Almost-Accidents
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!Reader
Summary: A situation in a grocery store parking lot turns aggressive. Jason protects you.
Word count: 1.9k
Potential TW for language and Jason punching a dude for calling you names
This just happened to me but I was alone. So I wrote this to make myself feel better about the situation via Jason Todd the loml.
While Jason puts the shopping cart away, you start the car. The backseat’s loaded up with groceries, more than it usually is, but a snowstorm kept the two of you hunkered down in your apartment last weekend and there just wasn’t time to shop during the week. But no matter how much you buy, you never have to go back for another trip. Jason can always carry it all—except for two or three bags, because you have to help out somehow.
As soon as he gets into the passenger seat and buckles his seatbelt, you put the car in reverse and ease up on the brakes slightly, inching out of your spot with your head turned behind you. You couldn’t pull through when you parked, unfortunately, and someone’s still blocking your way out, so you have to back up. It’s not an issue, even though you don’t have a backup camera; you have a working neck.
Halfway out of the spot, a man appears behind your car.
Your heart leaps, and your foot jumps to the brake pedal. The car jolts to a stop.
“Whoa!”
Instead of continuing on his way, or waving you forward, the man stops. He raises one hand and shouts something you can’t even hear over the sound of the blood rushing through your ears.
“What a fucking cocksucker,” Jason mutters. “Who walks right behind a car when it’s already pulling out?”
You hum in agreement but don’t say anything, a little scared that by moving, your foot will twitch on the brake pedal and you really will hit the man.
After another second, the man walks away, still talking loudly. It takes you a second to find the courage to keep pulling out, making extra certain that no one will leap out from behind you now.
It goes smoothly, and you put your car into ‘Drive’. The man’s still walking, pushing his cart down the lot aisle, and you drive past without revving your engine or shouting at him or doing anything aggressive… but you do, maybe, shake your head at him… and also maybe return the rude gesture he’d given you. After all, who does walk behind cars that are already in motion and yell at them when they brake? You hadn’t seen him. You didn’t hit him. So what?
There’s a stop sign to get onto the main road out of the parking lot. You ease to a stop in front of it with your turn signal on. There are a couple of cars passing, so you open up your hand for Jason to take and squeeze. You’re not an anxious driver, but close calls like that make you as nervous as they’d make anyone.
You spot motion in your side mirror.
Someone running.
Running at you.
It’s him, and he’s at your door before you can even think to lock it, shouting through the window that you’re a fucking idiot cunt that tried to run him over. You can’t even turn your head as the rushing in your ears gets worse. He’s still screaming. There’s still a line of cars blocking you from turning. What if he breaks your window? You can’t pay to have it replaced. Oh, God, what if he tries to sue? What if he gets you banned from your favorite grocery store? What if—
“Oh, that’s fucking it,” Jason snarls when the man shouts another insult, and he’s unbuckled and elbowing open the passenger door.
“Jay, don’t—” You lunge over the center console, but he’s already out of the car with the door left wide open, and by moving, your foot left the brake and your car inched forward.
You clench your jaw, throw the car in park, and scramble out of it in time to see your boyfriend in the asshole’s face growling, “—can’t yell at women because you’re a stupid fucking idiot. I ought to cut out your fucking tongue for what you said.”
“Jay, get back in the car,” you say as sternly as you can manage, but your voice and hands are trembling with adrenaline. There’s a line of cars behind you that also want to leave, and the road in front of you is finally clear. They’ll only be entertained by the spectacle for so long before they get impatient, and you don’t want to piss off anyone else today if this is the reaction you’ll get.
“She tried to hit me,” the jackass tries to argue, because he’s an idiot that either hasn’t realized he’s picking a fight with a pissed-off 6’4 amateur boxer (that’s what you call his nighttime gig to people that aren’t in the know) or just doesn’t care.
“No, she didn’t, she braked as soon as she saw you, and if you’re so sensitive a gust of fucking wind is enough to piss you off to the point you’re chasing her and screaming through a window, then you’re about to be real fuckin’ hurt with what I do to you if you don’t fuck off now.”
The jackass gets the gist, but his pride won’t allow him to leave without one last stab: he sneers at you, and flicks you off, and that’s the last straw for Jason’s temper.
Faster than you can blink, your boyfriend’s fist lays the jackass out flat.
“Did you break his jaw?” you ask, staring at the weakly stirring body on the ground.
“Don’t think so.” Jason shakes out his right hand, wincing. “Damn, that always hurts more without my gloves or tape.”
“Damn,” you echo, staring at the man, a little disappointed that the confrontation happened when Jason’s in civilian clothes and not allowed to shoot people dead willy-nilly.
