I'm currently HYPERFIXATING on Baldur's Gate 3. This is my love letter to Mount Halsin, the elf I would climb until my limbs fell off. You're welcome (or I'm sorry). Cross-posted on AO3 here: Link
Enjoy!
Warnings: afab!reader and Male Smut, Dom/Sub Dynamic, Breeding Kink, Creampie, Choking, Oral (Female and Male Receiving), Kinky DRUID Forest Sex, Misuse of the Entangle Cantrip (hehe), Size Difference
I tried to keep Halsin in character as much as possible, but there is a significant change when y'all get funky
WORD COUNT: 4691
Nature calls to you, as it always had. The sounds of the forest have always been your favourite. Silvanus' creations had made you feel complete. The moss between your toes, and the swaying of trees; you had never felt so much peace during such perilous times. It's at times like this you are gracious for your god's teachings; nature is chaotic as it is gentle, and things will sort them out- if that is what is determined. This is how you kept such a level head during this adventure. Some of your companions saw your level-headedness as worrisome, but you always remind them that to persevere is in the forest's nature, and so it is in yours.
No good ever came from stressing over obstacles in your life.
"If you could stop thinking about the grass for five seconds, I'd appreciate you listening to me. Tch- tree huggers." Astarion tells you annoyed. You look into his crimson eyes and smirk.
"This tree hugger is your key to freedom. Unless you forgot about the tadpole in your brain." Astarion's eyes widen, before he smirks.
"Keep talking dirty, sweetheart. Might not resist taking a bite~" You chuckle.
"Settle down. Like I told you beforehand, we must seek out the Archdruid Halsin before we continue our journey. Nobody could come close to him in terms of knowledge-" Lae'zel rolls her eyes.
"Nobody could come close to the information about the ghaik than us githyanki. You istik entertain such useless ideas." You roll your eyes at her. Before you could speak up, Shadowheart speaks to the githyanki.
"Yes. I'm sure your barbaric race would know much more." She says sarcastically. "I, on the other hand, would much rather any other option besides yours." Before Lae'zel could fight back, Karlach speaks to them both.
"Shut the fuck up and kiss already. Wasting time when we could be slaying goblins and getting closer to being free. Stop fucking around and listen to (Y/N)." You nod your head in appreciation to the tiefling.
"Besides, even if Archdruid Halsin does not know how to help us, he may offer his services regardless. Leaving him with the goblins is a fate worse than death. His ally-ship will be indispensable." This appeases those in the group who were unsure of your leadership.
"Always the cunning one, aren't you sweetheart." Astarion speaks up. You turn your head and wink.
"Let's push forward and assist in any way we can." Wyll speaks up. Gale nods, looking over our group.
"Let's be smart and proactive, we do not want to lose eachother, nor do we want to get caught. We shall stay in hiding for as long as possible. Stealth is the best way forward with our little information we have." Astarion taps your chin.
"I like you like this." You smirk at him before leading the group to the Goblin Camp.
After killing every goblin in the vicinity, you all venture forward to a cage where a bear is roaming.
"A bear. He was probably going to be goblin fodder." Astarion says, smirking.
"Hush. Poor thing was being attacked by these goblins." Karlach speaks to him, bumping her shoulder into Astarions. He gasps, the wind being knocked out of him.
"Careful. I bruise like a peach!" He tells her angrily. She chuckles.
"And you're just as bitter as a rotten tomato-" Astarion bristles. You cut him off.
"Settle down, girls. We have time for play later. Show some respect. That bear is our charge." You unlock the iron gate before walking in alone.
"I don't think that's a good idea-" Gale says worriedly, but you shush him. When the bear makes eye contact with you, you see the gold swirling in his eyes. His mouth opens to show his sharp teeth, a warning.
You bow down infront of the bear, laying a hand out towards his snout.
"Are you sure that's... wise, sweetheart?" Astarion asks, concerned. You ignore him before speaking.
"Archdruid Halsin, it is my absolute honour to stand before you. We have come here to free you from your imprisonment and bring you back to the Emerald Grove. May Silvanus preserve us." Without a beat, the bear transforms into a tall, handsome, elf. Your eyes widen at his stature, but more at his beauty.
"Ah, a fellow druid. Silvanus has certainly looked upon me in favour. Thank you for assisting me." You realize you are still kneeling, at crotch level with the Archdruid. Your eyes flicker to his pelvis, and eyes widen at what you see. You rise to your full height, which makes you eye level with his chest. Your head tilts to look into his eyes, and notice him watching you, with a small smirk. He saw you gazing at him, how embarrassing.
"Of course, Archdruid Halsin." He shakes his head softly, braids swaying with the movement.
"Please, call me Halsin. My savior shouldn't have to call me by such a title." You nod, before looking over your shoulder at your companions. They are all looking at the tall elf in shock.
"He just- he just turned into a man!" Astarion says out loud. You chuckle.
"Yes. My preferred wild shape is a bear." He responds to the shorter elf, not looking away from you, glancing over you in curiousity. You turn back to look at him. Your eyes stay locked while you speak to your party.
"Let us leave. We will bring Halsin back to the Emerald Grove and then we can rest. I want to wash off this gods-awful goblin blood before it stains my armour." Everyone nods at that. They turn to walk out, ready to escort Halsin back. You follow your group, Gale and Wyll leading you all forward.
"Thank you, little flower. I truly appreciate you aiding me." Halsin whispers to you, matching your strides behind the group. Little flower... the nickname made you giddy. You blush softly, the heat reaching to the peaks of your ears.
"I can't leave a fellow druid behind. Especially with what those goblins were doing to you." You shake your head, looking over him and the dried blood that caked him from his wild shape form. He chuckles at your worried gaze.
"Nonetheless, the Oakfather has blessed me with your assistance. I am indebted to you for life." You turn to look at him, his easy smile and warm eyes making you feel something... magical.
"The Oakfather has blessed us many times anew. The air we breathe, the ground we walk upon, the forests. But alas, I did come to release you because we need your assistance-" His eyes widen lightly, before he looks down at you.
"What do you need, little flower?" The way he speaks to you is soft, unconcerned of the questions you will ask him. His caring nature speaks to the softest parts of you.
"I will ask you once we bring you to the Emerald Grove. However, I must warn you-" You stop walking and grab his arm. Holy hells his arms are buff. You must have paused for a moment too long.
"What is wrong?" You shake your head at your own thoughts. You're acting like a toddler, instead of the adult elf you are.
"At the Emerald Grove... Kagha is planning to do the Rite of Thorns, and is releasing all the Tiefling refugees..." Halsin's eyes almost bug out of his head.
"We must stop them! That rite does more harm than good! Those Tieflings... fleeing towards death. It is not right!" You tell him passionately. He takes your hand from off his arm and grips it in both his large hands.
" We will stop them, little one." You nod. He continues to hold your hand.
"The shadow curse has been on my mind for so long, I cannot believe I trusted such a-" He shakes his head, cutting himself off.
"We will continue our trek and once we stop the rite, I will tell you all you need to know." You bite your lip.
"If I could help carry your burdens, I would." He chuckles, a light blush appearing on the apples of his cheeks.
"I'm sure you would, little flower. Now, let us continue our journey. I appreciate you warning me." He lets go of your hand and waves his hand out, gesturing you to go forward, so you do. You can't help the chill that you feel when his hands release yours.
After stopping the rite, you did speak to Halsin about the tadpoles. He sighs when he says he cannot heal you of your affliction. A shiver of fear goes through your body. If someone as knowledgeable with healing like Halsin cannot heal you, you cannot imagine how to move forward. Its then that he tells you that the Shadow-Cursed Lands may be the key to assisting you in your journey. You bite your lip worriedly.
