jason todd x gender neutral reader. 1167 words.
notes: stares deep into camera and sighs as i am kermit to my irls' muppets.
warnings: exhaustion
jason's pretty sure he can feel his brain melting.
he's so tired he's dizzy, nearly falling asleep standing in the middle of your living room, helmet in his hands and suit still on.
and there you are on the couch, with a smile so soft and inviting— warm like candlelight, safe like his favorite blanket— that it almost distracts him from the way you are absolutely scrutinizing him.
but he knows you. and you know him. so the question you're about to ask is probably more for show than anything.
"hey," you offer gently, setting your phone aside and pushing up out of your seat. "y'alright?"
"yeah," he answers, nodding slowly and wondering for a brief moment if it's worth trying to mask what you've already seen. but then you step into his space and beneath that loving smile is a sharp eye and a sharper mind and the answer is no, it's not even close to worth it. "tired as hell."
"bruised, broken, bleeding?"
"yeah, no, and... probably not."
some of the intensity fades from your eyes. some of it. a little. "i'll take it."
"could be worse."
you hum, knuckles coming up to brush against his cheek. "hungry?"
"only if i can eat in my sleep," he mumbles wryly, not fighting the way his head tilts towards your touch.
"not recommended, no," you say, brushing a curl of hair back from his face. the warmth of your fingers feels like gravity, tugging him home to solid ground as you trace down the side of his face and along his jaw. "but you can wash off while i heat up leftovers."
jason nods again, too tired to come up with something witty and definitely too tired to argue with you, and slides forward in your grip to kiss the heel of your palm in silent appreciation.
--
silent appreciation isn't even close to enough, he decides. not when he steps out of the shower to find the fluffiest towel you own ready and waiting, right next to a neatly-folded change of clothes. not when he stumbles out of the bathroom to the smell of re-heated soup and freshly steeped tea. not when he drops into his unspoken-but-claimed chair at your table and you step into his space like it's second nature, hands finding his shoulders and gently kneading through the stubborn tension there.
nowhere near close to enough, he thinks.
when he's conscious enough to think about more than the way his bones ache and the way your lips feel against his head, he'll make it up to you. for now, he watches— lagging, sluggish, he so needs to be asleep— as you take the bowl he's working up the nerve to go wash out.
"hey—"
"don't even," you say evenly, cutting his protests short without so much as a glance backwards. "bed time."
if there is one thing jason todd knows, it's the importance of picking his fights. he doesn't always do it, but he does now.
he lets the dishes go.
instead, his rebellion is to stay seated while you wash them off. he stubbornly waits, ignoring the pointed glances you throw him, until you're drying your hands off and turning off the kitchen lights.
"any particular reason you're rotting at my table instead of getting some rest?" you ask dryly.
a breath of laughter warms its way up his throat, and he lets his head fall back against the back of the chair. he lazily watches you approach him, weighing his options.
the truth is, he has exactly zero faith in his ability to stay awake once his head hits the pillow, and the only thing he wants more than to pass out is to pass out next to you.
but i don't want to fall asleep before i can hold you feels… a bit much. even in the face of the overwhelming way you're just taking care of him like it's the easiest thing in the world.
"just enjoying the view." hitting on you is hardly the thank you you deserve, but it comes much more easily than the proclamations and gestures and romance you should be getting.
he's working on that.
you shake your head, your look of begrudging amusement making the already-huge ball of love in his chest swell even larger. "well, show's over, mister. bed time."
"who made you boss, huh?" he murmurs up at you. because he's an idiot.
which is partly because it makes you cock your head a little and look at him like you're dealing with an unruly but amusing puppy.
which… should probably bother him, considering he's a full grown man with a body count and not a little yappy thing on four legs.
it doesn't, though. you're too cute for it to bother him.
"i did," you murmur, leaning forwards so that your head is over his and you're looking down at him. he can smell your lotion like this, and he tries to be subtle about the breath he takes in. "because when people don't take good care of the things i love, it's time to take over."
things i love.
yeah. okay. when he can feel his brain again, he's going to… he isn't even sure what. do something amazing. take you to a beach somewhere or something.
in the mean time, he needs to be clever. funny. he needs to say something to make you smile down at him again and make it a little more worth your time to look after his sorry ass.
"you're the thing," you whisper conspiratorially before he has the chance. "before you start talking about how the helmet's in perfect condition or whatever, it's you. i'm talking about you, and you need rest."
…well.
he's not even bothered that you know where that joke was going. honestly, there's something nice about it— someone knowing his next move should feel deeply, deeply wrong, but when it's you…
well.
honestly, it just makes him want to kiss you.
lots of things just make him want to kiss you.
"fine," he relents instead, sighing tiredly. "bed time."
"attaboy."
--
he follows you like a puppy.
somehow, he can't manage more than a mild sense of indignation about it.
he leans against your bathroom counter and brushes his teeth while you brush yours, and he rests his head against the doorframe as you rinse both brushes out and put them away, and he only moves when you turn to leave.
jason, clean and fed and comfortable and cared for, follows you right into your bed.
he doesn't curl up into you, not like when you lay together before getting up— instead, he lays on his stomach and buries his face in one of your pillows and drapes an arm across your waist. not to contain you, not enough to make him worry about squishing you, just enough to feel you close and sync his breath to yours.
for about a minute and a half, before he's sound asleep.
clark kent x gender neutral reader. 1068 words.
notes: finally releasing this into the wild for @stevebabey! i'll spare you the whole big sappy write up ruby but just know ilysm. i'm so glad we met. i can't thank you enough for all the inspiration and encouragement- but hopefully this is a start.
warnings: none!
you're not a morning person. never really have been.
well, staying up until the wee hours of it, maybe— but getting up bright and early to feel the morning dew? pass.
apparently, dating a farm boy will change a person's perspective on some things.
especially one that smiles boyishly at you and says as you wish and means it, but that's besides the point.
no, this morning you aren't focusing solely on the gooey, warm, fresh-baked sweetness of loving clark kent. instead, you're in cuddle-warmed sheets (sans cuddle buddy, which is unfortunate) toying with the well-loved fabric as sun paints the room a hazy, early morning blue.
there's a strange feeling in the air. it's like nostalgia, laying in a room you've never slept in before and looking across memories that don't belong to you; it's like security, the kind being around clark always brings.
somehow, you feel at home and peaceful and scared to death all at once.
meeting his parents— his folks— had been a big, scary, significant step. getting brought home to meet the people that raised superman.
the people that raised clark.
the people that shaped this… darling of a man, that treats you like it's easy to be good to you.
but they'd treated you nearly as well, with warmth and good food and a casual kind of inviting comfort that almost made you wonder if you'd somehow met before and forgotten.
the fear faded faster than you ever would have guessed.
the house isn't alive yet, you know that. you can feel it, somehow. but you can feel the rumblings, the gears slowly starting to turn in the distant sounds of muffled dishes and quiet drawls in the other room and the low, distorted sounds of a news report playing on a tv you can't see.
there's beauty in it. the quiet, sleepy start.
so much beauty that you're hesitant to disturb it. hesitant to disturb your own sweet bubble, here in clark's small bed; hesitant to disturb a peaceful morning routine of the sweet people hosting you; hesitant to disturb whatever clark is up to.
hesitant to make him play host himself, worry about making you comfortable, when he could be spending this precious morning with his parents.
so you don't. you lay in bed, and you breathe in nice and deep, and you watch the sun start to properly filter through his window and you think about a younger version of the man you love sitting in this very spot and basking in those yellows rays.
you roll over, stretching lazily and curling up with the sheet dragged up to your chin, eyes wandering over pieces of a history you've just begun to learn about.
posters, pennants, tchotchkes— little mementos of a life you didn't live, little treasures you wonder if he'll tell you about.
all so… human. delightfully so. incredibly so. hilariously so, if you were in any frame of mind to disturb the peace and quiet by laughing.
instead, you just marinate in fondness, smiling like a fool.