“I’m driving,” he says firmly. Your keys are still in the ignition, so he walks you around the vehicle—you wave your apologies to the line of cars, but the two people you can see in the car directly behind you look riveted instead of annoyed—helps you into the passenger seat, and shuts it gently behind you. He drops down into the driver’s seat, whips your car out of the lot, and the store is far behind you in seconds.
Jason’s still flexing his hand subtly, like he doesn’t want you to notice. You interlace your fingers with his, then lift his reddened knuckles to your lips. You hold them there, relishing the steadiness in his hands when yours are so shaky. For once, his hands don’t smell like gunpowder. He protected you with his bare fists. Not that there’s anything wrong with using guns, but something about punching the man… using nothing but his own pure strength to protect you…
If only you could control your adrenaline like he does, but despite it all, you’re pragmatic; you’ll always fly rather than fight.
He pulls into your apartment building’s parking lot smoothly. When he parks, you say lowly, “That wasn’t my fault, was it?” You don’t think it was, but you want to make sure.
“Fuck no,” Jason says immediately. “That dude was an asshole. He deserved what he got and worse.”
“There are probably cameras in that lot,” you say nervously. “It’s a crime to try to hit someone with a car. Or to punch them.”
“Sure, it’s a crime to run someone over,” he says calmly, folding both his hands over yours, “but that’s not what you were doing. And yeah, I punched him. For harassing you. If there are any cameras, they’ll see him yelling and chasing us down. I’m not worried about the cops—honey, my dad’s Bruce fucking Wayne. You think there’s a court in Gotham that would convict me? Or you?”
You nod. All that makes sense. But you still can’t stop replaying the encounter in your head. “I shouldn’t have flipped him off.”
“Hun.” Jason takes your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, tilts it up until you’re forced to meet his bright green gaze straight on. “This is Gotham. The only reason someone isn’t flipping someone else off is if they don’t have a middle finger. Besides, you can do whatever you like—he shouldn’t have chased you down. That was harassment. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” you mutter. It’s too much to keep looking into his eyes, so you turn your head and look out the window, for some reason abruptly feeling the urge to cry.
“I should’ve fuckin’ shot him,” Jason says.
You whirl back around. “What?”
He frowns, revealing the line between his brows. His lower lip juts out as his thumb swipes over the stress lines on your forehead. “For making you upset. No one does that and lives, not in my city.”
Despite how shitty and scared you feel, Jason always makes you smile. That’s one of the many reasons you love him.
“C’mon.” He jerks his head. “Let’s get home.”
This time, he doesn’t allow you to carry a single bag. The elevator ride to your floor has never felt so long.
As soon as the two of you are inside your apartment, he drops the bags and scoops you up. His hold is almost tight enough to crack your ribs. “Jason!” you squeak. His arms are so tight you can’t even wriggle yours out to hug him back. “Jay, the ice cream will melt!”
“Like I give a shit,” he mumbles. “You’re more important.” He lets go with one hand, but his grip with the other doesn’t even falter. That’s how strong he is. That’s how much force he used to protect you today.
That hand cradles the back of your head, because he can be gentle and good, too, as he draws you down into a sweet kiss. You breathe into it, eyes fluttering closed. The tension in your body finally drains out, because nothing can be wrong when Jason is here, when Jason is holding you. He’ll never let anything bad happen to you. You kiss until you can’t think of anything else but this moment and Jason, his devotion, your devotion to him, the apartment you share and call a safe haven from the rest of the world.
Jason pulls back and you make a sound of protest, but it’s just to say, “You’re perfect,” his lips brushing yours with the shape of the words, before he dives back in.
Your back hits the mattress, and you realize that somehow he carried you to the bedroom without your notice. Without breaking the kiss, he climbs on top of the bed, too. But though the kiss is deep, the way he holds you is tender, and you know that what he’s looking for is what you’re looking for, too. There’s no urgency to the way his lips move against yours, and when you pull away to gasp for air, his arms around you squeeze. All of a sudden you’re completely surrounded by pure Jason Todd, and you couldn’t feel safer. You clutch his shirt in your hands, curl against his chest, and breathe in your boyfriend. Until you met Jason, you didn’t know it was possible for someone to smell like protection, but he’s so consumed by it that it bleeds out of every pore. As long as he lives, and probably after, nothing bad will happen to anyone he loves.
It’s the reassurance you need.
His strong limbs hold you until the urge to shake leaves. It wasn’t even a violent encounter, not like he experiences nightly, and you’re a little embarrassed that it shook you so much. But you can’t help but think—what if Jason wasn’t there? What if you were alone? What if things went wrong?
But Jason was there.
He’ll always be there for you.
“I love you,” you mutter into his chest.
He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I love you more than anything.”
He holds you.
You’re safe.
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My requests are open if anyone wants to stop by, otherwise I will only write when inspiration strikes.
