summary : two kids from crime alley grow up side by side, building their own little world out of pinky promises, late-night rooftops, and cherry popsicles, until life pulls jason into bruce wayne’s orbit and slowly, painfully, away from the reader. as gotham gets darker and jason more distant, their unspoken feelings tangle with missed chances, broken vows, and a city that never stops taking. years later, still haunted by grief and what-ifs, the reader crosses paths with the red hood.
warnings: heavy angst, character death, violence/injury, grief, depression, self-blame, implied joker-related torture, parental neglect / failed guardianship.
gotham wasn’t kind to kids like you and jason.
the streets were cracked and crooked, littered with broken glass and newspaper clippings that no one cared enough to sweep away. the city always seemed gray, even when the sun was technically shining. but somehow, even in a place that felt permanently bruised, you and jason found something good.
he moved in down the block when you were seven. you remember because you’d been sitting on your stoop with a melted popsicle, bored out of your mind, and then suddenly there was this loud, messy kid with a too-big backpack and eyes like storm clouds. he plopped down next to you like you’d been friends for years.
“what flavor?” he asked, pointing at the red sticky mess dripping onto your wrist.
you blinked at him. “cherry.”
“gross,” he said.
you scowled. “then why’d you ask?”
he just shrugged, a sly grin spreading across his face. “’cause i wanted to know if you had bad taste.”
you threw the popsicle stick at him. that was the beginning.
you and jason became inseparable after that.
mornings were spent running through the cracked sidewalks on your way to school, afternoons climbing fire escapes like your own private jungle gym, nights lying on rooftops to count the rare stars brave enough to shine through gotham’s light pollution.
he had a laugh that made your chest ache — sharp and bright, like something you wanted to bottle up and keep forever.
even as kids, gotham didn’t feel safe, so you two made up a game to cope: pinky promises.
whenever the world felt too big and scary, you’d hook your smallest fingers together and make vows that felt unbreakable.
“pinky promise you won’t get beat up by those jerks again,” you’d whisper after he came home with a split lip from defending you at school.
“pinky promise you’ll sit with me at lunch even if you think i’m annoying,” he’d shoot back, smirking.
“pinky promise we’ll get out of this dump one day,” you said one night, both of you staring at the endless stretch of city lights like they were a prison you’d eventually escape.
he squeezed your finger tight.
“pinky promise,” he said, solemn like it was law.
the first time he stole a book from the library for you, he held it out like a trophy.
“don’t look at me like that,” he said when you glared. “you’ve been wanting to read this for weeks, and the library never has it in stock. consider it… a gift.”
“jay, that’s still stealing.”
“pfft. gotham’s been stealing from us since we were born. this is payback.”
you didn’t argue after that. you never could stay mad at him for long. you read the book together under a flickering streetlight, his shoulder pressed to yours.
sometimes, when the world felt unbearably heavy, you’d end up lying on the roof of your building side by side, your pinkies barely brushing.
he’d talk about the future like it was a real, tangible thing — like one day, he’d be more than just a kid from crime alley.
you’d listen, and secretly imagine yourself right there beside him, always.
but the night that burned itself into your memory forever happened in late summer.
you were both fifteen, sticky with sweat from running around all day, and the air smelled like rain. the two of you had climbed your usual fire escape to your usual rooftop, but tonight felt different. quieter. more fragile.
jason lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, staring at the sky. “you ever think about what it’d be like to live somewhere else?” he asked, his voice unusually soft.
you hummed. “like… where?”
“anywhere that’s not here,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the streets below. “somewhere with grass. real stars. maybe a backyard.”
you turned your head to look at him. his profile was sharp in the dim light, his expression caught between hope and bitterness.
“yeah,” you whispered. “i think about it all the time.”
he rolled onto his side to face you. “then let’s promise. one day, when we’re older and actually have, like, money and a plan… we’ll leave together.”
you blinked. “together?”
“yeah, together,” he said, like it was obvious. “you’re my best friend. you think i’m gonna leave you behind?”
your throat felt tight. the words i love you were right there, perched on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. but you swallowed them down. instead, you reached out and hooked your pinky with his.
“pinky promise,” you said.
he smiled — that rare, soft smile he saved just for you — and for a moment, it almost felt like the whole city disappeared.
you didn’t know it then, but that promise would become the one thing you’d cling to, long after everything else fell apart.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
time didn’t move in clean lines anymore.
days bled into each other, weeks disappeared before you even noticed, and suddenly you were sixteen and the little bubble you and jason had built for yourselves started to crack.
at first, you were so damn happy for him.
bruce wayne — the bruce wayne — had seen something in jason and taken him in. it felt like a fairy tale when he told you about it, his grin wide and boyish, his excitement bubbling over.
“can you believe it?” he’d said one night, both of you sitting on the same rooftop where you’d made your promises. “he’s giving me a room, real food, books, even… even a bed that’s mine.” his voice had trembled like he didn’t dare believe it.
and you’d smiled so hard your cheeks hurt, your chest tight with pride. “jay, that’s… that’s amazing. you deserve all of it,” you whispered, meaning every single word.
you hugged him so tightly it felt like maybe you could fuse the moment into your bones forever.
and for a little while, things were good.
he’d visit you after his tutoring sessions, bringing leftover pastries from the wayne manor kitchen, his stories spilling out fast and wild.
you’d listen, leaning against him, laughing when he mimicked the formal way alfred spoke or rolled his eyes about how bruce was teaching him to drive.
you told yourself you weren’t jealous. not really.
because this was what you’d always wanted for him — a way out, a chance to be safe.
you told yourself it didn’t matter if he started smelling faintly of cologne instead of city smog, or if his clothes were nicer, his posture straighter. you told yourself that even if he was beginning to belong to a different world, he was still your best friend.
but then the visits slowed. he’d text you late at night, short and hurried: can’t make it tonight. sorry.
sometimes, he wouldn’t even send that much.
you’d sit on your stoop alone, staring at the cracks in the pavement, telling yourself he was just busy. because he was busy. bruce was giving him tutoring, classes, opportunities you could never imagine.
and you were proud of him, truly.
but pride didn’t keep you company when the nights grew colder.
you started noticing things.
bruises on his knuckles that didn’t match his stories. a haunted edge in his laugh, like he was holding something back. the way he’d flinch sometimes when a siren went by, or how he’d glance over his shoulder like he expected danger to be right there, following him home.
you didn’t know he was robin.
you didn’t know he was slipping out into gotham’s underbelly at night, fighting the very darkness you both had grown up drowning in. all you saw was a boy you loved slowly unraveling, and you had no idea why.
one evening, you confronted him — or, at least, you tried to.
he’d finally shown up after nearly two weeks of silence.
you were sitting on the rooftop alone when he climbed up the fire escape, looking exhausted and older somehow, like he’d lived a hundred lives since you’d last seen him.
“you’re late,” you said, the words sharper than you meant.
he gave you a crooked grin, the kind that used to melt you instantly. “miss me that much, sweetheart?”
“jason.” you crossed your arms. “you’ve been avoiding me. what’s going on?”
he sat beside you, stretching his legs out, staring at the skyline.“nothing. just… stuff with bruce. training. classes.” his voice was too light, too casual.
“you promised you wouldn’t disappear on me,” you said quietly.
he glanced at you, guilt flashing across his face, but he covered it up with a laugh. “c’mon, don’t be dramatic. i’m here now, aren’t i?”
you wanted to push, to demand answers, but you were scared of what you’d hear. so you swallowed your frustration and leaned against him, trying to memorize the warmth of his shoulder beneath your cheek.
slowly, a distance settled between you.
not an explosive fight, not a sudden rupture — just a quiet, creeping space where laughter used to live.
he missed your birthday that year.
you didn’t tell him how badly it hurt.
you stopped sharing every little detail of your day with him because he wasn’t really listening anymore. he stopped making pinky promises, maybe because he knew he couldn’t keep them.
and yet, despite everything, you still loved him.
you still sat on that rooftop night after night, waiting for him to come back, hoping he’d remember that you were his safe place.
one night, you found yourself tracing the scar on your own pinky — a tiny line from a childhood fall, nothing serious — and you thought about all the promises you’d made to each other.
the one about leaving gotham together.
the one about always coming back safe.
you whispered into the empty air, like maybe he’d hear it wherever he was: “pinky promise you’ll come back to me, jay.”
but the city didn’t answer.
only the sound of sirens, somewhere far away, filling the space where his laughter used to be. part three: the night before
the night air is thick with rain, clinging to your skin as you sit on your bed staring at the cracked ceiling. another night alone, another unanswered text, another reminder that jason isn’t yours the way he used to be.
you’ve been waiting. always waiting.
you wait for him to come by like he used to, for him to crawl through your window and laugh about something stupid, for him to lean against you and let you feel like the world isn’t so sharp.
but lately, all you’ve gotten are empty silences.
you tell yourself not to care, but it’s a lie.
it’s always been a lie.
tonight, though, there’s a sound you almost think you’re imagining the scrape of the fire escape outside your window, the quiet thud of boots landing on metal.
your heart jumps before you even move. you throw the window open just as jason climbs in, and the sight of him nearly drops you to your knees.
he’s a mess.
blood streaks down his temple, his lower lip split wide. his jacket is ripped at the shoulder, and his right hand is wrapped tight in a makeshift bandage that’s already soaked through.
his pinky finger is swollen and bent at a wrong, ugly angle.
“jay,” you breathe, rushing toward him. “what the hell happened to you?”
he tries to smirk, but it’s weak, shaky. “you should see the other guy.”
“this isn’t funny,” you snap, your voice trembling. you grab his wrist carefully, guiding him toward the edge of the bed. “sit. now.” he obeys, which scares you more than anything — because jason todd never obeys unless he’s really hurt.
you grab the little first aid kit you keep under your bed — a habit you picked up because of him — and start cleaning his cuts with trembling hands.
he winces but doesn’t complain, his gaze fixed somewhere past your shoulder.
“who did this to you?” you demand.
he shakes his head. “doesn’t matter.”
“like hell it doesn’t matter! you’re hurt, jason. your finger is—” you cut yourself off before the sob breaks loose.
he looks at you then, really looks, and for a moment the tough exterior cracks. “it’s just a broken pinky,” he says softly, like he’s trying to comfort you. “i’ve had worse.”
you glare at him through watery eyes. “that doesn’t make it okay.” you work in silence for a while, wrapping his wounds as carefully as you can.
his skin is warm under your fingertips, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. he watches you, his expression unreadable, until finally he says, “you shouldn’t have to do this for me.”
“then stop getting hurt,” you shoot back, sharper than you intended.
his mouth twists into a bitter half-smile. “if only it were that easy.”
there’s something different about him tonight.
beneath the bruises and the pain, there’s a heaviness in his eyes that makes your stomach twist. you sit back on your heels, searching his face. “jay… what’s going on? where have you been disappearing to? you come back like this and you won’t tell me anything—”
he cuts you off with a soft, broken laugh. “you wouldn’t believe me if i told you.”
“try me.” but he just shakes his head, lips pressed tight, as if the words will kill him if they escape.
the room feels unbearably small, thick with all the things you’ve never said.
you want to tell him you love him. you want to scream at him for shutting you out. you want to beg him to stay, to stop running toward whatever’s eating him alive.
instead, you do what you’ve always done — you reach for him.
you take his broken hand gently in yours and lift it, pressing a kiss to the crooked pinky. “just…” your voice cracks, your tears threatening to spill. “just come back safe, jay. wherever you’re going, whatever you’re doing — please. promise me you’ll come back.”
for a moment, something unspoken flickers across his face — longing, maybe, or regret. he hooks his pinky around yours, the motion slow and careful because of the pain. “pinky promise,” he whispers.
and it feels like a prayer, like a vow etched into the marrow of your bones.
you sit together in the quiet, his head resting on your shoulder.
neither of you says what you’re really thinking:
that you love him.
that you’re terrified.
that this moment might be the last one you’ll ever have.
“hey,” he says suddenly, his voice rough but lighter than it’s been all night. “you got any popsicles? haven’t had one in forever.”
the question catches you off guard, and you can’t help but laugh.“are you serious? it’s freezing outside.”
“so?” he shrugs, flashing that crooked grin that still makes your chest ache. “doesn’t mean i don’t want one.”
you shake your head, smiling despite everything. “the only flavor i’ve got is cherry.”
he groans dramatically, throwing his head back against the wall. “ugh, gross.”
you nudge his knee with yours. “still a hater, huh? some things never change.”
“i’m just saying, out of all the flavors in the world, you pick the worst one,” he teases, but there’s no bite to it — only warmth.
“well, i like it,” you say, crossing your arms in mock offense. “guess you’ll have to suffer.”
he looks at you for a long moment, his smile softening, eyes dark and thoughtful. “…yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “i guess i will.”
you blink at him, confused by the sudden shift, but before you can ask, he’s reaching for the imaginary popsicle, his grin returning. “fine, hand it over. i’ll try it — just because it’s your favorite.”
you laugh, shaking your head as you get up to grab one from the freezer. when you hand it to him, he takes it like it’s something sacred, peeling back the wrapper with careful fingers.
he takes a bite, immediately grimacing. “yep. still gross,” he says through a mouthful of frozen red ice.
you swat his arm playfully, and the sound of his laughter fills the room, rich and familiar, wrapping around you like a memory you never want to let go of.
and as you laugh with him, your eyes crinkled and cheeks flushed, jason just… looks at you.
really looks.
like he’s memorizing the curve of your smile, the sound of your laugh, the exact way you tilt your head when you tease him.
he doesn’t know if he’ll get another chance to see you like this.
so he soaks it in, silently, his chest tight with everything he’ll never say.
a boy with a broken pinky and a thousand broken promises, holding onto one last perfect moment with the only person who’s ever felt like home. when he finally leaves, slipping back out the window into the rain-soaked night, you almost call after him.
almost confess everything.
but the words stick in your throat, heavy and unspoken.
you go to bed with your chest aching, clinging to the promise he made —
and you never see him alive again.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
you wake up gasping.
your chest heaves like you’ve been running, your skin clammy with sweat. your room is pitch black, and for one agonizing second, you don’t know where you are. then the shapes start to form — your dresser, the cracked window, the faint red glow of the alarm clock.
3:07 a.m.
your heart pounds as you sit up, clutching at your sheets. the dream clings to you like cobwebs, heavy and sticky, impossible to shake. you can’t remember every detail, but there was screaming. smoke. jason’s voice calling your name before it cut off like a snapped wire.
you try to tell yourself it was just a nightmare.
you’ve had plenty before — everyone in gotham does.
but this one feels different.
wrong.
the kind of wrong that lingers in the air even after you wake, like a storm about to break.
the next day, the city feels… off.
it’s hard to explain, but gotham has always been loud — even when it’s silent, there’s a pulse beneath it all. today, that pulse feels broken.
the sky is gray and low, heavy clouds swallowing the light. people move quickly through the streets, shoulders hunched, avoiding eye contact like they’re afraid to look too long at anyone. there’s tension in the air that you can taste, bitter and metallic.
you tell yourself you’re imagining it.
you tell yourself everything’s fine.
because you have to.
because the alternative — the gnawing worry that something happened to jason last night — would destroy you.
you try to distract yourself.
you clean your tiny apartment.
you go to the corner store and buy your favorite snacks. you even take a book up to the rooftop, telling yourself that if jason wanted to see you, he’d come like always.
you repeat it like a mantra:
he’s fine. he’s with bruce wayne now. gotham’s golden prince. if anyone can keep him safe, it’s him.
so you push down the fear, force yourself to breathe, and wait.
but the silence stretches.
one day.
two days.
three.
by the fourth day, you stop checking your phone every hour.
by the fifth, you almost convince yourself that worrying won’t change anything.
you’re trying, you really are.
trying to let jason live his life.
trying to let go of the desperate need to know if he’s okay
that’s when you hear it.
it’s late — almost midnight — and you’re walking home from a late shift at the diner, the streets nearly empty except for a few shadowy figures lingering near the mouth of an alley.
you don’t mean to eavesdrop, but their voices carry in the stillness. “…waynes are hiding it, i heard. don’t want the press swarming the manor.”
“yeah, well, everyone knows now. bruce wayne’s second kid — dead. real tragic. went out like a damn tragedy play.”
“didn’t even think he had a second son.”
“guess it doesn’t matter now, huh?”
your steps falter.
the world tilts.
second son.
dead.
no.
no.
you whirl around, stumbling toward them. “what did you just say?”
your voice cracks, too high, too sharp.
the men glance at you, startled, then sneer like they’ve been caught. “none of your business, sweetheart,” one mutters. “just rumors.”
but you can’t stop shaking. “bruce wayne’s second son — what’s his name?”
your throat is dry, your hands trembling. the taller one shrugs. “don’t know. some street kid he took in a while back. word is, he got himself killed last week. blew up in some warehouse supposedly, you know how it is.”
your body goes cold.
so cold it hurts.
because you do know. you know exactly which street kid bruce wayne took in. exactly who they’re talking about.
and it feels like someone has reached inside you and ripped out everything you are.
you stumble home in a daze.
the city is spinning around you, blurred lights and smeared faces, voices buzzing like angry insects in your ears.
you tell yourself it’s a lie.
a cruel, ugly joke gotham is playing on you.
people like to talk, to make things up about the waynes.
but deep down, you know.
you know.
you crawl into bed and curl up so tight you can barely breathe, shaking so hard your teeth chatter.
no call from bruce.
no word from anyone.
no funeral invitation, no explanation, no nothing.
just silence.
like jason never existed at all.
the days that follow are a blur of grief and rage. you feel betrayed by bruce — the man who was supposed to keep jason safe, who swooped in like a savior and promised him a better life.
and now he can’t even face you. can’t even give you the dignity of hearing it from his lips.
you feel heartbroken by jason — for leaving you behind, for keeping secrets, for not letting you carry the weight with him.
your last memory of him is laughter over a stupid popsicle, and it guts you every time you think of it.
alone and depressed become your entire existence.
your apartment feels like a tomb.
the rooftop feels haunted.
even the pinky promises feel like curses now, mocking you with everything you’ll never have.
you sit by the window one night, staring out at the city that took everything from you, and whisper his name like a prayer.
“jason.”
the days blur.
you stop counting them because it’s easier than admitting how long it’s been since the world ended. morning and night bleed together, sunlight and streetlamps indistinguishable, everything painted in the same flat, gray tone.
your body goes through the motions of living — eating just enough to stay upright, working when you absolutely have to — but it feels like you’re watching someone else. like you’ve been peeled out of your own skin and left to drift somewhere above it, untethered and hollow.
life moves in slow motion, every sound muffled, every movement heavy.
like wading through water that’s slowly filling your lungs.
bruce shows up one evening.
you don’t open the door right away when you hear the knock. for a long moment, you just stand there, staring at the peeling paint of your apartment door, breathing hard. part of you hopes it’s jason, even though you know it’s impossible. the other part of you hopes it’s no one, so you don’t have to face whatever comes next.
when you finally open it, bruce wayne is standing there — towering, immaculate, carrying the kind of silence that swallows whole rooms.
his eyes are tired, his face carved with something like grief.
you don’t care.
“you,” you breathe, a tremor of rage beneath the single syllable. your fists curl at your sides.
“i wanted to check on you,” he says softly, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “i know this must be—”
“don’t,” you cut him off, your voice shaking. “don’t you dare act like you understand.”
he flinches, just barely.
you almost wish he’d fight back, so you’d have somewhere to direct the hurricane inside you. “i did everything i could to—”
“everything you could?” the laugh that escapes you is sharp and cruel, a sound you don’t even recognize. “you’re bruce fucking wayne. you have more power than anyone in this city. you took him away from me, you put him in your shiny mansion, you—”
your throat closes, your vision blurring. “you were supposed to protect him,” you whisper, your voice breaking. you don’t let him get a single word out this time. the second you see bruce’s perfectly pressed suit standing in your doorway, something inside you snaps.
“you think you can just show up here and play the grieving father?” your voice is sharp, venomous, shaking with rage. “you’re the worst kind of person in this city, bruce. you have everything — the money, the resources, the power to actually fix things — and what do you do? you play dress-up savior, collecting kids off the street like they’re trophies for your sick little status.” your breath comes fast, tears stinging your eyes, but you keep going, louder now. “you don’t understand them, you don’t know how to love them, and you sure as hell don’t know how to keep them safe. you think this makes you a father? it’s a joke. a cruel, disgusting joke. you didn’t save jason — you handed him a death sentence and left the rest of us to pick up the pieces and.. and you didn’t even let me know he died.”
bruce’s face twists, pain flashing in his eyes, but you don’t care. because no matter how broken he looks, he’s still standing.
and jason isn’t.
bruce’s mouth opens like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. you slam the door in his face before he can try.
you don’t see him again for weeks.
after that, it’s just you.
you and the memories that claw at your ribs from the inside.
you and the endless replay of that night — jason sitting on your bed, laughing about popsicles, his broken pinky hooked around yours as he promised to come back.
you think about that pinky constantly.
the way it bent wrong, swollen and bruised, trembling in your hands.
and now it feels like the cruelest irony. of course he’d leave you with one last thing shattered between you. one last piece of him that wasn’t whole.
every time you look at your own pinky, the scar you got when you were a kid, you feel sick. you can’t stop thinking about how fragile it all was — how easily bones and promises snap.
grief is a strange creature.
some days it roars, loud and consuming, drowning you until you can’t breathe. other days it’s a quiet, constant hum beneath your skin, so soft you almost forget it’s there… until it surges up without warning and drags you under all over again.
you blame yourself more than anyone.
you think about all the ways you could’ve changed things — if you’d told him you loved him, if you’d begged him to stay, if you’d followed him out that night instead of letting him go.
maybe he wouldn’t have died alone.
maybe you wouldn’t have been left behind, standing in the wreckage of everything you built together.
but there’s no reassurance.
no one to tell you it wasn’t your fault, no one to hold you when the nights get too long.
just silence.
and the weight of a thousand what ifs pressing down on your chest. and gotham keeps moving, indifferent to your grief. the trains still run, the criminals still crawl out of the alleys, the lights still flicker on at dusk like nothing’s changed.
but for you, the world has slowed to a crawl.
every step feels heavier.
every sound is dulled, like someone stuffed cotton in your ears. it’s like living underwater, watching everyone else breathe freely while you’re stuck drowning, lungs burning.
you catch yourself listening for his laugh sometimes — in crowds, in the rush of passing cars, in the echo of the wind through the fire escape.
but it’s never him.
it’ll never be him again.
and the pinky promises you made, the ones that once felt like lifelines, are now just ghosts of a past you can’t get back. shattered, like everything else he left behind.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
time didn’t heal you — not really.
it just blurred the edges of your grief, dulling it until the sharpest parts didn’t cut as deep. but the wound never closed.
years passed, and you learned to live around the ache.
you made new friends who didn’t know jason, who didn’t flinch every time they passed a newsstand with bruce wayne’s face on the cover. they got you out of the apartment, out of your head, dragging you to late-night diners and rooftop parties, forcing you to laugh even when you didn’t want to.
you had good days now.
sometimes you even woke up without immediately thinking about him.
but there were bad days, too — the kind that came out of nowhere and gutted you.
a certain laugh on the street, a whiff of motor oil and leather, a kid running past with a too-big backpack — and suddenly you were twenty steps backward, sixteen again and waiting on a rooftop for someone who would never come.
six months after jason’s death, you saw the headline.
BRUCE WAYNE ADOPTS AGAIN: GOTHAM’S FAVORITE PHILANTHROPIST WELCOMES NEW SON.
you stared at the grainy photo of a boy standing stiffly beside bruce, a forced smile on his face, and your stomach turned to ice.
another kid.
another chance to play hero.
another life for him to mold and break.
you thought you couldn’t hate bruce more than you already did, but that day proved you wrong.
you stopped reading the papers entirely after that, because every glimpse of bruce’s face felt like another knife in your back.
the city called him a savior.
you knew better. he wasn’t saving anyone. he was just replacing them when they broke.
your life got better, in a superficial way.
a nicer apartment, a steady job, friends who cared. you learned how to smile without feeling like you were lying.
but the feelings never left.
jason’s ghost never left.
you kept his memory tucked deep inside you, the love you never confessed souring into something heavy and private.
no one knew about the popsicle jokes or the pinky promises.
no one knew about the boy who laughed like sunshine and bled like rain.
and you liked it that way.
it was yours.
your grief, your love, your ruin.
then you met him.
it was a cold night, the kind where the air itself seemed to bite. you were walking home, bundled up and alert like any gotham native, when a fight broke out two blocks over. shouting, gunfire, the sound of someone crying out in pain.
your instincts screamed at you to run the other way, but before you could move, he stepped out of the shadows.
the red hood.
gotham’s newest whispered terror, the vigilante who made even the worst criminals shiver.
you froze as he approached, his helmet reflecting the dim streetlight, his leather jacket darkened by the rain.
he was taller than you expected, broader, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud.
“you okay?” his voice was modulated by the helmet, low and distorted, but there was a roughness underneath it. something familiar.
you nodded quickly, too stunned to speak. he didn’t linger, just tipped his head and disappeared back into the night, leaving you standing there with your pulse hammering in your ears.
you started seeing him everywhere after that.
or maybe he started showing up everywhere. muggers who used to prowl your block vanished overnight.
you’d hear his name in passing, whispered like a threat: red hood, red hood, red hood.
and sometimes, when you were walking home alone, you’d get the strange, unshakable feeling that someone was watching — not maliciously, but protectively.
it should have scared you.
instead, it made you feel… safe.
and that made you hate yourself a little.
the first real conversation you had was almost violent.
you’d been cornered by two men outside a bodega, their voices leering, their hands too close. before you could scream, a blur of red and black crashed into them, fists flying, bones cracking.
when it was over, you were pressed back against the brick wall, shaking, as red hood stood over the unconscious men.
“you need to be more careful,” he growled, turning toward you.
his helmet gleamed, unreadable, but you swore you could feel his gaze. you swallowed hard. “i… didn’t exactly plan on this happening.”
he didn’t answer.
instead, he stepped closer — close enough that you could see the faint scuffs on his armor, the rain dripping from his jacket. for a moment, you thought he might touch you, but he just… stopped, fists clenched at his sides like he was holding himself back.
“go home,” he said finally, his voice cracking just slightly.