"I will continue to assist you. I will follow your party and do what I can. Not only for the cursed lands, but also for you." He says it with such conviction, such passion, you cannot help but feel safe and warmed from his sentiments.
"I feel indebted to you Halsin. Truly." He shakes his head.
"You will be helping me much more than I, you." You smile up at him. He cannot help but be captured by the radiance of your smile. Oakfather preserve him, you are the most beautiful of his creations.
"I will help you with this shadow curse. Take back nature and restore balance. I just hope I don't grow any tentacles in that time." You say humourlessly, your laugh hollow. He grabs your chin with his hand, his thumb stroking the side of your face.
"I promise on all of the Oakfather's creations, I will not let anything happen to you." Your eyes flutter, and you glance down at his lips before looking back into his eyes.
"Thank you." You whisper to him. His attention is taken elsewhere, and his hand caresses down your neck before releasing you, and moving to the Tiefling asking for him.
You feel this feral need to have him, to help him. You're attracted to him, and you can tell this will be problematic. Oakfather preserve you.
That night, the Tieflings throw a party for you all. The music is loud, and you can see them enjoying themselves. You look over your companions and see all of them enjoying themselves; albeit in their own ways. While looking over the festivities, you see Halsin standing away, gazing over the festivities and people watching. Your eyes make contact and you blush.
"This wine tastes like goblin piss." Astarion tells you, gagging on the swig he just took. You chuckle at him, breaking eye contact with the handsome druid to look over at the vampire.
"Not your type of red drink?" You ask him flirtedly. He smirks at you and leans into you.
"No, sweetheart. My type of red is standing right next to me, as radiant as ever." His face gets close to your neck and he sniffs you deeply.
"All of a sudden, I am thirsting for something else." He tells you. You chuckle at his advances.
"Are you now?" You flirt back. He smirks down at you.
"You're much more fun to speak to like this, sweetheart. I can't help but want a taste." You giggle at him, before taking the wine from his hand and taking a couple mouthfuls.
"Oh gods it does taste like goblin's piss." You splutter out. He laughs at your turmoil.
"Oh darling, you make me laugh." He tells you. You grin at him.
"Glad my misfortunes bring you joy." He smiles at you, sharp teeth glinting in the campfire's light.
"Mm. The only thing that would bring me more joy in this moment is having a taste of you." His voice lowers to a whisper. You roll your eyes.
"Easy there. If I didn't know you better I'd say you're a bard, singing my praises so I could follow you to your tent for the night." You push his chest gently.
"I'm sure I can make you sing, sweetheart." He tells you, looking at you with a smirk.
"As much fun as we would have, I think you've had enough to drink." You tell him jokingly, waving the bottle of wine in his face. You take another swig, and swallow down the bitterness. You go to walk forward, the alcohol driving you to your destination; Halsin.
"Ah, my little flower! It seems you were having fun." Halsin tells you, smile on his face. The crease between his brows tells you that he'd much rather had been the one sniffing your neck, rather than Astarion. You feel a rush of confidence surge through you, aided by the alcohol in your system.
"I decided to turn my attentions elsewhere." You tell him confidently. He smirks at your words.
"Is that so? Well, I am honoured to have such attentions on me." He tells you in a whisper. You almost whimper at his words, feeling hot. You feel as though molten lava has replaced the blood in your veins, and the heat is centralized at the apex of your thighs. You rub them lightly, which catches the elder druid's attention.
"You could have much more than attentions on you tonight, Master Halsin." Your voice lowers to a whisper, and the effect is immediate. His eyes shine golden and his smile becomes wider, more primal. Just like in the Goblin Camp, it was a warning.
"Is that so, little flower? Are you offering yourself to me?" He asks you gently, taking a step forward. You are now flush with his body, and the carvings on his undershirt graze the peaks of your breasts deliciously, hardening them. You moan quietly, looking up at the gargantuan man through your eyelids.
"I'd like to explore you, Master Halsin. See if those rumours of your... generosity are true." You feel his arm wrap around your waist, his hand resting at the small of your back. His fingers seem to tighten, digging softly into your skin.
"You seem to enjoy calling me by my honourifics." You hum, smirking at him.
"I'm just calling you by title. You would like to be my master, would you not?" He growls lowly, much like a bear would.
"You're playing a dangerous game, little one." He tells you huskily. You giggle at him.
"The only games I would like to play are with you, Master." In his eyes you can see him having an inner battle. You take the hand on your waist in yours, which snaps him out of his inner turmoil. The alcohol is rushing through you now, your (very little) inhibitions non-existent now. You pull it closer to your face, before taking a thick finger in your mouth and worshipping it. You kiss at the pad of his forefinger before licking it; inevitably taking it into your mouth and sucking on it softly. He watches you entranced, groaning softly as you let go of his finger with a pop. You take his hand in yours, and pull him towards the edge of the camp, leading to the forest. Once you find the small grove in the forest, you let go of his hand, spinning in place and enjoying the silence of nature. He stays at the edge of the tree line, watching you with sharp eyes.
"Little flower-" Halsin says softly. You turn to look at the man with a smile.
"Our worries are for dawn. With the moonlight shining on us, and the trees as our witness, I would like to show you the pleasures of the flesh, as nature intended." He groans loudly now, far enough from the camp that your voices would not carry.
"I'm afraid to lose myself. The beast-" You pull off your nightshirt, exposing your breasts in the moonlight. You then pull off your pants and undergarments in one shot, fully baring yourself to his sight. He inhales deeply, eyes looking at you up and down multiple times. You begin to to dance sensually, your hips seeming to beckon him forward. He takes a couple of uncertain steps.
"Halsin. I am not one so easily afraid of beasts. Let me help you forget your woes for a night." His resolve seems to crumble, and he runs to you, leaving you both chest to chest.
"Little flower, I will devour you-" You moan, pulling his hair to bring him to your lips. His chapped lips touch yours, and it feels as if there is magic flowing through your bodies. His hands find purchase under your thighs, lifting you up into him. Your legs wrap around his waist, and you moan into his mouth. His tongue prods at the seam of your lips, persuading you to open your mouth to his. Your tongues find each other, and a battle of dominance begins. You lose easily, his gifted tongue prodding and licking at yours with wanton need. You release each other to inhale deeply. He inhales from his nose and groans.
"I can smell your need, little one." You whimper, looking into his eyes.
"You're overdressed, Master Halsin. Allow me to undress you." He lets you down out of his embrace, and you begin to untuck his sleepshirt out from his pants and over his head. You begin to untie his pants, helping him out of them as well. That's when you notice he is wearing no undergarments, and his cock is thick and long, closer to the length of your forearm. You whimper, falling to your knees and looking up at him.
"You don't need to please me-" You cut him off.
"I want your cock to hit the back of my throat until I am unable to speak." He moans loudly, before your hand grasps him at the shaft.
"The Oakfather blessed me with such a giving partner. I- Oh Silvanus-" You take him in your mouth, licking at the tip. You taste his musk, and he tastes like pine and mint, and something that makes you absolutely feral. Without a care for your own wellbeing, you try to swallow him whole, his tip hitting the back of your throat, and then some. He groans, eyes closing as one hand finding itself locked in your hair and the other forming a fist at his thigh.
"That's right little druid, take Master's cock into the back of your throat." His voice goes down an octave, and you feel a rush of slick leave you. Taking him out of your mouth, you kiss the shaft downward until you take his heavy balls in your mouth and suckle. You're panting with need, moaning into his skin. You let go of him, one hand stroking his cock and the other inching down your body to touch your cunt. He looks down at you then with hooded eyes, and moans again.