--
your peace lasts long enough for you to nearly drift back off into a dream that smells like wood and safe sheets and faintly of breakfast.
nearly.
you don't quite make it, though. not when there are gentle but deliberate steps— familiar steps— on the wood of the hall. not when they're followed by a gently turned knob and a friendly sounding creak of the door.
not when it clicks shut again and weight sits behind you.
you hum in happy, sleepy greeting, blinking yourself back awake and reaching lazily back towards him.
as always, his hand finds yours, gentle and warm.
"good morning to you too," he murmurs sweetly, and you can hear a fond amusement in his voice as he toys with your fingers. "how'd you sleep?"
"like a log," you murmur back, basking in the rays of him like he is the sun as you steal a phrase he's used so many times. "how'd you do?"
"perfect," he reports happily, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your cheek.
that turns into three, because he spoils you rotten, and when he goes for a fourth you turn your head to capture his lips with your own.
you miss a little, hitting the corner of his mouth instead— he's a moving target, okay, you can forgive yourself that. especially when it makes him chuckle against your mouth, warm and comfortable.
he's home, and that shows in every line of his being.
your hand finds his shoulder and it feels so much more relaxed than usual. it's muscle, still, but it's loose with joy and safety and a kind of comfort you've never seen on him.
it's precious and it makes you never, ever want to leave.
the kiss breaks eventually, because even superman has to breathe— even if sometimes it seems like he forgets that when he's got his lips on yours.
"ma's got breakfast going," he murmurs into your space, nuzzling his nose against yours.
it's sickeningly sweet, but a few months of being with clark kent has built up your immune system's ability to handle such a thing. now, instead of breaking out in hives or going into a sneezing fit or recoiling like a scared animal, you hum softly.
"i like your mom," you say softly, stating the obvious because sometimes the obvious is what needs saying the most. "and your dad. they're sweet."
your instincts served you well, because he grins like a boy half his age and shifts to kiss your cheek again.
"they like you, too, y'know—"
"shhhh," you say quickly, playfully pushing at his (broad, you note for the thousandth time) chest. "you'll jinx me."
"don't be silly—"
"can't hear you!" you interject, rolling quickly out from his pocket of the world and to your feet. you pause to glance down at him and try not to grin like an idiot at the gooey affection all over his face. adoration, if you were brave enough to be honest. "i'm busy starting my day bright and early, because that's what you do on a farm."
"you don't have to," he assures you earnestly, sweet as pie and oh-so-hazardous for your heart. "you're a guest."
"for once," you admit, picking up a blanket that had fallen from the bed and starting to fold it neatly, "i can see the appeal in it."
jason todd x gender neutral reader. 1307 words.
notes: for my next trick, i'll rewrite the best idea i ever put to paper. part one.
an au where jason didn’t die, set in early college years. when i said i wanted him happy i meant it.
warnings: n/a.
original | song insp | next
“they make it look so easy.”
from anyone else, the hum of acknowledgement that fills the quiet air between you would sound distant.
from him, though? it sounds almost as cozy as the thrift shop you've wandered into, because jason's acknowledgement is usually curiosity in disguise.
you're half convinced that everything with him is curiosity in disguise.
with a little gesture up towards the several dozen dolls and figures frozen mid-dance on the shelves in front of you, you glance over at him. “dancing, i mean.”
“it’s not as hard as it seems,” he responds easily, voice just a little quieter than usual as he takes a hand out of his jacket pocket to pick up the nearest figure. he studies it, thumb tracing the details of the ceramic skirt as you try to keep your eyes from tracing his hand. “you get the hang of it.”
you scoff lightly, rolling your eyes playfully away from him and back to the display. “yeah, sure, mister grace on two legs.”
“it’s like riding a bike.”
“and grace doesn’t come in handy there either, huh?”
he reaches past you, setting the figure back on the shelf with one of those flat looks that doesn't actually make it to his eyes. the one that means you're successfully amusing him and he's not willing to give you the satisfaction of knowing it yet. “fine, it comes in handy. but this kind of thing-” he brings down a different figure, this one featuring two small, ceramic people in formal wear frozen mid-sway- “doesn’t take much. just a little practice.”
“mhm.” you shift to the side, eyes passing over the next batch of knick-knacks and landing on a set of dolls having a tea party. “somehow i feel like you have an advantage, there.”
“want to bet on it?”
that catches your attention again. “what?”
“i can teach you to dance,” he says, playful confidence coating the statement. easy, smooth, like it's nothing he hasn't done before. (has he done it before?) “and i can do it between now and bruce’s big benefit on the 20th."
"bullshit."
"if i can’t, i’ll buy us extra large sundaes from grover’s.”
you're looking him square in the pretty brown eyes as he doubles down, and you should definitely know better than to take him up on something like that.
one, you're not a dancer. two, being that close to the guy you definitely have feelings for is a terrible idea. (doubly so when he's, y'know, batman's kid. hiding anything from jason is a lot like trying to use glass for wrapping paper.) three, he never cocks his head like that unless he's got someone right where he wants them, and that innocent smile is bad news, too.
“ooh… grover’s, huh? that’s pretty high stakes, jay.” you quip anyway, tilting your head with a similarly playful smile. because even if you know better, you can't help but be a little curious about where he's going with this. “what do you get if you actually pull it off?”
“if i can…”he trails off dramatically to look over the figurines again before meeting your eyes again. “you come as my plus one to the gala. keep me from dying of boredom.”
…excuse me?
you stare at him for a beat (which feels like six), trying to decide if you think he's serious or not.
"what?"
he shrugs.
“don’t you think you should ask bruce or something?" you ask, brows raised and heart faster than you're willing to acknowledge at the moment. "y'know, before you just start tossing around invitations to commoners?"
"he’d be happy to have you, trust me." he looks- and sounds- very much like he means that. it's wry, and quick, but genuine.
(which- okay, you'd probably be better company than the usual crowd that goes to these things, if even half the stories jason has told you are accurate. but it's still weird to hear.)
"besides, what’s one more person in a crowd that size? bet he wouldn’t even notice if i didn’t tell him.”
you raise a brow.
“okay, he notices everything,” he admits, somehow twirling the figure in his palm- some little finger flick you don't really track, mostly focused on how much that figure will shatter if he messes up. “but that’s not the point.”
an amused hum escapes you as you consider the offer. ice cream with a friend, or a fancy wayne event spent watching jason pretend to be amused by muckety mucks. either way, you get free entertainment; but either way, you have to get through him teaching you to dance without falling on your face, swooning, or otherwise dying of proximity-based embarrassment.
you should say no. you should roll your eyes and tell him to shut up and nudge him towards the books or something.
you should treat this like the joke it could oh-so-easily be.
for some reason, you don't.
“you'd better be ready to go all out on toppings when you lose.”
“oooor,” he drags the word out with a boyish grin you suspect could charm the city to a stop, catching the figure solidly in his palm (because of course he does). “when i win, you better be ready to put up with the sound of business men fake laughing about the weather for hours.”
your nose scrunches up, making him laugh.
another warm, cozy sound.
the pattern isn’t lost on you- how warm and cozy he always manages to seem- but instead of unpacking the butterflies it sets loose in your stomach, you finally roll your eyes and sigh. “fine, deal.”
his grin returns, softer this time. “cool. so-” his eyes widen, darting past you- “woah, now that is a jacket.”
he puts the figurine down and slides by you, barely brushing your shoulder as he passes and leaving a hint of his cologne in his wake: a burst of something floral wrapped in faint cedar and something else you can’t quite identify.
as you trail after him, heart skipping erratically from the ridiculous conversation, you catch yourself hoping you’ll get another chance to try.
he's wiggling out of his varsity-style gotham university jacket, gently draping it over a nearby rack before tugging on one made of a tan leather. you catch his eye in the mirror as he adjusts the collar, fingers as graceful and as easy as all of his stupid movements.