“why—”
“please,” he cut you off, softer this time.
so you went. but you couldn’t stop thinking about him all night.
it became a pattern.
red hood appearing when you needed him most, vanishing before you could thank him. his voice echoing in your head, distorted and strange, yet inexplicably familiar.
there was something about the way he moved, the way he hovered like he couldn’t decide whether to leave or stay.
something that made your chest ache in a way you didn’t understand.
you didn’t know that every time he looked at you, his breath caught. that under the helmet, his scarred pinky twitched — a crooked reminder of the night he left you behind.
that he’d built this whole new life out of rage and blood, and yet, when it came to you, he was still just a boy sitting on your bed, laughing about cherry popsicles and pinky promises.
the first time you noticed his pinky, it hit you like a gunshot.
you’d reached for his hand without thinking — a reflex, a thank-you — and he’d jerked back too late. your eyes locked on the crooked angle of his smallest finger, and your breath caught in your throat.
no.
it couldn’t be.
it couldn’t.
but deep inside, some part of you already knew.
because of course it would be him. of course the boy you loved would come back like this — angry, broken, hidden behind a mask. of course he’d keep his promise in the cruelest way possible.
and as the realization sank in, you thought of that night, of his finger hooking around yours, and the bitterest kind of irony burned in your chest.
he’d kept his pinky promise, after all.
just not the way you ever imagined.
you don’t sleep that night.
you sit at the edge of your bed, staring at your trembling hands, replaying every second of the encounter until your mind feels like it’s been scraped raw.
the way his voice cracked when he said please. the way his shoulders stiffened when you’d reached for him. the way his crooked pinky caught the light, exactly the same as the night he left you.
it’s impossible.
it’s cruel.
it’s him.
and the thought makes you want to scream, to vomit, to tear the whole city apart just to make it stop.
when you finally leave your apartment, the city feels different — sharper, louder. the noise of gotham presses in on you, overwhelming. every face looks like a stranger wearing a mask, every corner hiding a shadow you don’t trust.
you keep seeing him everywhere.
not red hood. jason.
you see him in a boy laughing with his friends outside a diner. you hear him in the sound of boots hitting a fire escape. you smell him in the faint trace of motor oil drifting from a mechanic’s garage.
and each time, it’s like losing him all over again.
you hate him for this.
you hate him for dying and for coming back.
for letting you drown in grief while he built a new life out of rage and secrets.
but most of all, you hate yourself for still loving him.
you don’t confront him right away.
you can’t.
for days, you just watch.
sometimes you catch glimpses of him across a rooftop, his helmet glowing red like a warning sign. sometimes you feel his presence behind you when you walk home, a shadow that always disappears before you can turn around.
you start to think maybe he’s avoiding you. maybe he knows that you know.
and that hurts worse than anything.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
it finally happens on a rainy night, just like the last time you saw him alive.
you’re walking home when a fight breaks out — a real one this time, close enough that you hear the wet thud of fists, the guttural grunts of pain.
before you can run, he’s there. red hood.
he doesn’t speak at first, just takes down three men in quick, brutal motions. and then he turns to you.
you’re ready this time.
your voice doesn’t shake when you say his name.
“jason.”
he freezes. the rain pounds between you, cold and relentless.
“take it off,” you demand, your throat tight. “take off the helmet.”
he doesn’t move.
he doesn’t even breathe.
“if you don’t,” you say, louder now, “then i will.”
and that’s when he breaks. a strangled sound escapes him — not the modulated growl of red hood, but the human sound of a boy who’s been holding himself together for too long.
his hands rise, trembling, and he pulls the helmet free.
and there he is.
your jason. older, harder, scarred in ways you can’t begin to understand — but undeniably him. the same stormcloud eyes, the same mouth you used to make laugh, the same crooked pinky hanging at his side.
your knees nearly buckle.
“you…” your voice cracks. “you let me think you were dead.”
he flinches like you struck him. “i was dead,” he says, and the rawness in his voice twists the knife deeper. “and when i came back… i didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“like what?” you choke out. “like a coward? like a liar? like someone who let me bury him in my heart and then came back to haunt me?”
“like a monster,” he whispers.
his shoulders shake. “i thought… if you knew what i’ve done, what i’ve become… you’d never look at me the same way again.”
“you’re right,” you spit, tears burning hot trails down your face. “i don’t look at you the same way. because the boy i loved wouldn’t have left me alone in that hellhole, mourning him, thinking i wasn’t enough to fight for.”
he takes a stumbling step toward you, desperation etched into every line of his face. “you were everything i fought for,” he says hoarsely. “you’re the reason i clawed my way out of the grave.”
silence falls, except for the relentless rain.
you shake your head, wrapping your arms around yourself like you can hold all the pieces in. “and what am i supposed to do with that, jason? what am i supposed to do now?”
he doesn’t have an answer. he just stands there, broken and alive, with the weight of everything you both lost hanging between you.
finally, he raises his hand — the one with the crooked pinky — and holds it out to you. like he’s offering a bridge back to the past, to the rooftop promises and shared popsicles and a love that never had the chance to bloom.
you stare at it, your breath ragged, your heart splintering.
because you know that if you take it, nothing will ever be the same. but if you don’t… you’ll lose him all over again.
and you don’t know if you can survive that twice.
the rain hasn’t let up, turning the alleyway into a blur of gray and silver. drops cling to your eyelashes, mingling with the tears streaking your face.
jason’s hand is still outstretched between you, palm trembling, his crooked pinky catching the streetlight just like it did years ago. the same hand you used to hold when you were kids, when the world was smaller and safer and full of impossible dreams.
you take it.
you take him.
your fingers curl tight around his, and before either of you can speak, you’re pulling him down into a kiss that’s been waiting to happen since the day he left you.
it’s messy and wet and desperate, your tears slipping between your mouths, his breath ragged against your lips. you pour every unspoken word into it — the grief, the anger, the years of aching love that never had anywhere to go.
jason freezes for half a heartbeat, then he melts into you like he’s been starved for this. his gloved hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your wet cheeks as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.
when you finally pull back, gasping, you don’t let him go.
you wrap your arms around him and cling like you’ll never let go again, burying your face against the curve of his neck.
“don’t leave me,” you sob, the words muffled against his soaked jacket. “not again. you don’t get to disappear on me, jason.”
his arms crush you to his chest, his whole body trembling. “never,” he whispers, voice breaking. “not ever again.”
you pull back just enough to look at him, your fingers fisting in his jacket.
“you don’t know how hard it’s been without you,” you say, the words tumbling out in a rush. “the city — it’s cruel, it’s heartless. every day felt like being skinned alive. and bruce—” you choke, fury flaring hot even through the grief. “bruce betrayed me. he didn’t even let me know you were gone. i didn’t get to say goodbye, didn’t get to stand at your grave, didn’t get anything. he just… he just left me to rot in the dark while he— while he replaced you.”
jason’s jaw tightens, his stormcloud eyes burning with anger. he cups your cheek with one rough, careful hand, forcing you to meet his gaze. “i’m sorry,” he breathes. “god, i’m so sorry. if i’d known—”
“i thought i could’ve saved you,” you cut in, your voice breaking, tears spilling fast and hot. “if i’d just said something that night… if i’d told you i loved you, maybe you wouldn’t have gone, maybe you would’ve stayed.” your sobs shake you apart. “i keep replaying it, jason. over and over. what i should’ve done. what i could’ve done.”
he hushes you softly, pressing his forehead to yours. “no,” he whispers fiercely, brushing the tears from your face with his thumbs. “no, don’t you dare blame yourself. none of this was on you. i made my choices, and i paid the price. you… you were the only good thing i had. you always were.”
he kisses your forehead, lingering there as you cry, like he’s trying to seal the promise into your skin.
jason pulls back just far enough to study you, his eyes wide and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen. watching you like this — so raw, so full of love — it undoes him completely.
in his mind, there’s nothing but gratitude.
gratitude that he’s alive to see you, to hear you, to feel you clinging to him.
gratitude that despite everything he’s done, everything he’s become, you’re still here, holding him like he’s worth something.
you’ve always been like this.
no bullshit. no lies.
you were the one person in his life who always kept your promises.
always kept him.
and now, as you shake in his arms, he sees how deeply you’ve loved him all along — not the legend, not the vigilante, but him.
“you’re it for me,” he says hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion. “you always were. i came back from the dead, and the only thing that kept me sane was you. the thought of you, the sound of your laugh, and your pinky promises.”
you let out a shaky laugh through your tears, resting your forehead against his chest. he hooks his crooked pinky with yours, slow and deliberate, just like he did that last night before everything fell apart. only this time, his voice is steady when he says it.
“pinky promise,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “i’m never letting you go again.”
and for the first time in years, you believe him.
life with jason wasn’t perfect — not in the way movies and fairytales promised — but it was yours.
messy and flawed and breathtaking.
he let you hold him now.
that was a victory in itself.
there were nights where he’d flinch at the brush of your fingers against certain scars, nights when he’d pull back with an apology, shame twisting his face like barbed wire. but you never pushed. you just cupped his jaw and kissed his forehead, whispering that you loved all of him, even the pieces he thought were broken beyond repair.
sometimes, he’d wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, trembling, his breath ragged like he’d been fighting ghosts only he could see.
and you’d wrap yourself around him, legs tangled with his, arms locked tight around his chest, grounding him.
you never said the word safe — you just showed him he was.
your love became a quiet, steady thing.
small domestic rituals: morning coffee together before he disappeared into gotham’s shadows, leaving you with a kiss that always lingered like smoke on your lips.
late-night drives on his motorcycle, your arms locked around his waist as the city blurred past.
moments of laughter so genuine they made your chest ache, because there was a time you thought you’d never hear that sound from him again.
he was still hesitant about physical intimacy, his body a map of traumas he wasn’t ready to fully share.
but when he let you trace your fingertips over his scars, when he let you see him — all of him — it felt like the purest kind of trust.
one night, you lay tangled together on his bed, your head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat.
jason’s arm was draped over you, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your shoulder.
“make me a pinky promise,” you said softly, your voice muffled against his shirt.
he huffed a laugh. “haven’t we made enough of those to last a lifetime?”
“no,” you said firmly, lifting your head to meet his gaze. “i want one more. a real one.”
he hesitated, something tender flickering in his stormcloud eyes. “…okay. what’s the promise?”
you held up your smallest finger, hooking it with his crooked one — the same pinky that had once symbolized a broken past.“no matter what happens,” you whispered, “you’ll keep living. even if we’re apart. even if the world tries to take everything from you again. promise me you’ll survive it.”
his throat worked, his jaw clenching like he wanted to protest.but finally, he nodded, his grip on your finger tightening. “pinky promise,” he rasped, voice breaking. kissing your picky to seal it.
and though neither of you said it aloud, you both knew this was the most important vow you’d ever made.
the night it all fell apart started ordinary. you were late, rushing to meet friends after work, texting jason a quick “i love you” before shoving your phone back into your bag.
jason was across the city, patrolling, his helmet feeding him the endless chaos of gotham’s streets.
but for once, things were quiet. he even let himself think about heading home early — about curling up beside you, maybe teasing you about that last promise.
he checked his phone mid-patrol, a rare indulgence, and saw your message. three simple words: i love you.
he smiled. then, as he went to close the screen, his eyes snagged on your location — automatically shared between you for safety.
his smile vanished.
you were in one of the worst parts of gotham, a decaying sector even cops avoided.
your location dot flickered near an abandoned warehouse district, a place he knew harbored nightmares.
panic seized him by the throat.
“no, no, no…” he muttered, sprinting to his motorcycle, his fingers trembling so badly he nearly dropped his helmet.
he didn’t stop for red lights.
didn’t breathe until he reached the rooftop.
when he found you, the world ended.
you were slumped against the edge of the rooftop, body crumpled like a broken doll. your breathing was shallow, wet and ragged, each inhale a battle you were rapidly losing.
and in your limp hand — mockingly delicate — was a joker card, its painted grin smeared with blood.
“NO!” jason’s scream ripped through the night as he skidded to his knees beside you, scooping you into his arms.
your head lolled weakly against his shoulder, your skin frighteningly cold. “jay…i’m sorry..” your voice was a ghost of itself, thin and fading.
“fuck.. oh god please don’t talk baby,” he choked, pressing his gloved hand against the wound in your side, his own blood-slick fingers trembling. “just… just breathe, sweetheart. please. your okay..i’m here now, i’ve got you, you’re gonna be fine..your okay baby..please..mh.”
but even as he said it, he felt the truth sinking in. you were slipping through his hands, just like everything else he’d ever loved.
“i’m sorry,” you whispered, tears spilling weakly down your temples. “i— i didnt see him.. jay ‘cough’ im so sorry”
“don’t you dare,” he snarled, clutching you tighter, rocking you like he could keep you tethered to him through sheer willpower. “this isn’t on you. this is on him. on me. i should’ve been here sooner.”
your trembling hand lifted to cup his cheek, smearing blood across his skin. “no… no, jason. you were… the best thing i ever had.” your breath hitched. “you saved me. from this city, from myself. i— i love you.”
his vision blurred completely. “i love you too,” he sobbed, his forehead pressing to yours. “more than anything. don’t leave me, baby, please. don’t— i need you.. i need your warmth.. your smile.. please baby i genuinely need you.. god please..i’m begging.. cmon my love stay awake.. don’t close your eyes please.. please don’t”
your eyes fluttered, glassy and unfocused. “promise me… you’ll keep living,” you whispered. “even without me. please, jay. pinky promise…”
your pinky twitched weakly against his. he hooked his own crooked finger around yours, clutching it like a lifeline. “i.. pinky promise,” he swore, the words breaking apart in his throat.
and then you were gone.
just like that.
jason didn’t remember screaming, but later he’d recall the sound — raw and animal, echoing across the rooftops. he cradled you long after your last breath, rocking you like he could will your soul back into your body. his sobs hiccuping into your hair.
his chest was a hollow cavity, his heart shattered beyond repair.
because this wasn’t just losing you. this was losing every rooftop dream, every laughter-filled night, every cherry popsicle, every pinky promise you’d ever made together.
the city blurred beneath him, mocking and cold. joker’s card slipped from your hand, carried away by the wind, but its meaning burned into his mind.
you had kept every promise to him. every single one.
and now, jason was left alone — with a final promise he didn’t know if he had the strength to keep. a vow to live in a world without you. a vow that felt like the cruelest punishment gotham could ever inflict.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
KEEP UR PINKY PROMISES 🫵
i’ve had a lot of requests of angst.. okay guys 🙂↕️ i get it
</3 the ending feels rushed so i might come back and edit it tbh and make it a tab bit more realistic / angsty?
BUT UM SORRY FOR LAGGING SO BAD! writing lowkey takes a lot outta me, but i really love it. my brain is just trying to find the best wording for everything 💐 but i appreciate everything wholeheartedly and lmk if you want more angst, fluff or smut! i’ll try and write more often! thankk youu mwwwaaahhh!!!
summery : jason todd’s hair is getting too long and his girlfriend, a stressed beauty school student, is determined to make him her first real haircut. after some begging, sibling chaos, and a stolen kitchen chair, he finally lets her turn wayne manor into a makeshift salon.
[ 4.6k word count ]
you were sure you’d never begged for anything more ridiculous in your life.
not a puppy when you were eight. not that fancy curling iron when you were thirteen. not even when you begged your parents to let you go to beauty school instead of a “real college.”
no, nothing compared to standing in the middle of the wayne manor living room with a cape draped over one arm, scissors clutched in the other, and jason todd sitting stubbornly on the couch like a brick wall.
“come on,” you groan, dramatically throwing yourself forward so your elbows rest on his knees. your cape dangles pathetically. “you literally said last week your hair was getting too long.”
“i said maybe i should get it trimmed,” he corrects, voice flat. “doesn’t mean i wanna be your guinea pig.”
“practice client,” you shoot back instantly. “not guinea pig. client.”
he raises a brow, unimpressed. “yeah, well, either way, i like my hair attached to my head.”
you gasp, clutching your chest in mock offense. “wow. zero faith in me. incredible. unbelievable. i’m halfway through school, jay. they literally won’t let me move on until i do this on a real person. do you want me to fail?”
“you’re dramatic,” he mutters.
“you’re stubborn.”
“you’re—”
“—gonna cut your hair while you’re asleep if you don’t let me do it now,” you interrupt, deadpan.
that earns you a sharp laugh, and his mouth twitches like he’s fighting off a grin. “you wouldn’t.”
you lean closer, lowering your voice. “try me.” before jason can bite back with something equally stubborn, a voice cuts in from the doorway.
“what’s happening here?” both your heads snap toward the sound — dick grayson, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk that screams older-brother-mischief. tim’s behind him, sipping coffee like this is just another day in the manor circus.“please tell me i’m walking in on what i think i’m walking in on,” dick adds.
“depends,” you say brightly. “do you think i’m begging your brother to let me cut his hair?”
“exactly that,” dick says, grinning.
“then yes,” you confirm.
tim takes a slow sip of his coffee, glancing between you and jason. “bold of you,” he says to you. “he’s gonna growl the whole time.”
“he already is,” you reply, gesturing to jason’s face.
“i’m sitting right here,” jason mutters, annoyed.
“why don’t you just let her do it?” dick asks, walking further into the room. “your hair’s halfway down your neck, man. you’re starting to look like you’re in a grunge band.”
“i like it long,” jason fires back.
“no, you don’t,” you counter, tugging lightly at the ends of his hair. “you literally complain about it getting in your eyes when you work out.”
“i do not complain.”
“you whine,” you correct, straight-faced.
tim laughs into his coffee, nearly choking. before jason can defend himself, damian wanders in like he owns the place, sword sheathed at his back and expression as unimpressed as ever. “why are you all gathered here?” damian asks flatly.
“haircut emergency,” dick says.
“not an emergency,” you mutter. “just a milestone in my future career that your brother refuses to support.”
damian glances at jason, at you, at the scissors in your hand. “…you’re going to let her cut your hair?”
“what’s that supposed to mean?” you demand.
“nothing,” damian says coolly, though his tone is sharp enough to draw blood. “just that if she botches it, you’ll look even worse than you already do.”
you blink at him. “wow. thank you for the vote of confidence, damian. i’ll remember that when you’re asleep and i cut your hair.”
tim and dick both lose it, laughter echoing off the manor walls.“can we do that anyway?” tim asks, wiping at his eyes. “just for fun?”
“i’ll hold him down,” dick offers playfully.
damian glares at all three of you, muttering something about imbeciles under his breath as he storms out of the room. “so,” dick says once the laughter dies down, “since jason’s clearly too scared, i’ll volunteer.”
you perk up instantly. “really?”
“sure.” he steps closer and gestures at his hair. “do your worst.”
you beam, cape already in hand. “thank you. you won’t regret this.”
“don’t make promises you can’t keep,” tim murmurs, amused.
you ignore him, motioning for dick to sit on the arm of the couch. “lean down. you’re tall.”
“you’re short,” dick replies, obliging.
your fingers slip into his hair automatically, combing through strands as you examine the texture, length, and where you’d section it. “you’ve got great layers already,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “if we trim here and clean up the neckline—”
“hey.” jason’s voice cuts sharp across the room.
you glance up to find him glaring — not at you, but at dick. or maybe at your hands in dick’s hair. “what?” you ask, confused.
“knock it off,” jason mutters.
“knock what off?”
“that.” he gestures vaguely at dick, at you, at everything.
“i’m literally doing my job,” you argue. “you had your chance to let me do yours.”
“yeah,” dick adds smugly, “you snooze, you lose.”
jason’s jaw ticks. “she’s not cutting your hair.”
“she already is,” dick points out, grinning.
before you can even process what’s happening, jason stands — quick, towering, and pulling you to your feet with him. “hey—!” you squeak as he lifts you, easy like you weigh nothing, throwing you over his shoulder in a ridiculous display of brute strength. “jason!” you yelp, laughing and kicking lightly. “put me down!”
“nope,” he says, voice tight but teasing, stalking toward the hallway.
“you’re kidnapping me!” — “yup.”
“dick, help!”
“nah,” dick calls lazily, “this is better than tv.”
you groan, covering your face as jason carries you out of the room and into the quieter halls of the manor. his hand presses firm at the back of your thigh to keep you steady, his pace unrelenting until he finds your guest room down the hall and kicks the door shut behind him.
finally, he sets you down — gently, but close enough that you stumble into his chest. “what was that?” you demand, breathless.
“you’re not cutting dick’s hair,” jason says flatly.
“why not?” you challenge, arms crossed.
“because you’re cutting mine,” he says.
your brows lift. “oh? now you suddenly want me to?”
“yeah,” he mutters. “and don’t ever run your hands through his hair like that again.”
a slow grin spreads across your face. “…jason todd. are you jealous?”
“no,” he lies instantly.
“liar.”
“just—” he exhales sharply, raking a hand through his already-too-long hair. “just cut my damn hair, alright?”
you tilt your head, still smiling. “say please.”
he shoots you a look that could kill.
“pleeease?” you sing-song.
jason growls low in his chest, stepping closer until your back hits the edge of the dresser. “cut my hair,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous, “before i change my mind.”
you swallow hard, heart skipping. “…okay.” finally getting your breath back, scissors still in hand. “i’m gonna need a chair.”
jason raises a brow. “there’s literally a couch right here.”
“too low,” you explain, brushing past him toward the door. “i need you sitting straight. posture matters. i don’t wanna nick your ear or something.”
“you’re not touching my ears.”
“no promises,” you sing over your shoulder, grinning when you hear him groan.
you pad down the hall, cape dragging behind you like some weird makeshift bridal train until you reach the kitchen — the one room guaranteed to have sturdy chairs at the right height. the faint murmur of voices hits you before you even step inside.
alfred’s warm, calm tone. bruce’s lower rumble.
you pause in the doorway, peeking in. bruce is at the counter with a mug in hand; alfred’s by the stove, dicing something that smells suspiciously like fresh herbs. they’re mid-conversation, something about patrol routes and… was that about damian sneaking out again?
you decide not to ask.
quiet as you can, you step into the kitchen and beeline for one of the chairs by the island, fingers already gripping the backrest. “and where, might i ask,” alfred says smoothly, without even turning around, “are you taking that chair, miss?”
you freeze mid-step, caught red-handed. “…uh.”
bruce glances up from his mug, brow furrowed slightly in curiosity. “is this one of those situations,” you say sheepishly, “where if i tell you the truth, you’re gonna stop me?”
alfred finally turns, knife still in hand, giving you that patient-but-stern look that could make even jason behave. “that depends entirely on what you intend to do with the furniture.”
“cut jason’s hair!” you blurt, grin breaking across your face before you can stop it. “he finally said yes! i need the chair because it’s, like, perfect height and i don’t wanna mess up the neckline, and the couches are too low and the dining chairs are wobbly—”
alfred blinks once. “…master jason is letting you cut his hair?”
“i know!” you gasp dramatically. “i didn’t think it would ever happen. i’ve been begging all week.”
bruce hums quietly into his coffee, the barest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “miracles do happen.”
“exactly!” you agree, dragging the chair toward the doorway. “this is a historic moment. someone should document it. maybe build a shrine.”
“perhaps simply a framed photograph will suffice,” alfred replies dryly, though there’s the ghost of a smile in his eyes as he steps aside to let you pass. “do be careful with the scissors, miss.”
“always!” you call over your shoulder.
“no running in the halls,” alfred warns, voice following you as you disappear down the corridor with the chair in tow.
jason’s exactly where you left him, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching you with that mix of suspicion and reluctant amusement he reserves just for you. “did you just steal that from the kitchen?” he asks as soon as you set the chair down.
“borrowed,” you correct, flipping the cape dramatically over one arm. “alfred knows. bruce knows. the world knows. you can’t back out now.”
“wasn’t planning to,” he mutters, but you catch the way his jaw softens.
you pat the chair. “sit.”
he hesitates — only for a second — before dropping into it with a heavy sigh. “this better not end with me looking like i lost a fight with hedge clippers.”
you smirk, wrapping the cape around his shoulders and securing it at the back of his neck. “trust me.”
“dangerous words.”
“you’re in good hands.”
“questionable.”
you swat his shoulder lightly, grinning when he huffs out something that almost sounds like a laugh. “stop talking and let me work, mr. todd.” you grab your comb, “alright,” you murmur, comb sliding through his hair again. “deep breath. you’re officially my first real client.”
“lucky me,” jason mutters.
“very lucky,” you agree, deadpan. “most people would kill for this honor.”
he smirks faintly, leaning back just enough that his shoulders ease under the cape. “sure they would.”
you step behind him fully, fingers sweeping the thick strands away from his face as you section the top from the sides. his hair is soft — softer than you expected for someone who spends half his life under a helmet.
“you’ve got good hair,” you murmur, mostly to yourself.
“don’t sound so surprised,” he says dryly.
“i’m not surprised,” you reply. “just… impressed. thick strands, healthy growth pattern, no split ends.” you tilt your head, pretending to examine like a professional. “do you use conditioner?”
he blinks up at you in the mirror. “no.”
“liar.”
“swear to god.”
you gasp dramatically. “this is all natural?!”
“guess so.”
you hum, tugging lightly on a section. “unfair. some of us have to work for this level of shine…so,” you say casually, “what brings you in today?”
he blinks. “what?”
“gotta do the small talk. it’s tradition.” you keep your tone serious. “so, what’s the occasion? hot date? family photos? existential crisis?”
he huffs out a laugh. “yeah, definitely that last one.”
“oof. rough week?”
“rough life.”
you nod solemnly. “well, lucky for you, i’m offering a special today — free haircut with complimentary life advice.”
“what kind of life advice?”
“stop picking fights with mob bosses,” you say immediately. “eat a vegetable once in a while. maybe get more than three hours of sleep.”
he shoots you a look in the mirror. “you spying on me or something?”
“i don’t have to spy,” you reply sweetly, “you complain enough while i patch you up.”
he snorts, shaking his head — careful not to move too much under your hands. as you move around him, your fingers brush against his scalp, the side of his neck, the tops of his ears. every time, he stills — not tense, just quiet, like he doesn’t know what to do with the gentleness. “stop looking at me like that,” he mutters once, catching your gaze in the mirror.
“like what?”
“like you’re… studying me.”
“i am studying you,” you say easily. “it’s literally my job.”
he grumbles something under his breath but doesn’t argue.
your focus sharpens — the comb gliding, the steady snip of scissors, the way his dark hair falls in soft tufts to the cape. “tilt your head,” you murmur, guiding him gently. “good. just like that.”
he obeys without hesitation, and something about it makes your chest ache — this big, stubborn man letting himself be vulnerable, trusting you with a pair of sharp scissors by his face. you move to stand behind him, trimming the back carefully. it’s when you lift the longer strands to blend them into the shorter cut that you notice it — the line of his neck, clean and strong, the way it slopes into his shoulders beneath the cape.
your breath catches.
you’ve seen him shirtless more times than you can count — scars and all — but there’s something different about this. maybe it’s the intimacy of it, the quiet hum of the manor in the background, the way his hair falls soft between your fingers.