"Are you touching your needy cunt, little flower? I cannot wait to fill you with my seed until your entire being is satiated." You moan, needing him back in your mouth. You remove the hand on his shaft and deepthroat him again, only getting two thirds of his member into your mouth. You hear your need, the wet sounds coming from your pussy only arousing you further. He begins to thrust into your mouth and you choke on him. After making sure you were alright, he continues his movements, thrusts getting rougher. The hand in your hair tightens and pulls you off his cock, as he growls.
"I will pound your quim until you are unable to walk without my healing, little one." His hands grip your upper arms and lifts you up to stand. Your face is smeared with his precum and your spittle. Once you are stable on your two feet, he kisses you passionately and you moan into him. His hands are touching you everywhere. His touch is searing hot. His hands find themselves at your breasts, rubbing and pinching the peaks of them.
"O-Oh Halsin. Don't stop." He chuckles into your ear.
"I'm not planning to stop until dawn shows itself." You whimper at his words, thrusting your chest deeper into his ministrations. You hear Halsin whisper before your hands are being pulled behind you, tightly grasped. Your feet are also held up, spreading your legs open. You notice that vines grew from the ground and are holding you up like a platter to Halsin.
"As much as I love your touch, little one, I don't want you to push me off when I get a taste of your ambrosia." You moan loudly, almost caterwauling for the elder druid.
His large hands caress up your leg, massaging the skin of your calves, before going higher.
"I wish you could see yourself as I do in this moment, little flower. You're exquisite; truly one of Silvanus' greatest creations." You blush, heaving.
"H-Halsin, please-" He chuckles at your enthusiasm.
"Don't fret, you will be chanting my name soon enough." His confidence is addicting, you could feel how drenched you were even with your legs spread so far apart. His hands finally reach close to your core, and he spreads your slit further open to look at you. You could feel your hole contracting, as if begging for an intrusion.
"By the gods... Look at your tight cunt begging for my cock. Can't wait to have a taste." You feel his breath on you. You look down and see him watching you, as his hands slide up to your breasts to play with your nipples like he had before. The first stroke of his tongue on your clit sent a sensation of pleasure up your spine. You struggle against your bonds, with an insatiable urge to grasp his hair and tug him deeper into you.
His tongue then ventures lower, tasting your essence. He moans loudly into your body, the vibrations of his moan pleasing you greatly. He continues licking you, tasting you as he tweaks your nipples, tugging before massaging. You felt powerless against the bonds, barely hearing anything more than the rush of blood in your ears.
"Your nectar... is just like honey. I can't wait to have you cum on my tongue multiple times." You moan. You can tell you're already close to your precipice, his words, moans and tongue vibrating and licking against your clit deliciously.
"Please... please Master Halsin-" He groans at the honourific. He plunges his tongue into you, lapping you at your source. His nose nudges your clit and that sets off your orgasm. You feel yourself leak onto him, his tongue cleaning your mess. You're shaking with oversensitivity, but he does not stop. One of the hands on your breast caress back down the length of your body, before he pulls away from your core. He grins up at you as he thrusts two of his thick fingers into you. He curls them, as you begin to shake harder.
"That's it, little one. Let all those in the forest know who is making you feel like this, making you cum and feel pleasure-" His words go straight to your core, and more of your slick leaks around his fingers.
"Halsin-H-Halsin- Oh GODS-" His lips wrap around your clit, sucking and licking at you. The attention was too much; you cum again. This time, you can feel much more than slick leave your body- did I squirt? You wonder to yourself, as your body is now lashing against the constraints. You didn't have much time to think about it, as he pulls his fingers out to taste you, moaning. You look down at him, panting. He spreads you open again, this time with both hands, before his tongue is back in you, tasting you like you were water and he was a man dehydrated. You whimper, begging him to give you reprieve. He pulls off of you, his mouth and chin covered in your release. He was panting, his eyes glowing a bright amber.
"You have no idea what you unleashed, little one." He growls out. You feel the vines dissipate. You're laid on the forest ground gently. Before he could move, you flip yourself over with enthusiasm, laying your upper body parallel to the floor and your lower body in the air. You wiggle your ass, one of your hands going between your legs and spreading yourself open. You look over your shoulder and look him directly in the eye. He is watching you with wonder, before you speak.
"Breed me, Master Halsin. Empty your seed in me and fuck me into a stupor." He growls, before kneeling behind you.
"I'll make sure you can't walk for weeks, little one. I'll spread you nice and good." You feel the tip of his cock at your entrance. He rubs himself up and down your slit, gathering your juices.
"Look how wet you are. Such a good little druid for me." You whimper at his words. Without warning he thrust into you, going to the hilt. His heavy balls hit against your clit, and your mouth goes open in a silent scream. He begins a brutal pace, pounding into you. One of his hands reach around your body, his large hand grasping your neck. His hold is tight, but not painfully so. You feel lightheaded, all your senses being overwhelmed by the Archdruid. You feel as though your floating, the only thing tying you to this plane of existence is the continuous thrusts from the elf behind you. You felt as though you were split open repeatedly, his cock reaching places in you that you were unsure existed before today. He growls as he pounds into you, and you begin to feel claws against your neck, before they retract.
"You make me feral, little one. I'm gonna fill you with my seed, fill you with pups." You moan, breathless. His thrusts begin to falter, but they seem to go deeper. You feel yourself fluttering around him, as you gasp.
"I-I'm close." You whisper to him. He groans.
"I feel you fluttering around me, little one." He chokes out. After a handful of thrusts he cums with a shout, and you constrict around him, cumming once more. You feel his seed in you, so abundant that it leaks out around him. You both pant for a couple seconds. He releases your neck and you gasp an inhale.
"Did I hurt you?" He asks you softly. You shake your head enthusiastically.
"N-no. Oh gods Halsin. I am unsure how I will walk right ever again." You tell him breathlessly. He chuckles at that, caressing your back and thighs with gentleness. You feel him slowly pull out of you, taking care to not punish your core anymore. You whimper at the loss, feeling your mixed spend leaking out of you. He flips you over softly, wanting to look you over. His hand goes to finger you lazily. You shriek, body seizing up.
"Not a drop goes to waste." He tells you huskily. After a couple moments, he pulls his fingers out too, and directs them to your mouth. You suckle on the digits, the taste arousing you once more. You both look into each other's eyes as you did this. Once he removes his fingers from your mouth, his lips replace it, tasting both of you on his tongue. He groans into your lips. You kiss for a couple moments, before you both need to separate so you could inhale. You felt utterly spent. He goes to lie down next to you, and your eyes follow him.
His hands begin to massage your sore muscles, before pulling you onto him. You felt utterly spent. He holds you into a lover's embrace and you can't help but sigh into his chest, caressing his pectorals and cuddling into him. You feel his lips on the crown of your head, leaving a trail soft pecks and kisses. You both lay there, absorbing the beauty of nature and speaking about your lives before the parasite and the shadow curse until the sun rose.
The city never slept, but it sure as hell screamed.
And most of all.... It bled.
That was just an ugly truth.
Below Jason, the streets tangled into a mess of flickering streetlights, honking horns, and the distant wail of sirens like ghosts howling through concrete veins. The wind carried the scent of oil, smoke, and something else—something old. But maybe that was just his own thoughts rotting in his skull.
Jason crouched near the edge of a rooftop—tall, sharp-edged, industrial. A corporate tower, all ego and windows, the kind of building Gotham used to pretend meant progress. The glass below him shimmered like cracked crystal, reflecting the fractured stars above.
He wasn't watching the city. Not really.
He was watching his thoughts.
And unfortunately, they stared back.
"Master Jason, are you planning to spend the entire night sulking on rooftops again?"
The voice in his helmet was clipped, dry, and somehow still fond. Alfred Pennyworth.
Jason sighed softly at the sound, the kind of sigh that sat in the bones. Always worried for him. Always reaching out, even when Jason didn't deserve it.
