tamaranean! reader - bruce, dick, jason
content batfam x tamaranean! reader, gn! reader, alien! reader, affectionate reader, mutual pining, oblivious pining, starfire/koriand'r mention, sunshine reader, fluff, emotional intimacy
characters bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake here, damian wayne here, duke thomas here, stephanie brown here, cassandra cain here
masterlist
bruce wayne
kori mention, diplomatic concern, social misunderstandings, emotional honesty, soft bruce, slow burn
Bruce’s first reaction to you is not distrust exactly, but diplomatic concern.
Not because you’ve done anything wrong. Because you are a powerful alien with combat training, emotional transparency, flight, super-strength, and very little understanding of Earth’s customs.
In Bruce’s mind, that adds up to about sixteen contingency folders and one migraine.
He treats your arrival like an interplanetary incident at first.
Polite. Careful. Controlled.
He asks questions like he’s interviewing an ambassador and assessing a threat at the same time.
“What are your intentions on Earth?” “What level of solar radiation affects your abilities?” “Are Tamaranean diplomatic customs likely to cause conflict here?”
You blink at him, then smile. “My intention is to learn, to protect those who show me kindness, and to avoid accidentally frightening your people.”
Bruce pauses.
Because that is… very hard to argue with.
He starts out keeping a professional distance. He watches how you interact with the others, how you respond to stress, how you treat civilians, how you handle being corrected.
And what he finds is that you’re not careless. You’re unfamiliar.
There’s a difference.
You ask questions constantly, not because you’re naive, but because you genuinely want to understand.
“Why do humans say they are fine when they are visibly wounded?” “Why is it rude to speak of sadness at dinner?” “Why does Jason say ‘I hate this family’ when his body language suggests affection?”
Bruce, exhausted: “That one is complicated.”
He tries to explain Earth customs in his usual stiff, practical way.
It goes terribly.
You ask why handshakes are considered acceptable but forehead touches are “too intimate.”
Bruce says, “Cultural boundaries.”
You say, “But your culture appears lonely.”
And Bruce has to go stare dramatically out a window for a while.
Eventually, he does what he probably should have done from the beginning: he goes to Dick.
Because Dick knows Kori. Dick has seen firsthand what it means for a Tamaranean to adjust to Earth, and Bruce trusts him to understand the emotional side of it better than he does.
Bruce asks for advice in the most Bruce way possible.
“I need information on Tamaranean integration into human social structures.”
Dick stares at him. “You mean you want to know how to make them feel welcome?”
Bruce says nothing.
Dick grins. “Oh, my god. You do.”
Bruce regrets everything instantly.
Dick tells him that Tamaraneans tend to be direct, affectionate, emotionally open, and deeply shaped by trust and sensory experience.
Bruce takes notes. Literal notes. Dick catches him doing it and immediately texts Kori.
Bruce does not appreciate this betrayal.
After that, Bruce makes more of an effort.
Not a loud one. Never loud.
He starts paying attention to what makes you comfortable.
He notices that you linger near windows where sunlight comes in. So suddenly, certain rooms in the Manor have better curtains, warmer lighting, and less shadow.
He notices that you don’t always understand when someone is joking.
So he starts clarifying his own dry humour, even though it physically pains him.
“That was sarcasm.”
“I see. Your tone was very grave.”
“It usually is.”
“Yes. This makes you difficult to interpret.”
“Noted.”
He also begins teaching you Gotham etiquette specifically, because Gotham is not normal Earth.
He explains that most humans do not consider gargoyles a regular meeting place. Most cities do not have themed criminals. Most charity galas are not interrupted by hostage situations.
You listen very seriously. “So Gotham is considered… socially abnormal?”
Bruce, after a long pause: “Yes.”
You nod. “That comforts me. I had begun to fear all of Earth was like this.”
Bruce almost smiles.
Almost.
He is quietly fascinated by the way you communicate affection.
You say things so openly that it disarms him.
“You carry grief like armour.” “You love your children as if love is a battle you are always losing.” “Your silence is very loud tonight.”
Bruce does not know what to do with any of that.
His usual defences do not work on you, because you don’t push to win. You simply observe, offer warmth, and let the truth sit between you like a small flame.
That unsettles him more than aggression ever could.
He’s used to people trying to break through his walls.
You just keep putting sunlight near them.
At first, he reminds you that certain Tamaranean gestures may be misunderstood on Earth.