“you good back there?” he asks, voice low, pulling you from your thoughts.
“mhm,” you hum quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice the flush creeping up your neck. “just… focusing.”
he smirks faintly. “you were staring at my neck.”
“no, i wasn’t.”
“liar.”
“fine,” you admit, blunt. “you have a nice neck.”
he pauses, then — “thanks?”
you grin, leaning down just enough to whisper, “don’t let it go to your head.”
his ears pink instantly, and you swear he sits a little straighter.
you switch to blending scissors now, working slow and methodical. “so what’s the vibe?” you ask suddenly. “clean-cut boyfriend who can meet my parents, or broody biker who terrifies strangers at gas stations?”
“bit of both,” he says without missing a beat.
you laugh, comb sliding through again. “figured.”
halfway through, you pause to check the balance. “don’t move,” you warn, stepping back to scan him from every angle.
“am i crooked?” he asks.
“your head? yes. the haircut? no.”
“wow,” he deadpans. “confidence booster of the year.”
“i’m keeping you humble,” you say sweetly, trimming another section.
he hums low in his throat, somewhere between amused and fond. by the time you start cleaning up the neckline, he’s gone quiet — not sulky, just… relaxed. his shoulders have loosened under the cape; his jaw unclenched ages ago. every time your fingers brush his skin, you feel the faintest shiver run through him, like he’s not used to being touched this carefully.
you smooth a hand along the back of his neck, thumb brushing just below his hairline. “still doing okay?” you ask softly.
he hums in response, voice low. “keep going.”
“yes, sir,” you tease.
“don’t call me that,” he mutters automatically, but there’s no heat in it — only the faintest upward twitch of his mouth in the mirror.
you smile, combing through one last section.
“almost done,” you murmur, and for some reason, you’re a little sad about it. you’re halfway done — sides trimmed clean, top still a work in progress — when footsteps echo in the hall.
“oh no,” jason mutters under his breath.
you glance toward the doorway just as dick appears, leaning casually against the frame. “so this is where the magic’s happening,” dick says, grin wide. “could hear the scissors from down the hall.”
you instantly gasp, throwing yourself between dick and jason like you’re defending state secrets. “you cannot look yet!” you cry dramatically, hands spread wide. “this is an exclusive preview zone. masterpiece in progress. no unsolicited critiques!”
dick blinks. “…did you just call my brother a masterpiece?”
“i called my work a masterpiece,” you correct, eyes narrowed. “he’s just the canvas.”
behind you, jason groans. “can we not?”
“don’t listen to him,” you stage-whisper to dick. “he doesn’t understand the artistic process.”
dick laughs, stepping further into the room despite your protests. “so how’s he holding up? still breathing?”
“barely,” you say solemnly. “he’s being very brave.”
jason shoots you a glare in the mirror. “i’m literally sitting here, you know.”
“bravely,” you repeat, grinning.
dick takes another step closer, clearly trying to sneak a peek at the half-finished cut. “don’t you dare,” you warn, holding the cape up like a curtain in front of jason’s face.
“what?” dick teases. “just wanna see the progress.”
“no!” you declare, spinning the chair slightly away from him. “it’s not ready yet!”
“you’re being dramatic.”
“art requires drama.”
before he can argue, you lean down suddenly and press a loud, exaggerated kiss to the top of jason’s head. “mwah!” you say brightly, peppering two more for good measure. “protecting my masterpiece.”
jason stiffens under your touch — not because he’s annoyed, but because you can feel the heat blooming at the tips of his ears. “stop,” he mutters, voice low, though you catch the corner of his mouth twitch upward in the mirror.
“never,” you reply sweetly, pressing another kiss to his hairline just to spite him.
“wow,” dick says, smirk widening. “he lets you kiss his head but won’t let me even ruffle his hair. favoritism.”
“yeah,” you agree instantly. “i’m the favorite.”
“absolutely not,” jason mutters.
“absolutely yes,” you shoot back, grinning. “look at you. sitting so still. letting me touch your beautiful neck and everything.”
“oh my god,” jason groans, tipping his head back against the chair in exasperation.
“his what now?” dick asks, choking back a laugh.
“his neck,” you say matter-of-factly. “it’s criminally underrated.”
dick cackles. “you’re killing me.”
jason shifts in the chair, clearly one second away from snapping. “why are you still here?”
“moral support,” dick replies easily, leaning against the doorframe like he’s settling in. “and entertainment value.”
“get out,” jason grumbles.
“aww,” dick coos, “look at you, all shy. she’s making you soft.”
“i’m about to make you unconscious,” jason warns.
“don’t threaten the audience!” you scold lightly, swatting jason’s shoulder. “artists hate distractions.”
“you’re not an artist,” jason mutters.
“tell that to your beautifully sculpted neck,” you reply sweetly, just to watch him squirm.
dick is doubled over laughing now. “oh, this is gold. i’m staying forever.”
“no, you’re not,” you say firmly, spinning the chair again so jason’s back is fully to dick. “you’ll see the finished product with everyone else. out.”
“fine, fine.” dick raises his hands in surrender, still grinning ear to ear. “but if he ends up with a bowl cut, i’m telling alfred it was on purpose.”
“get out!” you laugh, throwing a stray lock of jason’s hair at him.
he dodges easily, retreating down the hall with a final, “love you guys!”
the room falls quiet again, the distant echo of dick’s laughter fading into the manor’s walls. you take down the cap hiding his face and then glance down at jason, who’s glaring halfheartedly at the door. “you okay?” you ask softly.
“fine,” he mutters, though there’s no bite in it. “just… he’s annoying.”
“he’s your brother.”
“doesn’t make him less annoying.”
you grin, comb sliding gently through his hair again. “well, good news — you’re still my masterpiece.”
his shoulders loosen just a fraction, and when he meets your eyes in the mirror, there’s a quiet softness there you can’t help but smile at. you grab the small tub of styling cream from the overnight bag you left in the guest room earlier, scooping a little onto your fingertips before working it through his freshly cut hair. your nails graze his scalp lightly as you smooth the product in, careful to shape the strands just right. jason lets out a quiet sigh at the gentle touch, shoulders slumping as he leans into your hands like he can’t help himself. “smells nice,” he murmurs, voice low, almost lazy with contentment. you smile, fingers still combing through the soft strands. “thanks,” you whisper, “it’s my favorite one.
“aaaand… done.” you step back, heart thudding with a strange mix of nerves and pride. tufts of dark hair scatter across the cape and floor — proof of the last half hour’s work.
jason blinks at his reflection in the mirror propped against the wall. “huh,” he mutters.
“huh?” you repeat sharply, instantly defensive. “what do you mean, ‘huh’?”
“looks…” he tilts his head slightly, examining the clean lines at the sides, the softened edges at the top. “…good.”
“good?” you gasp. “excuse me, good is an insult. that’s at least an eight-out-of-ten cut.”
“eight?” he echoes, smirking. “thought you’d say twelve.”
“obviously twelve,” you agree instantly, untying the cape from around his neck. “but i’m trying to be humble.”
he huffs a laugh, standing as you shake stray hair clippings from the fabric. you can’t help but beam — not just because it turned out good (great, honestly), but because he let you do it. your first real haircut.
your boyfriend.
“so?” you ask, hands on your hips. “worth trusting me?”
he glances in the mirror one more time, then back at you — and there’s something warm in his eyes you can’t quite name.“yeah,” he murmurs. “worth it.”
you grin, crossing your arms dramatically. “well,” you say, feigning businesslike professionalism, “that’ll be thirty bucks.”
he blinks. “thirty?”
“student discount,” you deadpan. “normally it’s sixty.”
“you’re outta your mind.”
“plus tip.”
he scoffs, stepping closer until you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. “you serious right now?”
“oh, dead serious.” you tap your palm expectantly. “i don’t work for free, todd.”
his smirk sharpens — that dangerous curve you’ve come to recognize as the i’m about to do something look. “fine,” he says, voice low. “here’s your payment.”
before you can react, he hooks an arm around your waist and lifts — easy, effortless, like you weigh nothing. “jason!” you squeal, laughing as he throws you over his shoulder again.
“you wanted payment,” he says casually, carrying you across the room. “you’re getting payment.”
“i wanted money!”
“too bad.”
“put me down!” — “nope.”
he tosses you onto the bed with zero warning — not rough enough to hurt, but enough to make you bounce and yelp in surprise. you barely have time to catch your breath before he follows, caging you in with broad shoulders and that infuriatingly smug grin. “this is all i’ve got,” he murmurs, already peppering kisses along your cheeks, your forehead, your nose. “take it or leave it.”
you laugh, shoving at his chest halfheartedly. “this isn’t valid currency!”
“sure it is.” kiss. “worth more than thirty bucks.” kiss. “worth a hundred.”
“your math’s terrible,” you giggle, hands finding their way into his freshly-cut hair.
“shut up,” he mutters fondly, mouth trailing down to your jaw. “you love it.”
you do. “i do, i love you” kissing his cheek smiling up at him, admiring him.
“i love you too, doll” the laughter dies slowly, replaced by something softer — quiet breaths, lingering touches, the kind of silence that feels warm instead of awkward.
jason rests his forehead against yours, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. “thanks,” he says quietly, like he’s not used to saying it.
you smile. “for what?”
“not… screwing it up.”
you snort. “glowing review. i’ll print that on my business cards.”
he chuckles — soft, low — and kisses you again, slower this time. “you did good,” he murmurs against your lips. “really good.”
“so,” you say eventually, breathless but grinning, “ready to show it off?”
“do i have to?” he mutters.
“absolutely,” you reply. “alfred needs to see my masterpiece. also dick’s gonna freak out when he sees how good you look.”
“oh, great,” jason grumbles, already dreading it.
“don’t worry,” you tease, brushing stray hair off his shoulder. “i’ll protect you.”
“like you did earlier?”
“exactly.”
he rolls his eyes, but there’s no real fight in it. “fine. let’s get it over with.”
you grin, tugging him toward the door, fingers laced through his. you practically drag jason down the stairs by the hand, grinning like a maniac. “slow down,” he mutters behind you.
“nope,” you shoot back, half-skipping down the last step. “you look amazing and i need witnesses.”
“you’re impossible,” he grumbles.
“and yet,” you reply, spinning dramatically to face him at the bottom of the stairs, “you still date me.”
he groans, but there’s the tiniest smile tugging at his mouth — one he can’t hide fast enough before you catch it.
you push open the door to the living room where half the family’s already lounging. dick’s on the couch, tim’s hunched over a laptop, damian’s on the floor with a book, and alfred stands nearby with a tea tray. bruce, of course, is by the window like he’s brooding for sport. “ladies and gentlemen!” you announce loudly, making everyone look up. “may i present… my first ever real haircut client!”
you sweep your arm toward jason like you’re revealing the mona lisa. “ta-da!”
dick’s eyes go wide for a second, then he grins. “holy crap, you actually did it.”
“and he looks good,” tim adds without looking up from his laptop. “weird.”
“shut up,” jason mutters automatically.
damian glances up briefly, squints, and then — “acceptable,” he says, which coming from him is practically a standing ovation.
“thank you, damian,” you say sweetly. “now that’s the glowing review i’ll actually be adding to my resume.”
alfred steps closer, giving a small nod of approval. “very well done, miss. clean work.”
your grin nearly splits your face. “see? alfred approves!”
“miracle,” dick mutters, still smiling.
bruce doesn’t say anything at first — just studies jason with that unreadable batman face. finally, he nods once. “good cut,” bruce says simply.
jason blinks. “…thanks?”
you gasp dramatically, clutching your chest. “did bruce wayne just compliment my work?”
“don’t let it go to your head,” bruce says dryly, but you catch the faint twitch of his mouth.
you clap your hands together, slipping into your best fake-professional tone. “alright, everyone, let’s talk about maintenance. this masterpiece requires minimal product — maybe a little styling cream if he’s feeling fancy. trims every six weeks. compliments every five minutes.”
“compliments?” dick echoes, amused.
“mandatory,” you say firmly. “positive reinforcement is key.”
“you’re ridiculous,” jason mutters beside you holding onto your waist watching you talk below him.
“you’re welcome,” you reply cheerfully, ruffling his freshly-cut hair.
“so how much is this costing him?” tim asks, glancing up from his laptop.
“thirty bucks plus tip,” you say without missing a beat.
“tip?” dick grins. “what kind of tip we talkin’ here?”
jason’s ears go pink instantly. “none of your business.”
“ooh,” dick teases, sing-song. “sounds like someone already got paid.”
you smirk, leaning lightly against jason’s chest. “best payment ever.”
“gross,” damian mutters, burying his face back in his book.
amid the teasing and chaos, you catch jason’s reflection in the big window — the clean lines of the cut, the way it sharpens his jaw and softens him all at once.
you did that.
you.
and maybe it’s silly, but pride swells in your chest — not just because it turned out good, but because he trusted you to do it. to hold scissors to his throat, literally and metaphorically, and know you’d never hurt him. “alright,” you announce, clapping your hands. “show’s over. booking for my next client starts tomorrow. any takers, i’m looking at you damian?”
“not it,” tim mutters.
“hell no,” damian says immediately.
“i’ll think about it,” dick teases.
“don’t,” jason warns flatly.
“alright dick i have a 2:30 tomorrow afternoon, does that work for you?” you said writing on the living room note pad for everyone to write on.
“did you hear me say ‘don’t’?” jason added again grabbing the reader and starting to tickle her making her laugh uncontrollably in front of the wayne family. — soon the teasing dies down slowly — dick still grinning, tim back to his laptop, damian muttering insults under his breath. alfred tidies up the tea tray, and bruce returns to his usual window-brooding, but the energy in the room is different now. lighter. warmer.
. “stop staring,” he mutters softly, voice low enough only you can hear feeling your eyes tracing him.
you snort, swatting lightly at his arm. “i’m serious. you look so good, jay.”
he glances down at you then — and the look he gives you is something soft, something unguarded. like he’s letting you see a part of him no one else gets. without a word, he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead — gentle, lingering.
you melt instantly.
when he pulls back, there’s the smallest smile tugging at his mouth. not the sharp smirk he throws at his brothers, not the forced grin he uses in public. this one’s real. quiet. meant only for you. “thanks,” he murmurs, voice rough in that way it gets when he’s feeling too much. “for… y’know.”
“for giving you the best haircut of your life?” you tease, though your voice cracks with how full your heart feels.
“for putting up with me,” he says simply. “for… loving me.”
your throat tightens. “always.”
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:3 haiii i’m finally back to writing!! i’ve been busy with work, some people from my past came back into my life and ive been mentally exhausted and giddy about it. (#manifestingworks #mensuck #i🫀dorks #summersituationship #etsywitchlolz)
BUT I MISSED WRITING AND BEING HAPPY SO MUCH!! 😽 IM SO GRATEFUL TO SEE EVERYONE FINDING MY WORK!!
should i continue this as a series and give everyone haircut!! please let me know omgosh
summery: on a quiet halloween morning, everything changes. through pain, tears, and steady hands, you and jason welcome your daughter into the world.
[6.5k word count] ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐
the contractions come slow at first.
gentle waves, rolling through you, tightening your belly until you have to pause your breathing and lean into the pressure. they aren’t unbearable yet—more uncomfortable than anything—but you know they’re building. you can feel it deep in your bones, the way your whole body is slowly preparing, pulling you toward the inevitable.
you pace the room, socked feet sliding against the smooth floors. one hand braced against the wall, the other low on your belly, moving in slow circles.
you’ve been practicing for this—breathing through the pressure.
in for four, hold for four, out for six. repeat.
you murmur the counts under your breath as you sway your hips back and forth, walking slow, trying to keep the rhythm steady. — and jason is right there. every step.
he hovers without hovering—close enough that if you need him, all you have to do is lift a hand. but giving you the space you need to work through it.
he’s been setting up the room just how you wanted.
the tv plays quietly from the corner, friends reruns filling the space with soft laughter and familiar noise. the smell of fresh linen and a faint citrusy clean fills the room—somehow, bruce had pulled strings to get you one of the nicest birthing suites in the hospital. cozy couches, a big window looking over the city, a reclining chair jason claimed right away.
you know bruce helped with all of it.
you make a mental note to hug him twice when this is over.
there’s a birth ball at the foot of the bed—one of those big inflatable exercise balls—and after a few more contractions, you sink down onto it carefully. rocking your hips back and forth, circling slowly to ease the pressure low in your back. jason crouches in front of you, resting his arms on your thighs, just watching you.
“you’re doing so good, baby,” he murmurs.
you huff a breathless laugh. “not feeling very good.”
he leans forward and kisses your knee. “you’re incredible.”
you smile down at him, sweaty and already tired, but his eyes are shining and it fills you with strength you didn’t know you had.
outside, the morning sky is breathtaking the window is wide, and you can see all of it from where you’re sitting. a soft, sleepy orange rises over gotham’s skyline, the edges tinged with dusty purple and deep pink. it’s a halloween morning—but instead of the usual gloom, it feels… perfect.
hopeful. like the world knew today was special.
you lean into the sight, breathing through another contraction, letting the beauty of it ground you. “look at the sky,” you whisper to jason.
he turns—and his whole face softens. “it’s stunning ,” he says, voice thick with emotion, then slowly turning in head to look down at you, rubbing your back. “so stunning.”
you nod, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “it’s a good day to meet them.”
jason is everything you need him to be — he rubs your back when the contractions get heavier. he brings you water between every surge. he keeps the tv playing quietly, the mindless comfort of sitcom voices making the pain just a little easier to ride.
when you need to walk, he holds your hand and counts steps with you. when you need to sway, he moves with you, matching your rhythm like you’re dancing in the soft morning light.
time blurs. you lose track of hours.
the nurses come and go, monitoring, checking, smiling at you like you’re some kind of warrior. they offer encouragement, ice chips, warm compresses. you thank them breathlessly, clinging to jason’s arm when the contractions hit harder.
and still—you keep going.
because jason is there.
because your baby is almost here.
because you’re so, so close.
somewhere between contractions, you catch jason looking at you — really looking at you.
like he’s memorizing every breath, every wince, every stubborn little breath you pull in to keep fighting.
you manage a tired smile, wiping sweat from your forehead.
“stop staring, todd.”
he smiles, teary-eyed. “can’t help it. you’re beautiful, doll.”
you roll your eyes, but your heart swells. “liar.”
he leans forward, presses a kiss to the back of your hand. “never.”
outside, the sun keeps rising. inside, the world is shifting.
and somewhere deep inside you, your body keeps whispering:
soon. soon. soon.
the contractions feel different now.
stronger. deeper. sharper.
you grip the bed rails, knuckles white, panting through the wave that overtakes your whole body. your legs tremble. your forehead slick with sweat. every muscle in your body tightens, then loosens, then tightens again.
jason is there, always there. — he’s by your side, holding a cool cloth to your forehead with one hand, the other tightly wrapped around yours, grounding you when everything feels like it might spin out of control.
“you’re doing so good,” he whispers against your temple. “i’m so proud of you.”
you nod weakly, trying to keep your breathing steady. trying not to let the fear creep in.
another contraction crashes over you and you moan, squeezing your eyes shut, squeezing his hand harder. “i can’t—” you whisper, the doubt bubbling up. “i don’t know if i can—”
“hey,” jason says, his voice breaking. he cups your face with his free hand, forcing you to look at him. “you can. you are. you’re the strongest person i’ve ever known. just breathe with me, okay? i’m right here.”
you nod, a tear slipping free, and jason kisses your forehead again, gentle and desperate all at once.
the nurse and doctor come in then, moving quietly and efficiently. they check you between contractions, the nurse smiling wide after a moment. “you’re fully dilated,” she says. “it’s time.”
your heart lurches. jason lets out a shaky laugh, wiping his eyes quickly. — they start prepping the room—brightening the lights, unfolding sterile trays, adjusting the bed to help you sit up more. it all happens so fast and so slow at the same time, your head spinning with it.
the doctor kneels at the foot of the bed and looks up at you with a calm, reassuring smile. “okay, mama. when the next contraction hits, you’re going to take a deep breath and push like you’re trying to blow out a thousand birthday candles. we’ll coach you through it. you can do this.”
you nod. your whole body shakes with adrenaline and terror and love so big it barely fits inside your chest. jason squeezes your hand and kisses the side of your head.
“i love you,” he whispers. “so damn much.”
you squeeze back. “i love you too.”
the pushing is harder than you imagined. — you bear down with everything you have, gritting your teeth, feeling the burn, the pressure, the way your whole body is working toward something you can’t even see yet.
you cry out. sobbing breaths tearing from your lungs. it hurts. god, it hurts so much.
but then jason is there—pressing firm, comforting pressure against your lower back with his hands, helping ease the worst of it. “you’re doing so good, baby,” he says, his voice thick with tears. “almost there. just a little more. i’ve got you.”
you nod, chin trembling, focusing on his voice. his hands. the look in his eyes like you’re his whole world. — another contraction comes, and you push again. harder. longer. the room feels like it’s holding its breath.
“i can see the head!” the doctor calls. “so much dark hair!”
jason chokes out a sound—half laugh, half sob—and leans closer to you. “she’s got hair, sweetheart. she’s almost here.”
you push again, every ounce of you pouring into it. the pain blurs into something bigger than pain—something raw and wild and incredible.
and then— a cry. — small. fierce. alive.
the doctor lifts her up, slick and perfect, and the room explodes into soft cheers. “happy birthday, baby girl!” the nurses sing, beaming. — a girl.
you slump back against the bed, gasping, tears running freely down your cheeks. — jason is sobbing openly now, completely wrecked, both hands covering his mouth like he can’t believe what just happened.
the doctor offers him scissors. “dad, you want to cut the cord?”
he hesitates for half a second—then nods frantically, stumbling forward. he cuts it clean, hands shaking so badly the nurse has to steady the cord for him.
and then, finally, finally—they place her on your chest. your daughter. your baby. you look down and see her for the first time and the world tilts sideways.
she’s tiny. beautiful. squalling at the top of her lungs with a full head of thick black hair and the bluest-greenish eyes you’ve ever seen. your heart breaks and heals all in the same moment.
you’re crying so hard you can barely see, one arm weakly cradling her, the other reaching out blindly until jason is there, wrapping himself around you both.
“oh my god,” he chokes out, pressing kisses everywhere he can reach—your hair, your temple, your forehead, your shoulder. “oh my god, she’s so perfect. you’re so perfect. you did it, baby. you did it.”
you sob into his neck, feeling his tears mix with yours. “i love you,” you whisper hoarsely.
“i love you,” he says back immediately, voice wrecked. “i love you so much.” — he cups the back of your head, holding you and your daughter close, as if he could shield you both from the whole world.
you breathe in her scent—new and sweet and so utterly yours—and you know without a doubt that your life will never, ever be the same. she shifts against you, a tiny hand curling against your chest, and you kiss the top of her head, whispering hello over and over through your tears.
jason can’t stop touching you, touching her—one hand stroking your hair, one hand resting lightly against her tiny back, overwhelmed and overflowing with more love than he knows how to carry.
he buries his face in your shoulder, laughing and crying all at once. “our little halloween miracle,” he whispers. “our baby bat.”
and in that moment, with your daughter safe in your arms and jason wrapped around you both, you know—you have everything you’ll ever need.
the room is quiet now.
the chaos of labor, the rush of doctors and nurses, the bright lights— all of it has faded into a warm, golden stillness. it’s just the three of you. — you, jason, and your baby girl.
she’s bundled tightly in a soft pink blanket, asleep against your chest, her tiny mouth opening and closing with little sighs. you can feel the soft flutter of her heartbeat against yours, feel the impossibly small weight of her settling into you like she’s always belonged there.
jason hasn’t stopped touching you. he’s barely blinke, scared he’ll miss a small moment.
one hand brushes gently over the baby’s dark hair, the other still curled around your waist, like he’s terrified if he lets go, you’ll both float away.
you feel him staring again. you glance over and find him watching you, his eyes soft and glassy, like he’s trying to memorize everything—the way you look, the way your arms cradle her, the way you’re glowing even though you’re exhausted.
you offer a tired, crooked smile.
he leans down and kisses your forehead, careful and slow.“you’re unreal,” he whispers against your skin. “you gave me everything i ever wanted… and everything i never thought i could have.”
your throat tightens. you turn your head slightly, pressing a kiss to his wrist where it rests near your shoulder.
“i love you,” you murmur. “so much, jay.” he squeezes you gently in response, and for a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your baby breathing, your own breathing, his breathing—all tangled together.
eventually, you shift slightly, wincing a little at the soreness deep in your body. jason notices instantly and starts to sit up, untangling his long body from where he’s half-sitting, half-laying in the hospital bed with you. “shit, sorry,” he mumbles. “i’m taking up too much space. let me—”
you catch his hand before he can move. “no,” you whisper. “stay.”
he hesitates, glancing down at the cramped space you’re sharing—his big frame sprawled across more than half the bed, your legs tangled with his, the baby nestled perfectly between you. “baby,” he laughs softly, looking sheepish. “i’m literally a wall. you barely have any room.”
“i don’t care,” you say, tugging him back down. “i want you here. just like this, please.” his whole face softens. — he settles back beside you without another word, carefully wrapping an arm around you and the baby, pulling you close like you’re the most precious thing in the world.
you nestle into his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart against your ear. he kisses the top of your head again, lingering.“i’m never letting you two go,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “ever.”
you close your eyes, breathing him in, breathing her in—safe, warm, whole. “good,” you whisper, smiling against his skin. “we’re not going anywhere.”
and in that tiny hospital bed, with jason’s huge body half hanging off the edge, with your newborn daughter tucked against your heart, you realize—
there’s no such thing as not enough space. not when love this big fills every corner, every crack. right here, with jason’s arms around you both, it’s all the space you’ll ever need.
the knock on the door is so gentle, it’s almost hesitant.
you and jason look up at the same time, still wrapped around each other and your newborn daughter, your little world tucked into the small hospital bed.
jason smiles, so soft it almost breaks your heart. “come in,” he says, voice low and warm. “come meet her.”
the door creaks open and in spills the family—
dick first, followed by tim, duke, barbara, stephanie, damian trailing close behind, cass silently slipping in after them with a rare bright smile. bruce is the last to enter, alfred at his side, both of them carrying that quiet kind of reverence that seems to fill the entire room.
everyone stops at the sight. — you and jason, curled around this tiny pink bundle like she’s the most precious thing in the universe. — jason’s giant body taking up half the bed, your smaller frame tucked against him, the baby fast asleep between you.
for a moment, nobody speaks. the air feels thick with something tender, something holy. then dick lets out a breathless laugh, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“god, you guys. you look like a christmas card.” — you laugh quietly, heart full to bursting.
tim is grinning too, rocking on his heels. duke and barbara exchange soft, amazed looks. steph is already wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. even damian, for all his teenage bravado, is standing stiffly by the door, staring wide-eyed at the little baby in your arms.