Probably the only person left he didn't hang up on immediately.
With a tired grunt, Jason pulled off his helmet. The cool air kissed his face, brushing through messy black hair. He let it hit him like a slap—real, grounding. The white streak in his hair caught moonlight and trembled in the breeze.
"Technically, it's brooding," he muttered. "Sulking is... juvenile."
Alfred scoffs as he answers the young man. "Forgive me. I forgot you're the brooding adult with twin pistols and much unresolved trauma."
Jason cracks a dry smile as he answers once more. " I don't just have pistols Al you should know that better than anyone."
The old man on the other side simply sighs in exasperation as Jason huffed a laugh—quiet, but real. He let the silence stretch again, his gaze drifting back to the city below. Lights danced like fireflies. A couple argued on a balcony. Somewhere nearby, a siren wailed.
It was peaceful.. For Gotham, anyway.
It's quiet for a few moments.
Before finally Alfred speaks once more. "Master Bruce is asking about you." Alfred says in a serious voice.
The words hit like a gut punch.
Jason's smile vanished, jaw tightening until his molars ached. He didn't speak. Didn't need to. The silence said enough.
"He's worried Master Jason." Alfred's voice holds a thread of grief. The kind that came from too many years of watching people destroy themselves.
Jason scoffed bitterly. "He's got a funny way of showing it."
"You know he—"
"Please Al don't make excuses for him." Jason pauses for a moment and puts his helmet back on. "Listen Al... Thanks for checking in but I have work to do."
"Master Jason plea—."
Jason clicked the comm off.
Just like that, the world fell into silence again. A heavy, pressing kind. It wasn't peaceful anymore—it was loud in the worst way. Like all the noise he'd pushed down was crawling back up his throat.
He stood slowly, pushing off the ledge, grappling gun in hand. The city below awaited him—cold, unforgiving, familiar.
The Red Hood didn't have time for sadness. Or apologies.
But just as he lifted his arm to fire the grappling hook—
The sky cracked open.
A flash of sickly green light tore through the air like a jagged wound. A circular ripple shimmered into existence directly above him, glowing and spinning as if the fabric of the world had been sliced with a cosmic blade. It wasn't tech. It wasn't meta.
It was something else. Something wrong.
Jason staggered back, instincts screaming. His hand twitched toward his backup knife. His brain tried to rationalize it. Portal? Magic? Breach?
And then something fell through.
No—someone.
A body came hurtling from the portal, limbs flailing, cloak trailing behind like a comet's tail. Jason barely had time to react before she slammed into him like a meteor.
"FUCK—!"
They hit the rooftop hard. Jason's back crashed against cold concrete, breath crushed from his lungs. The world rang.
His vision blurred—but the weight on his chest was very real.
Someone was on top of him. Breathing. Groaning.
"Ugh... gods... my head..."
The voice was soft. Feminine. Rough with pain and confusion.
Jason blinked hard, groaning under his breath as he stared up—and froze.
The girl pinning him wasn't human.
She had blue skin, shiny silted (e/c) eyes and most of all..horns, long and curved like polished jewels. Her robes were torn and dirtied, her long clawed hands scraped, and she smelled faintly of pine needles and lavender. A long tail flicked anxiously behind her, and her sharp teeth flashed as she sucked in air.
Her eyes locked with his through the helmet lenses. Confused. Wary. Wild.
"...Thou... art no bandit," she murmured, blinking at him.
Jason stared.
Before finally–
His brain finally kicked back into gear.
Too close. Too unknown. Too dangerous.
With a growl, Jason flipped their positions in a blink, using his weight and training to reverse their bodies in one fluid, brutal motion.
The girl barely had time to react before she was slammed onto her back, arms pinned, wind knocked from her lungs.
She let out a sharp gasp, eyes wide—not from anger, but pain.
Wounded. She's hurt.
Didn't matter.
Jason's knee pinned her thigh. His hand locked around her wrist. And with the other, he drew his pistol in a blur of motion and jammed it under her chin, the cold steel pressing into the soft blue skin of her throat.
"Who the hell are you?" Jason snarled. "What the fuck are you doing in Gotham?"
She didn't answer immediately. She didn't even struggle. Just blinked, breath stuttering in her chest as her eyes searched his faceplate.
Then, carefully and somewhat scaredly, even—she whispered, "Please... I don't wish to fight thee. I have no knowledge of where I am. If you could just cal—"
Jason shoved the barrel harder under her jaw.
"Don't tell me to calm down. You fall out of a damn portal, land on me, and you want me to be calm?"
Her tail curled close to her side, tense and shaking.
"I was attacked—there were bandits—and the magic, I didn't—"
"Magic." Jason spat the word like poison. "Of course it's magic. Just my goddamn luck."
She winced. Not from the gun. From the word. Her eyes softened again, and her voice came quieter now—worn down by pain and confusion, not fear.
"I... I know not where I am," she repeated, almost like it was an apology.
Jason stared down at her.
Blue skin. Horns. A fucking tail. Eyes that glowed like dying stars. She looked like something out of a fever dream. Or a video game. Or a Lazarus Pit-induced psychosis.
But the blood running down her arm? That was real. The shallow cut on her cheek? Real. The way her heart raced beneath his arm as he pressed the gun aganist her?
Very real.
Still, his hand didn't move. The barrel didn't lower.
He'd been tricked before. Hurt before. Killed before.
And he wasn't above doing so now.
"You've got ten seconds," he growled. "To explain why I shouldn't drop your ass off the side of this roof.
Y/N POV
The world was made of noise.
Crude stone towers that scraped the heavens, glowing crystals embedded in their skin like frozen lightning. The sky tasted strange. Metal. Smoke. And the man above you?
He was no bandit.
He was worse.
A creature of rage, clad in hardened leather and blood-colored steel. His face was hidden beneath a red helm, and yet his gaze burned through it, searing into your soul with heat that no fire ever taught you. The cold bite of iron pressed against your throat. A weapon unlike any you had seen. No bowstring. No blade. Only thunder waiting to strike.
He demanded answers. Spat them like venom.
And still—still—you tried to speak gently.
"I mean thee no harm," you managed, voice trembling as you winced beneath him. "I... I was cast from my realm. I know not whither I've landed, only that I—"
He shoved the metal closer.
The pain blooming in your stomach flared again. Sticky warmth dripped down your side. You were bleeding worse than you'd thought. Too much. Too deep. You wouldn't last long like this.
I cannot die here. Not like this.
You met his eyes—or where they should be behind that cursed helm—and whispered an apology you knew he would not hear.
Then, with a whispered breath, you shifted.
"Veritas naturae..."
The change overtook you in a heartbeat. Your form shrank, bones twisting, fur bristling along skin that moments ago had been blue. A mouse. With (h/c) fur, small and agile.
But bleeding... Fast.
You bolted from beneath him, claws scrabbling across stone, leaving behind a faint red trail as you darted across the rooftop.
"What the—?!"
You heard the click. The hiss.
Gunfire.
A shot cracked beside your tail making you squeak in surprise and fear, blasting a chunk of rooftop free.
Another—closer. Too close.
He's not aiming to kill.
But the warning was clear.
Still, you ran harder, faster—toward the thing that sang to you. The twisted shape of your staff, lying cast aside near the vent. Ancient wood, worn smooth by your hand, capped with curling roots and a green gem that pulsed in rhythm with your breath.
You leapt for it.
Your paws hit the staff just as your form shifted again—back, tall, horned, wounded.
You landed hard on one knee, body trembling from the toll. The pain in your abdomen screamed.
But your hand locked around the staff.
And with what strength you had left, you slammed it to the ground.
"Silvanus, shield me!" you cried, voice fierce through gritted teeth.