“what d'you think?”
you twirl a finger, and he follows the motion with a smooth spin, arms out to showcase the sleeves. upsettingly, it looks good. really good. just like everything else this bastard puts on. but it looks good like a costume looks good- there's something about it that just isn't right, and you can't really put it into words.
“hm… it’s nice, but…”
he cocks his head again, eyes on your expression like he can read your mind. “not me?”
“not really, no.”
he clutches a hand to his chest, feigned hurt barely disguising that amusement you've spent the last few months trying not to chase. “what, don’t think i’m cool enough for a leather jacket?”
“sorry, jason," you say, not even close to sounding sorry as you reach for his jacket and wave it playfully. "besides, this one brings out your eyes.”
a small laugh escapes him, and he shakes his head, shrugging the tan leather off. “that was totally a priority when i bought it, too.”
“...looks good on you,” you offer, watching him pull his own jacket back on. watching the black and yellow fabric settle on shoulders you try not to think about too much.
“that has to count for something.” he casts one more dreamy look at the leather jacket before turning his focus fully to you, his smile returning and reviving the butterflies that had so kindly died off. “so, about dance lessons…”
jason todd x gender neutral reader. 1,029 words.
notes: pre-relationship. reader is on the social side. title taken from infinite baths by sleep token. part one.
warnings: n/a
jason's spent a lot of time in the dark.
he's not as bad as bruce. he'll never be as bad as bruce. that guy needs serious help, and jason is not that. jason has a life.
jason is just... a little nocturnal. that's all.
and okay, maybe it's been too much time in the dark. maybe.
but it's where he can do the most good. he's more effective in the shadows. plus, y'know, gotham.
everybody knows what they say about gotham's nightlife. it's when the scumbags come out to play.
but as a result, this- bright and warm and vivid, sweet and vibrant and you- this is almost blinding.
it's cliché. he knows that. he knows that to his bones, and there's a part of him that would very much like to be snarky or run away or do anything other than watch you right now, but he just can't bring himself to stop.
you're gorgeous.
more importantly, you're cracking jokes and mingling and making people smile. sun on your cheeks and a notebook in your hand and a clever grin on your face as you check on people and scribble notes and keep everyone on track.
you've got your best traits right on display, right where he can't ignore them. right out in the open. everything that's convinced him to allow himself the brief conversations you have in the corner store. the wit and sweetness and charm that made him take you up on an offer to exchange numbers so you could send him a stupid recipe.
and he's maybe in a little deeper than he's been willing to admit.
he knew it, sure. knew your smile was going to be dangerous and knew volunteering to help you with your passion projects was damning himself and that this would all be a very bad idea.
but knowing and feeling are different things.
he's always been good at knowing.
this is feeling it. feeling your laugh like it's right next to him instead of across this stupid chunk of park. feeling it in his chest, right where he should not be feeling things.
...shit.
shit, shit, shit.
and then you turn your head to look right at him, and he feels that too.
and when you call his name and ask him to help move tables around, he actually moves forward and does it.
--
it doesn't get any better, by the way.
no, because a few hours later, your event is winding down in the golden rays of end-of-day, which means you look like magic.
and the event went well, so you're beaming.
you look happy and exhausted and satisfied with a job well done, packing up decorations while he folds tables back up and tries to ignore how much of that warmth he can feel radiating off of you.
tries. fails.
super fails, because you walk over with a bottle of water and a grateful smile on your face and you slide into place beside him easily enough that it almost tricks him into thinking this is sustainable.
"careful," you pipe up as he takes a sip, playful and making his survival instincts beg him to just leave already. "the little old ladies already want to sign you up for the next one of these."
"little old ladies love me. i can't help it."
you laugh, because of course you do- because you two speak the same stupid little language, and you laugh at his stupid jokes, and he keeps making them because he himself is stupid.
"seriously, though," you say after a beat, shifting a little and staring out over the last few people gathered. "you were a really big help today. we owe you one. i owe you one."
he should dismiss that. dodge it or something. you don't owe him shit. and debts, even stupid ones like helping you move some boxes and cases of water around, tie people together.
and for all the two of you have in common, for as well as you mesh, as much as you click and having you around makes everything feel a little easier, you live in very different worlds. you shouldn't be tied to his.
"let me get you dinner?"
he would love to say he's unaffected by that offer.
he should be unaffected.
but he's not. no, his heart stutters like the little traitor it is, and his mind unhelpfully supplies what dinner with you could look like, and "dunno, i have expensive tastes." is falling from his lips in a vain attempt to joke his way out.
which means you huff another laugh. another dangerous laugh that makes him feel a little like the sun leaked into his chest. "how 'bout that pizza place you mentioned? with the gnocchi?"
oh, the place he only found because he got thrown through their window by a ten-foot-tall crocodile? that place? what a beautiful reminder of why he should say no.
"don't your little old ladies need you?" he asks, gesturing the water bottle vaguely across the park to a small pack of women old enough to be great-grandparents.
ignoring the fact that they were definitely looking at the two of you before he gestured. old people are nosy. he can't do anything about that.
and, to be fair, you're young and attractive and sweet. they probably want to make sure he isn't up to no good.
(if he's lucky, they're not hoping he's up to good instead. mediocrity is the goal, here. enough to help you out, not enough to pull you any closer.)
"careful," you tease quietly. "i'll tell them you implied that they're feeble."
"please don't."
this is it. this is where he invents plans he totally has tonight that don't involve running on rooftops or punching people or getting shot at.
this is the part where he nips all of this in the bud before he winds up trying to lead an actual double life, making plans with friends just to cancel because someone needs him to suit up. this is his opportunity to not be a cliché.
jason todd x gender neutral reader. 3,540 words.
notes: jason lives au continues. time for the gala.
which means we're officially farther into this story than ever before! thank you guys for coming along with me- i hope you enjoy. happy birthday jason. good job not dying this time.
warnings: minor feelings of being out of place.
song insp | part one | previous | next
you turn your key, and the engine cutting out leaves you to meet your own gaze in the rearview mirror in silence. alone. at night. parked in bruce wayne's driveway. right by the side entrance to a manor.
no biggie.
no turning back now, anyway.
not that there was ever any turning back, not if you're honest with yourself.
(you'd tried. you'd almost canceled three separate times while getting ready, stopping just shy of hitting call and dropping your phone back onto your bed with a huff each time, because you gave jason your word.)
the cold air you step out into is a jarring change from the warm car, february still clinging to gotham and clawing its way through your coat to mix with the cold nervousness behind your ribs.
you make your way across the driveway, a beeline for the mudroom jason had suggested you use to avoid the barely organized chaos that is the main entrance tonight.
--
you let yourself in, just like he'd instructed the night before, to find him exactly where he'd promised to be: waiting for you by the umbrella stand in the corner, his head snapping up from his phone and towards the door as you open it.
waiting for you and looking absolutely gorgeous.
his suit is, predictably, perfectly fitted; hair neatly styled; tie charmingly askew, so slightly that you suspect that if you hadn't been looking for flaws you would have missed it. it's all gorgeous, and none of it holds a candle to the almost shy edge to his smile.
that alone is nearly enough to chase the last traces of winter out of your bones.
"hey," he says, pushing off the wall he'd been leaning against. "c'mon in."
you give him a bashful grin, clicking the door shut behind you and shrugging your coat off. "hey."
"you-" his eyes drop from your own to your outfit before he snaps his attention back up- "you look great."
you beam, his earnest tone making heat rise in your cheeks. "thanks. you do too, it-" a wave to his well-tailored ensemble- "suits you."
and then you wince.
his surprised laugh confirms that you had, indeed, made the terrible pun out loud. right where he could hear it.
awesome.
"thanks," he says, and you can't quite tell if the softness there is sympathy on his end or hallucination on yours. "alfred's got this whole network of tailors and stuff, like some kind of formal wear underground."
well, at least it's jason. he always gives you a toe-hold back into the flow of conversation when you say something stupid.
"must come in handy when you're mister fancy pants."