“come closer,” you say, voice cracking a little from emotion. “she wants to meet her family.”
they move in, gathering around the bed, a quiet, awestruck circle.
everyone gets a moment. — dick leans down first, brushing a gentle kiss against the baby’s tiny forehead and whispering something about how she’s going to be the coolest kid alive.
tim strokes her soft hair with one careful finger, shaking his head in disbelief. — “i can’t believe jason made something so pure and beautiful”
jason without hesitation, flipping tim off like it was a reflex “fuck off, replacement“ jason says, a hint of sarcasm and love buried beneath it.
duke grins wide, practically vibrating with excitement. “she’s already a heartbreaker,” he jokes.
stephanie squeals softly and promises to buy her way too many pink frilly outfits. barbara beams, her eyes shining.
cass doesn’t say a word, but she rests her hand lightly over your arm and gives the smallest, sweetest nod—silent congratulations, silent joy.
even damian, after a long, stubborn hesitation, reaches out with one gloved hand and lets the tips of his fingers brush the baby’s tiny fist. “she is acceptable,” he declares stiffly, but his cheeks are pink and his lips are twitching into something dangerously close to a smile.
you and jason share a look—one of those silent conversations you’ve gotten so good at.
this is family. this is everything. but then— it’s alfred’s turn. everyone steps back instinctively, clearing a path. alfred moves forward slowly, hands steady, eyes impossibly gentle. “may i?” he asks, voice soft as velvet.
you and jason both nod immediately. with practiced ease, alfred scoops the baby into his arms, cradling her against his chest like she’s made of spun glass.
his face folds into something so full of love, it makes your throat ache. he hums something low under his breath—a lullaby from long ago, maybe—and rocks her gently.
and next to him, bruce stands frozen. staring. completely, utterly undone. you see it happen in slow motion—
the way bruce’s hand twitches slightly at his side.
the way his eyes glisten faintly.
the way, finally, a single tear escapes and slides down his cheek.
the room goes still. no one says a word.
bruce, who’s spent his whole life building walls higher than anyone could climb, who’s armored himself against every hurt, every soft thing— he’s crying. — because in alfred’s arms, nestled safe and warm, is his granddaughter.
something pure. something untouched by all the darkness he’s fought so hard against. something that belongs only to light, and love. he blinks rapidly, clearing his throat. then he turns to you. “(y/n),” he says, voice rough. “are you alright? were the doctors and nurses good to you?”
you smile, touched beyond words. “they were wonderful,” you say. “everything was… perfect...thank you for everything bruce”
he nods stiffly, jaw tight with emotion he clearly doesn’t know how to handle. and then— alfred, ever the wise one, gently passes the baby to bruce.
there’s a collective, breathless hush. bruce holds her awkwardly at first, like he’s terrified he’ll break her—but then she lets out a tiny, contented sigh and snuggles into his chest.
something in him shatters. he adjusts his hold automatically, instinctively, like he’s been doing this his whole life.
his broad hand cups her entire back, supporting her carefully. his head bends over her, forehead nearly touching hers. and for once, bruce wayne—billionaire, vigilante, protector of gotham—is just a man.
just a grandpa. just a heart, open and aching and so full of love.
no one teases him.
no one even breathes too loudly. they all just watch, smiles soft, eyes misty. the family settles around the room again, talking and laughing quietly, the weight of love filling every corner. but bruce stays locked in that little world, his focus entirely on the tiny new life in his arms.
time blurs. comfort seeps into your bones. you and jason are still cuddled together in the hospital bed, sharing warmth and awe. your stomach growls suddenly, loud and demanding. you blink, surprised, then grin sheepishly. “i’m so hungry now,” you admit, laughing a little.
everyone bursts into laughter, the room echoing with happiness. but bruce—bless him—straightens immediately, every bit the soldier again. “alfred,” he says sharply. “we need food. lots of food. now.”
“already on it, sir,” alfred says, lips twitching into a knowing smile. and bruce, not satisfied, pulls out his phone and starts ordering everything under the sun—burgers, pasta, salads, pizza, sandwiches—just in case. because his daughter-in-law is hungry, and his granddaughter deserves a well-fed, happy mom. and nothing—nothing—will stand in the way of that.
the smell of food fills the hospital room not long after, carried in by alfred and a few delivery workers who barely step inside before alfred politely but firmly shoos them out.
there are bags upon bags of it—boxes stacked high on the little table, containers of every kind of comfort food you could dream of.
bruce had ordered it all without hesitation, as if feeding an entire army was the bare minimum for this moment.
“here we go,” jason murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. he carefully shifts so he can grab a tray without jostling you too much, but he never leaves your side.
he balances everything with that big, steady hand, arranging food neatly where you can reach it. he even unwraps a burger for you, cutting it into smaller bites, careful and patient. then, holding a little piece up, he grins. “open wide, doll,” he teases, soft and sweet.
you laugh tiredly, heart bursting all over again, and let him feed you. he holds your drink for you too, bringing the straw right to your lips after every few bites, making sure you’re comfortable, making sure you have everything you need.
jason, who once fought the world with nothing but his fists and anger, now devotes himself entirely to you and your baby girl.
he brushes a crumb from your cheek with his thumb.
his knuckles trail your jaw so softly you almost cry.
he’s here.
he’s real.
he’s everything you ever needed.
across the room, bruce is still sitting stiff-backed in the armchair. your baby girl is cradled against his chest, so small in his arms she looks like a dream. he’s been holding her this whole time, refusing to give her up. his eyes, usually so guarded and sharp, are soft and awed as he looks down at her.
completely entranced.
you can see the wonder written all over him—etched into the furrow of his brow, the set of his mouth. he runs a careful finger over the baby’s soft, dark hair. — smiles faintly when she shifts a little and nestles closer to his chest. “she looks just like you,” bruce says suddenly, quietly, glancing up at jason.
his voice is almost reverent. jason chuckles under his breath, still gently feeding you little bites. “poor kid,” he jokes.
but bruce shakes his head, a deep warmth in his gaze. “no,” he says simply. “she’s perfect.”
you watch the moment unfold, your heart aching in the best way. bruce wayne—so stoic, so controlled—completely undone by the little life in his arms. he leans down again, resting his forehead very lightly against the baby’s soft hair.
and for a moment, everything else fades—the food, the chatter, the TV. there’s just him and her. a man who’s lost so much finally gaining something that can’t be taken away.
something pure. something good.
you see it in the way his shoulders relax.
in the way he cradles her like she’s the most important thing he’s ever held. this is healing for all of them, this is love.
blurred behind the quiet moment, the rest of the family is still bustling. dick is half-sprawled on a couch, grinning from ear to ear. he’s the one who notices the TV first and lets out a whoop.“yo, friends is on!” he says, pointing at the screen like it’s a miracle.
you glance up and sure enough, there it is, still playing,—the familiar apartment, the laugh track, the theme song echoing faintly. “could this day be any better?” dick jokes, quoting chandler with a goofy smile.
the room dissolves into easy laughter. tim and duke start arguing about who’s the best character. — steph bets cass could beat everyone at friends trivia without even speaking. barbara jokes that your baby is already cooler than all of them combined. — even damian, lurking in a corner, hides a smirk behind his hand.
but you barely hear it all. your world is still jason feeding you, kissing your forehead, stroking your hair. your world is bruce, cradling your daughter like she’s a secret he finally gets to keep.
your world is right here, warm and full and safe. you lean into jason’s side, feeling his arm wrap around you, anchoring you. you let your eyes flutter closed for a moment, your baby safe, your heart full. you are home.
but eventually, after the fullness of it all, someone suggests stretching their legs, giving you a chance to get some fresh air.
jason carefully bundles you up, his hands gentle as he helps you into a wheelchair the nurses brought earlier. you’re tired but happy, the weight of the day humming under your skin.
“we’ll just be right outside,” dick promises, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. you smile, leaning into the soft support of jason’s family.
tim, duke, steph, cass, barbara, and even damian come along, escorting you through the hallways like a little parade, voices hushed and full of warmth. the early evening sun is setting in soft pinks and golds outside the windows, cool air slipping in through the automatic doors as you roll into a quiet courtyard garden. the hospital decorated for halloween— orange dim lit fairy lights, fake skeletons posing like a family, pumpkins craved with little signs near them with names and ages of who created them, the large fountain dyed red to look like blood— everyone roaming around, adventuring off.
for the first time all day, the hospital room is quiet. inside, it’s just jason, bruce, alfred—and the tiniest new addition to their world, sleeping peacefully in the bassinet. for a moment, no one speaks.jason stands close to the bassinet, hands braced on the railing like he can barely keep himself from scooping her back into his arms. he watches her like she’s made of spun glass and stardust, something too precious for words.
bruce steps up beside him. he says nothing at first.
just stands there, his shadow long against the floor, his eyes locked on the sleeping baby girl with a kind of aching tenderness. alfred moves quietly, settling into a chair by the window, letting them have this moment.
then bruce clears his throat. it’s soft. almost unsure. — bruce wayne—legend, icon, protector of gotham—suddenly just a man. a father. a grandfather.
“i wasn’t… always good at saying things,” bruce starts, voice low, rough with unshed emotion. “especially with you.”
jason stiffens a little, caught off guard. he glances at bruce, brows pulling together. bruce’s eyes stay fixed on the bassinet.
“you were so young when you came to me. so full of fire.” his mouth twitches into the ghost of a smile. “i didn’t know how to handle it. didn’t know how to handle you.”
jason stays quiet, chest tightening. bruce draws a slow breath.
“i made mistakes. too many to count. and for a long time, i thought… maybe i’d lost the chance to fix them.”
alfred watches from the chair, eyes soft, a silent support bruce leans on even now. “but you,” bruce says, finally looking at jason, voice breaking slightly, “you kept going. you kept living. you kept fighting.”
the room is thick with feeling, heavy and alive. “and now…” bruce’s gaze drops back to the tiny life breathing so gently nearby. “you’ve made something beautiful. something i never even let myself hope for.”
jason blinks hard, jaw working. he’s never seen bruce like this. never heard these words. — bruce steps forward, puts a heavy, grounding hand on jason’s shoulder. “i’m proud of you, son,” he says, steady and sure. “more than you will ever know.”
jason doesn’t mean to—but his throat closes up, and before he can even blink, tears are burning behind his eyes. he looks down, presses his fingers to his forehead, breathing hard.
“thank you,” he croaks after a moment, voice thick. pulling bruce into a tight hug, bruce doesn’t let go. “i love you bruce”
he squeezes jason’s shoulder once more before jason lets go, firm and full of every word he’s ever struggled to say “i love you too jason” . — alfred clears his throat softly—eyes shining, though he pretends otherwise. “if i may,” alfred says gently, rising to his feet, “i believe congratulations are in order.”
he crosses to jason, smooths a hand briefly down his back, and then over to the bassinet, looking down at the sleeping girl with such love you could feel it radiate from him. “she will know nothing but love,” alfred says, voice a vow. “between the lot of us, i daresay she’ll be spoiled beyond reason.”
bruce huffs a soft laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting. jason runs a hand over his face, trying to compose himself, but it’s hopeless. he moves to the bassinet, carefully lifting his daughter into his arms. her tiny hand curls instinctively against his chest, and he breathes in the sweet, perfect scent of her. “you’re gonna have the best life,” jason murmurs to her, voice rough with feeling. “i pinky promise you.” — the baby’s finger, like she understood, wraps her fingers around his pinky.
bruce steps closer, not crowding, just there. he reaches out—hesitates a beat—and then very carefully runs a knuckle over the baby’s soft hair. you wouldn’t believe the tenderness in that touch. “you’re gonna be amazing,” bruce says, mostly to her “just like your parents.”
jason presses his forehead lightly to the baby’s, closing his eyes for a long moment. and somehow, in that quiet hospital room, with the light fading outside and the scent of food still lingering, all of them are healing.
right here.
right now.
the past, the pain—it’s still there.
but so is this.
this hope.
this love.
alfred places a hand on bruce’s shoulder, and bruce covers it with his own. and for the first time in what feels like forever, jason doesn’t feel like he’s surviving. he feels like he’s living.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
the evening air is cooler now, crisp with that distinct bite of autumn.
but instead of shivering, you breathe it in deep, letting it fill your lungs and refresh your exhausted body.
halloween night hums around the hospital in little bursts—
far-off sounds of laughter, the occasional whistle of the chilly wind, the faint, sugary scent of caramel apples from somewhere beyond the gates.
you sit bundled in the wheelchair, a soft blanket across your lap, and your family surrounds you like a protective wall of love.
tim and duke are tossing candy back and forth like kids, laughing every time one drops it and tries to play it off.
stephanie’s snapping pictures on her phone, trying to get “candid family shots” but yelling “say cheese!” every time anyway.
barbara’s chatting with cass, their voices low and content. dick keeps pushing your chair in lazy little loops across the garden path, spinning you slow just to make you laugh, his grin so wide it crinkles the corners of his eyes. even damian seems more relaxed than usual, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, his footsteps in easy rhythm beside you.
the sky above is this brilliant stretch of deep navy blue, dotted with stars, and the moon hangs low and golden. a perfect halloween night—only instead of goblins and ghosts, it’s laughter and love filling the air. “this is nice,” you murmur, looking up at dick as he pushes you along.
he grins, giving the handles a little squeeze. “yeah,” he says, “kind of a miracle, huh? a halloween without someone trying to blow up the city or being murdered..god that would be a long night”
you laugh, and it feels good.
you hadn’t even realized how much tension you were carrying in your body until now, until it drained out into the cold, clean night. for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, you just exist like that—no rush, no fear. just soft conversation, occasional jokes, and the warm presence of your family.
but eventually, the air starts to bite a little sharper, and you feel a pull inside you. a little whisper that says you’re ready to be back with jason. ready to hold your daughter again.
“ready to go back in?” dick asks, sensing your shift immediately. you nod, and he turns you gently toward the hospital doors. but as he’s steering you back inside, something shiny catches his eye.
“wait—hold up—” he says suddenly pulling the wheelchair into a hard turn that makes you giggle.
because right there, just off the main lobby— is the most insanely decorated hospital gift shop you’ve ever seen. it’s bursting with halloween decorations—plastic pumpkins, bat garlands, witch hats, candy buckets, black cat plushies.
they really went all out. and before you can even think to stop him, dick swerves you straight inside. “field trip!” he announces, laughing.
everyone piles in after him, the doors chiming happily overhead. “richard, this is ridiculous,” damian mutters, but he follows anyway, trailing behind like a grumpy little shadow.
stephanie immediately grabs a plastic vampire mask and shoves it on tim’s face. “perfect,” she declares.
duke finds a goofy batman-themed candy bucket and holds it up with a huge grin. “hey b, they made merch after you,” he jokes to himself.
cass spots a shelf of tiny plush bats and tucks one quietly into your lap with a sweet smile. you hug it to your chest, heart bursting all over again. and somehow, some way, you end up wheeling through the aisles with everyone piling random little halloween things into the crook of your blanket—
a plush ghost here, a silly pumpkin hat there, a handful of candy packs. you’re laughing so hard your cheeks hurt. “okay, okay, we have to get back before they think we abandoned them,” tim says eventually, clutching a plastic scythe like it’s precious cargo.
you all herd back toward the elevators, your lap absolutely covered in halloween stuff, steph snapping pictures the whole way. and when you finally make it back to your floor, pushing into the hospital wing— you find jason right where you left him, perched on the edge of the bed next to your daughter’s bassinet, talking low and soft to her while alfred and bruce sit close by. he looks up the second he hears the door—and the way his face lights up when he sees you— it’s like the sun coming out after a storm.
“hey, beautiful,” he says, standing immediately and coming over to you. his eyes flick down to the ridiculous pile of halloween merch in your lap and he chuckles, shaking his head fondly. “you were gone for twenty minutes,” he teases, leaning down to kiss your lips.
“the halloween spirit took over,” dick says dramatically from behind you. jason just grins wider and lifts you carefully back into the hospital bed, tucking the blanket around you, making sure you’re warm and comfortable before helping pass over your new little bat plushie too. you cuddle it close, laughing softly as everyone settles back in.
the night stretches on, easy and warm, filled with soft conversation and the quiet, perfect sounds of new life.you feel so whole you almost don’t know what to do with it. jason leans down again, brushing his nose against yours. “happy halloween, baby,” he whispers.
and in your heart, you know— this is the start of everything.
the hospital room is quiet now, the gentle hum of machines and the soft beeping of monitors the only sounds filling the air.
the warmth of the room feels different now, as if it’s wrapped in something more tangible than just heat—wrapped in peace. in love.
in the quiet of the night, you’re finally alone, save for jason, your daughter, and the soft, steady rhythm of your heart.
everyone else has gone home, their excitement buzzing in the air like a lingering echo, the soft calls of your family echoing through the phone as they prepare for their journey to come see you tomorrow.your parents, too far away to be there for this special moment, are thrilled to hear about the baby.
“we’re so proud of you both,” your mom says, her voice shaky from the emotion of it all. “and it’s a girl? i’m so happy!” she adds, and you hear your dad in the background calling out his congratulations too.
“we’ll be there tomorrow, honey,” your mom says, “we can’t wait to see her, and you both… to meet our grandbaby.”
jason listens carefully, repeating how proud he is to be a dad, thanking them for their support. he grins wide when they ask for pictures, promising they’ll get plenty soon enough, and then with the phone tucked back into its charger, he turns to you with a soft smile, his eyes gleaming with something that only he can wear—pure joy. the room feels warm and tender now, the outside world left behind.
it’s just you, jason, and your little girl.
he settles back into the chair beside you, a gentle sigh escaping him as he glances down at the bassinet beside the bed. your daughter, bundled up in a soft pink blanket, sleeps peacefully, her little chest rising and falling with the tiniest breaths.
as the world outside fades, you let your eyes close, finally taking a moment to rest, knowing jason’s here.
you stretch, curling into the soft bed, your body aching from the exhaustion of everything. but you smile, because your baby girl is here, and somehow, everything feels right.
but then jason speaks, breaking the comfortable silence. “go to sleep, doll,” he whispers softly, brushing your hair back from your forehead, his fingers lingering there like a promise. “i’ll be right here. i’ve got her.”
his voice is low, soothing, and you can’t help but feel your muscles relax even more as you listen to him. your eyes flutter shut, and the soft rise and fall of your chest matches the rhythm of your peaceful breathing. “okay,” you say, your voice barely above a murmur.
but as you drift off, you hear jason’s voice once again, only this time, it’s directed at their baby.
“hey, little one,” he says, his voice warm, yet gentle. “it’s your dad. i don’t know how, but you’ve already changed my life. i’ve never felt anything like this before. it’s like… everything i’ve ever wanted is finally here…and i deserve it.”
he pauses for a beat, letting the quietness fill the room before continuing, his tone tender.
“i’ve got you, princess. i pinky promise you that. i’ll always protect you, always love you. you and your mom—well, you’re everything to me. you’re all i’ve ever needed.”
his voice cracks slightly as he speaks, emotion thick in his words, but he doesn’t hide it. not anymore. not now, not with her. “this… this is our life now. it’s you and me, kiddo. and i wouldn’t change a thing.” he runs his hand carefully over her tiny head, taking a moment to just admire her, utterly awestruck.
the moonlight from the window pours across his face, highlighting the softness there—this side of jason, one that only she’ll ever know, one that only you’ll see.
and for a moment, in the quiet of the night, it’s just the three of you—perfectly in sync, perfectly complete.
*.ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
jason is SUCH a girl dad, but i honestly know he’d be amazing with a boy too <3. i had to write fluff for bruce too :( he deserves it — i love this story so much, i’ll probably add to it more. i have a couple other ideas of jason todd x readers i’ve been thinking about writing!!
YALL ARE SUCH SWEETHEARTS BTW MWWAHH!! 🩷 i appreciate everyone who reads, i enjoy writing sm it helps me relieve stress even when i can’t find the right words!
if you want me to continue side stories for this lmk :3
have a wonderful day / night wherever you are!! xoxo
summery: a few months after that summer at wayne manor, you discover you’re pregnant—unplanned, terrifying, and impossibly beautiful. telling jason in the quiet of your apartment changes everything, joy and fear wash over as he realizes his daydreams are becoming real. a soft, emotional chapter about new beginnings
[ 8.5k word count ]
february sneaks in with cold mornings and quiet afternoons. your apartment smells like cinnamon from the candle jason insisted on lighting last night, and the windows are fogged from the heat of the shower you just stepped out of.
you’re still in your robe, fingers curled around a mug of tea you haven’t sipped yet. your other hand rests over your stomach—not dramatically, not in a movie-scene way. just… gently. like your body already knows something your brain’s still trying to process.
you hadn’t been trying.
not really.
not yet.
but lately your body’s felt just a little off—tired in a different way. hungrier at odd hours. your favorite coffee suddenly smelled like motor oil. and this morning, after staring at the little box on the bathroom counter long enough to forget how to breathe… the second line appeared.
positive. — and now everything is still.
you hear the front door open, the familiar shuffle of boots, the soft creak of your floors as jason walks in from his morning run.
“babe?” he calls. “i brought you that muffin you like—blueberry. they only had one left, so i fought a grandma for it.”
you laugh quietly, setting the mug down and stepping into the hallway just as he kicks his shoes off.
he looks up at you and instantly pauses. something in your face must give it away—something soft and shining and a little breathless.
he tilts his head, concerned. “hey… everything okay?”
you nod slowly, taking a step closer. “i… yeah. i think everything’s about to be.”
he sets the bag down. “what dose that mean?”
you reach into your robe pocket and pull out the test, holding it in your palm like it’s made of glass. — jason stares… and stares.
and then blinks. “is that—?” his voice catches. “are you—?”
you nod.
his whole expression crumbles. the kind of shift that only happens when something hits too hard and too beautifully to be fully understood in the moment. his mouth opens, like he wants to say something clever or brave or perfect—
but what comes out is small. raw. “you’re pregnant?”
you smile, a little teary now. “we’re gonna have a baby.”
jason stumbles forward and wraps his arms around you so tightly it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. one hand cradles the back of your head, the other trembling slightly as it presses to your lower stomach.
“holy shit,” he breathes into your hair. “we’re having a baby.”
he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wide and wet, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks like he’s scared you’ll fade.
“are you okay? like—really okay? you feel alright?” he asks quickly, too quickly. “is anything hurting? should we call someone?”
“i’m fine,” you promise, laughing a little through your tears. “i’m okay, jase. really.”
he nods, but you can see the way his thoughts are spiraling—half joy, half panic, all love.
“you’re gonna grow a whole baby,” he whispers, voice full of awe. “you’re… incredible.”
you cup his face with both hands. “we are.”
he leans into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “you’re sure you’re not scared?”
“i am,” you admit. “but it’s the good kind. the kind that means this is real.”
he presses his forehead to yours, breathing deeply. “i’m gonna take care of you. both of you. whatever you need—i’ll do it.”
“i know.”
“i’m not gonna be perfect,” he says quietly. “but i swear, i’m gonna love this baby more than anything in the world. and i’m gonna love you even more for giving them to me.”
your heart swells so full it aches. “we’re really doing this,” he whispers.
you nod, blinking away tears. “yeah. we are.”
and then he kisses you, soft and slow, like he’s memorizing the beginning of a brand-new chapter. his hands cradle your sides like he’s holding something sacred.
because he is. — because now, there’s three heartbeats in this little apartment. and jason’s daydream? it just started coming true.
“we need to make a doctor’s appointment,” jason said his head over filling with questions, incredibly nervous to mess up.
“i’ll make one for next week.” smiling down at his hands, holding you steady in place.
and you did, you made an appointment later on for next week. they got you in fairly quickly. the waiting room is too bright.
soft jazz plays from a corner speaker like it’s trying too hard to be soothing. the walls are covered in pastel posters and diagrams of smiling cartoon babies that don’t make any sense unless you’re already half asleep.
you’re sitting in a stiff plastic chair with jason next to you, his hand laced through yours. he’s been silent for the last five minutes—too focused, too still. but it’s not nerves. it’s something else. a quiet intensity, like the kind he gets before patrol, when every thought is narrowed to one single moment.
except this time, that moment is here— and it’s you.
you nudge his leg with your knee. “you good?”
he turns to look at you and softens instantly. “better than good. just trying to stay calm.”
you smile. “you’re squeezing my hand like you’re about to disarm a bomb.”
he loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. “sorry. can’t help it. you’re… you’re in there growing an actual person. i still haven’t wrapped my head around that.”
before you can reply, a nurse pokes her head through the door and calls your name. “ (y/n)—“ jason stands with you, helping you out of the chair like you’re made of glass, his hand on your lower back the entire walk down the hall.
the exam room is colder than expected, and the paper on the bed crinkles under you as you lie back.
the nurse is kind. she asks a series of routine questions—when was your last period, are you taking prenatal vitamins, any morning sickness? jason answers half of them for you, the kind of eager that would normally make you laugh if it weren’t so endearing.
when the gel is squeezed onto your belly, his hand finds yours again. he strokes your hair back behind your ear without even thinking about it. he keeps watching your face instead of the monitor like he’s searching for any sign that you’re okay.
and then— a soft fluttering sound fills the room. your heartbeat stills.
the nurse turns the screen toward you both and points. “there’s baby,” she says gently. “and that—” she increases the volume slightly, “is the heartbeat.”
jason stiffens like someone just knocked the air from his lungs.
his grip on your hand tightens. and then he’s crying. quietly, but undeniably.
his free hand covers his mouth, shoulders shaking with the kind of silent, overwhelmed happiness that only comes once in a lifetime. his eyes stay fixed on the tiny flickering image on the monitor—unbelieving, awestruck.
“that’s our kid,” he whispers, like it’s a secret, a prayer, a dream coming to life in front of him.
you can barely see through your own tears, but all you can do is nod and squeeze his hand back.
he turns to you, eyes red, face glowing in a way you’ve never seen before. “you’re amazing,” he says. “you’re so amazing. you’re doing this. you’re making life. i’m just—i don’t know how i got this lucky, im so so proud of you sweetheart.”
you laugh through a sob, and he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, then one to your damp cheeks.
“you okay?” he asks, brushing your hair back again.
“i am now,” you whisper.
jason just stares at you a little longer, like he’s committing this moment to memory. because he is.
because this feeling? this overwhelming, impossible joy?
he never wants it to end. and in his arms, with you beside him and the sound of your baby’s heartbeat echoing in the air— he knows he’s never been happier.