You accept this immediately and start asking before touching anyone.
“May I offer comfort?” “Would a hand upon your shoulder be welcome?” “Is this a moment where silence is preferred?”
Bruce finds this deeply respectful.
Also devastating.
Because one night, after a brutal patrol, you ask him the same thing.
“May I offer comfort?”
He means to say no.
He says, “Yes.”
You sit beside him in the Cave, close enough to be present but not close enough to trap him.
No interrogation. No demand. No pity.
Just warmth.
Bruce doesn’t say anything for a long time.
Then, quietly, he says, “Dick told me Tamaraneans value emotional honesty.”
You smile. “He is correct.”
Bruce looks down at his hands. “I’m not very good at that.”
Your voice softens. “I know.”
And somehow, because you say it without judgment, it doesn’t feel like an accusation.
From then on, he becomes protective of you in a very Bruce way.
Not possessive. Not overbearing. Just quietly, intensely attentive.
He makes sure you have access to language resources, cultural materials, safe spaces to ask questions, and someone to accompany you when Earth customs get too overwhelming.
He also has contingency plans for anyone who tries to exploit your unfamiliarity.
Someone at a gala calls you “exotic” in that gross, condescending way.
Bruce appears beside you like a shadow with a bank account. “That’s inappropriate.”
The person laughs nervously.
Bruce does not.
You later ask if he was angry.
He says, “Yes.”
“On my behalf?”
“Yes.”
You beam at him.
Bruce suddenly has to pretend to be very interested in his champagne glass.
Over time, he stops viewing you as a diplomatic concern and starts seeing you as a person trying to build a life far from home.
That changes everything.
He becomes gentler. Still awkward, but gentler.
He asks about Tamaranean customs without making it sound like an interrogation. He remembers important phrases you teach him.
His pronunciation is terrible. You are delighted anyway.
He once attempts a formal Tamaranean greeting before a mission because Dick told him it would mean a lot. He says it with the solemn energy of a man defusing a bomb.
You nearly cry.
Bruce immediately panics.
Dick, watching from the doorway, whispers, “Nailed it.”
At his core, Bruce understands displacement. Not in the same way, but enough.
He knows what it is to feel like your world ended and you had to become something else to survive.
So while he may not always understand your customs, he understands the loneliness underneath the learning.
And that is where the bond forms.
Quietly. Carefully. Like dawn touching the edge of Gotham’s skyline.
You teach Bruce that honesty does not always have to be a wound. Bruce teaches you that restraint does not always mean rejection.
And eventually, the Manor becomes less like a place you are being hosted and more like a place you are being welcomed.
Not perfectly.
This is the Batfamily. Emotional competency is a group project they are all failing upward.
But Bruce tries. And for him, trying is basically a love language written in invisible ink.
dick grayson
teen titans mentioned, starfire/kori mentioned, dick/kori history, romantic confusion, consent discussions, slow burn, mutual pining, oblivious feelings, dick falls first,
Dick understands you faster than anyone else does. Not perfectly, not instantly, but enough that when you arrive on Earth confused by its rules, its distance, its strange little social traps, he feels something in his chest go soft and familiar.
Because he knew Kori.
He loved Kori. He watched her learn Earth with fire in her hair and sunlight in her heart, watched people misunderstand her honesty, her affection, her warmth, her way of loving without shame.
So when you tilt your head at a handshake and ask why humans touch palms but avoid saying what they mean, Dick doesn’t laugh.
He just smiles gently and says, “Yeah. We’re weird. I’ll help.”
And he does.
Dick becomes your guide on Earth almost immediately. Not in a patronising way. Never like you’re helpless. More like he becomes your translator for all the tiny, unspoken human things no one else remembers to explain.
He teaches you that “I’m fine” often means “I am actively falling apart but would rather eat glass than admit it.”
He teaches you that sarcasm is sometimes humour, sometimes armour, and in Jason’s case, usually both.
He teaches you that hugs are welcome from some people, complicated for others, and that Bruce may stand still like a haunted coat rack, but that does not necessarily mean he dislikes it.
You take this very seriously.
“So when Bruce does not move, he is not rejecting affection?”
Dick pauses. “Sometimes he’s just buffering.”
You nod solemnly. “Like Timothy’s computer.”
“Exactly.”
He’s also the one who helps you understand Gotham specifically, because Gotham etiquette is not Earth etiquette.