"they're not that fancy."
you huff a laugh, turning and hanging your coat up by the door.
as you do, he clears his throat quietly. "it really is great to see you. how was the drive?"
"drive was okay," you reply. "only got lost once- took a left when i shouldn't have about five minutes up the road."
"oh, at the hill? the one with that dumb looking rock? i should've warned you about that- even i get turned around there sometimes." it's quiet, for just a second, and then:. "not that that needs to be common knowledge."
you laugh again, a little more of the awkwardness leaving the room as you make a zipper motion over your mouth. "secret's safe with me."
"it's appreciated. the last thing i need is bruce having anything else to give me a hard time about." he pauses, running a hand through that neatly-styled hair and letting out a sigh that only sounds half-joking. "speaking of… i guess we should go mingle."
your face scrunches up involuntarily. "are you sure we can't just make fun of them all from here?"
"i'm pretty sure. but, hey, at least this time i have someone to make fun of them with- bruce always gets pulled away in the middle of my commentary."
"wow, so inconsiderate," you quip right back, ignoring the way your heart tries to be stupid about being the someone he does anything with. "don't the people know you have a duty as resident comedian?"
"i know, right?"
a soft hum slips from you and, after a beat, your smile fades.
you're not sure you should be nervous. it's just people. but it's a kind of people you've never been around, and even with jason giving you plenty of briefings going in about the etiquette and layout, you just can't help the hesitation.
glancing at the door behind him, you fold your arms in a way that totally doesn't telegraph every ounce of that concern. "...it's just people," you point out, more to yourself than to him. "not sure why i feel like i'm going swimming with sharks."
"not sure i've ever not felt that way," he admits wryly, softer than he'd been a minute ago. almost gentle. which… not really helping the whole fluttering in your chest thing. "it's loud, and busy, and the people are insuffera- er, let's just say they're not my ideal company."
"nice save, mister manners."
he gives a very unapologetic attempt at a guilty smile, adjusting his suit jacket. "maybe we can make it a little less nervous- nerving- nerve-wracking- together? safety in numbers, or something."
there it is again.
jason stumbling on his words. it's like spotting a unicorn, or something.
and you can't really help the little fond expression that sneaks up on you as you process it.
"what?"
"no, no, nothing at all," you say, somehow finding a playful tone again. "that was just sweet."
he grumbles, hints of pink hitting his cheeks. "i'm trying to be helpful, here."
"i know, i know! you're very helpful. you're doing great, champ."
"i should have forfeited that bet," he grumbles, and you watch as he pinches the bridge of his nose.
you can't help laughing, either, but you have the decency to half-heartedly try to mask it.
"and now you laugh at my suffering! incredible."
"maybe you shouldn't make your suffering so amusing," you grin, his theatrics making you give up on the whole subtlety thing.
"i can't believe this. in my own home," he exclaims, tossing his hands up helplessly. "you mock my pain!"
"life is pain, highness. anyone who says otherwise is selling something."
he rolls his eyes, visibly fighting back a smile. "whatever. don't use movie quotes to hide your cruelty."
"don't make it so easy."
jason throws a half-hearted glare your way, and you smile innocently. "alright, now that you've watched me suffer and enjoyed my plight…." he trails off, eyes meeting your own as his hand rest on the door knob.
but it doesn't feel like he's rushing you. not really.
no, it's that same patience he always has when you need it, even if he does cover it up with quips and banter.
part of you wants to stay here, in this mudroom, and just sit with his patience and charm. snark back and forth all night. stay in that familiar territory, where you poke fun at him and he's a theatrical asshole about it and you both end up entirely too amused.
but that's not why you're here. and he has other people to attend to, too.
"i'd just talk myself out of it. let's go."
he studies your face for a beat. he must not find anything concerning, though, because he opens the door and waves you into the hallway. "after you."
--
the ballroom is somehow even bigger and brighter than you expected.
it's beautiful. the whole space is flooded with warm, inviting light that catches on jewelry and champagne glasses, bouncing off of and sparkling its way through the crowd of people dressed like there's a red carpet.
there might have been, for all you know. this is practically gotham royalty.
the glittering light is accompanied by polite laughter and a sea of chatter and gentle classical music from the band in the corner. it's… a lot.
"woah," you mutter, stopping in the doorway with wide eyes and suddenly feeling very small as you watch people talk and dance and mingle. "...woah."
"you okay?" jason asks quietly, bumping your shoulder with his own.
"yeah! yeah, just- a lot. this is a lot."
"yeah, i know what you mean. we can head over to the corner and just hang for a bit, let you get adjusted before-"
"jason!"
he grimaces. "or not," he whispers apologetically. "hang tight."
he slips past you and into the ballroom properly, and you just barely spot the plastered-on grin on his face before he plants himself like a shield between you and the source of the call. "mrs. mcdavis! it's so good to see you again."
there's that cologne again, you realize. cedar. and… mystery notes.
you're not sure. something woody. something jason. whatever it is, it's the same scent as from the shop where you made this stupid bet.
you've smelled it on him other times, too, you realize. when you'd see him after he had a big project due, or after he was doing something as a wayne kid. and now this. notable events, in your opinion. special, somehow.
he must have been somewhere before you two met up that day to go shopping.
"how are you, young man?"
right. mrs. mcdavis.
you tune back into the conversation, behind jason with a polite smile.
"you've grown so much since i last saw you. that was at arnold's big bash a few years ago, remember?" peeking around him, you find a woman in her mid-sixties with a strong jaw and impeccable posture that does absolutely nothing to disguise the fact that she is barely five feet tall. (how she manages to look down her nose at jason, a foot taller, is beyond you.) "with the dancing mime?"
"how could i forget?" he asks with a chuckle that catches you off guard; it sounds hollow, lacking his usual warmth and vibrancy.
it's like someone drained the life out of his laugh.
it's… unsettling, you realize. yeah, you've heard his 'business voice' before, but this feels like a stronger dose of it somehow.
mrs. mcdavis barrels right along, clearly unaware that she had been cheated out of his actual laugh. a shame, for her. "yes, yes, quite memorable. as was the cleanup, i assure you. those caterers spilled nearly a gallon of chowder on the front steps," she says conspiratorially, before shifting her attention to you. "and who might this be?"
you step to the side, and jason shoots you a quick smile that you think is probably meant to be reassuring as he offers your name. "we're attending the same university. you're looking at the finest library assistant on campus."
"oh, isn't that sweet," she coos, reaching out and patting your hand. "you know, my arnold and i met in college. have i ever told you the story?"
"i don't believe you have."
she claps her hands once, grinning broadly as she launches into the tale of the grand romance of her youth, and you brace yourself to be here a while.
a brief flicker of motion catches the corner of your eye, and when you look up, jason's perfect, polished grin is something almost apologetic. just for a moment. and then he's looking forwards, looking to all the world as though this is the most entertaining story he's ever heard.
--
"i would've just fallen asleep then and there."
"right? that's what i said!" you exclaim quietly, "but no, she's too busy for a nap, it's fine! the boss needs it done so it'll get done."
jason whistles lowly, before taking a sip out of his flute. "damn."
"exactly! it's ridiculous. she's exhausted all the time- gonna burn herself out by monday, at this rate."
"sounds like bruce," he mutters, giving you a sympathetic grimace. "sometimes i just want to lock him in his room and make him sleep, but knowing him he probably has a computer stashed under his pillow and would just work from there." he glances to the side, letting out a little hm. "speak of the devil."
you follow his gaze, finding bruce wayne on a path straight for the two of you.
which is a little disconcerting. yeah, he's just a guy, and yeah, he's just jason's father and mentor, but…
well, you're from gotham. this is bruce wayne. and also batman.
if your posture straightens up a little, who's to judge?
"i'm sorry it's taken me this long to greet you," he says, his voice smooth and deep and easily audible even through this room as he extends his right hand. "i've been tied up. bruce wayne."
you shake his hand. bruce wayne's hand. batman's hand.
no biggie at all.
you introduce yourself with a smile, too.
"thank you for having me, mr. wayne."