“so who’s gonna be the one to tell your fami— nose goes!” you shout quickly bringing your finger to your nose laughing with tears still in the corner of your eyes carelessly dangling.
“nos—damnit!” jason sighed “i hate that game.”
the sun is still high when you and jason pull up to wayne manor.
the engine cuts off with a low purr, but neither of you move right away. your hands stay folded in your lap, heart thudding in your chest. jason glances at you from the driver’s seat—eyes soft, mouth twitching with a mix of nerves and excitement.
“you ready?” he asks, voice quiet.
you turn to him and nod. “are you?
he huffs a laugh, fingers reaching across the console to gently take yours. “nope. absolutely not.”
but he squeezes your hand anyway, and the look on his face says everything. he’s ready in the way that counts. terrified, maybe—but glowing with it.
the front door opens before either of you knock. dick waves from the threshold, wearing a smile and an apron dusted with flour. “you guys are late. dinner’s almost ready.”
“we were, uh, taking our time,” jason says, helping you out of the car like you’re suddenly fragile china, even though you’re not even showing yet.
dick raises an eyebrow. “is that code for something?”
“we’ll explain inside,” you say, smiling softly as you head up the steps.
inside the manor — the smell of garlic bread and roasted vegetables wafts through the massive foyer. you can hear tim and damian bickering in the distance, steph’s laugh cutting through the noise. alfred passes through the hallway with a wine glass in one hand and a towel draped over his shoulder, nodding to you both with a kind smile.
“you’re just in time,” he says. “i’ve made enough for ten. though, knowing master grayson, that may only cover seconds.”
“appreciate you, alfred,” jason says, patting his shoulder.
you walk through the manor side by side, surrounded by the easy chaos of family. and the longer it takes to get to the dining room, the more the nerves grow. it isn’t fear, exactly. just… weight. the kind that comes with sharing something real. permanent. world-changing.
jason’s thumb brushes yours. “we’ll do it after dinner. once everyone’s in one place.”
you nod again, your stomach fluttering for reasons that have nothing to do with morning sickness.
at the dinner table — by the time the entire family is seated—bruce at the head, alfred near the kitchen doors, and the rest of the siblings scattered down both sides—it’s noisy, messy, and full of laughter.
dick tells a story about stephanie beating him in a sparring match, and she doesn’t even try to deny it. damian rolls his eyes but can’t hide the smirk creeping across his face. tim’s already halfway through his second helping, duke close behind. cass and barbara are on either side of him, teasing them between bites.
you’re tucked beside jason, his arm brushing yours every so often. and the moment feels golden.
but jason hasn’t stopped glancing your way, and you haven’t stopped feeling the secret burn beneath your ribs.
“we should tell them,” you whisper to him between bites of garlic bread. “before dessert.”
“yeah,” he whispers back, eyes flicking toward bruce. “before someone starts guessing.” — as if on cue, bruce glances your way, then jason’s, with that subtle, unreadable batman stare.
“you two are unusually quiet,” he says mildly.
“just thinking,” jason replies smoothly. “about how to say something important.”
the table quiets just a little—not fully, but enough for the tension to thicken.
you press your hand lightly against jason’s knee beneath the table.
he clears his throat. “so. uh. we’ve got news.” — cass is the first to go still, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity.
tim glances up from his plate. “what kind of news?”
you look around at the people who have become family in more ways than one—people who have fought beside each other, bled together, laughed together.
and now, you were about to hand them something fragile. something that meant everything.
“we’re having a baby,” you say softly, voice shaking just enough.
silence. full, pin-drop silence. then—
“NO WAY,” dick shouts, practically launching out of his chair.
“holy crap,” steph yells right after, hands flying to her mouth. “are you serious?”
barb’s eyes go wide. “you’re pregnant?”
jason grins like he can’t hold it back anymore. “yeah. we are.”
chaos breaks loose. tim drops his fork onto his plate and just stares at you both, jaw slack. damian blinks once, then twice, trying to process it. barbara claps her hands together in pure excitement. and dick? dick practically vaults over the table to hug jason, nearly knocking over a pitcher of water in the process.
“DUDE,” he says, squeezing him tight. “you’re gonna be a dad?!”
jason laughs, hugging him back. “apparently.”
“i’m gonna be an uncle!” he yells, turning to you with wide eyes. “you’re gonna be a mom?!”
you laugh, covering your face with your hands as he pulls you into the hug next. “yes! i am!”
steph runs around the table to tackle you both next. “your glowing!” — cass gently nudges steph aside to wrap her arms around you from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder.
tim finally finds his voice. “wow. just—wow. congratulations. seriously.”
and damian—stoic, sharp damian—leans back in his chair and stares at you both for a long, unreadable moment. then, with a quiet nod: “i suppose this means the next generation of vigilantes is on the way.”
everyone groans. “not even born yet and you’re already recruiting them?” tim mutters.
“shut up, drake,” damian replies, though there’s no real heat in it.
at the head of the table, bruce hasn’t spoken yet. but when you look at him, his eyes are wet.
not enough to spill. just enough to shine.
“you’re really going to be parents,” he says, voice low.
“yeah,” jason says again, a little quieter now. “we are.”
bruce nods slowly. “i’m happy for you. for both of you.”
then—so softly it nearly gets lost in the noise— “i hope i’ll be a good grandfather.”
the table falls quiet again. jason’s breath catches.
and in a rare moment, one almost no one would believe unless they saw it with their own eyes—
jason rounds the table, hugs bruce, and holds on for a full five seconds.
just five. but it’s enough. it says everything.
after dinner but before the dessert is cut, you and jason slip away from the dining room. not for long—after the laughter and the hugs and the congratulations, the manor slowly starts to breathe again. jason squeezes your hand and leans close to your ear, his voice quiet beneath the hum of voices around the dining room.
“come with me?” he murmurs. “want to talk to alfred, just us.”
you nod, heart full. he doesn’t flinch when you enter. doesn’t turn around with surprise. he just speaks in that warm, knowing voice: “i wondered when the two of you would find me.”
you smile gently and walk up beside him, standing close enough for the soft scent of bergamot to curl around you. jason steps behind you and rests his hand on the small of your back.
“we didn’t want to tell you in front of everyone else,” you say softly. “you deserved something quieter.”
alfred finishes pouring the hot water, then finally turns to face you both. his eyes are kind, his hands still, waiting. “we’re having a baby,” jason says. simple. honest.
and that’s all it takes. — alfred’s face shifts in that slow, subtle way only he can manage. not dramatic. not surprised. just… reverent. like the words have landed somewhere deep in his chest and are still echoing there.
“i thought as much,” he murmurs, voice velvet and pride. “but to hear it confirmed… what a gift.” he reaches for your hand first, holding it between both of his, fingers gentle and steady.
“you will be a remarkable mother,” he says. “i can already see it in the way you carry yourself. with warmth. with care.”
your throat tightens. then he looks to jason, and the silence between them stretches—not heavy, just full. thick with unspoken history and all the moments that led to this one. “and you,” alfred says quietly. “i have never been more proud of you than i am right now.”
jason blinks. his jaw tightens, like he’s trying to hold something back. “you mean that?”
“with every fiber of my being.” alfred moves forward and rests a hand against jason’s cheek—something he hasn’t done since jason was much younger. “you will be a kind, strong, devoted father. the sort of man you once feared you could never be.”
jason’s eyes shine, and he nods once. “i’m scared,” he admits.
“good,” alfred replies with a small smile. “that means you care deeply.”
he pulls them both into a hug. tight, long, grounding. — you think maybe it’s the best moment of the night.
but you haven’t seen what’s coming in the living room yet.
the couch cushions are sunken with the weight of so many bodies. duke has claimed the arm of the chair like it’s a throne. steph and tim are tangled up in a blanket on the floor. barbara perches near the fire, her eyes full of light. cass sits quietly on a cushion with a faint smile on her face, watching the room with quiet happiness.
you’re curled up next to jason on the couch, your knees tucked under you, his arm loose around your shoulders.
and that’s when you hear the soft thud of paws. — titus enters the room slowly, sniffing once, then twice, before making a direct line to you. his tail wags just slightly.
“hey, baby,” you say softly, reaching down to scratch behind his ears.
he steps closer, then gently rests his heavy head right on your stomach. jason freezes beside you, watching like he’s afraid to breathe. you smile, petting titus gently, your fingers threading through his fur. “he knows.”
titus lets out a deep sigh, then pushes himself a little higher—climbing halfway onto the couch before resting one massive paw across your thigh and his head against both you and jason.
“hey—” damian’s voice cuts in, sharp. “titus. get down.” titus ignores him entirely, clearly thrilled with himself.
“he’s being protective,” barbara says with a laugh. “he loves them.”
“he loves me,” damian says, visibly scowling. “he was trained to respond to my commands—”
“he’s got priorities now,” duke says with a grin. “he’s got a baby to watch over.”
“he’ll still love you, d,” steph teases. “you’re still the firstborn in his heart.”
damian doesn’t dignify that with a response, but the tips of his ears are pink. you laugh gently as titus shifts again, now practically in your lap, his chest pressed to your belly and nose nudging under jason’s arm. “he’s not going anywhere,” you murmur, hand still stroking his fur.
“good,” jason says softly, kissing your temple. “i want the baby to know him.” there’s a pause as the fire crackles softly.
then— “wait,” tim says, suddenly sitting up straighter. “does anyone remember the bet?”
steph gasps. “the baby bet from the barbecue!”
duke whistles low. “oh, yeah. we all threw in guesses for when they’d announce.”
barbara points a finger in the air. “i said christmas.”
“i said summer,” duke adds.
“thanksgiving,” tim mutters.
steph holds up her hand like she’s in court. “i said mother’s day!”
all heads turn toward bruce, who sits quietly in the corner armchair with a glass of something dark in his hand. he doesn’t smirk. doesn’t gloat. just lifts his brow like he already knows what’s coming. “new year’s,” dick says, groaning. “he said new year’s is when you’d announce, so technically he’s the closest”
“so… bruce wins?” steph says, groaning.
bruce sips his drink. doesn’t say a word. “ugh,” tim groans, flopping backward onto the rug. “of course the batman wins the baby bet.”
“he wins everything,” duke says, pointing at him.
“wait you guys made a bet on when we’d get pregnant?” you say, sitting up for a second grinning at the family while jason fake gasped, not entirely surprised by the family’s decision, more surprised someone didn’t offer him to help them out on the bet to get you pregnant sooner.
“well.. duh. did you see the way jason had that baby craving at the barbecue? we all knew someday soon it was gonna happen.” tim poked a joke and some half humming in agreement, others laughing.
“baby craving and barbecue don’t sound right together, i just can’t believe bruce won though! ” you laughed laying back down on jason,
jason grins, eyes flicking toward you. “he’s probably been planning his grandpa debut since the barbecue.”
“i can neither confirm nor deny,” bruce says, finally letting the corners of his mouth tilt up.
then barbara leans forward, eyes shining. “so… when are you due?” you glance at jason, who’s already smiling. “october thirty-first,” you say softly.
there’s a beat of silence. then— “halloween?!” dick laughs. “you’re having a baby bat on halloween?!”
“that’s the most gotham thing i’ve ever heard,” tim says.
“no capes for the baby,” steph says. “not until they’re at least walking.”
“i’m designing the first onesie,” barb adds. “it’ll have a tiny utility belt on it.”
damian glares at the room. “you’re all ridiculous.”
you sigh against jason, heart full, his hand resting over your stomach again—right where titus still snoozes contentedly. laughter and warmth fill the air like golden smoke. and for a moment, the world outside doesn’t matter.
just this. your family. your baby bat. and all the love waiting to meet them. the days pass like a soft breeze—gentle, slow, golden.
you blink and it’s august.
you stretch and it’s september.
you exhale and suddenly october is whispering around the corners of your apartment.
the light is different now. golden and low. afternoons spill through the windows like honey, and the air tastes like cinnamon and cool breeze. leaves have started to fall outside, painting the sidewalks in deep reds and soft golds.
your belly has grown, round and lovely, full of life. your skin glows with it. your body moves differently, gently, carefully, but your laughter still comes easily when jason is near. he doesn’t let you carry anything anymore. not a grocery bag, not a folded blanket, not even a mug of tea.
“you’re carrying a baby,” he says, brushing your hair back one night as he tucks a pillow behind your back on the couch. “let me carry everything else.”
he’s serious about it. borderline obsessive, even. but you let him fuss. mostly because it makes him happy. and maybe a little because you like seeing the way his eyes go all soft and focused when he’s looking at you. — especially now.
jason wakes up early—earlier than he needs to on a weekend—but he moves quietly, careful not to wake you. the second he hears you stir, he’s back at your side, pressing a kiss to your temple. “breakfast?” he asks, rubbing your shoulder gently.
you nod, still sleepy, and that’s when he leaves to meet alfred at the manor.
you found out from bruce that jason started asking for cooking lessons. just a few things here and there. mostly your favorite comfort foods. especially the ones that still don’t trigger nausea. “gotta keep her happy,” jason told alfred, scratching the back of his neck. “baby too.”
they make a list. soups. light pasta dishes. herby potatoes. the exact way you like your toast. how to time it so you don’t smell it cooking too much, just in case the scent turns your stomach.
he writes it all down. bruce catches him once, leaning over the stove with a furrowed brow, stirring something with absolute focus. “you’re taking this very seriously,” bruce had said.
jason just shrugged, a towel slung over his shoulder. “it’s for her. and the baby.” and then quietly, under his breath: “i don’t want to mess this up.”
your family comes into town for the weekend, the baby shower just a few days away. your little niece—is bigger now, walking stronger, speaking more words. and the second she sees jason again, her face lights up like a sunbeam. “jayjay!” she squeals, arms flung wide as she waddles toward him.
jason is toast. he crouches instantly, catching her mid-run and lifting her high into the air, spinning her gently with a laugh.
“there she is,” he grins, kissing her cheek. “my favorite partner in crime.”
she babbles something incomprehensible, then grabs his face in her little hands and squishes his cheeks. he lets her. he just laughs, holding her like she’s the best gift in the world.
you watch them from the doorway with your hand on your belly, your heart aching in the best way. you and jason don’t want anything over the top. so it’s simple. a mix of both families. your parents help set up in the backyard of the manor. your aunt brings homemade pies and little favors. cass helps hang streamers. steph handles the playlist. dick handles the jokes.
your niece follows jason around like a little duckling. she insists he sit next to her during cake. insists he play with her in the leaves scattered across the yard. she even tries to share her juice box with him, which he pretends to sip from with a grin. “you’re gonna be such a good dad,” you hear barbara whisper to him when she catches them sitting on the lawn together, the toddler’s tiny hand in his.
he doesn’t say anything at first. but his smile grows—quiet, proud, a little overwhelmed. “i really hope so,” he murmurs. “i really want to be.”
the manor gets quieter, cozier. sunday dinners become a routine again—alfred always insists you sit with your feet up, and bruce somehow always ends up next to you, asking quiet questions about how you’re feeling.
cass sits close, brushing a protective hand over your shoulder now and then. damian keeps sliding books about parenting across the table to jason like he’s passing secret files. and every week, someone brings something for the baby—booties, blankets, soft clothes in soft colors. — you swear even titus has started lying a little closer to you than normal.
you and jason spend your nights curled up on the couch, watching old movies, his hand always on your belly. sometimes feeling for movement. sometimes just needing to touch you, to remind himself that this is real.
that this dream is alive and growing. “how’s our little bat today?” he whispers, kissing your bump one evening.
you smile, carding your fingers through his hair. “kicking me all day. strong little thing.”
he smiles. then kisses again. then rests his cheek there, eyes fluttering shut. “can’t wait to meet them,” he murmurs.
“me too,” you whisper back. — you’re almost there.
that’s what everyone keeps saying.
“you’re so close.”
“any day now.”
“you’ve got that glow.”
you smile when they say it. or at least, you try to.
but god—if they only knew.
if they knew how your feet throb just from standing. how you haven’t slept more than two hours straight in weeks. how tying your shoes is officially impossible without assistance.
you’re not glowing—you’re sweating. you’re swollen. you’re exhausted.
and worst of all…
you’re hungry. all the time.
but everything makes you nauseous again.
your favorite meals? suddenly your stomach’s worst enemy.
things you craved just last month? now send you running for the bathroom.
you cry about it once at two in the morning, sitting on the kitchen floor in one of jason’s hoodies, staring at a piece of toast like it’s betrayed you.
he finds you there, bare feet cold on the tile, eyes wet and tired. he doesn’t ask what happened. he just sits next to you, pulls your legs over his lap, and wraps his arms around your middle.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper, wiping your face. “i know i’m being dramatic.”
“you’re growing a human,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder. “you can be as dramatic as you want.”
you don’t even realize you’re shaking until his hand starts rubbing slow circles into your back. your forehead leans against his neck and you just… breathe.
jason.
he’s the only thing making this bearable, the only thing not making you nauseous or upset. only makes him you cry because of how understanding he’s become.
years ago a different version of jason would be incredibly impatient, and tried all the time. but growing with you for so long and filling in all the gaps of his personality has made him a better person for you, and your baby. gratitude on both sides of the story. 
your body hated everything but him
he helps you out of bed in the mornings, kneeling at your side before you even ask. your ankles ache. your back hurts. there’s pressure—so much pressure—deep in your hips, and some days your belly feels too heavy to even carry. “you’re doing so good,” he says, easing your weight into his arms.
“i feel like a elephant,” you mumble.
“a very cute elephant,” he grins. you swat at him halfheartedly.
he helps you into the shower. sits on the closed toilet lid while you rinse off, just in case you feel dizzy. he wraps you in the biggest towel you own, kisses the crown of your head, tells you how strong you are. tells you how beautiful you are. tells you he’s proud of you.
you cry again one night when you try to roll over in bed and can’t.
you’re stuck.
actually stuck.
you groan in frustration, tears prickling at your lashes from how uncomfortable you are. your legs feel like lead, your belly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, and your pillows are all wrong. “babe?” jason mumbles, half-asleep.
“i can’t move,” you whisper, feeling defeated.
his eyes snap open. “okay—hang on, i got you.”
he’s gentle. careful. strong in the ways you need him to be. his arms slide under your back and legs, easing you with such softness that it makes your chest ache. once you’re shifted, he cups your face.
“better?”
“a little,” you breathe.
he grabs an extra pillow, fits it behind you just right, and kisses your temple. “you need anything else?”
you shake your head. and your voice cracks when you say, “just stay close.” his hand finds yours beneath the blanket, fingers intertwining. — “always.”
you hit thirty-nine weeks on a thursday
the doctor says everything looks good. baby’s strong. heartbeat steady. but you? you’re ready. so ready.
“how are you feeling?” your OB asks kindly.
“like my ribs are being karate-chopped from the inside,” you deadpan. she laughs, and jason does too—but his hand never leaves your back. his thumb strokes your spine. his other hand is braced on your thigh like he’s anchoring you to the earth.
you feel so worn thin. so… done. but when you look at him—messy hair, tired eyes, t-shirt wrinkled from worry—you feel a little less overwhelmed. after the appointment, you don’t feel like going home. you sit in the car in the clinic parking lot, both of you quiet.
then jason reaches across the console and gently places your hand on your belly. “you know what i think?”
“hmm?”
“i think they’re gonna be kind. like you.” his voice is soft. so, so soft. “i think they’re gonna have your eyes.” — he kisses your palm. “and i think i’m the luckiest bastard in the world.”
you turn your head, lean into his shoulder, and for the first time in days—maybe weeks—you don’t feel so tired. just full.
full of love. full of something so big and gentle it makes you forget about the pain for a little while.
the final week creeps by
jason starts working from home more, just in case. he puts together the bassinet with dick. tim installs the car seat. duke helps you organize baby clothes. cass leaves post-it notes with hearts and smiley faces in every drawer. damian makes sure titus is trained to stay gentle and close.
and bruce? bruce quietly offers to be on-call for anything.
“day or night,” he tells you both. “whatever you need. just say the word, there’s enough room for you to stay at the mansion too.. don’t be afraid to ask.” silently hoping you’d take him on the offer.
alfred checks in with food daily. he starts prepping snacks you can stomach again—things he knows won’t trigger nausea. small containers left in your fridge. teas that soothe your heartburn.
“you’re almost there,” he says kindly, helping you into a chair one night at dinner. “and you’ve done wonderfully.” you glance at jason—already sitting beside you, already moving to rub your aching back—and you smile softly.
“we’ve done it,” you whisper.
it’s quiet. too quiet, almost. but not in a bad way.
the whole world feels like it’s holding its breath. like time has slowed just for the two of you. outside the windows, the sky is painted in gentle blues and sleepy grays. the wind rustles the early fall leaves, and there’s a softness in the air that only comes in the stillness of the night.
jason’s hand is warm in yours as you walk down the hallway helping you after dinner, just the two of you. no family tonight, no phones buzzing, no background noise. it’s just him. you. the soft rhythm of your hearts.
you stop in front of the nursery. — the door is open just a crack. golden light spills out from the small lamp inside. the room smells like fresh cotton and baby soap. faint hints of wood polish and lavender from the drawer sachets alfred insisted on tucking into the dresser.
you take a slow breath. and then you step inside together.
the nursery feels like a dream it’s not overly fancy. not too perfect. but it’s yours.
there’s a soft, plush rug under your toes. calming colors on the wall. a bookshelf already half full with bedtime stories and soft-spined fairytales. a rocking chair in the corner that dick and barbara had fixed up themselves. and right there in the center of the room—the crib. the crib jason built with bruce, over a weekend in early september, hands calloused but careful, sanding the edges to perfection.
you both stand in the doorway for a long moment. not saying anything. just looking. “we did good,” you finally whisper.
jason lets out a breathy laugh. “we did great.”
you turn to look at him—his face lit gently by the warm lamp light, his expression soft and full of something so open and vulnerable it makes your heart squeeze. “come here,” you say gently.
he follows without hesitation, wrapping an arm around your waist, his hand settling right where your belly curves. your baby kicks once—just a soft flutter—but it makes both of you smile.
“they like your voice,” you whisper, resting your head on his shoulder.
“they like you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “they’ve got good taste.” — you stand there a while, just holding each other
then jason leans down, hands on your belly, voice barely above a whisper. “hey, little bat,” he says. “we’re ready for you. whenever you’re ready to come meet us.”
you feel your throat tighten. your chest swell. there’s so much love in this room it feels impossible to hold all at once. and when jason stands again, you reach for him. cup his face between your hands. trace your thumbs over his cheekbones. and he just—melts under your touch.
your voice is quiet but steady. “jason peter todd, i love you.”
his eyes soften instantly. “i love you too.”
you shake your head a little, laughing through the tears starting to prick your lashes. “no—i mean i really love you. like… i didn’t even know a love like this existed until you. you’ve been everything i’ve ever needed without me even knowing i needed it.”
you take a shaky breath, thumb brushing under his eye. “you take care of me like it’s second nature. you protect me without ever making me feel small. you make me laugh even when i feel like crying. and you’ve made this—this whole thing—feel like the most beautiful adventure, even when it’s been hard.”
his jaw tightens. eyes glassy. “you’ve made me feel safe in my body when it’s been the most uncomfortable it’s ever been,” you continue, voice thick with emotion. “and not just that—you’ve made me feel beautiful. powerful. like i can do this. because you believe in me so deeply that sometimes i forget to be afraid.”
you pause. smile, small and teary. “you’ve always been my home, jason. and now… we’re about to build one. with our baby. and i couldn’t be more grateful that it’s with you.”
you don’t expect the tear that spills down his cheek—but when it does, you’re there. kissing it. holding him like he’s held you through every ache, every sleepless night, every emotional spiral. he pulls you into his arms, careful of your belly, careful of your everything, and just breathes you in.
“you’re my safe place, my homeland,” he whispers into your hair. “you’ve bewitched me, and im so honored to make you feel these ways” he leans in to deeply kiss you “i will love you permanently….endlessly…until we’re both dead in the dirt, and even then, i will find you in the next life…i will find my way home to you.”
the two of you stay there until the moon’s high
rocking slowly in the chair. your hand in his. the soft light of the nursery casting shadows that dance gently on the walls. the room is quiet. safe. sacred. you don’t know it yet, but you’ll go into labor in the morning.
but tonight? — tonight is soft. and warm. and full of everything that matters.
you and jason.
in the nursery.
wrapped in each other’s arms. waiting for your next adventure to begin.
you wake up to sunlight— it slips through the curtains in long, soft beams—painting gold across the floor, the blankets, jason’s cheek. you lie still for a moment, soaking it in.
the apartment is quiet. still. warm. and jason is right beside you, deep in sleep.
he’s on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other hand still curled loosely in yours. his chest rises and falls with a steady rhythm, and there’s a softness to his face you rarely get to see outside moments like this. no tension. no shadows. just peace.
it’s rare—so rare—that he sleeps this deeply. without jerking awake from a nightmare. without the haunted edge to his breath. without flinching from invisible memories. and it makes you feel warm inside. honored. protective.
he deserves mornings like this. he deserves every good thing. so you try not to wake him.
you shift slowly, carefully easing his hand from yours. your belly is heavy—so heavy—and the ache in your back reminds you you’re nearly at the finish line. the baby is still. calm. and for a moment, so are you.
you swing your legs over the edge of the bed with a quiet breath. your slippers are just a few steps away. you’ll just get up, stretch, maybe make some tea. let him sleep a little longer.
you press your hands to the mattress, count to three in your head, and push yourself up— and then you freeze. the first thing you feel is the pop—a subtle, strange sensation deep in your lower abdomen.
and then comes the warmth. sudden. unmistakable. soaking down your legs and onto the floor in seconds. your breath catches. you stare down, stunned. “noway…”
you whisper it under your breath like saying it softer might make it untrue. but it’s true. you know it is. your water just broke.
you freeze for a second—then panic sets in “oh my god—oh god—” you reach behind you blindly, grabbing the edge of the bed for support.
jason stirs at the sudden shift in movement. you try to stay quiet—try to breathe, to stay calm—but your hand’s already shaking when you reach out and whisper his name. “jay…?”
he hums, half-asleep. “mm?”