A shimmering ward burst upward around you like woven leaves and wind, forming a half-sphere of flickering emerald light. You knelt behind it, clutching your side, blood soaking into your robe. Breath shallow. Muscles weak. But your grip on your staff never faltered.
You looked up at the red-helmed man. Your voice, though weak, did not waver.
"I am no foe of thine," you rasped. "And if I die here... then let it be not by thy hand, stranger. I sought only to aid, not to be hunted."
You gritted your teeth, ears flicking at the sounds of this cold, alien city.
"...Where in the hells am I?"
The green light of your ward flickered, dancing in the night like the last breath of a candle and blood continued to seep through your fingers—warm, sticky, and far too much. Each heartbeat echoed through your ribs like a war drum, and the air tasted like copper and smoke.
Normally you could hold this ward for far longer, however as it stands with your wound you will not last much longer. Across the ward, the masked man now held two of his strange metal weapons.
Both aimed straight at you.
"I won't ask again," he barked. "Who are you? What the hell are you? And how the fuck did you get here?"
You could feel his fury—radiating off of him like heat from a forge. No trust. No mercy.
Not yet.
You knew well enough when a blade could not be answered with steel.
You swallowed hard, the taste of iron and ash thick on your tongue. The wound in your side pulsed with each beat of your heart, hot and sticky against your palm. It hurt to breathe but with a small grunt and fighting the tremble in your limbs, you lowered your staff just slightly. Not in surrender—but to show you did not raise it in threat.
And even with the threat of death... You did not flinch.
You had faced wolves and wraiths, storms and sickness.
You could face this man too—even if your knees shook doing it.
Lifting your chin slightly, your voice rasped—steady despite the pain, steeped in your realm's cadence: "Thou shalt lower thy weapons not, I see... so be it."
A breath. A wince. Then, slowly, you spoke again—clearer, with reverence and weariness alike:
"I am Y/N, born of the Verdant Lands. A daughter of leaf and moon, of grove and storm."
You nodded faintly toward the dying ward, still sparking weakly. "A druid of the Circle of the Moon, sworn to heal, to guide, to guard that which grows."
Your tail curled instinctively behind you, tight with pain and nerves. Still, you kept your voice calm, even as your vision blurred at the edges.
"My blood bears the stain of infernal ancestry... I am Tiefling, and like many of my kin I claim not the darkness. My path is not destruction but restoration."
You paused, blinking slowly at him. His fingers hadn't moved on the triggers. He was listening—but barely. Tense. Ready to kill.
And so you gave him what he wanted next, as plainly as you could:
"I hail from a realm far from this—what didst thou call it? Gotham?" You coughed, the pain flaring again. Your hand pressed tighter to your side.
"I know not how I came to be upon thy strange stone towers. I was beset by brigands—outlaws of my own land—who sought to take what they would. I stood to fight them, though I was outnumbered."
Your eyes flicked to the ground, remembering it—the circle of blades, the sharp snap of fear in your chest, and then...
"...and in the midst of that, the ground beneath me tore open. A rift—no conjuration of mine own. A portal summoned by hands unknown."
You looked up again, locking eyes with the red mask.
"I fell through... and landed upon thee."
A short pause. Then, faintly:
"...for which I do offer my humblest apologies."
You were still kneeling, barely holding upright, your staff now a crutch more than a weapon. The ward finally collapsed fully with a soft rush of air, revealing you entirely to him. Exposed. Bleeding. Magic flickering weakly in your veins.
"I am not thy foe," you whispered. "But if thou wouldst make me one... I shall not beg for mercy. I've none left to spare."
With a pained huff you stood—Barely.
Your legs trembled beneath your weight, and your left arm clutching your side tightly. The right clutched your staff like it was the only thing anchoring you to this strange, jagged world.
The pain in your side had grown sharper, biting with every movement and your robes clung to your skin, damp with blood that pulsed steadily through your fingers. It dripped onto the rooftop stone below like rain from a cracked chalice.
And still he watched you.
Both weapons raised. Eyes unseen.
The man had not moved. Not an inch. The wind tugged at his leather jacket, but his aim never faltered.
He was waiting for something.
Or daring you to try.
You drew a breath—shaky, shallow—and felt the air of this realm claw at your lungs. Dirty. Heavy. Nothing like home. Even the night here stung the senses.
Still, you met his gaze—or what lay behind it.
"I have spoken true," you rasped, your voice barely more than wind. "If it is not enough, then finish what fate began."
He said nothing.
A moment passed. Long. Excruciating. The weight of his silence pressed harder than the wound.
You panted through clenched teeth, leaning heavier on your staff. The wood beneath your fingers was warm. Familiar. Your only tether to what you were. Who you were.
You wanted to shift again—to flee as bird or beast—but the magic... it wouldn't answer.
Your power was flickering, tired, like the rest of you.
Still, you stood your ground. Broken, bleeding, but unbowed.
"And If death is thy will," you said softly, "then pray be swift."
The man didn't speak.
Didn't shoot.
Only glared.
Only waited.
And in that long, stifling silence, a strange realization struck you through the haze of pain:
He was not hesitating out of mercy.
He was hesitating because he did not trust what he saw.
You weren't sure if that was better... or worse.
There was no speaking.
None.
The only sounds that could be heard were the loud unfamiliar sounds of this realm of glass and crystal and across, the man.
His strange weapons that shot fire and metal trained on your heart, a creature carved from rage and shadow. The wind howled softly between you — sharp, unclean, cold. Your legs buckled again, and your breath hitched in your throat.
Finally—
The man spoke.
Or rather.
Swore.
A harsh, guttural sound, laced with venom and something else... frustration? Anger? Reluctant pity?
It mattered not.
Because with a flick of his wrists, he lowered both weapons, arms tense and twitching before he slid them back into the holsters tucked beneath that brown leather coat.
You didn't dare move.
Not until you were sure.
Only when the sound of metal sliding home echoed through the stillness did your shoulders slump — just slightly — and your chest shuddered with a long, aching breath of relief.
Your grip on your staff loosened, then tightened again.
The pain did not fade with his mercy.
It only revealed itself, now that the threat had passed.
Your knees trembled like saplings in a stormwind. Your wound flared bright behind your ribs, and your teeth clenched down with a faint, involuntary growl — the sharp points of your canines pressing into your lower lip as you tried not to cry out.
You would not show weakness.
Not here.
Not to him.
Still... the world swayed just slightly at the edges. You forced your tail to remain still, though it twitched, betraying your struggle.
Your fingers ached around the wood of your staff.
"Thank thee..." you managed softly, voice frayed and uneven. "For sparing me..."
Another breath. Another spike of fire in your side.
"...though I fear... I've naught the strength to repay the kindness just yet."
Your vision flickered again. The rooftops bled into shadows. The stars above this strange world spun like coins tossed into a well.
You swayed — then caught yourself.
Barely.
A whisper escaped between your fanged teeth, low and cracked:
"...I must sit..."
Jason Todd POV
He hadn't meant to move.
But the second he saw the blue woman's knees buckle and her staff slip from her fingers — he was already running.
"Shit—!"
She pitched forward.
The staff clattered to the rooftop, echoing across the concrete like a dropped sword. Her (e/c) eyes glazed over, and her lips parted, but no sound came. Just that expression. That look—like someone already halfway to death.
Jason sild and caught her before she could hit the ground.
She was lighter than she looked. Warm, and trembling. His arm hooked under her legs, the other bracing behind her back. Blood smeared across his gloves immediately — hot, sticky, and still flowing fast.
"Damn it, you're worse off than you looked," he muttered, lowering her to the rooftop gently, knees hitting stone. "What the hell did you—?"
But before Jason could finish he watched her hand move.
Not to him.
To the wound.