"it's my pleasure. jason speaks quite highly of you."
warmth blooms in your chest. jason does what now?
you respond on autopilot with a comment about having a wonderful time, paying much more attention to how jason shifts beside you. just a little. it's subtle, but it's there.
it's not that hard to imagine jason putting in a good word for a friend, you know that. but the idea that he's mentioning you, much less in a positive light, still sparks something beneath your ribs.
you swallow it, tuning back in to what bruce is saying.
"-as always. i don't know what i would do without him, really."
jason nods, the motion only making you more aware of him right beside you. "alfred is the real mastermind."
"now that is someone jason speaks highly of," you say, grateful for a toe-hold back into the conversation you'd missed. "alfred is one of the most reliable people in the world, if he's-" a nod to jason- "to be believed."
"in this case, yes, he is-"
"in this case?" jason interjects dryly.
bruce continues, unphased. "alfred is a wonderful man."
"bruce wayne!" a booming voice calls from your right, cutting through the din around you, pulling bruce's attention away.
"scott!" he calls back cheerfully, before looking back at you and jason. "i'm sorry to cut this short, but if you two will excuse me?"
"of course. it was a pleasure to meet you, mr. wayne."
"the same to you. i hope you enjoy the rest of the evening." he gives jason a small nod and smile, something shifting in his expression for just a moment- like when jason had looked at you while talking to mrs. mcdavis, when the jason you knew had snuck through his public persona- before it's quickly covered and bruce takes his leave.
which leaves you and jason standing alone.
"...you told your dad about me?"
he groans quietly. "oh, don't start."
"what's there to start?" you ask playfully, the laugh you're holding back still very audible in your voice as you violently fight the urge to tease him. "i'm just flattered."
"mmm. c'mon, let's get some hors d'oeuvres or something."
--
you do find some hors d'oeuvres. and about four other people that each want to talk jason's ear off.
but he's good about including you when it makes sense and noticing when you need to be left out of it. which means you get to watch him as he navigates the evening with grace and poise, and then get to watch him turn to you after each conversation and try to resume your own.
eventually, you find a quiet corner and have a few minutes uninterrupted for quiet conversation.
well, until he catches sight of something over your shoulder, giving a quick nod before looking back to you. "looks like i've got one more song before duty calls," he reports quietly, nodding towards whoever had tipped him off. "want to put your training to use?"
"hm?"
he laughs, offering you his hand in a goofy bow and saying your name like it's a compliment. "may i have this dance?"
…oh.
oh, boy. somehow, you didn't actually expect to dance tonight. sure, he taught you and all, but that was just him being an idiot and making you do something out of your comfort zone.
this is in front of what feels like half of gotham.
and, y'know, his dad.
"what, didn't think i'd ask?"
you're not even sure if that's smug or not. you know you should respond, though, because the look in his eyes is definitely more you're leaving me hanging than got you!
so, you take his hand. "not really, no."
you let him lead you to the dance floor, tucking you both into a relatively quiet corner and resting his hand lightly on your waist. you feel his chuckle under your left palm as the music comes back in, violin prominent and sweet.
jason steps towards you, and you match him step for step, just as he'd taught you- and just as you had practiced on your own every night since, not expecting to actually use it.
"we wouldn't want your newfound skill to go unused, would we?"
"oh, hush, let me focus so i don't step on you."
it's nice, honestly. even with the mild discomfort of being held and being all dressed up and being around a bajillion people, it's nice to have him this close.
it'll be worth the way it makes you want to kiss him. probably. as long as you don't look him in the eyes.
"hey," he says softly, ruining that plan almost immediately as you instinctively glance up at him. which is bad, because he looks sincere and sweet and warm and friend-shaped in a way that makes you want to be not-friends. "even if you do step on me, i'm glad you came."
luckily, the smile you can't help is probably a perfectly reasonable way to respond. so you lean into it. "yeah, me too."
and you are. his warmth has far outweighed anything else tonight, and you actually feel yourself relaxing into your little box step. simple steps, good company- and it's only weird to dance with a good friend if you make it weird, right?
--
as the song slows, jason does the same.
despite all of your grumbling about practice and worrying about showing up and stressing about being this close to him, you actually get a wave of disappointment as it comes to an end.
and if you were a little bit braver, you might hope he feels it too, because he does let out a quiet sigh. "well, guess it's time."
"go get 'em, hotshot," you encourage, matching his low volume and masking that traitorous feeling with a playful smirk up at him. "if i can dance, you can handle this."
he chuckles, which you can feel right beneath your palm again (and no, that doesn't help), and he pulls his hand from your waist. slower than you expect. "thanks."
"thank you for the dance," you tease, taking a half-step back and giving a goofy bow. mostly so you don't go looking for things that aren't there. "you're not a bad partner."
which gets harder when he brings your hand up between you, and you're stuck looking up into pretty brown eyes that are sparkling in the warm light. "the pleasure was all mine," he says, kissing your knuckles.
with that, he pulls back, letting go of your hand and turning to disappear into the crowd with a little smile on his face and what you think might have been color in his cheeks.
you stand, silent, stunned, hand frozen in midair as you stare after him.
--
which about sums up the next half hour of your life, which is spent listening to bruce's speech to thank donors and the charity they're working with, making small talk with guests as they start to filter out, and keeping an eye out for jason.
which is harder than you would have expected.
you suspect he's somewhere near the center of the crowd of people slowly trickling out of the ballroom, but for once his height isn't really helping. there's too many bodies, too much motion.
so you, like a child lost in a grocery store, find a corner where you'll be easy-ish to see and stay there.
the thought of slipping out the door crosses your mind more than once, and gets more tempting each time- he's got to be exhausted, so why not save him one more conversation? you could just retrace your steps, slip out the side door, and shoot him a text to thank him for a good night.
…except that would probably be super lame. a text? really?
but as time passes, you get that out of place feeling start to creep back in, and you start to care less and less about being lame.
right up until somebody psssts behind you, and you glance back to find jason loosening his tie.
"been looking for you," he says.
"found me," you quip tiredly.
he smiles, a crooked little thing that looks a little like he's resisting the urge to give you a noogie.
(it wouldn't be the first time.)
"wanna go hide in the kitchen?" he offers instead, gently bumping his shoulder into yours.
jason todd x gender neutral reader. 1,868 words.
notes: jason lives au continues. dance lessons occur.
warnings: n/a. original | song insp | part one | previous | next
okay, so, in retrospect: this whole dance thing? not your best decision.
it means making sure both your apartment and your nice sweatpants are clean in an attempt to seem casually put together, like he doesn’t already know better. like he hasn't already spent movie nights and study buddy lunches here, and seen how you organize your bookshelf.
it means realizing that you’ve never broken in the nice shoes you bought a few months prior. y'know, the only pair you own that would work for an event this pretentious- er, nice- but that'll be fine, right?
it means jumping out of your skin when your doorbell rings right on time.
and it means that your heart performs an impressive backflip and sticks the landing only to dissolve into a melted puddle when you open the door and find him in a casual, soft t-shirt and sweatpants combo with a winter coat and warm smile to top it off. “hey.”
hey. which is a common ass word. that should mean nothing.
that should absolutely not make you want to smile like an idiot, because everyone says hey.
you sigh heavily instead, stepping aside to let him in. “c'mon, ballerina boy," you mutter, leaning heavily against the door. "let’s get this over with.”
“what, not looking forward to it?” he quips, with that smug, stupid little head tilt he does as he slips past you.
and, for some stupid reason, you hold his gaze the entire time. it's maybe, maybe two whole seconds, but it feels like longer, because he's… him.
like somebody took a romcom and gave it a pulse, and a nice smile, and pretty brown eyes.
you swing the door closed with a soft click, and resign yourself to ignoring all of that. “i’m not looking forward to stepping on your toes. literally.”
“don’t worry, i grabbed the thickest shoes i own,” he teases, slipping off his coat and setting his keys and phone on the coffee table you'd slid out of the way. “plenty of cushion.”