Earth has coffee shops and crosswalks. Gotham has gargoyles, hostage galas, and clowns with felony punch cards.
You ask if all Earth cities are like this.
Dick says, “No, Gotham is just extra cursed.”
You look relieved. “That is comforting. I feared your whole planet required therapy.”
Dick laughs so hard he nearly falls off a rooftop.
Because of Kori, Dick recognises the signs when you’re overwhelmed.
The way your smile grows brighter but less real. The way you hover higher off the ground when anxious. The way you ask too many questions at once because you’re trying to adapt quickly enough not to be a burden.
He clocks it immediately.
So he starts building little exits into social situations for you.
At galas, he casually steers you away from people who are being condescending. At family dinners, he explains jokes quietly before they can make you feel excluded. On patrol, he translates Batfamily nonsense in real time.
“Jason means he’s worried.” “Damian means thank you.” “Bruce means good job.”
You frown. “He said, ‘Adequate.’”
“Yeah. That’s Bruce for ‘I’m proud of you and emotionally unavailable about it.’”
You begin to rely on Dick because he makes Earth feel less sharp around the edges.
And Dick is glad.
More than glad, honestly. There’s a private, tender pride in being the person who understands you best.
Not because he wants to own that place. Because he knows what it feels like to be the bridge between worlds.
He knows what it means to stand with one foot in grief and one foot in belonging.
And he likes that, with you, he can be useful without performing. He does not have to be the golden boy, the first Robin, the emotional glue holding a collapsing family together.
With you, he can just be Dick.
Your friend. Your guide. The person who explains why humans keep saying “we should get coffee” and then never scheduling the coffee.
You are horrified by this. “So it is a false invitation?”
“Sometimes.”
“Richard, your planet is socially lawless.”
“Honestly? Fair.”
The problem is that Dick starts falling for you.
Slowly at first. Then all at once.
It starts with the way you listen like every word matters. The way you laugh with your whole body. The way you touch sunlight like it is an old friend. The way you call him “Richard” with such warmth that his name feels new in your mouth.
He catches himself watching you during training. He catches himself smiling when you enter a room. He catches himself wanting to be the first person you look for when something confuses you.
And that scares him a little.
Because he knows you trust him. He knows you see him as safe. He also knows you are still learning Earth customs, including romance, dating, boundaries, flirting, and all the messy little rituals humans wrap around desire.
So Dick does what Dick does best and worst:
He overthinks. Spectacularly. Gold medal, Olympic-level spiral.
He worries that if he tells you how he feels too soon, it might influence you. He worries you might mistake gratitude for love. He worries that because he’s your main guide, you might feel obligated to return his feelings.
He worries about Kori, too—not because he compares you to her, but because his experience with her taught him how easily humans can misunderstand Tamaranean openness.
He refuses to be someone who takes advantage of that.
So instead of confessing, Dick starts teaching you about relationships.
Very carefully. Very respectfully.
Painfully respectfully.
You ask him one night why humans seem to hide romantic interest behind teasing, delayed replies, and “accidental” touching.
Dick nearly drops his escrima stick.
Then he sits beside you and explains flirting.
Actual flirting.
Not the Steph version, which involved “vibes, crimes, and plausible deniability.”
He explains that romantic feelings can look different for different people.
For some, it’s physical attraction. For some, it’s emotional closeness. For some, it’s trust.
For some, it’s wanting to build a life beside someone, even in small, ordinary ways.
You listen intently.
Then you ask, “And how do humans know when they are loved honestly?”
Dick goes quiet.
Eventually, he says, “When someone gives you the choice. Again and again. No pressure. No debt. No trap.”
You remember that.
He teaches you about consent before he teaches you about dating. That matters to him.
He explains that affection should be wanted by both people, that partners should be allowed to say yes, no, not yet, or not like that.
You find this beautiful.
“Love with freedom,” you say.
Dick’s voice softens. “Yeah. Exactly.”
He explains monogamy and polyamory, casual dating and serious dating, crushes and attraction, breakups and commitment. He explains that humans sometimes date badly because they are afraid to ask directly for what they want.
You stare at him. “Your species is exhausting.”
“We really are.”
He also explains that some people flirt for fun, some flirt seriously, and some flirt because they panic and their mouth goes rogue.
You ask which type he is.
Dick chokes. “Uh. Depends who you ask.”
You smile, too knowing.
That smile becomes dangerous to his health.
The more he teaches you, the worse his feelings get.