She pressed her palm flat against her own ribs, teeth bared as a fresh jolt of pain wracked her entire body. Jason froze for a half-second—unsure whether she was going to pass out or puke—
And then her hand glowed.
A soft, green shimmer pulsed beneath her fingers. Light trickled through the edges of her palm like morning sun leaking through forest leaves.
Jason stared.
"...What the hell..."
The glow thickened, brighter at the core, spilling warmth over her side — and where there was once torn flesh and crimson ruin, the bleeding began to slow. Her robes, still soaked, hung limp and heavy, but he could see the skin beneath start to knit together.
She was healing.
Herself.
"No way," he muttered, watching her brow furrow, sweat pooling at her temple. "You're using magic? Now? You can barely stay conscious—"
Her shoulders shook.
A grunt escaped her lips — half snarl, half breath. Her tail, twitching faintly before, now lay limp. Her hand quivered against her side, fingers curling tighter with effort as the spell fought to stay active.
Jason didn't know how any of this worked — he didn't do magic.
Didn't trust it.
He already had enough of it when he was brought back.
But even he could tell it was draining her. Fast.
"You're burning out," he muttered under his breath. "Damn stubborn blue lady."
Still... he didn't stop you.
He just stayed there — supporting your weight, watching her glow in the dark like some wounded star that refused to go out.
Something in his chest twisted.
He didn't know what it was.
But it wasn't anger.
And that scared him more than the magic ever could.
The gentle glow continued for a few more minutes before finally slowly beginning to dim before finally no longer glowing. Not all at once, but like the last dying ember in a fire pit—slow, soft, reluctant to go. Her hand slipped away from her side, shaking and smeared with her own blood. The gash on her stomach... mostly closed now. Bruised, angry, but no longer gushing.
She was still alive.
Barely.
But she looked like hell.
Just watched her hand tremble as she moved it away from her side, her palm flickering with leftover magic. That warm green light had vanished now — replaced by cold Gotham night.
And then...
Her hand curled into the fabric of his jacket.
Not in fear.
Not even in instinct.
Just pain.
"Thank thee," she whispered, voice like ash, "for... holding me."
Jason stared at her.
He wanted to say something — "Don't thank me," or "I almost shot you," or "You're lucky I didn't drop you off the side of the building."
But he didn't.
He just sighed. Deep. Frustrated. Exhausted.
And annoyed as hell that he now officially gave a damn.
"Goddammit," he muttered under his breath.
He shifted her gently, easing her against the nearest bit of rooftop cover — an old stone ledge half-collapsed with age and pigeon shit. He braced her upright with one arm, then crouched to retrieve the weird gnarled stick that had started all this — her staff — and set it by her side.
"Alright. Sit here. Don't move. Don't shift. Don't bleed out."
She blinked up at him, still dazed. "Thou... art leaving?"
"Just for a second," he grunted, adjusting the gun holsters under his jacket. "My bike's stashed in an alley a few blocks from here. I'll bring it around. Then I'm taking you somewhere warm before you pass out again and die on this rooftop."
She flinched, and her tail flicked weakly against the ledge. "I... I do not wish to trouble thee further—"
Jason scoffed and stood.
"You already fell out of the sky and on top of me. Pretty sure that ship's sailed."
He glanced back down at her — bloodstained, barely conscious, draped in strange leaves and old-world robes. She looked completely out of place here.
And somehow...
He couldn't bring himself to walk away.
Not from this.
Not from her.
"Just sit tight," he muttered, already turning toward the fire escape. "Keep quiet. Keep breathing. And if some asshole in a black mask and cape shows up while I'm gone, do me a favor... set him on fire."
Then, under his breath, more to himself than to her:
"...What the hell am I even doing?"
And with that, he vanished into the shadows of the night.
Y/N POV
And just like that.
He was gone.
The man disappeared into the shadows like a phantom of war.
One moment he stood beside you — a growling sentinel made of anger and iron — and the next, he was leaping from the rooftop, leather coat snapping in the wind, vanishing into the night like smoke off a candle.
You were now alone, slumped back against the ledge with a pained grunt, pressing a shaky hand to your side once more. The worst of the wound had mended, but your body still ached from the magic's toll — the magic, the fall, and the man who'd held a death machine to your throat.
You closed your eyes and whispered, voice barely above the wind:
"Silvanus, guide me... I know not where I've fallen, but the land still lives beneath me."
You reached deep — into the pulse of your magic. Beneath the stone. Beneath the noise. Nature still breathed here. It was quieter... caged in concrete and steel... but it was still there.
And they were listening.
You extended your fingers toward the sky, and with a soft ripple of magic, you whispered:
"Come, child of feather and wind... I seek no harm. Only words."
The wind shifted.
A faint flutter.
And then — a soft weight settled gently upon the ledge beside you.
A pigeon.
Its feathers were mottled gray and white, one wing slightly crooked. Not beautiful by your homeland's standards, but alive, curious, and willing.
You smiled.
"Greetings, little sky-walker," you said warmly, voice hoarse but kind. "Thou art not the sparrow's I know... but still a welcome sight in this land of smoke."
The bird tilted its head, hopping once. It stared at you with beady, intelligent eyes.
"Canst thou speak with me?" you asked softly, extending your druidic aura. "Only if thou wouldst."
It bobbed its head. Once. Then twice.
Connection made.
In your mind — not words exactly, but the essence of understanding — came a burst of images and feelings: smoke, food scraps, flashing lights, danger, tall moving beasts (cars), towers that touched the sky, and humans that never looked up.
You offered a tired chuckle.
"Aye... 'tis a strange realm indeed."
From your satchel, you reached carefully — fingers fumbling — and drew out a small dried berry, enchanted and preserved. You placed it on the ledge.
"For thee. In thanks."
The pigeon cooed, pecked once at the berry, then nestled closer, no longer afraid.
With effort, you shifted the satchel more into your lap. Its contents clinked faintly — elixirs, salves, herbs, dried fruits... and the soft glint of jewelry wrapped in woven cloth.
You ran your fingers across one piece — a silver ring inlaid with a dull opal. When you touched the stone and closed your eyes, you could feel it stir — the glamour inside. The illusionary magic that could cloak your form in the guise of another race, should the need arise.
Not yet, you thought. Not needed for now.
But... perhaps it would have a later use.
You returned it carefully to it's pouch.
"Tell me, little friend," you said to the pigeon, voice lower now. "What realm is this? What call do these towers serve? Why do they howl when the moon shine's?"
The pigeon blinked. Then let out a long coo and you smiled as it began to tell you, in images and feelings, the story of Gotham — a city of predators and prey, of wind and fire and the man who walked with thunder in his hands and the light that reaches the sky in a strange shape.
As the pigeon spoke to you, pain still gnawed at your limbs like wolves at a carcass, but you welcomed the distraction. The kindness. The life. And with a slow exhale, you leaned your head against the rooftop ledge and winces as your horns scrambled the back of the ledge and you gently whispered to the creature, your voice warm, like wind rustling through old pines:
"Thou hast a tale most strange, little one. I thank thee for thy gift of knowledge."
The pigeon tilted its head once again. Then — with a flutter and a determined hop — it landed softly in your lap, nestling down as though it had always belonged there.
"Strange," it said — not in words, but in meaning.
Strange, but not frightening.
The bird blinked slowly at you. Then came a pulse of thought — clear and bright:
"Never seen a human like you."
You smiled wider, despite the ache in your side.
You chuckled — a low, tired sound, colored with true warmth. Your sharp teeth glinted faintly in the moonlight as your tail gave a weak flick behind you.
"Aye. I imagine I seem... much unlike the ones thou knowest." you wince a little but continue speaking. "I am not human," you said gently. "Though my heart may beat as one's might. I am Tiefling — a child of infernal blood, yes, but shaped by the wild places, the sacred groves. My soul bears no chains forged in hellfire."