“jay—baby—i think it’s time…”
his eyes snap open. and the moment he sees your face—wide-eyed, tearful, panicked—he’s up in a heartbeat. “what—what’s wrong? what happened?”
you swallow thickly, gesturing to the growing wet spot on the rug. “my water broke.” — he stares. blinks. processes. then moves.
the switch in him is immediate. he helps you back onto the bed with practiced, gentle hands, brushing damp hair from your face. his voice stays calm—steady—but you can see the storm in his eyes. “okay. okay. we’re good. i’ve got you,” he says, already reaching for his phone. “i’m calling the doctor. don’t move. breathe.”
you nod. trying to. your heart is racing. your hands are clammy. it’s too early. it’s real. it’s happening.
you blink away the nerves, squeezing your eyes shut as a wave of sensation rolls through your belly. not quite pain. not yet. but pressure. the kind that makes you feel like everything is beginning to shift.
jason’s voice is low as he talks to the OB’s office, repeating things back with mechanical calm. “yes. yeah—contractions haven’t started yet. water broke just now. no blood, no pain yet. we’ll head in right away.”
he hangs up and turns to you, dropping to one knee at your side.bhis hands are on your thighs, grounding you. “we’re okay. you’re okay.”
you stare at him. wide-eyed. overwhelmed. “you were sleeping so soundly,” you whisper, guilt creeping in despite everything, a tear wanting to form.
“baby—i don’t give a shit about sleep right now.” he smiles through the nerves, voice thick with love. “you’re about to have our baby. of course you wake me up.”
your laugh is watery. tired. real. brushing his sleepy hair with your nails through his scalp. “you’re not scared?”
he looks at you for a long moment. and his eyes are gentle when he says— “i’m terrified. but i’ve never wanted anything more.”
everything becomes a blur after that. you change into the softest clothes you can manage. he lays towels on the car seat. grabs the hospital bag. calls alfred. calls bruce. tries to keep from pacing holes into the carpet when your first contraction hits in the hallway.
it’s mild. more pressure than pain. but it stops you in your tracks—and jason is right there, supporting you with both arms. “breathe,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you. just breathe.”
he keeps whispering to you the whole car ride. rubbing circles into your hand. kissing the back of it at red lights. promising you that everything is going to be okay. and somehow—you believe him.
by the time the hospital comes into view, the sky is a perfect watercolor soft pinks. sleepy oranges. the kind of morning light that makes everything look a little sacred.
you close your eyes against the sun filtering in through the windshield, resting your hand over your belly. jason glances over and sees it. he doesn’t say anything—just reaches for your hand and links your fingers together. he lifts them to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. then your wrist. then the ring on your finger. you meet his eyes. and he smiles, teary-eyed and full of everything he doesn’t know how to say.
“we’re gonna meet them soon,” he whispers. you nod.
“we’re gonna be parents.”
the hospital room is quiet. soft beeping. the sound of nurses moving gently behind the curtain. the monitor beside you blinking in slow, steady rhythm.
your hand rests over your stomach, and jason hasn’t let go of your other one since they settled you in. he sits in the chair pulled close to the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
but there’s a knock at the door. gentle. polite.
and when it opens, bruce steps in first, tall and still in his long dark coat, followed by alfred—warm-eyed and careful, holding a small thermos in his hands. “sorry,” bruce says softly, his voice lower than usual. “we didn’t want to intrude.”
you sit up a little, smiling tiredly. “you’re not, please, come in.”
jason straightens beside you, glancing over. there’s that flicker in his expression—still not used to this side of things. to being cared for by the people who used to only see him bleeding or bruised.
but they’re here now. and that means everything.
bruce steps closer, settling near the edge of the window. his eyes flicker from the monitor to your stomach, then to jason.
you expect him to look stoic. but instead, he looks… proud.
“i know your parents are on their way,” he says after a moment, voice quiet, “but if anything happens before then—i want you to know you’re not alone.”
you blink slowly, heart tight. “thank you,” you whisper. “they’re trying their best. flight leaves in a few hours but… they’re pretty upset they can’t be here for this part.”
“we’ll take care of you,” alfred says softly, stepping forward and setting the thermos down on the little side table. “your mother asked me to tell you she packed extra socks in your go-bag. and your father wanted me to remind you not to forget your phone charger.”
you smile at that, feeling your throat tighten. “they really did try to plan for everything,” you laugh, teary-eyed. “they’re so nervous.”
“as they should be,” alfred says gently. “it’s no small thing, after all. your world is about to change.”
you nod slowly, swallowing hard. bruce steps forward now, one hand resting on the rail of your hospital bed. “i’ll be right down the hall,” he says. “if you need anything. if jason needs anything. just press the button and i’ll be here.”
you glance at jason—and he’s just staring at bruce like he’s seeing him clearly for the first time. “thanks, bruce,” he murmurs.
bruce nods. then does something unexpected.
he reaches out and clasps jason’s shoulder. a firm grip. full of meaning. “you’re going to be a great father.” — jason swallows. hard.
his jaw flexes like he’s trying not to fall apart from just those words alone. bruce lets go. steps back. gives you both a final, warm look before slipping quietly out of the room to give you space.
alfred stays behind for a moment he sits carefully at the end of the bed, his hands folded in his lap, eyes soft.
“may i?” he asks. you nod. and he gently takes your free hand between his. his palms are warm and familiar, worn from years of care. “when jason was little,” he says slowly, “and he first came to live with us… he used to ask me to read him bedtime stories. not every night. not at first. but once he felt safe enough. once he knew i wouldn’t leave.”
jason shifts beside you, blinking hard. “his favorites were the ones with found families,” alfred continues. “ones where broken boys were loved anyway. where someone stayed. where someone always came back.” you feel your eyes sting.
“and now,” alfred smiles, eyes shining, “he gets to give that story to someone else.” you reach out with your other hand and squeeze jason’s knee. — he squeezes back, too overwhelmed to speak. “you’ll do beautifully,” alfred says, looking between you both. “i know it.” you nod, voice thick with tears.
“thank you for everything, alfred.” he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. the same one he’s given a hundred times to the boys who grew up under his care. “always,” he whispers.
then he stands and quietly excuses himself—leaving you and jason alone once more. — you sit in the silence for a while
your head tilted against the pillow. jason leaning closer, resting his forehead against the back of your hand.
“they love us,” you whisper.
“yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “they really do, they love you so much… you brought us together again.. ”
and for a while, that’s all you need. your family is on their way.
the family you chose is right here.
and the one you’re building?
is just about ready to meet you.
*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
:3 yayay!!! im not gonna leave you on a cliffhanger, i hate them so much so im currently writing pt.3 rn!! lmk what you’d like to see more of in it!!
also what do u think the gender will be :o
THANK U SM FOR READING MWAAHH right on the forehead <3 also i see the comments, u guys are so sweet ☹️ lemme just smother you with hugs, or give you a solid high five that echos yk! haha
summery : jason admiring you at a family barbecue, catching baby fever. what starts as teasing and soft domestic moments slowly turns into a realization jason never planned for: he wants this life, this love, and a future that suddenly feels real for the first time.
[ 4k word count ]
the sun sits gentle in the sky, soft gold washing over the green lawns of wayne manor. it’s the kind of day that feels like it was carved out of a dream—blue skies, laughter echoing through the gardens, the scent of grilled food riding warm breezes. someone’s playing music from a bluetooth speaker—something summery and old-school—and kids are running barefoot over the grass with juice-stained smiles.
you’re standing on the back patio, watching as your dad and bruce try to out-barbecue each other. there’s a mountain of food already stacked high on one table, and another being filled with cold drinks and desserts brought by both sides of the family. it’s not a holiday, not a birthday—just a weekend that seemed perfect for something soft and good.
jason finds you like he always does. like his compass only points to you. he slides up beside you with a drink in one hand, the other immediately brushing against your lower back like he can’t help it. he leans in, kisses your temple without even saying hi, and you smile.
“you smell like smoke and sunscreen,” you murmur, teasing gently. — he grins against your skin. “you say that like it’s not my most attractive combo.”
you glance at him. he’s wearing a plain white tee, sleeves rolled just enough to make your stomach flip, and a backwards baseball cap that he stole from dick earlier. his smile is easy, bright—one of the rare kinds you only get on days like this, when nothing hurts and everything feels safe.
“you having fun?” you ask. — “yeah,” he says, looking out over the lawn. “it’s weird. not used to this many people being this… happy. all at once.”
you nudge him playfully with your shoulder. “that’s the whole point, jay. just good vibes today. no patrols. no emergencies. just your family and mine, stuffing their faces and pretending they’re not competitive as hell.”
he laughs. “i saw your aunt arm-wrestling alfred. i’m afraid to ask who won.” — “don’t,” you whisper dramatically. “it’s a sensitive topic.”
you both laugh, and then you fall into a comfortable silence, leaning into each other. there’s something easy in the way you fit together, like puzzle pieces that just… make sense. and even though the day is just beginning, jason already feels something new blooming in his chest. soft. slow. a warmth he can’t name yet.
then, you get pulled away.
your sister’s baby, a sweet baby girl— barely a year old— is in a fit of giggles and reaches for you as soon as she spots you. you don’t hesitate. you scoop her up, nuzzle into her cheek with a bright laugh, and she squeals in delight. jason watches, something catching in his throat that he doesn’t fully understand.
you hold your niece like it’s second nature, hips swaying slightly as you bounce her. you tickle her ribs until she squeaks, then press a kiss to the crown of her head. she clutches at your shirt with chubby fingers, and you don’t even seem to notice how natural it looks.
jason notices
he watches you sink to the grass with her, both of you barefoot and smiling. the babygirl crawls all over you, laughing like you’re the best jungle gym she’s ever seen. you laugh, too—head thrown back, hair catching the light, eyes crinkled in pure joy. and suddenly, there’s a slow ache in jason’s chest.
he’s never thought about it before. not really. the whole kid thing. the whole… family thing.
he’s always been the kind of man who saw himself on the sidelines of that world. the one who sends birthday gifts but doesn’t show up to the party. the one who says “uncle jay” and brings the cool toys but leaves before bedtime stories.
but watching you like this—hands soft, voice sweeter than he’s ever heard it—something shifts. something opens. he thinks about you with a baby that’s yours. his.
a little mess of dark hair and your eyes, giggling just like your niece is now. he thinks about you holding them, soothing them, loving them the way you love everything. he thinks about tiny socks and bedtime songs and learning how to braid hair or teach someone how to ride a bike. and he doesn’t feel afraid.
he feels something else. — a need. — a want.
he blinks, heart hammering like he just ran a sprint. it’s new. it’s overwhelming. and it’s entirely because of the way you look right now, sitting in the grass with a baby curled against your chest, humming something soft as you rock her gently.
“oh, shit,” he whispers under his breath.
you glance up, like you felt him watching you. your smile is soft. inviting. you tilt your head and wave him over.
he doesn’t think—just goes.
you don’t even have to ask. when you pat the grass beside you, jason’s already lowering himself down with a groan that’s mostly exaggerated, even though he makes a show of cracking his knees. “god, i’m getting old,” he mutters, shooting you a playful glance.
your niece immediately perks up at the sight of him. she blinks those wide baby eyes and then grins—huge and gummy—and points at him with all the excitement in the world.
“dat!” she squeals. you laugh, warm and real, looking between her and jason. “that is not your dad, little lady. that’s jason.”
she doesn’t care. she clambers right onto his lap like it’s the most obvious place to be. jason freezes. his eyes go wide like she’s a lit stick of dynamite, and you watch as he carefully, so carefully, adjusts his hands to steady her. he looks at you like he needs instruction, a manual, a lifeline.
you just smile. “you’re doing fine sweetheart.”
he swallows, then looks down at her. she’s patting his chest with both palms, babbling nonsense with the kind of confidence only babies can get away with. she tugs at the collar of his shirt, pokes his cheek, then leans forward to bonk her forehead lightly against his. he blinks.
“uh… hi?” he says softly. you bite back a grin.
she squeals again and snuggles in like he’s the comfiest spot in the whole wide world. one tiny hand clings to his shirt. the other reaches up and gently touches the brim of his cap.
jason goes absolutely still.
you watch the exact moment his heart breaks open. it’s subtle—just a shift in his expression, the way his arms curl instinctively around her like he’s afraid to let her go now. his voice drops into something even softer.
“you like me, huh?” your niece, as if understanding, lets out a happy coo and rests her cheek against his shoulder. you’re not sure you’ve ever seen jason todd speechless.
he looks at you over her head, and for once, there’s no witty comeback. no smirk. just awe. you can almost hear the thoughts racing behind his eyes. he rocks her slightly, like he’s testing the motion, and when she settles, sighing in contentment, he smiles. — a real one. — quiet. tender. completely unguarded.
your chest pulls tight. “she likes you,” you say quietly. “a lot.”
jason glances down at her again, brushing one hand over the back of her little head. “yeah,” he says, voice rough. “i like her, too.” — and he means it.
he doesn’t know how to explain what’s happening inside him—how just ten minutes ago, the idea of holding a baby seemed like a distant maybe in a far-off future, and now he can’t imagine letting this little bundle go. she fits against him like she belongs there. like he was made for this in a way he never considered.
you lean your head on his shoulder. “you’re a natural, jay.”
“i don’t know what i’m doing.”
“you don’t have to. she trusts you. that’s enough.”
he doesn’t say anything for a minute. just holds her. breathes. lets it sink in. his heart has been through war. it’s been broken, stitched together, burned down, and rebuilt more times than he can count. he’s spent years convincing himself that love like this—soft, slow, steady—wasn’t for him.
but here you are, curled beside him in the grass. and here she is, asleep on his chest. and here he is, completely and utterly undone. — he wants this.
maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—but someday.
he wants little hands and big hearts and quiet afternoons like this. he wants tiny sneakers by the door and messy drawings taped to the fridge. he wants the life he thought he’d never deserve, because you make it feel possible.
you glance up at him and find his eyes already on you. “you okay?” you ask.
he nods. “yeah. just… didn’t expect this.”
“what? a baby nap attack?”
he shakes his head. “no. this… feeling.”
you smile, soft and knowing. you thread your fingers through his where they rest on the grass. “it’s okay, you know,” you whisper. “to want things.”
he squeezes your hand. “you’d be a really good dad,” you say, almost like it’s a secret. “one day.”
jason doesn’t answer right away. he just looks down at your niece again, sleeping so soundly on his chest, and something in him settles.
*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
the sun starts to dip low in the sky, painting the world in honey. that soft hour between afternoon and evening when everything feels a little more tender. the grills have been turned off, the music turned down, and the lawn scattered with half-empty cups and abandoned shoes from kids who always manage to lose one.
you and jason walking, this time near the big round table where dick and tim are already lounging, paper plates balanced on their laps. stephanie is there too, smiling, peeling grapes for herself like a queen, while damian pokes at a pile of roasted vegetables with an expression of deep suspicion.
you plop down with a plate of grilled chicken, a caesar salad and some fruit salad aswell. jason’s got two burgers stacked high and a lemonade that you swear is more sugar than anything else. he’s still got some baby drool on his shoulder and hasn’t noticed yet. — you don’t tell him.
instead, you nudge your knee against his and start eating, leaning just a little into his side. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift—just stays steady. solid. warm.
“so,” dick says with a grin, looking pointedly at jason, “when were you gonna tell us you had a kid?”
jason chokes on a bite of burger, coughing into his elbow while you burst out laughing. he shoots dick a glare, wiping his mouth. “very funny.”
“no, seriously,” tim chimes in, smirking. “i thought that baby was yours. the way she was clinging to you? textbook toddler imprinting.”
stephanie hums. “she liked him.”
“clearly,” damian mutters. “he was the only one she didn’t scream at.”
you grin, glancing sideways at jason. “she does have good taste.” he mumbles something into his burger and keeps his eyes on his plate, but his ears are pink.
dick leans forward on his elbows, teasing grin still firmly in place. “you ever think about it, jay?”
jason pauses. you hold your breath. he shrugs, then glances at you. just for a second. then back at his plate.
“i dunno,” he says quietly. “today kind of made it hard not to.”
the table goes quiet for a beat—not awkward, just thoughtful.
you rest your hand on his thigh under the table, give it a squeeze. he covers it with his own without looking, thumb brushing slow across your knuckles. it says more than words ever could.
then, as if summoned by the power of chaos and barbecue sauce, a group of kids comes barreling toward your little circle.
there are four of them—your younger cousins plus, the neighbor kid alfred watches sometimes. they’re sticky and sun-kissed and full of energy they absolutely should not still have.
“jason!” one of the older boys shouts, skidding to a stop in front of him. “can you play tag with us? please? we need someone fast!”
“yeah!” another chimes in. “you look like you’d be really good at it!”
jason blinks, halfway through another bite. “uh—”
“pleeeaaaase?” they all whine in unison. steph giggles behind her hand. tim’s already pulling out his phone to film this. even damian looks vaguely amused. you nudge jason again, smirking. “come on, tough guy. they’ve challenged your honor.”
he groans, tipping his head back like he’s praying for strength. “you’re all monsters.” but he sets his plate down anyway. stands up. brushes his hands off on his jeans.
“all right, gremlins,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “you asked for it.” the kids scream in delight and scatter.
you watch, heart full and aching, as jason takes off after them with a grin that makes him look years younger. he’s surprisingly agile for someone full of burgers, weaving between kids and dodging tiny arms like a seasoned pro. he scoops one up over his shoulder, spins them until they squeal, then sets them down gently.
you can’t stop smiling. “he’s a goner,” dick says beside you, voice warm with something like pride.
you nod, eyes never leaving jason. “yeah. he is.”
“you know,” steph says, “he’s softer with you than i’ve ever seen.” you swallow around the knot in your throat.
“i feel like he’s starting to let himself want this,” you say softly. “really want it.”
tim smiles. “about time.” you finish your plate, set it aside, and watch as jason lets the smallest kid tackle him dramatically to the ground. they all pile on after that, laughing and shouting, and he just lays there, pretending to be defeated.
he catches your eye across the lawn, still buried under a dogpile of kids, and winks. you think your heart might actually burst.
cass, duke and barb start making their way over, everyone making room for eachother even if it is a little tight. “man jason is getting beat out there” duke laughed taking a drink of water.
you don’t last long on the sidelines.
as soon as you see jason get swarmed by kids and give in with the most exaggerated groan of defeat, your legs are already moving. you drop your plate off at the table, kick off your sandals, and make a run for it across the grass.
“hey!” you shout, cupping your hands around your mouth. “what’s this i hear about a tag game with no rules?”
jason sits up, eyes lighting up the moment he sees you. he lifts an arm like he’s going to catch you when you get close. “you sure you can handle this?” he calls. “these kids are relentless.”
you smirk. “so am i.” the second you’re close enough, one of your cousins tags you with a high-pitched “you’re it!” and bolts away shrieking. — and that’s all it takes.
soon, you’re both running wild with the kids—ducking and dodging and laughing so hard your stomach hurts. jason’s just as competitive as you expected, blocking kids for you and taking fake dives when someone “catches” him. at one point, you tackle him into the grass, both of you breathless and tangled up, and he’s laughing—really laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkled at the corners.
you think you might be in love with every version of him. eventually, the chaos slows. kids drop off one by one, panting and grinning, collapsing on picnic blankets or into folding chairs with cold juice boxes pressed to their faces. you and jason end up near the big patio table again, sweaty and flushed and glowing with joy.
that’s where you find the adults and half of your side of the family.
your parents are sitting with bruce and alfred, a mix of lemonade and wine glasses on the table between them. the grown-ups have that relaxed energy that only comes after a full meal, a successful gathering, and nothing left to do but watch.
“you two looked like you were having fun,” your mom says, smiling fondly. — “we were,” you reply, still catching your breath. jason lingers behind you, a quiet shadow at your back.
“you’re good with kids, jason,” your dad says, and it’s not just polite—he means it. there’s a note of surprise and respect in his voice.
jason rubs the back of his neck. “they’re good with me. i think they sense that i was once a menace, too.” — everyone laughs.
even bruce looks slightly amused, eyes soft as he watches jason from behind his glass. alfred, always the most composed, nods. “you have a calming presence with the younger ones. despite your… usual demeanor.”
“i’ll take that as a compliment,” jason mutters.
just then, your sister approaches with your baby niece balanced on one hip. the little one looks sleepy and bashful now, her curls a bit messy, thumb in her mouth. “she’s been looking around for someone,” your sister says, eyes twinkling. “pretty sure i know who.”
the sweet babygirl blinks once… twice… then holds her arms out, very clearly and very purposefully, toward jason.
he freezes. — the whole table watches as he steps forward, gentle and quiet, and reaches for her. she practically melts into him as he lifts her into his arms again, head tucking under his chin like that’s where she belongs. jason holds her like he never wants to let go.
you can feel it from where you’re standing—that shift in the air. like everyone around you sees something unspoken settle into place. like puzzle pieces clicking in without anyone needing to name them. “she doesn’t do that for just anyone,” your sister says softly.
jason presses a kiss to the top of the baby’s head, one hand running along her back in slow, comforting circles. “she’s got good instincts,” he says, and it’s half a joke, half a truth he hasn’t quite let himself feel until now.
your mom and dad share a look you can’t quite read, something soft and knowing between them. bruce smiles faintly behind his glass. alfred gives you the barest nod, like he sees it too.
you walk back over and stand beside jason, brushing a curl out of the baby’s face. “she’s got you wrapped around her tiny little finger,” you whisper.
jason huffs out a quiet laugh. “yeah. i’m in deep.” — you lean against his arm, heart full. and in this moment, with your family and his all gathered around, with the sun casting golden light over the lawn and your niece tucked safely against his chest, you realize you’ve never felt more at home.
and jason? — jason’s realizing something too. he doesn’t just want to be a part of this someday.
he wants this. with you.
the backyard gets quieter as the sun sinks behind the trees, painting the sky in soft lilacs and golds. kids have all been rounded up, shoes found, goodbyes whispered through tired yawns. the grill’s cold now, the music little more than a low hum in the background. you watch your mom hug cass, your dad laughing at something dick says, and the rest of the evening melts into a kind of dreamy haze.
babygirl is curled up in jason’s arms again, barely awake, tiny fingers tangled in his shirt. your sister and brother in law approaches with an apologetic smile.
“let me take her in, jay,” she says softly. “you’ve done more than enough.”
jason doesn’t look ready to let go. but he nods, brushing one more kiss over the crown of the baby’s head before carefully passing her off. “she’s perfect,” he murmurs.
“so were you,” your brother in law says holding his daughter. the baby shyly smiling, making jason wave bye, you blowing a kiss.
a few minutes later, most of the family is saying their goodbyes. the waynes linger, always the last to leave, and you stand off to the side with jason as your parents pack up their cooler. your fingers are laced with his, and he hasn’t let go once.
“you wanna go for a walk?” you ask quietly, once the yard is nearly empty.
jason nods, gentle eyes on you. “yeah. i’d like that.”
you walk in slow steps across the grass, barefoot, side by side under the darkening sky. there’s that soft hum of crickets starting, the scent of charcoal and lemonade still floating in the air. everything feels still. for a while, neither of you says anything.
then, jason breaks the quiet with a voice so soft it almost gets lost in the breeze. “i didn’t think i’d be good at it.”
you glance over. “what?”
“any of it,” he says. “kids. the whole… warm and safe thing. didn’t think i had it in me.” — your heart tugs
“but you do,” you say, gently. “i saw it today. everyone did.”
he looks at you, and the weight of the day sits in his chest like something holy. “when she fell asleep on me… i didn’t wanna move. like, ever.”
you smile, stepping closer. “you didn’t have to. she was right where she wanted to be.”
jason stops walking. his hand slips out of yours only so he can cup your face instead, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s memorizing you. like he already has, but needs to do it again just in case.
“i never thought about it before. like—really thought. what it might be like… to have a little girl with your eyes, your laugh. a kid who knows nothing but love.”
your breath catches. — “but today… watching you hold her watching you smile at those kids… it just—something clicked.”
you rest your forehead against his. “yeah?”
“yeah.” his voice is quiet. certain. like a promise.
“it scared me,” he admits. “but in a good way. like… like maybe i finally want something real. something i never let myself imagine.”
you curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt. “you can have it, jason. you deserve it.”
he laughs softly. “do i, though?”
“absolutely.” he kisses you then, slow and warm and deep like he means it. like everything he’s feeling today is pouring out through that one perfect moment. the kind of kiss that tastes like sunlight and cotton candy and something brand new being born right in your chest.
when you finally pull back, he still looks dazed. “i think,” he says, clearing his throat, “i’ve got a little baby fever.”
you grin. “a little?”
“okay. a lot.” — you wrap your arms around his waist, leaning into him. “we don’t have to figure it all out now. we’ve got time.”
he rests his chin on top of your head. “yeah. but just so you know—i’m thinking maybe two.”
you look up, eyes wide. “two?”
“or three,” he says, smirking. “a little chaos. just enough to keep things interesting.”
you laugh, and it echoes across the empty lawn, bright and real. and as the stars come out one by one above you, jason todd holds you like the future is already here, folded gently into the arms of the person he loves most.
he never thought he’d want this. but now?
he can’t imagine wanting anything else.
* ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
BONUS — ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪
the sun’s almost gone now, just a sliver of orange on the edge of the horizon. the yard is quieter—paper plates stacked, folding chairs being packed up, empty cups tossed into bags. and for once, alfred’s not lifting a finger.
“sit, alfred,” bruce had insisted, nudging a chair under him like it was an order from the batcave. “we’ve got this.”
and so he sits, arms crossed, watching as the rest of the family—grown vigilantes and honorary siblings alike—start cleaning up what looks like the remains of a small festival.
“i feel like we’re one mariachi band away from calling this a wedding,” dick says, stuffing plastic forks into a bag while balancing a tray of leftover burgers on his hip.
“you mean a baby shower,” tim mutters, dragging a trash bag behind him. “give it a year.”
steph raises an eyebrow, looking amused. “a year? you’re being generous.”
damian states “my money’s on six months. tops. did you see the way jason was holding that baby?”
“like she was made of gold,” dick agrees, dropping the tray on the patio table. “he was glowing.”
“i’ve never seen him smile like that,” tim adds. “like… actually smile.”
“we should start a pool,” duke says, hands clapping together. “fifty bucks, winner takes all.”
bruce, who’s been quietly gathering napkins from the lawn, clears his throat. everyone turns. “new year’s,” he says calmly, straightening up. “and i think i’ll be a good grandpa.”
a pause. — then all of them lose it—laughing, shouting over each other, mock gasping like bruce just admitted to watching daytime soaps. “you can’t just drop that!” dick yells, pointing. “you want grandkids?”
“i’d like to think jason’s happy,” bruce replies, folding another chair with ease. “and if he is… i’ll be happy, too.”
cass nods slowly, like it makes perfect sense, barb saying “you’d be a good grandpa. quiet. dramatic.”
steph’s cackling. “and rich!”
“what are you all talking about?” jason calls from across the lawn, finally reappearing with you tucked into his side, both of you glowing in that soft post-chaos calm.
the group goes still. then dick turns around and whistles casually. “nothing. just cleaning up.”
you squint suspiciously. “you’re all acting weird.”