Because you don’t just absorb the information. You reflect on it.
You ask what kind of partner he hopes to be. You ask what kind of love has hurt him. You ask whether he believes love can survive two people changing.
Dick gives you answers he hasn’t admitted to himself in years.
With you, conversations turn into constellations. One question becomes another. One truth becomes a doorway.
He starts to realise he isn’t just helping you understand Earth romance. He’s also relearning what he wants love to be.
Not performance. Not rescue. Not two people bleeding into each other until nobody knows where the wound began.
Something chosen. Something honest. Something warm. Something that looks a lot like you sitting beside him on a rooftop, asking about human courtship while the city glitters below like broken glass pretending to be stars.
The Batfamily notices, obviously. They are detectives. Tragically.
Jason catches Dick watching you laugh and mutters, “You’re pathetic.”
Dick says, “I’m being respectful.”
“You’re being constipated.”
“That’s not—”
“Emotionally constipated. Bruce disease. Very sad.”
Tim notices that Dick keeps volunteering to explain Earth customs to you and starts calling it “extraterrestrial pining with educational components.”
Steph calls him “Space Romeo.”
Damian tells him, “If your intentions are honourable, your hesitation has become inefficient.”
Dick puts his head in his hands.
Even Bruce notices, which is humiliating for everyone involved.
Bruce simply says, “Be careful.”
Dick answers, “I am.”
And he is.
That’s the whole problem. Dick is so careful with you that he forgets you are not fragile.
You are new to Earth, not new to feeling. You are unfamiliar with human dating customs, not incapable of knowing your own heart.
Eventually, you confront him. Gently, but directly, because you are Tamaranean and subtlety is a human disease.
“You speak to me often of romance,” you say. “But never of your own feelings.”
Dick freezes.
Absolutely caught.
Acrobat down. Send help.
He tries to deflect. You do not allow it.
“You told me love should offer choice,” you remind him. “But you have not offered me yours.”
That wrecks him a little.
Because you’re right. He was so focused on not pressuring you that he accidentally withheld the truth from you.
So finally, carefully, Dick tells you.
He tells you that he cares for you. That he’s attracted to you. That being around you makes him feel lighter. That he didn’t want to confuse you, or rush you, or make you feel like affection came with expectations.
He makes it very clear that you owe him nothing.
No answer. No romance. No returned feeling.
Just the truth, placed gently in your hands.
You listen, glowing faintly in the dark.
Then you say, “I know my own heart, Richard.”
His breath catches.
You step closer, but you still ask. “May I touch you?”
Dick smiles, soft and stunned. “Yes.”
When you kiss him, it is not because he taught you how humans love.
It is because he gave you room to decide how you love.
And that means everything.
After you get together, Dick is still your guide, but the dynamic shifts. Now it’s sweeter. More playful.
He teaches you about date nights. You teach him Tamaranean bonding rituals. He teaches you that flowers are a common romantic gift. You bring him a glowing alien plant that may or may not be mildly sentient.
He names it Bitey.
You are delighted.
He teaches you about anniversaries. You decide every meaningful moment deserves one.
First rooftop conversation anniversary. First successful sarcasm recognition anniversary. First time Bruce willingly accepted your hug anniversary.
Dick says, “That one deserves a national holiday.”
You still ask questions about Earth romance, but now they make him blush.
“So when humans say they wish to take things slow, what pace is considered emotionally honourable?”
“Depends.”
“And physically?”
Dick walks into a doorframe.
Jason witnesses it and never lets him live.
The best part is that Dick never stops being careful with your heart.
Not because he doubts you.
Because he values you. He understands better than anyone how bright Tamaranean love can burn, how fearless and full-bodied it can be. And he wants to meet that love honestly.
No shadows. No tricks. No gravity pretending to be choice.
With Dick, Earth becomes less confusing. With you, love becomes less frightening. And somewhere between rooftop lessons, soft laughter, and his hand finding yours beneath Gotham’s bruised-purple sky, Dick realises he didn’t just become your guide to Earth.
You became his guide back to joy.
jason todd
strangers to friends to lovers, wary-to-soft, slow-burn, battlefield trust, domestic realisation, romantic panic, mild emotional angst, soft jason todd, dick grayson appears, reading together, trust issues, canon-typical violence, jason's trauma implied, emotional repression, misunderstandings to due cultural differences,
Jason is wary of you at first.