“the dress shoes and sweatpants thing is an interesting statement, i’ll give you that.”
“you’re just jealous that i-” he glances pointedly at your own shoes and sweatpants as you stop a few feet back, that dumb little smile making your crisis much worse- “can make it work.”
you roll your eyes, because what else is there to do when the handsome guy about to teach you to waltz is being a playful jerk? “yeah, well, some of us don’t get to look good in everything.”
at least it earns you a sputter of laughter.
it's the little things, really.
-
“ready to go?”
“ready is a strong word, todd.”
“so grumpy. what, you afraid you’ll learn something?”
it's not the learning you're afraid of, not that you'll tell him that.
for one thing, you really are nervous about stepping on his toes.
for another, you're afraid of breaking the comfortable, teasing rhythm you've found yourselves in. afraid that if you step into his orbit, the pull may truly be too strong to escape.
it's one thing to swallow butterflies and mask surges of affection with playful eyerolls from across the room, but up close and personal? more challenging, especially considering you're trying to hide from the protégé of the batman himself.
because he couldn't just be pretty and clever and sweet. no, he also has to be the most observant person you've ever met. why not?
“hey,” he calls, snapping you out of your thoughts. his smile's shifting from playful to reassuring, warmth seeping from him and threatening to melt you all over again. “c'mon, we’ll go slow.”
he offers you his left hand, steady and confident.
you lay your right palm over it, trying not to focus on the feeling of warm, calloused skin, or the way his fingers squeeze your hand.
“there we go. now your hand on my shoulder-” he nudges his right shoulder forward slightly, an open invitation you carefully take (against your better judgment)- “and mine on your waist. this good?”
“this is good,” you respond, a little more honestly than he'll realize. yes, it's unnerving holding and being held by the guy that makes your heart do kickflips, but his hands are gentle despite the visible wear and tear and his movements are cautious and slow. doing what he can to make you comfortable.
which almost works, actually. because when he's not making you want to throttle him or kiss him stupid, he's… calming. which is why you're doing any of this.
it's one thing to have a handsome guy that likes to grin at you and go round-for-round with stupid teases. that would be an easier thing to ignore. no, this handsome guy grins and teases and is also a good friend that makes everything seem more manageable.
he nods a little, which jogs you out of your thoughts, and shifts slightly before clearing his throat. “okay. so here’s where things get tricky.”
“oh, joy.”
“i figure i’ll lead, because i actually know what i’m doing, so i’ll start by stepping forward with my right foot like this-” he shifts forwards, watching his shoes and nudging the toe of yours gently- “and you’ll step your left foot back to make room.”
“like this?”
“yeah, that’s good. step back onto the ball of your foot- yep, perfect. now,” he says, glancing up at you and nodding to his left, “other foot that way.”
you step sideways slowly, actually grateful to be focusing on the moves instead of him, and he mirrors your movement.
“just like that. now just step in, bring your left foot right.”
you do, and hum a little curious sound to see if that was what he meant.
“that’s it!” his gaze jumps back up to meet yours, a goofy hint of a smile on his face. “half a box step down. now we just gotta do it backwards.”
“…you’re kidding, right?”
“uh… no. sorry.”
you sigh. he doesn’t look sorry, and you point it out under your breath, ignoring the cute little laugh he gives you in return before guiding you into the reverse.
-
“-and he does this thing- i’ve told you about the grumble thing before,” jason pauses, pointing his water bottle at you in a silent question and mimicking your nod before taking a sip and continuing. “so he does the grumble thing with his voice, right, trying to figure out who hired this guy and he must have had a death wish or something because he flips him- bruce- off.”
this is better. sitting on your couch and listening to him tell stories- ones he almost definitely shouldn't be telling you, but you're not about to stop him- this is much more familiar ground.
there's something sweet about it. mundane and calm. just watching him as he tells a family story. it's… cute.
“seriously?”
“dead serious. he flips him off and goes-” he raises his voice to a nasally, high tone- “your mom hired me.”
you wince, somewhere in the middle of a startled laugh, just imagining having the guts required to say that to batman. sure, you've never actually seen the bat, but you've heard enough to picture an intimidatingly enormous, angry looking figure. “ouch.”
“yeah, he had a bad time after that.”
“did you ever find out who hired him?”
he pushes up off the couch, stretching towards the ceiling with a groan. “not yet, but i’m sure bruce’ll know by the time i get home. he said he had a lead this morning.”
“well,” you follow suit, setting your water off to the side. “sounds like you’ll have your work cut out for you tonight.”
“usually do,” he sighs. “alright, break time’s over. back to ballroom bootcamp.”
you laugh again, quickly (weakly) covering it with a serious expression as he shoots you something you're sure is supposed to look chiding. “right. time to be serious.”
“mhm,” he mumbles dubiously, which only serves to make you giggle again. “yeah, you sound very serious.”
“you just said ballroom bootcamp, jason. what did you expect?”
he rolls his eyes, and you pretend not to see the smile he hides behind another sip of water before closing his water bottle and tossing it onto the couch. “c'mere, let’s run through the basics one more time and then we’ll call it a day, yeah?”
-
“well,” he says, bringing his feet to a stand-still, but continuing to sway back and forth. “there’s the basics.”
you want to complain. or at least make a joke about how the two of you describe basic differently.
you don't.
you smile, instead.
“i guess that wasn’t awful.”
“no?”
“nope.”
and maybe that's a mistake, because the ghost of a smirk is on his face as he slows the little sway to a stop. “so does that mean i win?”
you roll your eyes and sigh again, his smugness becoming even more evident as you stall. “you’re the worst, y'know that?”
“is that a yes?”
he's still holding you.
his hands are loose, sure, so you could pull away. probably should, if you're honest with yourself. but you don't, just yet, because he's leading this stupid dance.
he can end it.
“yes, jason,” you say, more resigned than you genuinely feel. because now his smirk is warmer, dipping into something more sincere than his usual ribbing, and you've never been very good at resisting his sincerity. “you win.”
“i’m mature enough to spare you the ‘i told you so’, but-”
even there, even being a know-it-all that's too proud of himself, he sounds warm. so you interject. “you told me so?”
“a little.”
you huff a laugh, and he finally pulls his hand from your waist. so you take the queue and slide your hands off of him, swallowing the mild disappointment at the loss of warmth and turning to get some water instead.
“so,” he starts slowly, and if you didn't know better, you'd almost call his tone cautious. nervous. “does that mean you’ll come?”
“wasn’t that the deal?” you ask, taking a sip of water and glancing back.
“well- i mean, yes, but-”
“yes," you cut him off gently, because jason todd stumbling over words can not possibly be good, and the last thing you want is for him to think that all of your grumbling was actually your attempt at wriggling out of this. "i’ll be there.”
his grin comes back full force, dazzling and warm, the kind that you wish you could put in a bottle and open on bad days to make everything better. “cool.”
“cool?”
“cool.”
-
jason todd leaves your apartment two full hours after he arrived.
leaving you to drop onto your couch and stare at nothing, cheeks burning and water gripped loosely in your hand.
he gets back to the manor with a spring in his step he very much tries to hide.
so, obviously, bruce is in the foyer, the least convienent place possible. impossible to avoid without doubling back around to the mudroom instead of the front door.
bruce, the most infuriating man alive, takes one look at jason's poker face and smiles right into his stupid cup of tea.
jason todd x gender neutral reader. 2,610 words.
notes: jason lives au continues.
warnings: mentions of alcohol but none is consumed on "screen"!
song insp | part one | previous | next (coming soon)
"so… success?" you ask halfway down a hall with wood paneling that you suspect is older than your grandparents, following him away from the noise of a dying party and towards the kitchen.
"i think so," jason grins tiredly, shrugging off his suit jacket and dropping it on the back of a (very nice looking) wooden chair. one of six surrounding the long, narrow table in the center of the room, which is as spacious as anything else in this place. "we met our fundraising goal and then some."