“what else is new?” jason mutters, tugging you closer.
as you both disappear inside to help pack up leftovers, the family watches you go. and bruce, standing at the edge of the patio, just smiles to himself.
maybe soon. — maybe not.
but when it happens, he’ll be ready.
even if that means learning how to baby-proof the manor.
* ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
i love writing sweet moments for jason ☹️ he deserves them!!
i wanna write a part two soon!! this was one of my favorites stories i’ve wrote so far. :3 i love writing jason being expressive and openly sweet— because it’s something you don’t see alot, and for good reason. he’s been through soooo much!!
i enjoy writing angst don’t get me wrong, but fluff i think is more my territory! :3 tell me if you’d like a part two!!
lmk if you’d like more angst stories — or more smut — or more fluff :)
summery : a love story told in phases—dating, engagement, marriage—where jason todd learns how to be gentle because of you. you ask for carnations again and again, and he never brings them, believing flowers are a waste, believing nothing soft survives in gotham.
warning: heavy angst, major character death, grief and prolonged mourning, depression, emotional devastation, trauma, loss of a spouse, funeral and graveyard scenes, references to violence, themes of guilt / survivor guilt, regret, and self-blame, unresolved grief with no recovery or moving on.
[8.2k words count]
phase one ; blooming [dating]
you loved carnations.
jason learned that on your third date. It was a small, throwaway moment—something you said while sipping a lukewarm latte in a dingy coffee shop tucked away from gotham’s chaos. you’d been talking about nothing in particular, just bantering like usual, your legs tucked under you in the booth as the sky darkened outside.
“they’re not fancy,” you said, absently stirring cream into your coffee, “but they’re strong. they last longer than most flowers, you know? and they come in so many colors.”
jason raised an eyebrow. “you really into flowers?”
You shrugged. “they’re just… comforting. It’s like a reminder that something can be soft and still survive.”
he didn’t answer. just stared at you for a moment like you were something he hadn’t figured out yet—like he wasn’t sure if you were real.
you weren’t like the people in his world. you didn’t carry trauma like a weapon. you didn’t flinch at loud sounds or look over your shoulder in paranoia. you had a softness to you that he hadn’t expected in gotham. and he didn’t know what to do with it.
when he walked you home that night, you paused at a flower stall outside your building. rain was drizzling, the kind that clung to your lashes and curled your hair, and you stopped to look at a small bouquet of pale pink carnations.
“they’re my favorite,” you said, smiling. “someday I’m gonna fill my whole apartment with them.”
jason rolled his eyes. “flowers are a waste of money. they die in a week.”
you blinked. just a second. just enough for him to notice. “well,” you said, voice light, “some things are worth it, even if they don’t last.” he didn’t understand what you meant. not then. not yet.
you started seeing each other more often—slow at first. you were cautious with your heart, and jason was dangerous with his. but he started staying the night. started showing up at your place with bruises and bullet grazes and that haunted look in his eyes. you never asked where he’d been. you only asked if he was hungry. If he was okay. If he wanted to talk.
he never did. not about the big stuff. but you’d find him in your kitchen at 2 a.m., heating up leftover pasta, or sitting on your couch with your cat in his lap like he belonged there. and he did.
he didn’t say “I love you,” not for months. but he watched over you like he did. he’d show up outside your job with a scowl and coffee if you had a rough day. he knew the fastest route from your place to every hospital in the city. he installed cameras at your front door and never told you. — you noticed. you just didn’t say anything.
carnations bloomed on your windowsill. a new one every week. you bought them yourself—white-blush and lavender. you kept waiting, hoping maybe jason would walk in one day with a bunch in his hands. not because you needed them, but because you wanted to know he’d remembered.
he didn’t.
one night, curled up with him under a ratty old blanket, you brought it up gently. “I used to get flowers when I was little,” you said. “my dad would bring me carnations on my birthday. I think that’s why I still love them so much.”
jason looked at you from where he lay on your chest, his brow furrowed. “didn’t know your dad was around.”
“he’s not.. not anymore.” silence settled between you.
“I used to think… if someone brought me carnations, it meant they really saw me,” you admitted. “not the ‘I’m fine’ version. the real me.”
jason didn’t say anything. — you didn’t push.
the first time you told him you loved him, he froze.
It had been a good day. one of the rare ones—no crime scenes, no emergency calls, no red hood business dragging him into gotham’s underbelly. you’d spent the afternoon in the park, lying in the grass, his head on your stomach as you read a book aloud.
that night, wrapped in each other’s arms, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his back, you whispered, “I love you.” — jason’s whole body tensed.
you felt it. every muscle. then he pulled back. looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face. “you don’t have to say it back,” you murmured.
he didn’t. but he kissed you like he meant it. held you all night like he was terrified you’d disappear. you told yourself it was enough.
phase two ; budding [fiancé]
It wasn’t a proposal. not really.
It was three in the morning, and jason was sitting on the edge of the bathtub while you brushed your teeth, eyes half-lidded with sleep, his hair a mess from the pillow. you wore one of his old shirts, threadbare from a hundred washes. he wore the quiet panic of someone who had never believed they’d live long enough to consider a future.
“hey,” he said, voice low. you glanced at him in the mirror, mouth full of toothpaste. “If I asked you to marry me, what would you say?”
you froze mid-brush. he didn’t flinch or try to recover it with a joke. he just watched you—blue eyes soft and serious, hands clasped between his knees. you spit into the sink and turned to face him.
“Is this the part where you propose with a ring made out of dental floss?” a breath of laughter left his nose, and the tension eased from his shoulders.
“I’m serious,” he said. you stepped closer, cupped his jaw with a wet hand. “then ask me like you mean it.”
jason paused. his eyes searched yours, and when he spoke again, it was barely a whisper. “(y/n) (m/n) (l/n), will you marry me.”
and you—heart pounding, love swelling in your chest like it would break your ribs—smiled. “yes,” you said. “of course I will.”
he pulled you into his arms, buried his face in your stomach, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself breathe like it was safe.
the ring came later.
It wasn’t new—wasn’t even something he’d gone out to buy. one night, you found him sitting in the closet, the small wooden box in his hand. It had belonged to catherine todd—passed down, like love that tries to survive the storm.
“she kept it hidden,” jason said quietly, running a thumb over the aged velvet. “I think she always meant to give it to me… if I ever found someone.”
you sank down beside him on the floor, resting your head on his shoulder. “she’d be glad you did.”
he gave it to you that night, no speeches or ceremony. just slid it onto your finger while you sat together on the floor of the hallway, bathed in moonlight from the window. as jason kissed the ring on your finger.
It fit perfectly.
planning the wedding wasn’t easy. you didn’t want much. jason didn’t want attention. but it was yours—intimate, quiet, full of stolen glances and laughter that didn’t belong in a city like gotham.
dick cried during the vows — roy forgot the rings.
alfred gave you a smile that nearly brought you to tears.
jason kept his hand in yours like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. you didn’t walk down the aisle with roses or lilies or orchids.
you held a bouquet of white carnations, tied with a silver ribbon. jason saw them, saw the way your fingers curled around the stems, and something flickered in his expression. he didn’t say anything. but you caught the way he looked at them—like they were a language he hadn’t learned yet.
life settled into something that almost resembled normal. at least, your version of it.
your mornings were soft. you’d wake first, kiss the scar on jason’s temple, whisper something into his sleep-dazed hair. he never told you what it meant to wake up to that. but he held you tighter every day.
sometimes he cooked breakfast—burned eggs and all. sometimes you did. the coffee was always too strong, but neither of you minded. the routine mattered more than the taste. — your nights were more complicated. jason still went out. still fought gotham’s darkness with red and black. but he came home now. always came home.
and he talked more.
he told you about things he’d buried—things no one else knew. his mother. the pit. the dreams he still had where the coffin never opened. the pain of coming back to a world that had moved on without him.
you never asked for those stories. you only listened, threading your fingers through his, anchoring him with silence and steady breaths. — one night, after a particularly rough patrol, he came home soaked in rain and blood. you helped him out of the kevlar, your hands gentle, your voice quiet.
he sat at the kitchen table while you cleaned a deep gash along his ribs. “I thought I was gonna die tonight,” he muttered.
you paused, heart in your throat. jason looked up at you. “and the weirdest part? I wasn’t scared for me. I was scared you’d be alone.” you pressed gauze to the wound, leaned in, and kissed his forehead. “you’re not dying, jason.”
“someday I will,” he said, a sad smile tugging at his mouth. “and you’ll have to go on without me.”
“then you better keep surviving,” you said, voice firm. “because I’m not planning on loving anyone else.”
he pulled you into his lap, held you there like he was trying to fuse your heartbeat with his.
you kept carnations in the apartment. a vase in the kitchen. one on the nightstand. always fresh. always soft. jason never brought them home. but he started noticing them—more than before.
he’d run his fingers along the petals absently while sipping his coffee. tuck a fallen one behind your ear with a fond little smile. you caught him once, standing in front of a grocery store flower display, just staring at them. — but he walked past.
you didn’t mention it.
you never asked for them anymore. not because you didn’t want them. but because you wanted him to want to bring them. — some small part of you still hoped.
one afternoon, you were lying together on the couch, your legs draped across his lap. he was reading something—an old paperback with cracked pages—and you were watching the sunlight paint gold across the hardwood floor.
“do you think we’ll ever leave gotham?” you asked suddenly.
jason looked up. “you want to?”
“I don’t know. sometimes.” you shrugged. “sometimes I imagine a house with a garden. somewhere quiet. I’d grow carnations.”
he smiled, brushing your ankle with his thumb. “you and your damn flowers.”
you chuckled. “they’d be all over the place. kitchen, bedroom, porch. even in the bathroom.”
jason leaned down, kissed the inside of your knee. “If you want a garden, I’ll build you one.”
you reached for his hand. “I don’t need a garden. just you.”
but still, in the back of your mind, you pictured it—soft soil and early mornings, dew on petals, and jason beside you, older, whole. — you didn’t know it would stay a dream.
phase three ; blooming [marriage]
married life with jason was unexpectedly sweet.
you never imagined the red hood would be the type to make tea in the mornings or memorize your grocery list, but he did. he kept your mugs on the lowest shelf so you didn’t have to stretch. he learned how to braid your hair, poorly but determinedly, just so you’d smile.
your new apartment was bigger, higher up—safer. there was a little balcony with just enough space for a few flower boxes, and you filled them with carnations in every shade. jason helped you plant them, dirt under his fingernails and a look on his face like maybe, just maybe, he was starting to understand why you loved them so much.
“you said they’re strong, right?” he asked one evening, watering them carefully.
you looked up from your book. “yeah.”
he watched a pale yellow bloom tremble in the breeze. “they remind me of you.”
you didn’t cry. but your throat ached as you crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him, resting your cheek against his shoulder. you were happy. really, genuinely happy.
jason had been changing—slowly but surely, like stone shaped by water.
he didn’t punch walls anymore. he let himself laugh more, sleep more. he still fought, still bled for gotham, but he came home more often than not. he started going to therapy, though he never told anyone but you. he even made peace with bruce—if only in small pieces, quiet dinners, and fewer arguments.
“I think I’m finally starting to feel human again,” he told you once, curled in bed with you at dawn. “you made me human.”
you kissed his chest, hand over his heart. “you were always human, jason. you just forgot for a while.”
you talked about kids more openly now.
“we could adopt,” you said once, the thought half-formed in your mind as you watched him fix the hinge on a closet door. “someday. maybe.”
jason looked up, surprised—but not alarmed. “yeah. maybe. I’d want them to be safe first. you to be safe.”
“we’re close,” you said. “gotham won’t be forever.”
he stood, brushed the dust off his hands. “no. just a little longer. then we’ll go.”
you imagined a place with less noise. a porch. a yard. real mornings without sirens. carnations blooming around the edges of a little house.
jason kissed you that night like he could already see it too.
·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·
the last morning was warm.
you watered the flowers on the balcony while jason made eggs and toast, humming some rock song under his breath. the windows were open. the world felt light for once.
you had plans to meet barbara for lunch, to run errands, maybe grab groceries. jason had patrol later that evening but promised to be back before midnight. you kissed him at the door like it was any other day. — he kissed you twice.
“text me when you get there,” he said. — “I always do.”
you smiled, leaned back against the doorframe, watching him disappear down the hallway with a peace in your chest you hadn’t felt in years. you didn’t know it was the last time.
·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·
you weren’t supposed to be anywhere near Ivy’s old sector.
the lab had been quiet for months—dormant, some said, shut down after the last run-in with her plant toxins. but something pinged on the surveillance net—unusual bio-activity—and you, being who you were, decided to check it out.
It was just a recon mission. you were careful. you always were.
you never saw the vines until it was too late.
jason got the call from babs, her voice tight and scared.
“something’s happened,” she said. “(y/n)… we lost her signal near Ivy’s old territory.” he didn’t hear the rest.
he was on his bike in seconds, tearing through Gotham like the city itself had betrayed him. he didn’t stop at lights. didn’t slow for anything.
he found the lab half-collapsed, tendrils of greenery coiling through the wreckage like veins.
he screamed your name.
he dug through debris with bare hands, shoving aside branches that moved like they were alive. the air was thick with the scent of earth and blood.
then he saw you. — your body was tangled in vines, arms limp, head turned slightly to the side. you looked peaceful.
but you were too still.
and around you—blooming like a cruel, beautiful grave—were carnations. each one having a meaning.
all curling around the vines like some terrible mockery of love.
jason dropped to his knees. — “no,” he whispered. “no, no, no—please..please.. (y/n).. no no.. please…”
he tore at the vines with shaking hands, not caring that they cut into his skin. he gathered you into his arms, blood staining your shirt where the toxins had entered.
you weren’t breathing.
“come on,” he choked out, pressing his forehead to yours. “you’re strong. you’re stronger than this. you said—you said they were strong.”
he rocked with you in his arms, howling into the air like something feral. screaming like his heart had been physically ripped out of him. sobbing into your shirt, the same one he had watched you put on this morning asking if you looked good. and of course you did, jason was always mesmerizing by you. and right now he was spiraling into a new unknown feeling.
bruce was the first to arrive. then dick. then tim.
they found jason cradling you, his jacket wrapped around your body even though you were already cold.
he didn’t look up when bruce knelt beside him. “she’s cold.. i put my jacket...and she’s still cold.. i couldn’t save her,” jason whispered. “I wasn’t there. I promised I’d be there.”
“I know,” bruce said softly, eyes glassy. his daughter-in-law peacefully covered in blood and carnations. he never truly got to tell you how much he appreciated the way you helped jason grow into the man he had become— you taught jason everything he couldn’t. jason slowly became emotionally mature, your marriage teaching him how to love and be  patient everyday.
dick stood nearby, hands over his mouth, unable to speak— the way he watched his younger brother holding his lifeless wife in his arms. tim just stared, stunned— not being able to believe the scene in front of him, as the wind tugged at the scattered petals around you.
“look at them,” jason murmured, brushing a blood-streaked carnation with his thumb. “she loved these. I never… I never brought her any. n..not once.”
jason looked up at bruce with hollow eyes. “I was going to. this week. I swear. I saw some at the store. I almost bought them.” — looking back down at you, squeezing you hard. trying to look for any sign of life left in you.
bruce placed a hand on his shoulder. “she knew.”
jason shook his head. “I should’ve told her more. I should’ve done everything more.”
Dick finally stepped forward, kneeling across from his brother. “you did love her, jay. you loved her more than anyone. she knew. she felt it.”
jason’s face crumpled. “she died alone, dick. In pain. In fear.”
“no,” bruce said gently. “she died trying to help people. that’s who she was. that’s why you loved her.”
jason buried his face in your hair, silent now, his grief no longer words—just broken, shaking breath. staying like that, planting himself on the ground sobbing into you. tracing your body trying to remember every detail about you, like you always did for him. “i love you (y/n).. i love you.. please.. god we were going to leave.. we should’ve... i can’t.. (y/n) please baby, wake up… what am i supposed to do.. sweetheart please.. pleaseplease.. you’re so strong.. my beautiful wife.. we were gonna adopt.. you would’ve been a p..phenomenal mother..my sunshine.. please babygirl.. i can’t do this without you.. im so sorry.. im sorry..god please” jason holding your hand, rubbing his moms ring — the ring he vowed to love and protect you forever.
they had to pull him away eventually. jason fighting each one of them, not ready to let go of his wife. “please.. stop.. please.. a few more minutes.. please.. i can’t..please..i need her” he sounded defeated. bruce helping him up while he still clung to you. carrying both of you out of the building. struggling, not because of holding you two — but struggling not to sob along with his sons.
phase four ; wilting [death]
the funeral was three days after they pulled your body from the vines.
gotham had turned grey that week. the sky hung heavy, like even the clouds mourned you. the streets were quieter. the city somehow knew it had lost something bright.
they dressed you in soft fabric. nothing flashy. just something gentle and familiar. jason picked the dress. he remembered how it looked on you the first time you danced in the living room, barefoot and laughing.
you had flowers around you. carnations. barbara brought them. white, pink, red—your favorites. jason couldn’t stop staring at them.
he hadn’t cried since that night. now, at the funeral, he was quiet, but this time it was different. empty.
a shell wearing his face — everyone was there.
dick stood beside him, barely breathing. tim sat stiffly, not blinking. bruce kept a hand on jason’s back, grounding him, like he was afraid he’d float away.
barbara gave a speech. so did roy. even alfred, voice trembling, spoke a few words about love and grace and the way your laughter changed the manor the few times you visited.
jason didn’t hear any of it — he just looked at you.
laid out in the casket like sleep had taken you mid-sentence. lips soft. lashes resting against your cheeks. skin too pale, but peaceful. like you were waiting for him to say something.
the carnations framed your face like a crown.
and jason— he hated them.
not because they were ugly. not because they were yours. but because they were there, blooming, when you weren’t breathing. —because you always asked for them, and he never brought them.
and now they were here. too late.
someone touched his shoulder after the service. maybe dick. maybe bruce. maybe god himself—jason didn’t look.
“she loved you,” the voice said. “she never doubted you.”
but jason didn’t believe it.
not when he’d failed you in the most final way possible.
the grave was at the edge of the cemetery, under a weeping willow. the headstone was simple. your name. your birth and death dates. and a small engraving at the bottom:
“still the light in the dark.” he visited the next day. and the day after that. and the next. — he came without flowers. he didn’t know how to carry them.
weeks passed.
the apartment stayed quiet. your shoes still by the door. your toothbrush still in the cup. your pillow still untouched. the only thing touched were parts of your clothing. lingering perfume you’d sprayed on your shirts — jason needed the items to help him sleep. craving any ounce of you he could find. clinging onto the fabric imagining it was you. your body laying on top of his, cupping his face and kissing him endlessly. whispering about the good life they had. it broke jason. everything reminded him of you. it was killing him in a way he couldn’t grieve properly.
he didn’t move anything.
he didn’t patrol much anymore. bruce didn’t force it. dick stopped asking. jason barely responded to texts. calls went unanswered. roy left voicemails. barbara stopped by once and found him curled on the living room floor, clutching one of your sweaters, rocking slowly.
“it still smells like her,” he whispered. barbara didn’t say anything. just sat beside him and cried quietly.
he didn’t dream of you. not really.
just flashes. the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled. the sound of your laugh in the kitchen. the scent of carnations on your skin. the feel of your hand in his—soft and warm and alive. soft words leaving your lips — “i love you jay, i love you, i love you” you said like a prayer to him. your sweet voice haunting him in a way he hoped he’d never forget. wanted these cruel dreams, just to listen to you until his brain slowly fades it away.
then he’d wake up. and the cold would remind him. you weren’t coming back.
one night, he sat in front of the flower shop you used to visit. they had carnations in the window. he stared at them for an hour. then he walked inside. — the woman behind the counter gave him a curious look. “need help?”
he cleared his throat. “just… just the carnations.”
“any color?”
he looked down. his hands were shaking.
“all of them.”
he brought them to your grave the next morning. the sun hadn’t risen yet. the cemetery was still wrapped in mist, cold and soft. the carnations trembled in his grip. red, white, pink, purple, yellow, orange, lavender— tied with a pale ribbon. the kind you would’ve picked.
he knelt beside your headstone, laid the flowers gently across the grass. “you deserved these,” he whispered. his voice cracked. “i should’ve brought them sooner.”
he brushed his fingers across your name, eyes stinging.
“i thought they were pointless. i thought flowers died too easily.” his breath hitched. “but they were never about that, were they? they were about love. about life. about choosing something beautiful even when everything else was dark.”
he laughed, bitter and broken. “you knew that. you were that.”
the wind shifted, gentle and cold, like a simple answer.
“i miss you,” he said. “god, i miss you so much it fucking hurts.” he pressed his forehead against the stone. “i don’t know who i am without you.”
days blurred. he kept bringing flowers.
sometimes he talked to you. sometimes he just sat. sometimes he cried. he never stayed dry-eyed for long.
he stopped going to the apartment eventually. moved back into one of the safehouses. colder. emptier. more fitting.
he stopped shaving. stopped eating well. he looked thinner, paler, his eyes sunken like the weight of grief was dragging his soul down with it. — no one could reach him.
not dick, not bruce, not even alfred.
roy visited once. found jason standing in the rain at your grave, drenched and shaking. “you need to come inside,” roy said.
“she’s alone,” jason whispered. tears and rain mixing together, not knowing which was which.
“she’s not,” roy said. “you carry her everywhere.”
jason shook his head. “it’s not enough.”
roy didn’t know what to say. because maybe jason was right. and roy didn’t leave his side. they both sat in the rain. his best friend holding him and rubbing his shoulder in a ‘i’ve got you’ way. sitting in silence while jason continued to cry.
jason would be walking down the street, trying his best to clear his mind when he would see a little girl walking with her dad holding hands while the girl had a carnation, a small reminder. the ghost of you she saw in that little girl. — crushing him. these flowers were now everywhere he went. he couldn’t get away from them. it was a sign just like roy said — that you were everywhere.
jason never moved on. he didn’t date. didn’t laugh like he used to. he existed. he survived. that was it.
every year on your anniversary, he brought nine carnations. three white, three red, three pink. one for every phase of your life together—dating, engaged, married.
every year, he whispered the same thing. “you were the best thing that ever happened to me, i love you eternally sweetheart. i miss you.. every.. every fucking day.. it’s so difficult.. you were my favorite person…god i hate this city.. i gutturally hate ivy for taking you away from me…i miss you..so much.. please know that… i love you (y/n) todd”
and one night, sitting by your grave, his back against the cold stone, he looked at the flowers and finally said it aloud: “i think… i think i was a carnation too.”
his voice was hoarse. the wind tugged at his coat. “strong. stubborn. quiet. always trying to survive. but…” he blinked slowly. “i needed care. i needed you. you were the one who watered me. gave me sunlight. made sure i didn’t wither.”
he closed his eyes. “you kept me alive.. and now—” he didn’t finish. he didn’t need to. because the silence answered for him.
the carnations on your grave never wilted for long. he always replaced them — always brought fresh ones — always sat with you. — in every lifetime, you had been his light. his warmth. his reason.
he was just a flower with cracked petals. and you— you were the hands that kept him blooming. and without you, he wilted. and never truly grew again. stuck in the endless cycle of grief. still having dreams of you, bright and beautiful. a cruel reminder of what he can’t have anymore. “i use to be scared that if i went you’d be alone.. now.. i..”
jason was alone. he shut everyone out. he knew it wouldn’t be what you wanted. jason was afraid of actually accepting your death, grieving properly and moving on. you were the most impactful person in his life, and couldn’t imagine moving on from you. he was only alive for you, knowing you had dreams and passion about life, it was taken from so you abruptly that jason wanted to find comfort in your activities. his routine meshing with your old one. “i built a flower bed.. right outside that coffee shop where we had our first couple date.. i know you’d love it. a couple kids painted it for me.. it’s stunning, just like you baby…” jason said kissing the headstone, placing a bouquet of carnations down.
*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
i love jason 🫂 i should write something sweet next time, or would ya’ll like more angst? — have a good day / night xx !!!
i hope this was an okay read!! i could’ve gone more in depth at some parts, but i kept training off :p !!!! mwaahh byyee <3
summery : over the course of five days, tracing the aftermath of one devastating argument. as hurtful words linger and silence stretches on, love, fear, and regret collide, forcing both of you to confront what it truly means to stay, to leave, and to choose each other when it hurts the most.
warnings: heavy angst, emotionally charged arguments, verbal conflict and hurtful words spoken in anger, emotional distress and heartbreak, abandonment fears, panic attacks and anxiety spirals, guilt and self-blame, miscommunication within a relationship, crying and emotional breakdowns, clinginess as a trauma response, fear of loss, relationship conflict with eventual comfort, hurt/comfort dynamics, themes of forgiveness and healing.
[7k word count]
you don’t even remember what started it.
maybe it was the late nights. the blood on his knuckles. the way he shut you out like a slammed door every time something bothered him. maybe it was the way you kept asking, over and over, “are you okay?” and getting that practiced silence in return. or maybe it was you. wanting too much. needing answers he wasn’t ready to give.
It starts with the quiet. the kind that creeps in before the thunder hits. jason walks in, his jacket soaked with rain and something darker. his eyes avoid yours. you’re used to it, but tonight something in you snaps. “did you kill anyone yet?” you ask. not because you want to accuse him. but because you have to know.
he stiffens. “what the hell kind of question is that?”
you don’t back down. “a serious one. because I can’t keep pretending I don’t know what you’re doing out there.”
jason tosses his helmet on the counter with a loud clatter. “don’t start this.”
“no, you don’t get to tell me when I start. you come home covered in blood, you don’t talk to me, you shut me out—”
“because it’s none of your business!” he snaps.
that stings. you feel it in your chest, sharp and immediate.
“I am your business, jason. or am I just something you keep around to feel normal?”
he laughs—bitter, cold. “don’t flatter yourself.” —silence.
you blink. his words hit you like a slap, and he knows it. he flinches for a second. just one. but he doesn’t take it back. you try to keep your voice steady. “so that’s what I am? just… convenient?”
he doesn’t answer. you’re waiting for him to say no. to soften. to say he didn’t mean it. instead, he mutters, “you knew what this was. don’t act like you didn’t sign up for it.”
that’s the thing. you did know. you knew loving jason todd would mean long nights, fear gnawing at your ribs, and blood on his knuckles when he kissed you goodnight. but what you didn’t sign up for was being invisible.