Not in a dramatic “alien bad” way. Jason is no stranger to aliens, metas, magic users, walking gods, undead nightmares, and whatever the hell happens in Gotham on a Wednesday. He’s fought beside people who can bench-press tanks and people who can rewrite physics before breakfast.
So it isn’t your power that makes him cautious.
It’s the unknown.
It’s the fact that you’re bright and direct and open in a way Gotham tends to punish. It’s the fact that you look at people like you expect truth from them.
Jason knows exactly how dangerous that can be.
At first, he keeps his distance. Arms crossed. Helmet on. Voice dry.
“You always this friendly with strangers, sunshine?”
You blink at him. “Only with strangers who interest me.”
Jason does not have a comeback ready for that.
Horrifying.
You decide very early that Jason is worth understanding.
Not fixing. Not taming. Not softening into something easier.
Understanding.
And Jason clocks the difference immediately, even if he pretends not to.
You don’t treat him like a wounded animal. You don’t flinch at his anger. You don’t try to drag his trauma into the light like a confession.
You just keep showing up.
On patrol. In the Cave. At safehouses. At crime scenes where he expects everyone to second-guess him and instead finds you standing beside him, glowing faintly in the dark like the universe forgot Gotham was supposed to be miserable.
At first, Jason doesn’t trust it.
Of course he doesn’t. Jason Todd has survived too much to accept warmth without checking for a blade under it.
But you are stubborn. Tamaranean stubborn. Which is a whole separate category of stubborn, apparently.
He snaps at you once after a mission, something sharp and defensive, meant to make you back off.
You just look at him and say, “Your anger is loud, but it is not the truth of you.”
Jason freezes. Then, because he is Jason, he says, “That supposed to mean something?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Cryptic alien therapy. My favourite.”
But he thinks about it for days.
The two of you become friends slowly. Painfully slowly, by your standards.
Jason does not do instant trust. He does not hand over soft parts just because someone asks nicely.
So you earn each other inch by inch.
You learn the way he moves in a fight. He learns the way you draw fire away from civilians without hesitation.
You learn that when Jason says “move,” he does not mean “I command you.” He means, “I saw the shot before you did.”
He learns that when you touch two fingers to your heart before battle, it means, “I return with you or not at all.”
The battlefield is where the trust roots deepest.
Jason trusts competence before confession.
And you are competent. Terrifyingly so.
You don’t just fly into danger. You think. You adapt. You listen. You hit like a meteor with morals.
The first time you take a hit meant for him, he loses his mind.
Absolutely no chill. None. Zero. A historic drought of chill.
Afterwards, he corners you on a rooftop, furious. “Don’t ever do that again.”
You frown. “You were in danger.”
“I had it handled.”
“You were bleeding.”
“I bleed all the time.”
“That is not a strategy, Jason.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Points at you like you have personally offended him.
“That—don’t say things that make sense when I’m yelling at you.”
You call him out constantly.
Not cruelly.
Just directly.
Jason says, “I’m fine.”
You say, “You are lying.”
Jason says, “I don’t need backup.”
You say, “You are not so special that teamwork cannot help you.”
Jason says, “I don’t care.”
You say, “You care so much it has become inconvenient.”
He hates it. He loves it. He hates that he loves it.
Because everyone else either tiptoes around him or challenges him like they’re trying to win.
You don’t do either. You just tell the truth and then hand him a protein bar like you didn’t just punt his emotional defences into the sun.
Jason also refuses to let anyone make you feel wrong for being Tamaranean.
This is important to him. He sees people trying to sand down your edges, to make your affection smaller, your honesty quieter, your customs more “appropriate.”
And it pisses him off.
Someone at a gala tells you that you’ll “adjust eventually” and become “less intense.”
Jason’s jaw ticks.
You begin to ask, “Is intensity improper?”
Jason cuts in before anyone else can answer. “Nah. They’re just boring.”
The person laughs awkwardly.
Jason does not.
Later, you ask him if he thinks you should change to fit Earth better.
Jason looks genuinely offended. “Hell no.”
“But I misunderstand many things.”
“So? Earth misunderstands itself every five minutes.”
You consider this.
He continues, softer, “You can learn the rules without becoming smaller for them.”
That one stays with you.
Jason likes you as you are. Not despite the forehead touches, the dramatic declarations, the sunlight metaphors, the way you ask direct questions that make Bruce look like he’s being emotionally waterboarded.
Because of them.
