaze snaps to it instantly.
A tiny lilac bead. Intact.
Something in his chest clenches so hard it almost feels like gratitude.
His expression softens just slightly as he places the bead into Jason’s waiting palm.
“C’mon, man,” he says carefully. “You can put it back together on the jet.”
Jason stares down at the collection in his hand.
Broken beads.
Whole beads.
Frayed string tangled through his fingers.
Put it back together.
This time Jason lets Roy haul him upright.
Pain explodes through his side immediately, sharp enough to pull a rough sound from his throat. Artemis catches his other arm before he can stumble, already steering him toward the extraction point while snow drifts through the collapsed ceiling overhead.
Jason barely notices.
His fist stays closed tight around the shattered bracelet the entire walk back to the jet.
—
The jet is loud enough that nobody tries talking to him.
Good.
Jason sits hunched forward on one of the side benches, elbows braced against his knees while Gotham disappears beneath the clouds outside. The medkit Artemis dropped beside him sits untouched on the floor.
His ribs hurt.
His shoulder hurts.
Something is probably concussed.
None of it feels important.
The bracelet lies in pieces across his gloves.
The elastic string snapped almost completely through. Half the beads are cracked, tiny fractures spidering through the lilac surface. Three are missing entirely, still buried somewhere beneath a collapsed building halfway across the world.
His hands feel too big for this.
He fumbles another bead immediately when he tries threading it back onto the string. It bounces once against the jet floor before rolling beneath the opposite bench.
Jason swears under his breath and bends down too quickly trying to grab it.
Pain detonates through his ribs instantly.
“Jesus Christ,” Roy says from across the cabin. “Sit down before you puncture a lung.”
Jason ignores him completely.
The bead finally catches beneath his fingertips. He grabs it carefully and sits back again, breathing harder now.
One by one, he starts trying to rebuild the bracelet.
It goes terribly.
His fingers are clumsy even on a good day, and this is delicate work made worse by turbulence and blood drying stiff against his gloves. The elastic keeps slipping loose. The cracked beads refuse to sit properly together.
Every time he thinks he’s fixed part of it, another section falls apart.
Like the bracelet itself knows it’s ruined.
Jason stares at the mess in his hands for a long moment before finally pulling his phone from his pocket.
The screen lights instantly.
Missed notifications flood across it.
Mostly from you.
His chest tightens before he even opens them.
you better not die btw
followed immediately by:
that sounded threatening. i meant on the mission. not like. in general.
Another one.
i know you probably wont see these till later but i passed that bench you like today :)
Then:
made cookies. accidentally made enough for a family of six again. this is your fault somehow
Jason’s mouth twitches faintly before it disappears again.
There are more.
A picture of fatson todd sitting on his chair in the reading nook captioned your son is taking over
And then another photo loads: Two M&Ms sitting side by side on a countertop. One normal-sized. One absurdly oversized.
US!!!!!!
Jason actually laughs once at that.
Another notification appears at the top of the screen.
Newest message.
Jason opens it automatically.
NEED the bracelet back asap btw so you should come over the second you see this message. to return it obvi ;)
His breathing stops.
The cabin noise dulls instantly around him.
Jason looks down slowly at the ruined bracelet in his hands.
A cold feeling settles heavily into his stomach.
Of course.
Of fucking course.
Nobody ever did see his timer disappear. Because he never had one.
Not after the Lazarus Pit.
Not after death hollowed something out inside him and stitched it back wrong.
Somewhere out there, years ago, there probably really had been a fifteen-year-old boy whose timer stopped the same night yours did, and the same night he also died. Some kid who died before he ever got the chance to meet you.
And then Jason stumbled into the empty space afterward like a fucking imposter.
You saw meaning where there was only coincidence.
Because you wanted it to mean something.
Because you looked at him with those soft hopeful eyes and decided the universe had finally given you your person back.
Meanwhile Jason had just taken it.
Taken the apartment.
Taken the reading nook.
Taken the hot chocolate and forehead kisses and domestic little routines like they belonged to him.
Taken you.
His chest tightens violently.
No wonder the bracelet broke the second he almost died again.
Like the universe itself finally trying to correct the mistake.
Jason turns the phone face-down before he can do something stupid like answer, already feeling the shape of the loss settling in around him. The apartment. The couch. The reading nook. His books still stacked crooked beside your bed.
You.
Jason closes his eyes briefly.
Then he turns his phone off.
-----
a/n: people are gonna read this and say i should have not continued this story fr. but dw!~ the next chapter will be up tonightish for surel:). like it was all going to be one giant thing but i feel like it reads better in two so i am just editing that
also some updates!! i had my winter depression arc but things are great now. i have moved out of uni and graduated thank goodness. i am also in the final round of a really really great job. just need to not mess up my fourth round interview on tuesday,, and i will have a great career for life.
------
taglist: THE TAGLIST IS NOW CLOSED (cause i am bad at it and its not working). to stay updated with the story follow: #goblin-writes
annaxmalina
kianamaiart
blakekathryn
dededos
areudirty
ellievsbear
origamiaround
vaporwave
discoholicmusic