“I didn’t sign up to be treated like an afterthought,” you say, standing now, voice rising. “I didn’t sign up for being ignored, for being lied to. you don’t talk to me, jason. you just disappear.”
jason scoffs. “and what, I should be reporting in every five minutes? you want a boyfriend or a lapdog?”
your heart aches, but you don’t back down. “i want you. the version of you that lets me in. the one that doesn’t shut down and push me away every time something gets hard.”
“I don’t need you to fix me!” he shouts, voice suddenly cutting through the air like a whip. “I don’t need your sympathy or your constant hovering. you think loving me gives you the right to pry into every dark corner of my life?”
you stare at him, stunned. “It’s not prying when I’m trying to help jay..”
“I didn’t ask for your help!” he barks. “god, you’re so damn exhausting. always needing something. always complaining. maybe I’d be better off without you dragging me down all the time.”
you stare at him like you’re seeing someone else entirely. “you’re a coward.” — wrong thing to say.
jason steps forward, eyes burning. “you think I’m the coward? you sit here in your nice little apartment, judging me like you’re above it all. you don’t know what it’s like out there. you couldn’t last a week in my world.”
“and yet I’ve been trying for months!” you shout, your voice breaking. “but you don’t care. you never really let me in. you just wanted someone to come home to—someone who didn’t ask too many questions.”
“you think you’re some kind of savior?” he sneers. “you’re not. you’re just another person who thought they could fix me.”
you stop. you feel it crack right there—something fragile and important inside you. “i didn’t want to fix you,” you whisper. “ i just wanted you to let me in.”
he scoffs. “then you wanted too much.” and that’s it. a finial look into jason’s eyes of any hint of regret— nothing. just pure frustration and anger. a weight in your heart dragging you towards the door. no dramatic exit. no final scream. just you walking past him, grabbing your bag, and shutting the door behind you.
at first, jason doesn’t move he doesn’t feel much of anything, honestly. just numb. tired. angry in that hollow way that doesn’t have a target anymore. he just stands there, staring at the door like it’s going to swing open again. It always does.
you always come back. — he grabs a beer from the fridge. sits on the couch. flips on the TV. something violent and loud, because silence feels like guilt.
hours pass. no call. no message.
he scrolls through his phone. no unread texts. he opens your thread—nothing. his fingers hover over the keyboard, then stop. he locks the phone and throws it on the table.
then he starts thinking about what he said. really thinking.
“you’re just another person who thought they could fix me.”
the way your face changed. he remembers the silence right before you walked out, how final it felt. and something cold settles in his chest. it’s been almost 4 hours since you left.
he starts pacing. that tight feeling in his chest creeps in like smoke under a door. his palms feel clammy. he’s sweating. his vision is narrowing. he can’t think. — you didn’t come back.
you always come back. “shit,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair. “shit, shit—”
the room feels like it’s closing in. the walls are too close, the ceiling too low, like everything’s pressing down on him at once. he can’t breathe. his knees buckle, and he slides down against the wall, gasping for air, chest heaving like he’s drowning. his hands shake. his throat burning.
he didn’t mean it. — of course he didn’t mean it. you’re not convenient..you’re the only thing that’s kept him afloat. you’re the light he pretends he doesn’t need but clings to in the dark.
and now you’re gone. the words he threw at you, the venom he spit out just to win a fight, ring louder than the silence you left behind. he says your name into the empty apartment. once. then again. then louder. like if he says it enough, you’ll hear him. — but you don’t. and now the silence is unbearable.
he can’t breathe. now It’s been five hours since you left, and jason’s chest is on fire. not the kind that comes from bruised ribs or a bullet wound—he knows that pain. he’s good with that pain. this is worse. this is panic. helplessness.—this was worse kind of hurt because it doesn’t bleed.
his phone is clutched so tight in his hand, his knuckles have gone white. he stares at the screen, thumb hovering over your name in his contacts again. he’s already called five times.
no answer. — just the sound of your dumb voicemail message, cheerful and playful and now completely soul-crushing. “haii! Its (y/n), im sorry i missed your call! im not home right now! but i can take a message… let me grab a pencil…hm okay! what would you like me to tell me?” it used to make him smile. now it makes him sick. he hits redial.
one ring.
two.
three.
voicemail. — again. again. again.
he runs both hands through his hair, dragging his fingers hard through the strands like maybe pain will wake him up. like maybe this isn’t real. like maybe you’re still coming home, keys jingling, saying his name like you do when you’re trying not to smile. but the apartment is dead quiet. and it smells like rain and blood and something fading.
“pick up,” he mumbles to no one. “please (y/n).. please just pick up.” he calls again. and again.
his hands are shaking now, so bad he nearly drops the phone. his mind is running circles around itself—what if something happened? what if she didn’t look crossing the street? what if someone followed her? what if she’s hurt?—and he can’t shut it off. his heart is pounding too loud in his ears, drowning out reason. he stands up fast, then stumbles forward, grabbing the edge of the counter to steady himself. everything’s spinning.
he opens your location on his phone. nothing.
either you turned it off or the battery’s dead. or worse. his brain fills in the blanks faster than he can stop it. “goddammit,” he breathes, slamming his hand down on the counter. the sound echoes in the empty room.
this wasn’t supposed to happen. you were supposed to yell, slam a door, crash on the couch, and by morning everything would be fine. that’s how it’s always gone. you fight, you cool off, you come back. you always come back.
but not tonight. tonight, you left like you meant it.
and jason realizes—too late—that he pushed you harder than he ever had. too far. past the point of no return. past the point where an “I’m sorry” could fix it. he scrolls to your name again.
calls. again. “haii it’s (y/n)! im sorry i mi—” he shuts his eyes and grips the phone like he could tear it in half. your voice is soft, light, untouched by the mess he made. It makes him want to scream. It makes him want to curl in on himself and disappear.
you’re gone. and you’re ignoring him. that’s what finally breaks something inside him.
because jason todd—red hood, vigilante, killer, survivor—can handle almost anything. bullets. torture. death. — but he could not handle being ignored by the one person who made him feel human.
he sinks down against the wall again, chest heaving, lungs burning. his phone slips out of his hand, landing face-up on the floor, screen still lit up with your contact. a tiny, cruel reminder: your not picking up. you don’t want to talk to him.
his mouth is dry. he tries to swallow, tries to breathe, but every inhale feels like it’s too shallow. like he’s not getting enough air. his arms wrap around his knees. he’s shaking. his thoughts are racing.
‘she’s not coming back. you blew it. you pushed too hard. you said too much. she hates you. she should hate you. why would she come back after that?’ he doesn’t know how long he sits there like that—maybe twenty minutes, maybe an hour. All he knows is the silence. and your stupid voicemail. and the gnawing, tearing fear that he might’ve lost the only good thing left in his life.
“I didn’t mean it,” he says aloud, as if the room cares. as if his regrets can travel through walls and streetlights and find their way to wherever you are. “I didn’t mean any of it.” but the universe doesn’t answer.
he pulls himself off the ground. head still spinning, he can’t keep sitting around for you. he needs to find you. the air outside hits him sharp and cold, but it doesn’t clear his head. the city is still dark, the streets damp with leftover rain. his helmet is in his bag. he doesn’t wear it. doesn’t need it. he’s not red hood right now— he’s just jason. — and jason’s falling apart.
he makes his way through the city on his motorcycle, his mind endlessly searching for you. stopping when he even sees a glimpse of someone with your same hairstyle. everything reminding him of you. he feels hopeless knowing how huge gotham is, even more so how dangerous it is.
he ultimately decides to stop at some of your favorite places, maybe to soothe him with precious memories. he knows it’s to early in the morning for most of these places to be open, but he needs to check. needs to try anyways.
his first stop was a café. your favorite locally owned coffee shop, where you two became regulars. it was a small business, on a strip walk between a laundromat and boutique. — the coffee’s always too strong and the chairs wobble if you don’t sit just right. you loved that place.
he memorized your order. it was always the same thing everytime you came here— your order barely changed. — the smell of coffee, occasionally tea on ur breath, he was craving to kiss your lips just to taste your order again.
jason stands across the street for a second. the lights are off. homemade “closed” sign hangs crooked in the window.
he still walks up. presses his hand to the door like it might open. It doesn’t. he presses his palms to the glass, looking in
your spot is empty. the corner table by the window where you used to sit and steal sips of his coffee when you swore you didn’t want one. where your eyes would crinkle when you laughed, lips covered in foam you never noticed until he wiped it away. he stands there, remembering the time you convinced him to try that stupid seasonal drink with cinnamon and syrup and something else sweet that he pretended to hate—but secretly liked, because you liked it.
he thought if he came here, maybe you’d be sitting there again. your beautiful eyes locked in a book he’d recommend while eating a pastry. but there’s nothing. only cold glass and silence and now an emotional memory.
he sits on the bench outside and closes his eyes, trying to summon your laugh. where you are the happiest, and he remembers your smile when he took you to his favorite library.
it became a sacred place for you to. both calm and quiet while enjoying each-others company. so that was his next stop.
the library.
not a big, fancy one. no marble columns or quiet rules. this one’s cramped, unknown, smelling of dust and secondhand pages. you loved it for its charm—for the creaky floors and mismatched chairs and the old man behind the desk who always smiled when he saw you.
jason picks the lock with trembling fingers. slides through the back door like a ghost. third floor. far left corner. your nook.
he stares at the armchair you always claimed, the stack of dog-eared romance novels that you teased him with—the window seat you used when the weather was just right and the sun poured in like liquid gold. he walks through the aisle, trailing his fingers along the spines of books you once handed him. he can almost hear your voice echo in the stillness.
walking around until he was in the aisle where he first met you. making his eyes burn, to many memories flooding in his head— where he tried so desperately to be cool in front of you, and staring at you from afar admiring how divine your presence felt. — jason reading all the books he thought you’d like before even knowing you and putting his name in the checkout card. and watching your face light up from seeing his name once again. giving him the courage to go and talk to you.
a tear burning his cheek, he puts his head down feeling ashamed of pushing you away when memories like these made him feel alive again.
jason left the library, riding off having the city district him. he rides for a while thinking of any more possibilities. he was about to run out of gas and just decides he needs to take a walk anyways— and when he gets off his bike, he notices he’s at a familiar park — It’s further out, away from the main drag, quiet enough that the chaos of gotham doesn’t touch it. you both used to go there when things got loud—inside his head, inside the world.
It’s mostly empty, just a jogger in the distance and birds rustling in the trees. jason walks the winding path slowly, like a man retracing his own history — here—this is where you tripped over your own feet and he caught you, both of you laughing like kids. over there is the tree you climbed and got stuck in, yelling at him between laughs while he pretended he wouldn’t help you down. there’s a bench under the big oak tree. you kissed him there for the first time. real, honest, vulnerable. no masks, no walls. just lips and nerves and something too tender to say out loud.
he passes through more bench where you sat one night, eyes puffy, telling him things you hadn’t told anyone else. and he’d wrapped his jacket around you and promised—promised—he’d never be the one to hurt you.
he sits down there now, gripping the edge of the bench so hard his knuckles go white. — “i lied,” he whispers to no one, his voice strained. becoming angry with himself.
but there was still no sign of you.. and so he knew despite it all he had a couple more places to check. his mind became desperate. he heads where he should’nt, hoping you’re not there. he still had to check— ‘the narrows’ — ‘ park row ‘ — ‘crime ally ‘
he checks alleyways where addicts linger and criminals circle like vultures. every step, he begs he won’t find you there. But he has to check. has to know. he’s on a rampage now, eyes wild, heart racing. he gets in a guy’s face just for looking at him too long. knocks someone out cold when they make a comment about “that girl he used to walk with.”
he checks rooftops. alleys. places you shouldn’t be, but maybe are. places where bad things happen. — places he belongs, not you. he asks around. no one’s seen you. and those who know who he is don’t dare lie. — still nothing. jason’s a mess—bloodshot eyes, raw knuckles, unshaven. he looks like he hasn’t slept in years instead of just a night.
and then — “jason?”
jason turns around. it’s dick.
“jason?” dick calls, landing on the fire escape in full nightwing gear. “what the hell are you doing back in this part of town?”
jason doesn’t answer at first.
dick jumps down in front of him, blocking his path. “jay—hey. talk to me.” — “I messed up,” jason says hoarsely.
dick blinks. “with…?”
jason swallows hard. “(y/n)... she left. and she’s not answering. It’s been hours. I’ve checked everywhere. the café, the library, that damn park. nothing. I don’t even know if she’s okay. I just—I said too much. I said shit I didn’t mean and now she’s just… gone.— dick, i can’t breathe.”
dick moves quickly, placing a hand on jason’s shoulder. “hey. breathe. look at me.” jason meets his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.
dick doesn’t say anything for a moment. then: “alright. sit down.” dick says guiding him to sit on a nearby stoop.
jason does. because for once, he has nothing left to fight with.
“you love her?” dick asks, voice low. jason nods without thinking, like it’s a reflex. “then tell her. find her and tell her. but not like this. you’re spiraling.”
“I can’t stop,” jason whispers. “every second she’s not answering, I keep thinking she’s hurt. that it’s my fault. that I broke her. I can’t even hear her voice without thinking of what I did.”
dick sighs and puts a hand on his shoulder. “you didn’t break her. you pushed her away. that’s different. and maybe you don’t get to fix it. but you sure as hell don’t stop trying. not until she tells you to.” jason looks at him. “and if she never does?” — “then you mourn. but not until you know for sure.”
jason’s quiet for a long time. watching gotham pass by with his brother “never give up jay, i believe in you” and jason stands up, continuing his search.
but he doesn’t find you.
he checks safehouses. rooftops. he climbs halfway up wayne tower before turning around because he knows you wouldn’t go there.— by the time the sun rises, his hands are shaking.
his head is pounding. his legs feel like lead. and you’re still gone.
he stumbles home like a ghost. kicks off his boots. sinks to the floor. doesn’t even make it to the couch. just sits there.
and stares at the door. It never opens.
three days pass.
no texts. no calls. not even a read receipt.
jason doesn’t eat. doesn’t sleep. barely moves. the apartment is dead quiet except for the occasional replay of your voicemail, like he’s torturing himself on purpose. by the fourth morning, he can’t take it anymore.
he grabs his bag and heads to wayne manor.
bruce meets him at the batcomputer. he doesn’t ask why jason’s there. just takes one look at him—pale, tired, shaking, blood shot eyes — and knows. “use whatever you need,” bruce says softly, walking away.
jason nods, throat tight. while the system loads, alfred appears at his side with a quiet sigh and a fresh mug of coffee and a blanket. he doesn’t speak right away.
then, gently, “would you like to talk about it, master jason?”
jason’s jaw clenches. he shakes his head, but then his voice breaks. “I ruined it.” a lump in his throat, looking at alfred.
alfred sets the coffee and blanket down and pulls him into a hug without a word. just strong, steady arms and that grounding kind of warmth jason hasn’t let himself feel in years. “i don’t know how to fix this,” he whispers.
alfred holds him tighter. “you start with the truth. then you wait. and if she’s worth it—and I suspect she is—you never stop.” jason nods against his shoulder
and for the first time in days, he lets himself cry. sobbing into the older man’s shoulder releasing all the pent up sadness and anger he kept inside for days. “I’ve cleaned blood off your boots, patched holes in your uniform, and stayed up more nights than I can count wondering if you’d make it back. but what worries me most… is how quick you are to believe you don’t deserve good things.. ” he said rubbing jason’s back soothing him, letting himself cry. “i love her so much, alfred— I don’t know how to hold on to good things without breaking them.” jason hiccups “it hurts how much i love her”
and they stay like that for a while, talking about jason’s feelings and what happened causing you to walk away. alfred listening and making him eat and drink to get something in his system. jason slowly getting tired, the comfort he craved slowing his brain down. alfred replacing you for a little while.
you always comforted jason, your touch melted him into a different man. you were his safe place and made him feel completely loved. the unconditional love he never felt before, ‘she’ll come back..’ - ‘ she’s okay, she’s safe’ — he kept repeating to himself, trying any possible way to soothe himself — jason became tried once again, but this time he was willing to sleep. he slept next to the computer, with the blankets alfred placed over him. he got a couple hours in until he woke up, a reminder of what happened.
now five days have gone by—
the coordinates come in just after midnight.
a quiet ping from the batcomputer—courtesy of a city-wide search bruce helped set up. jason had loaded every street cam, signal ping, and facial recognition tool he could, but deep down, he hadn’t really believed he’d find anything.
until now. a small rental apartment in the east end. under a friend’s name. you hadn’t left the city—you’d just gone off the grid. he finally found what he was looking for.
the screen flickered, and your image appeared in the facial recognition software. jason’s heart dropped as he studied the image that was pulled from surveillance footage. your face, usually full of life and fire, looked hollow. the light in your eyes were dimmer than he remembered, like you’d been carrying an unbearable weight for far too long.
your skin was pale, darker circles under your eyes indicating sleepless nights and too many tears shed. lips, once always curled into a small, knowing smile, were now pressed into a thin line. the fight had drained you, and he could see it in every inch of your face.
the camera hadn’t caught the vulnerability posture, but jason knew. you weren’t just physically tired—you were emotionally worn out. the woman he loved wasn’t the same one who had walked out five days ago. this woman, this (y/n), looked like someone who had been pushing through the world alone, all the weight of her pain carried on her shoulders.
he gripped the edge of the desk, eyes locked on the screen, his chest tightening. guilt, sorrow, and a deep sense of regret clawed at him. he had to find her. he had to make things right before it was too late.
he reads the address three times to be sure, then grabs his helmet and jacket and is out the manor doors before bruce can say a word. he jumps on his motorcycle and starts the engine, the loud sound of his tires screeching in the cave as he raced out to find you. he was lighting on the road, dangerously weaving in and out of cars, adrenaline of seeing you alive making him rush even more.
then he makes it to your location. his feet on the pavement, one flight of stairs, then two. his heart is a riot in his chest. his hands are sweating, shaking, cold. an a rush of anxiety washes over him.
what if you slam the door in his face?
what if you don’t even open it?
what if you’re gone again?
what if you don’t want to see him?
but he still knocks. soft at first. then harder.
he hears the lock click. the door creaks open a few inches. you stand there in sweats your friend let you have, eyes puffy, hair lazily in your face like you stopped caring how you looked days ago. and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
your eyes widen when you see him. and that’s all it takes. jason breaks down.
his legs give out. he drops to his knees like something inside him finally caved in. and before he can even stop himself, he wraps his arms around your waist and presses his face into your stomach, sobbing. not the angry kind. not the kind that comes with yelling and fists through walls.
the kind that’s quiet and raw and scared. the kind that says thank god you’re alive and I’m sorry and I missed you all at once. he was relieved.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m so fucking sorry—please, I didn’t mean it, I was angry, I didn’t know how to say it right, I—god, I thought I lost you—” you freeze. shock, sadness and joy all overwhelming your head. your hands hover for a second, unsure, still hurt, wondering if this is a dream or not.
but then they come down gently, slowly, fingers threading through his hair as you hold him against you. your voice is quiet. “jason…” a melody to his ears.
he can barely speak. “I looked everywhere. I thought something happened. I thought—god, I thought maybe I deserved it. maybe you were better off without me. — I’ve never been this scared in my life.” you listen to him, his words muffled into your stomach. as he plants small kisses in between each sentence— his words rambling and gasping in-between for breaths. “baby.. come here.”
you helped him stand up and stared at his face. “I was angry,” you admit. “you hurt me.” — “i know.. i never wanted to hurt you.”
he leans into you like he needs your heartbeat to breathe.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers. “I keep ruining everything good in my life. I say the wrong thing. I push too hard. I scare people off. and then when I finally realize what I’ve done, it’s too late.” you pull back just enough to make him look at you. — his eyes are red. wet. desperate.
“you didn’t scare me off,” you whisper. “you hurt me. but I left because I didn’t want to say something I’d regret. I needed time.”
jason swallows. “you should’ve. said something worse. hit me. I deserved it.” — “you don’t get to decide what you deserve, jason. I do.”
a beat. “and I still choose you.” he exhales a breath that sounds like a sob.
his eyes are rimmed red, exhausted, glassy with the tears he’s still trying to keep at bay.
“I went everywhere. the café, the library—the park,” he continues, his arms tightening like he thinks you might slip away again. “every place we made a memory. every place that still smells like you. I kept thinking, maybe I could find one more piece of us that wasn’t broken yet.— I needed to find you. I was losing it, sweetheart. I checked alleys. dangerous places. I—fuck, I was hoping I didn’t find you there but I had to check. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t sit still. I just wanted to see you. to say I’m sorry. to fix it.”
you nod slowly, listening to him. watching the way he talked.
“I knew I took it too far, even when I said it,” jason continues, clutching you tighter. “I was mad at the world, not you. but I threw it all at you because I knew you’d still love me, and that makes me the worst kind of person.”
you press your hand to his cheek, and he leans into it like it’s the only thing keeping him together. “I didn’t mean it,” he whispers. “not a single word. I was angry and afraid and so fucking overwhelmed that I—” his voice cracks. “I lashed out. at the one person who loves me the most. and when you left, I knew. I knew I deserved it.”
you stare at him for a moment. because your silence isn’t punishment—it’s your own unraveling. choosing your next words — “you said I was just a distraction,” you whisper finally, voice shaking despite how hard you try to steady it. “that I make things worse for you. that I don’t understand you, and maybe never will.”
jason flinches. physically recoils at the words he remembers far too well. the words that have been haunting him for the past few days.
you swallow, continuing. “you didn’t just lash out, jason. you hit where you knew it would hurt. you said things I’ve been afraid of ever since we met.”
“I didn’t mean any of it,” he whispers again, desperate. “god, if I could tear the words out of the air and bury them, I would. I would’ve rather taken a bullet than see you walk out that door. I just—” he breathes in deep. “I’m not good with… emotions. with fear. and losing you? that’s the scariest thing in the world to me...”
you nod slowly. “you self-destruct.”— he presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut. “yeah. and I took you down with me.”
silence stretches again, but it’s different now. heavy, but not hostile. like the fog after a storm. “I wasn’t leaving forever,” you whisper. “I just needed time. space. I needed to remember who I was outside of what you said.”
running your fingers through his hair. “I love you, jason. that didn’t change. but you hurt me. bad. I will never stop loving you. i will always come back to you— I needed to know I could still choose to come back on my terms. not because you begged. not because you were falling apart. but because I wanted to.”
his arms tighten around you again, and for the first time since last night, his tears start to fall freely. once again. no restraint. no pride. just a man drowning in his own grief, relieved to be seen, still loved despite everything.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers into your shoulder, his voice small and shaky.
“no,” you say gently. “but you have me. and that means doing better.” and you both stand there for a while. two exhausted people wrapped around each other like maybe the world will stop spinning if you just stay still long enough.
after a while, you hold out your hand. “come inside.” and he does.
the apartment is small, quiet. the kind of place that smells like lavender and old books and something that’s just you. jason steps inside like he’s walking on glass—like the walls might collapse if he breathes too hard.
you close the door behind him. lock it gently. like you’re not locking him out, but keeping the world away.
neither of you says much as you move to the small couch in the living room. he follows you, slow, cautious. sits on the edge like he doesn’t deserve the whole cushion. like if he gets too comfortable, you might change your mind and tell him to leave.
you notice the way he keeps stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye. the way his knee’s bouncing, nervous. his shoulders are curled in, defensive, like he’s ready to run the second you flinch.
finally, you break the quiet. “why are you sitting like you’re afraid I’m gonna hit you?” jason freezes.
you don’t say it to hurt him. you say it softly. genuinely. because you see it—the hesitation, the fear, the way he’s pulling away without moving an inch.
he exhales. “because I don’t wanna fuck this up again.”
“you think being quiet is safer?”
he shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s safe with you anymore. I keep playing every version of this in my head—if I say too much, if I touch you too soon, if I breathe the wrong way—maybe you’ll walk out again.”
you shift toward him slowly. “I didn’t leave to scare you.”
“I know.” he finally meets your gaze. “but it scared me anyway.”
you nod. “and now you’re trying not to want anything.” he doesn’t answer. “jason, you’re allowed to want me.”
his breath catches. you reach out, gently covering his hand with yours. he looks at the contact like it might vanish.
“you’re not scaring me off,” you say, voice soft but sure. “you’re hurting. and so am I. but I didn’t stop loving you. I didn’t forget all the good just because of one night.”
jason’s voice is raw when he answers. “It was more than one night. I’ve been shutting you out for weeks. I didn’t let you in when you were trying. I turned everything into a war when you just wanted peace.”
“yeah. you did.” he flinches. “but,” you continue, tightening your grip on his hand, “you came back. you searched for me. you let yourself fall apart. that means something to me, and im sorry too. i didn’t intend on being away this long. i just felt so lost” he closes his eyes, jaw clenching.
“i’ve never felt this afraid,” he murmurs. “not even when I died.” you squeeze his hand.
“I’m not good at soft,” he admits. “I can be violent, I can be angry, I can be the guy who kicks in doors and breaks bones. but being… gentle? I don’t know how to do that without thinking I’ll screw it up.” you lean forward, pressing your forehead to his.
“you’re being gentle right now.” he nods, barely. and for the first time since that fight, he lets his hand curl into yours. not tight. just enough.
enough to say I want this.
enough to say I still love you.
he presses his lips to your temple, hesitant at first, then lingering. not hungry. not desperate. just present.
“i love you eternally jason, im sorry too, i’m truly sorry for walking away.”
“i love you so much (y/n), so.. so much it’s a unbearable pain i never want to let go of. you are my heart.. my soul.. my person”
he pressed kisses on your hand inbetween words. whispering softly to you, sweet nothings. just wanting to cherish you. “i cried to alfred, cried like some damn kid and I was just—gone. full-on sobbing in his arms like I was ten again.”
(y/n)’s eyes softened, reaching out but letting him keep going.
“I told him everything. told him I screwed up. told him I was scared you’d leave for good. and he just… held me, made me miss your touch.— i’m still sorry,” he whispers
“I know,” you say. “i am too jay”
the two of you sit there, wrapped in the silence that used to hurt—but now, maybe, it’s just healing in disguise. you pulled jason in to cuddle him. he wraps his hands around your body. feeling fortunate to have you, to touch you, to kiss you. he hasn’t been able to breathe normally since you left, but now his chest feels lifted. he’s calmer and exhausted. he can tell you were too. he rubs your body while kissing all over you until he knows your asleep in his arms. watching you sleep so peacefully puts him at ease, helping him drift off into a wonderful slumber he’s been dreaming about for the past five days.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
ahhh :3 i couldn’t do a sad ending— i was going to!!, but he’s been out through to much already!! haha
hope u enjoyed!! im trying out different writing, angst is one im not the best ask but i like trying! it feels repetitive sometimes :p