He likes your honesty. He likes your laugh. He likes that you don’t apologise for taking up space.
He likes that when you care, everyone knows it. There is no guessing game. No trapdoor. No emotional riddler nonsense. Just you, bright and impossible, choosing people with your whole chest.
And then one day, it hits him.
Not during battle. Not while you’re flying over Gotham with starfire in your hands. Not when you save his life or throw a rogue through a wall.
Nope. It happens in the kitchen. Because the universe hates him personally.
You are standing barefoot in one of the Manor kitchens, wearing one of his old hoodies because you got cold after patrol.
The sleeves are too long on you.
You are frowning intensely at a paperback he gave you, sounding out a sentence slowly because English idioms are still deeply unserious.
Jason is cooking. Nothing fancy. Eggs, toast, potatoes, enough seasoning to make Alfred raise one approving eyebrow.
You look up and ask, “Why does this character say his heart is in his throat? Has he swallowed it?”
Jason laughs before he can stop himself.
Not a snort. Not a sarcastic little huff.
A real laugh.
You brighten instantly, pleased with yourself.
And Jason’s entire world quietly breaks.
Because suddenly he notices everything at once.
How comfortable he is with you in his space. How much he likes hearing your voice wrapped around his favourite stories. How badly he wants to make you breakfast every morning. How the sight of you in his hoodie does something catastrophic to his ability to function.
And there it is.
Oh.
Oh, no.
He likes you. Romantically.
Cue panic.
Jason goes through all five stages of grief in approximately thirty seconds while flipping eggs.
Denial: No, he doesn’t. Anger: This is Dick’s fault somehow. Bargaining: Maybe it’s just friendship with a side of alien-induced cardiac event. Depression: He is going to ruin everything. Acceptance: Absolutely not. He rejects acceptance.
You ask why his heartbeat has changed.
Jason nearly drops the pan. “It hasn’t.”
“It has.”
“Nope.”
“Jason.”
“Must be the eggs.”
“The eggs changed your heartbeat?”
“Very emotional eggs.”
He avoids you for exactly twelve hours, which is a new personal record in emotional cowardice.
Then he realises avoiding you feels worse than panicking near you.
So naturally, he does the most desperate thing imaginable.
He goes to Dick.
Dick opens his apartment door, sees Jason’s expression, and immediately says, “Oh my god.”
Jason points at him. “Don’t.”
“You’re in love.”
“I said don’t.”
“You’re in love with them.”
“I came here for advice, not a musical number.”
Dick is delighted. Like, deeply and spiritually delighted.
Jason regrets every life choice that led him here. But he still asks.
Because Dick understands Tamaraneans. Dick understands Kori. Dick understands the difference between affection, attraction, cultural openness, and actual romantic intent.
Jason needs to know he isn’t misreading you. More importantly, he needs to know how not to hurt you.
That part makes Dick soften.
Jason acts rough about it, but his questions are careful.
“How do I know if they actually like me, not just… trust me?” “How direct is too direct?” “What if they think I’m rejecting their culture because I don’t always know how to respond?” “What if I screw it up?”
Dick gives him real advice.
He tells Jason not to assume your affection means romance. He tells him to be honest, because Tamaraneans value emotional clarity. He tells him not to make decisions for you under the excuse of protecting you.
Jason hates that one because it sounds suspiciously accurate.
Dick also tells him, gently, “They like you as you are, too, Jay.”
Jason looks away. “Yeah, well. Bad taste.”
“Or good instincts.”
Jason leaves before Dick can get too smug.
The confession, when it happens, is awkward and honest and so painfully Jason.
He doesn’t make a grand speech. He finds you after patrol, sitting on the roof of one of his safehouses, watching the sunrise paint Gotham gold.
You smile when he joins you.
Jason sits beside you, quiet for a long moment.
Then he says, “I need to tell you something, and you’re gonna let me finish before you say anything poetic that makes me forget English.”
You nod solemnly. “I will restrain my poetry.”
“Appreciate it.”
He tells you he cares about you. That you’re his friend, and he trusts you, and that matters to him more than he knows how to say.
Then he swallows hard and admits there’s more. That somewhere between patrols and arguments and you stealing his hoodies, he started wanting things he didn’t think he got to want.
You listen without interrupting.
Jason keeps his eyes on the skyline.
“I’m not asking you to feel the same. I’m not asking you to change anything. I just… thought you should know. Because you’re always talking about honesty, and apparently that crap is contagious.”