"good." that seems lackluster, underwhelming, because this event was a big deal, but you can't really think of anything to add. especially not with someone rolling up his sleeves as he walks straight to the counter, where a few dishes are sitting out- presumably waiting for the manor's residents. "that's great."
the dishes look nice. you don't notice much about them, though, because his arms are nicer.
"yeah," he sighs, stretching his neck side to side before picking the bottle of something- champagne, you assume- out of a bucket of ice. "bruce seems really pleased. we talked for a minute after his big speech, and he didn't even give me the is this over yet face."
"that is good."
"considering he's been doing all of this on about four hours of sleep, i'm not sure if it's a miracle or very concerning," he says, and you can hear the laugh in his voice as he picks up two glasses with more flourish than is required. then, he reaches for a third, pausing to glance over at you. "you want some?"
you don't even bother trying for good posture, dropping into a chair and slumping your elbows against the table with a tired smile. "i gotta drive, remember?" you point out warmly.
"oh- no, it's cider," he responds, gesturing at the bottle- with two glass stems in one hand, which you try not to stress about. he knows what he's doing. probably. usually. "no alcohol, just carbonation. it's this tradition bruce has. his parents used to do it with him after big events, then bruce did it with dick, and now he does it with me, when he can actually get away from the last few guests." he pauses briefly, nudging his head towards the bottle again.
sure. why not casually try to include you in a generations-deep tradition like it's no big deal. that won't give your heart stupid ideas at all.
this guy is going to give you a heart attack one day.
"i'd hate to steal his routine."
"i think i can manage a second round when he finally shows up," he retorts dryly, plucking the third glass up and placing them in a neat row.
you watch as he fills two with smooth, easy pours, his back to you.
you watch him more than the liquid, though. even here, doing something as simple as pouring drinks, he's graceful. careful.
beautiful.
broad shoulders, solid build, all emphasized by that tucked-in dress shirt…
"bruce can pour his own," he says lightly, picking up two full glasses, leaving the third empty on the counter as he turns to set one in front of you. "he's a big boy."
you huff a laugh, and he slips into the chair just diagonal from yours, and it's quiet.
comfortable. nice.
you hold your glass out. "to not stepping on your toes."
it's the right thing to say.
because he looks at your glass, meets your gaze, and lasts about a half a second before he's hanging his head and laughing.
"you're the worst," he mutters, grinning like he means the opposite as he clinks his glass to yours.
--
time moves much faster here than in that big ass ballroom.
conversation flows like water, and the amount of laughter filling the kitchen probably has something to do with how late it is, but it makes your heart all warm and full anyway. you drain your glasses and a full tray of crackers by the time anyone else turns up.
alfred is anyone else, as it turns out.
you're trying- and failing- to keep your laugh down when you hear him walk in, but jason doesn't bother.
he just drags a hand down his face and leans back in his chair, that big warm grin of his turning right to alfred.
"is he still playing brucie?" he asks, and it occurs to you- again- how unfortunate everyone at the gala had been to miss this jason. the real deal.
and, conversely, how incredibly lucky you are to get it.
"yes, master bruce is entertaining the remaining guests."
"think i ought to go rescue him?" jason asks, and you're pretty sure he isn't joking.
alfred's raised brow of disapproval seems to confirm that for you.
"i believe you have your own guest to attend to, sir."
"i'd be okay," you offer quickly, glancing between them. "if you need to-"
"nah," jason says lightly, taking another sip of his cider and glancing at alfred, who seems satisfied enough to move towards the fridge. "like i said, bruce is a big boy. he can handle it."
you've only met alfred once or twice, but you know enough to know that a full conversation just occurred and that you're best served staying out of it.
so you do, nodding and sipping at your drink.
until alfred addresses you, that is.
"might i interest you in leftovers?"
"oh, that's sweet of you," you respond, back straightening involuntarily. just a little. "everything was delicious, but don't worry about it."
"no worry at all, i assure you," he says evenly. warmly. you see why jason speaks so warmly about him, honestly. "i couldn't help but overhear your comment earlier this evening regarding your roommate's lack of proper rest. i imagine that a ready-made meal would be a welcome surprise."
you blink. is everyone in this house this observant?
you glance back at jason, who is the picture of innocence and no help at all.
--
predictably, you end up with a large paper bag of leftovers.
you're not sure how it happened, but you're pretty sure there isn't a version of that conversation where you left without some, so.
you thank alfred again as he takes his leave with a bottle of wine, presumably for bruce's guests, and he all but dismisses it.
you think that's a good sign. a sign of approval.
not that you need approval. it's just… nice, when your friend's family seems to like you.
"hey," jason says after a beat, knocking you out of your thoughts again. "i have something to add to that bag."
you cock a brow, watching him slide out of his chair to pluck a small package off the counter and pass it to you.
it's wrapped in brown paper, and it's a little heavier than you expect, and your eyes shift from it up to his own gaze.
"for me?"
"mhm," he nods, leaning on the back of his chair with his arms crossed. "open it."
okay. weird, but okay. you gently tear the paper, setting it aside and ignoring the weight of his gaze on you as you're left with a box in your hands.
you lift the lid and gently nudge the tissue paper aside.
you're greeted by the familiar faces of two tiny ceramic dancers.
"jason," you breathe, gently tracing the side of the figure and trying to figure out how to respond without sounding like you adore him. "this is so sweet."
"i just thought you might like a memento." his soft tone- gentle, warm, low, that range that makes heat hit your cheeks against your will- is sweet. because he is, at his core, an absolute sweetheart. to your detriment. "to remind you that things aren't always as complicated as they seem."
you probably shouldn't, because meeting his eyes again is only going to make the feeling in your chest get louder, but you can't help it. you look up, just trying to strike a balance between grateful and smitten moron. he doesn't need to know that second part. "things get less complicated with the right teacher."
which is a mistake to say out loud, because his face flushes and he lets out the little sheepish huff of laughter that makes you want to throw caution to the wind.
"you can only teach what somebody's willing to learn," he counters warmly, that stupid little smile on his face as you try in vain to ignore the drum in your chest.
--
somehow, you survive.
long enough for him to walk you out, anyway. down the hall, through the ballroom, past the people sweeping and collecting glasses, and out through the mudroom.
he even carries your bag of goodies all the way to the car, despite your insisting that you had it.
"do you still want to go to grover's?"
he asks as you take the bag, and it startles a little laugh out of you that fogs in the cold. you set the large bag in the passenger seat. "i don't need a consolation prize, jason," you reassure him, stretching the seatbelt across the front of the bag. "i had a nice time tonight."
"no, i mean-" he huffs, leaning back against the hood of the car, and you only have a second before he speaks again but you swear he almost sound nervous. "would you let me take you to grover's. on a date?"
you freeze. and blink. and blink again.
and then you're standing up and peaking around the car door. "me?"
"no, the figurine." he retorts sarcastically, and his cheeks are absolutely flushed, and it hits you like a train that it's not from the cold. "yes, you!"
"oh, shut up, i had to check-"
"who else would i have been talking to?"
"i don't know! i panicked!"
"good panic or bad panic?"
"i- good," you respond incredulously, because how could jason asking you out be anything else? "but good panic seems like a contradiction-"
he groans, whining your name and pushing off the hood and dragging both hands down his face.
then, he drops them, looking you square in the eye. "grover's. yes or no?"
right.
okay. holy shit.
date. maybe you weren't hallucinating all the little glances after all.
"yes."
jason slumps, like you'd let him off of a literal hook, and rubs a knuckle against his nose. which does nothing to hide the broad grin spreading across his face as he nods. which is… adorable, to put it lightly. "cool."
"cool."
you are both so stupid.
cool?
"so- um, tomorrow, maybe?"
"yeah, that would be nice. like, lunch time?"
"yeah." he pauses, evidently giving up on hiding that stupid blinding smile because his hands drop to his pants pockets. "but this doesn't count as the lunch i owe you. that's different."