You let your hand gently stroke the pigeon's side — slow and respectful, fingers glowing faintly with that druidic touch that all creatures recognized as peace.
"I was reared among the Circle of the Moon," you continued, voice growing softer as you told your truth. "Taught the language of bark and stone, of rivers and cloud and beast alike. It is by such bond I speak with thee now — not by trickery or spell, but kinship."
The bird ruffled slightly beneath your fingers. Content.
"Where I come from, thou wouldst be revered, little sky-walker," you whispered. "A sign of change, or hope, or warning. But always... listened to."
The pigeon cocked its head again. You could feel the emotions flickering through it — curiosity, contentment, a strange sense of wonder.
You laughed quietly.
"Aye. I speak with beasts, just as I mend the wounded and shift into fang or feather when need arises. 'Tis my calling — to heal, to guide... to listen."
You leaned your head back, looking at the foreign sky.
"So I listen now. To thee. To this realm. To the thunder-hearted man who holds too much pain behind that red helm."
The pigeon shifted on your lap, fluffing his feathers with a soft trill of contentment. You let your hand remain still beside him, fingers curled, your palm warm with magic still faintly thrumming through you.
For a while, the only sounds were the distant whine of sirens and the hum of the wind around the rooftops.
And then... a thought came.
Clear. Bright. Proud.
"Name is Crook."
You blinked, surprised.
"Crook?" you echoed softly, eyebrows raised.
The bird bobbed his head, perfectly serious.
You chuckled, a faint blush of guilt warming your cheeks. "Thou hast a name, and I was rude not to ask it sooner."
Crook gave a soft warble — neither offended nor bothered — but you bowed your head anyway in apology, fingers gently brushing his back mindful of your claws.
"Forgive me, Crook. I've been unmoored since falling into this strange realm, and my manners seem to have fallen with me."
The pigeon let out a soft, amused chirp. Beneath your hand, his feathers rippled slightly — and then, quite suddenly, they stilled.
He froze.
Head jerking toward the shadows, wings half-lifted in instinct.
You lifted your gaze just as footsteps echoed onto the rooftop.
And there — emerging from the edge of the dark, leather coat whipping behind him, red helmet glinting under the moonlight —
He was back.
The red-helmed man.
The mortal storm.
He paused mid-step, staring at you — or more precisely, at your lap.
There was a long silence.
Then:
"...Why the hell are you talking to a pigeon?"
You blinked at him. Then down at Crook. Then back at the masked man.
And offered a soft smile, voice melodic and calm:
"Because he is most enlightening company."
Jason stared.
You gently stroked Crook's head as you added, "His name is Crook, and he's gracious enough to share what he knows of this land. I speak with him, as I would any creature of the world — by way of druidic bond. Nature's tongue."
Jason tilted his head slightly. You could almost feel his disbelief through the helmet.
You gestured to the pigeon nestled in your lap.
"He told me thy streets are dangerous, thy sky heavy with smoke, and thy kind rarely stop to speak to winged things unless to swat them away."
Crook cooed again, as if in agreement.
Jason crossed his arms.
"So... talking animals. Magic... tree stick. Horns. Fangs. Fall-from-the-sky entrance. Healing yourself with green glow-hands. And now... you're having a conversation with one of Gotham's rats-with-wings?"
You tilted your head, smile softening.
"Aye."
Jason muttered something under his breath — something distinctly unholy — and waved a hand dismissively as he stalked over to grab your staff and hold it out to you.
"Well, come on, Forest Princess. You're still bleeding and I'm not playing field medic on a roof all night."
You reached for your staff slowly, carefully placing Crook on your shoulder where he clung comfortably.
"Where art we going?" you asked, wincing as you stood.
He gave a sharp sigh.
"To my place," he muttered. "Congratulations, you get the scenic tour of Gotham's worst alleys."
You gave a pained laugh and followed.
Behind you, Crook ruffled his feathers and whispered in your mind:
"I like him. He's grumpy."
You smiled."So I've noticed."
The man sighs low and sharp, like he was already regretting this entire series of life choices.
But still, he stepped beside you.
His hand came to your arm — steady, surprisingly gentle — as he guided you toward the edge of the rooftop, just above the alley's mouth. The wind shifted, colder here, sweeping your cloak like a dying breath.
Below, the city yawned open — stone rivers, strange machines rumbling past, walls dressed in lights that flickered like dying stars. And down there, somewhere out of sight, lay the two-wheeled metal beast he'd called a "bike."
You blinked at the drop, then turned your gaze toward him.
"And... how, pray tell, dost thou plan to bring us down?"
The man glanced at you sidelong, then — without ceremony — raised a strange device from his belt. It resembled no crossbow you'd ever seen, though the mechanism bore the soul of one. He aimed it at a building across the alley and, with a hiss of compressed tension—
FWWMP.
A hook shot out on a cord of thin steel, anchoring with a solid thunk into the stonework opposite.
You flinched slightly, startled by the noise. He gave a short, humorless grunt.
"Wrap your arms around me," he said, adjusting his stance as the line went taut.
You blinked again. "I beg thy pardon?"
"You heard me," he muttered, stepping closer. "Unless you've got wings I haven't seen yet, this is your only ride down."
You hesitated.
Then glanced to your shoulder.
Crook.
The pigeon fluffed his wings, watching both of you with bead-bright eyes.
"Fly on, dear friend," you whispered softly. "Find thy way to us below."
Crook gave a soft coo and took flight with a flutter of wings, vanishing into the darkness with a grace you envied. You watched him go, lips pressing into a faint smile — and then, with a sharp breath through your nose, you slid your staff onto your back, the enchanted clasp securing it between your shoulder blades.
It took effort.
Too much effort.
Your body screamed in protest as you staggered forward the last step.
The man caught you again — firm hands steadying your waist.
"Easy."
Your cheeks warmed — from pain or proximity, you couldn't tell — and you slowly, awkwardly wrapped your arms around him, one shoulder pressed against the armored curve of his chest. Your horns brushed his helmet briefly. You felt the coarse heat of his jacket, the cold metal of his weapon rig against your side.
And your tail whipped behind you, unsettled by how close this felt.
You whispered, a bit breathless:
"I have never flown without wings before..."
The man simply muttered beneath his breath, low and dry:
"Yeah? Well... first time for everything."
And then — with a tight jerk on the line — you were both on the edge.
You look down and gulp at the drop.
You have flown great heights but never without your wings and as you continue to stare into the dark you feel the man's arm settled around your waist — solid, steady, warm even through layers of armor and leather. You stiffened slightly, but didn't pull away. The closeness was necessary, he had said. And truly, without his grip, you doubted you'd stay upright long enough to draw another breath.
Still... something nagged at the edges of your thoughts. A loose thread.
He threatened you
held you.
Saved you.
Carried you.
Spoke with sharp words, and quieter actions.
But you did not even know his name.
And as he adjusted the line on his strange grappling weapon, his fingers tightening with purpose and movement in mind, the question escaped your lips before you could stop it:
"...Thy name. I do not know it."
He paused — just slightly — his fingers halting mid-motion.
Then, a beat later, came the answer, short and low beneath the red helmet:
"...Jason."
Your eyes widened slightly.
And then—
He stepped off the ledge.
The wind howled around you — cold and furious, lifting your (h/c) hair like leaves caught in a storm — and your stomach dropped so violently you thought your soul might have been left behind on the rooftop.
Instinct roared.
With a startled cry, your arms clutched him tighter — but your legs, unbidden, wrapped firmly around his waist, locking at the ankles behind him.
"By the gods—!"
Jason grunted as the two of you dropped fast, the line hissing behind you, his grip tight around your middle.