You are quiet for one terrifying second.
Then you say, “May I now say something poetic?”
Jason closes his eyes. “Yeah. Go ahead.”
You take his hand. “My heart has known yours for longer than your mouth has allowed truth.”
Jason groans, but he’s smiling. “Yeah, that’s exactly the kind of thing I meant.”
You kiss his knuckles.
He stops smiling.
Not because he’s unhappy.
Because every defence system in his body just blue-screened.
When you get together, Jason remains Jason.
He still grumbles. Still deflects. Still says romance is “not a big deal” while memorising every single thing that makes you happy.
He learns which Tamaranean gestures are romantic and which are familial because he refuses to accidentally propose marriage during breakfast.
He asks questions, privately, thoroughly, with the dedication of a man defusing a bomb made of feelings.
He also gets protective of your right to be yourself.
Not in a possessive way. In a “try to make them feel ashamed and I’ll ruin your week” way.
If someone mocks your directness, Jason’s expression goes flat. If someone treats your customs like a novelty, he steps in. If someone assumes you’re naive because you’re unfamiliar with Earth, Jason gets that dangerous quiet voice.
“They’re new to your customs, not stupid. Try again.”
You love that about him.
Jason loves that you never let him hide from himself for too long.
Sometimes he spirals. Sometimes he pulls away. Sometimes his old ghosts get loud, and he tries to convince himself you’d be better off with someone easier.
You shut that down immediately. “You do not get to decide my heart for me.”
Jason exhales, shaky. “Yeah?”
“Yes. It is mine. I choose where it rests.”
And wow.
He is so gone. Embarrassingly gone.
Dick was right. Tragic.
One of Jason’s biggest love languages is books.
He starts with reading to you.
At first, it’s because you’re still learning certain Earth idioms, and Jason likes explaining them.
Then it becomes a ritual. Late nights. Soft blankets. His voice low and rough around the edges. You curled beside him, asking questions about metaphors and old tragedies and why humans write so much about longing.
Jason says, “Because we’re dramatic.”
You say, “You especially.”
He says, “Yeah, walked into that one.”
Then Jason gets ambitious. He starts hunting down Tamaranean translations of his favourite books.
This is not easy. At all.
There are probably three people on Earth who can help, and two of them are busy preventing cosmic disasters.
Jason does it anyway.
He contacts Dick first. Then, through Dick, maybe Kori. Then, through several increasingly weird intergalactic channels he refuses to explain.
Tim catches him researching alien publishing networks at three in the morning and says, “Are you pirating literature from space?”
Jason says, “Go away.”
“That’s a yes.”
“Go away faster.”
Eventually, Jason manages to get Tamaranean translations made or sourced for some of his favourite books.
Not because he thinks you need them.
Because he wants to share the stories with you in a way that feels like home.
The first time he gives you one, he acts like it’s nothing. Practically shoves it at you. “Here. Thought you might like it.”
You open it and freeze.
Because it is not just translated.
It is translated carefully. With cultural notes. With poetic equivalents. With certain metaphors adapted so they make sense under Tamaranean suns.
Your fingers tremble on the pages. “Jason…”
He looks away immediately. “Don’t make a big thing out of it.”
“This is a very big thing.”
“It’s paper.”
“It is devotion.”
Jason’s ears go red. “Okay, maybe make a medium thing out of it.”
From then on, reading together becomes sacred.
Sometimes you read in English. Sometimes he listens while you read the Tamaranean aloud, your voice turning his favourite stories into something new and golden. Sometimes you translate passages back to him literally, and he gets fascinated by the differences.
Sometimes you argue over characters.
Jason is a menace in literary debates. You are worse. It is extremely romantic and deeply nerdy.
Dick finds out and nearly cries. Jason threatens him.
Bruce quietly approves.
Alfred starts leaving tea outside the library. Jason pretends not to notice.
But he does.
He notices everything when it comes to you.
That’s how he loves. Not loudly, maybe.
Not easily. But deeply.
Through trust earned in battle. Through honesty sharpened into care. Through books translated across stars. Through letting you stay exactly as you are.
Because Jason Todd does not fall in love with the version of you Earth might find easier.
He falls in love with you bright, blunt, fierce, affectionate, strange, and impossible.
And for once, he does not want to run from the warmth.
He wants to sit beside it. He wants to read with it. He wants to come home to it.