"you are ridiculous," you mutter, somehow disbelieving despite how very him that is. stubborn ass man. "i told you you don't owe me shit-"
"and i told you that yes i do."
"how come you get to decide?" you giggle, which- you know it's not helping make your very serious case here, but you can't actually be bothered to care.
"because if you got to decide, you'd never let me do anything nice for you."
…touché.
so you do the only reasonable thing and flip him off.
--
he lingers, despite the freezing wind that cuts through your coat- with his dress shirt being his only protection, you have to actively fight the urge to shoo him inside to the warmth of the manor before he freezes to death.
you don't really want this moment to end. and, judging by the way he's just hanging here, you suspect he doesn't either.
instead, he walks with you around the front of the car to the driver's side door.
you pause before opening it, turning to look him in the eye.
"i really did enjoy tonight, jay." you want to say more than that, but that feels like it's as sincere as you can get without imploding right now, so it'll have to do. "thank you for having me."
"thank you for making it bearable," he laughs, running a hand through his hair and shifting on his feet. "that was the best time i've had at once of these things since i was still the new kid."
your cheeks go warm again, an ache beginning to form from all of the grinning you've done tonight. "i'm glad."
he nods, looking a little like a happy kid as he drops his gaze to his shoes. then he's looking to the hood of your car, tapping his knuckles against it. "i should let you get out of here, huh?"
you don't really want him to, but he has a point. "probably." you only really agree because he's probably absolutely dead on his feet at this point- which is enough motivation to move your hand to the car door. "if you want me out of bed in time for ice cream, i need to get like, a million hours of sleep."
--
he almost kisses you right then.
you look amazing, all dressed up and standing there in the warm lighting from the little solar lights lining the driveway, smiling at him like he's doing anything special.
it would make sense, he thinks. to taste the last of that cider on your lips and send you off with a soft press of his smile to yours, to give you some rom-com moment after you put up with hours of bullshit with him.
(like a year and a half of bullshit, actually. being around him just comes with bullshit. and somehow, you're still standing here, looking painfully kissable.)
but he doesn't kiss you.
he'll tell himself it's because he doesn't want to rush things. you're important. this is important. this is something he really, honestly wants. something he wants to do right.
he wants to make sure you feel comfortable and like yourself, not all fancied up.
he wants to make you feel every single butterfly you have ever given him.
but he's pretty sure it's actually because he's a coward that still hasn't stopped thinking about the feeling of kissing your hand earlier.
so he pats the hood of your car again. like a moron.
"drive safe," he says lamely, shoving his hands in the pockets of his dress pants again and taking a step backwards with a smile that is hopefully less dorky and flushed than he feels.
--
actually getting into his bed takes him another forty-five minutes, because he's practically vibrating.
part of him wants to just put on his actual suit and run a patrol, because the idea of sitting still seems evil, but he's still a little stiff on the ankle he rolled the other night.
which he probably shouldn't have danced on.
…eh. worth it.
instead of patrol, he makes the kitchen look like the two of you were never there, and changes into pajamas, and ends up pacing in his room.
literally pacing. because apparently, giggling at you all night wasn't lame enough.
he's robin, and he's pacing around over a date.
well, okay, a date with someone he's pretty sure he's at least a little in love with.
that makes it less lame, he thinks.
the only reason he actually stops pacing is the home safe, thanks again! text you send that has him fumbling for his phone like an idiot.
followed by a see you tomorrow, with a smiley face, and he has to walk in a stupid little grinning circle of shame before he can text you back.
jason todd x gender neutral reader. 959 words.
notes: jason lives au continues. poor dear is stressing.
warnings: n/a.
original | song insp | part one | next
jason needs a plan.
it was one thing to wing the banter at the thrift shop. you had all but set him up- intentionally or otherwise- and all he had to do was follow your lead.
almost like a dance, he supposes.
impulsively going back the next morning to buy two of the figurines was easy enough, too. (well, easy to choose one dressed in black for him. yours was a painstakingly slow process of choosing between two dressed in different shades of your favorite color, a process that took long enough that the shop owner actually came over to ask if he was alright.)
the tricky part is deciding what to do with yours now that he has it. it feels like too perfect an opportunity to pass up: win or lose, the stupid bet he'd bantered and teased his way into ends with something dangerously close to a traditional date.
so… technically he has multiple plans. ideas for plans. quasi-plans.
but he needs a plan plan.
it'll depend on you, he knows that.
the only one that can decide whether or not you successfully learn to dance is you. so, if the idea of being in the crowd of snobs flocking to wayne manor is too much, you have an easy way out. which he likes.
and as much as he would like- love,honestly- to have you there to make things more tolerable, it's not like jason can really complain about the idea of taking you out for ice cream. hell, it's one of his favorite things to do; sit in your favorite booth and playfully argue about something that doesn't matter or pretend not to notice when you drop ice cream on your shirt. (again.)
point is, either way, win or lose: perfect chance to find out if you feel the same way he does.
(assuming that he, the guy that jumps off buildings every night, doesn't chicken out. which… he might. the idea of fumbling the one place in his life where he gets to be a normal dude and be honest about his nightly activities is more than a little upsetting.)
so he needs a plan.
which is what he's turning over in his mind now, studying the table as he idly stirs the soup alfred made for dinner. it had also been on his mind on the drive to class, and during his lecture, and the ride home, and while sparring with tim- the last of which had given the kid the chance to punch him square in the jaw.
on the bright side, it had helped ease jason’s concerns about him stepping into the world of bats and birds and homicidal criminals.
because it hurt.
(more than it should have, considering he could throw tim halfway across the cave.)
on the other hand, though, he’d gotten punched in the face.
and to make matters worse, alfred saw it, meaning it's bound to come back up eventually.
“master jason,” speak of the devil, “i did not intend for that to be a centerpiece. i believe eating would be a better use of your time than stirring it.”
he glances up with a sheepish smile, because he's lost track of how long he's been sitting here- which means it's been entirely too long. “sorry, alfred.”
the older man hums in acknowledgement, a warm sound that's almost always followed by curiosity. usually the kind that will make jason embarrass himself, just a little.“distracted again, sir?”
“a little, i guess.”
“historically,” alfred says, walking forwards to stand opposite jason, across the table. “a busy mind has led to poor results in your nightly activities. would you care to voice your concerns, or shall i prepare the infirmary in advance?”
jason lets out a small huff of laughter, dropping his gaze back to his bowl. “i’m alright, thanks.”
“ah, i see. a bruised ego as well as a jaw, hm?”
there it is.
but maybe that'll be it. a jab or two, and then dropping it.
yeah, right.
“i can take a punch, alfred," jason mutters without any real heat, taking an obedient bite of soup. delicious soup, actually. "even if itisfrom the kid.”
“then perhaps,” alfred says, entirely too knowingly, “this is related to your sudden interest in figurine collection?”
jason's spoon is set right back down in his bowl.
he's not going to say it out loud, but he legitimately has no idea how alfred knows about that. the figures are in a box in jason's closet, and alfred hadn't even been home when he'd brought them in.
…ah. alfred hadn't been home. alfred had been out.
"you shop over there a lot?" jason asks dryly.
"shall i remind you how many buttons i must replace on a weekly basis, sir?"
the fabric store up the road from the thrift shop. of course. meaning that he'd probably seen jason staring up at a bunch of ceramics, like an idiot, which means that he can't even pass this off as a passing interest.
“i ever tell you that you’re where bruce gets the know-it-all thing?” he asks after a beat.
he earns an amused tilt of the head. “quite fair, sir. much like you gained master bruce’s tendency to let things consume you.”
“maybe,” jason mutters, not quite as rueful as he was hoping for.
having alfred of all people compare him to bruce still feels like a compliment, even when it's for something jason could ring bruce's neck over.
even when it's followed by one of those patented alfred silences that get someone to admit to murder.
“hey, alfred?”
maybe plans are overhyped.
“yes, sir?”
screw it.
“you think bruce would care if i brought a plus one to the gala?”