"Hang on, Forest Princess!" he shouted over the wind. "And maybe don't choke me in the process!"
You buried your face into his shoulder, horns narrowly missing his helmet, tail whipping behind you like a banner of panic.
"Th-this is not how druids travel!" you gasped.
"Welcome to Gotham," he muttered.
And below, the city opened its arms — cruel and cold and endless — as you hurtled toward the ground in the arms of a man you barely knew, and trusted more than you should.
The air continued to whip through your hair and you squeeze your eyes shut.
Until finally–
The world jerked to a stop.
Jason's boots hit the ground with a thud that echoed off the graffiti-stained alley walls. Somewhere above, the cable of his strange weapon hissed as it retracted, vanishing back into the device with mechanical finality. The shadows here were thick — littered with trash bins and the reek of oil and damp stone — but you barely noticed.
Because you were still clinging to him like your life depended on it.
Your legs wrapped tight around his waist, your arms locked around his shoulders, tail fluttering wildly behind you and legs still wrapped tightly around him.
Jason sighed.
"Alright. We're on the ground now," he muttered.
You didn't answer.
Your face was still half-buried in the crook of his shoulder, hair tangled across his back and armor, heart hammering in your chest like a war drum.
Jason shifted slightly beneath you. His arm was still wrapped protectively around your back — whether out of necessity or pity, you couldn't say.
"You can open your eyes," he added, slightly more amused now. "We're not skydiving anymore."
You inhaled sharply, then finally lifted your head, blinking open your eyes one at a time. The sky above was as dark as pitch, speckled with unnatural stars — cold and buzzing like insects trapped behind glass. The alley reeked of rot and steel and something acrid you couldn't name.
But you were alive.
And your feet — or at least his — were on solid ground.
"Bless the earth," you whispered, breath ragged, finally loosening your grip. You slid slowly down his frame, careful not to stumble as your boots touched the cracked concrete. Your legs trembled beneath you — part exhaustion, part leftover terror.
Jason muttered something like "koala druid" under his breath, but if it was meant to mock, it lacked the usual bite.
Then, from above—
A flutter.
A soft whistle of wind.
And the sound of wings.
"Crook," you murmured.
With a fluttering grace, your companion returned — feathers gleaming faintly in the streetlight as he landed on your shoulder, talons gentle against the druidic fabric of your robes.
The moment he perched, he ruffled once and cooed proudly, like a soldier reporting for duty.
Jason glanced at the pigeon, blinking once. His helmet tilted slightly.
"...the bird coming too?"
You turned, blinking in genuine surprise at the question.
Crook looked at Jason.
Jason looked at Crook.
You turned your head to the bird beside you.
"Well?" you asked him softly. "Wouldst thou accompany me still?"
Crook gave a sharp nod and a short, almost smug chirp — the mental impression of "Obviously."
You smiled, brushing your fingers lightly along the bird's chest.
"He wishes to come."
Jason stared. Then exhaled slowly through his nose, rubbing the side of his helmet like this was not the strangest thing he'd seen this week.
"I was joking," he muttered. "But of course he does. Why not? Let's bring the magical sky-rat too."
You stifled a laugh. "Crook is not a rat. He is wise."
"He's a pigeon," Jason deadpanned, already turning toward the mouth of the alley.
You followed slowly — limping a little, your staff shifting lightly on your back, Crook nestled into the curve of your neck like a feathered sentinel. The shadows fell away as you turned the corner, revealing something unlike any beast you'd known:
It was monstrous and sleek — like a blood red serpent forged in metal, crouched low with wheels that gleamed like polished obsidian. The pipes curled like exposed ribs, and the light from its front eye cast a faint glow against the brick wall, like the stare of something ancient and cold.
You paused.
"...What manner of steed is this?"
Jason turned slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching behind the helmet.
"It's a bike," he said. "Or, in your fancy talk? My noble iron beast of fire and speed."
Your brow furrowed as you stepped closer, eyes wide with cautious reverence. "It... breathes not, yet hums with life."
"She's got more personality than half the people in this city," Jason muttered, straddling the seat and glancing over his shoulder. "Alright. Time to mount up, Princess. I'm not carrying you.. again."
You reached for the back grip, wincing slightly at your side as you raised a leg over the seat and slid in behind him — awkwardly at first, and carefully, mindful of your staff and the long fall you still hadn't emotionally recovered from.
Crook flapped once and settled on the front of the beast, head turned toward the road like he was ready for battle.
Jason looked down at the pigeon now seated in front of him. Then at you. Then forward again.
"...This is gonna be the weirdest night of my life."
You leaned forward slightly, arms slipping once more around his torso — not as tight as before, but firm enough to feel real.
"Aye," you said with a tired smile. "But thou did say 'first time for everything.'"
Jason just sighed, started the engine, and the beast beneath you roared to life.
And off you three go into the streets of this strange world.
Astarion turns in surprise at the sound of your voice; it had been some years since he’d last seen you. He practically beams when he notices you, draping himself over you in glee, though it never quite reaches his eyes.
“And you’ve changed a lot. Did you miss me?” Astarion caresses your cheek, and you resist the urge to lean into the touch like so long ago. Instead, you slap his hand away and hold it far from your face.
“I’m not here for you, Astarion; I was called to Baldur’s Gate to deal with a rogue dryad.” You see the glee vanish and be instantly replaced by anger and jealousy.
“I did not ask what brought you here, I asked if you missed me,” Astarion states.
The ascension had twisted everything inside him, your attention was his and his alone, but unlike before where he’d mock pout, now he’d murder the person that stole your attention.
“I don’t have time for you Astarion,” you brush him aside, and his face darkens.
“Well, make time; I don’t like being ignored.” He reminds you, “Are you with someone? Did you replace me with some warm body to fuck?”
Your lack of response irritates him and lack of engagement in a conversation only prompts Astarion to follow you.
What if I told you I've been missing for weeks cuz I have no self control over my obsessions....
Started watching the Sun and Moon Show and Moon requested a pic of him as a Rogue and Sun as a Paladin! Signed sealed and delivered, 2 warforged beings with Entertainer backgrounds and sick weapons! WIP for now!
Also made a self-insert Monk/Druid who finds the boys in their old Dwemer base and brings them along on adventures.
Literally got a D&D/High Fantasy AU now....prepare for my BS in full force!
Astarion doesn't bother to remember many things before his ascension; never bothered to keep in touch with anyone from before then either. He walks the long halls of his home and sits atop a throne, revered and worshipped akin to a god, with the memories of the tiefling who stole his undead heart so long ago. The same tiefling he'd driven away when the ascension had begun to twist his mind.
"Not that I don't love you, darling, but why do you insist on giving me flowers?" Astarion remembers asking, face flustered as you tilted your head at his question.
"Just because," you'd shrugged, taking another flower and placing it in Astarion's hair. The journey to Baldur's Gate was long, and the whole group had decided to take the roundabout path for some extra time to relax, well as much time you could all set aside to relax.
The last handful of flowers you'd given Astarion were still displayed on his bedside dresser, as fresh and vibrant as the day you'd picked them for him all those decades ago. "They won't wither as long as I live, a symbol of my love for you." Astarion had scoffed at your words and called you cheesy, all the while hiding his blushing face behind his hands. He hasn't seen your smile in decades? He can't remember, he doesn't know if he wants to.
Not the brittle, suffocating kind that came after too much blood, when silence pressed down so hard it was louder than noise.
No—this was different.
It was……
Soft.
Warm.
Caring.
The kind Jason didn’t get.
The kind he wasn’t supposed to get.
And for what felt like a long moment, Jason didn’t stir.
His body was still, his mind too slow to realize it wasn’t strapped down by chains of terror or the chokehold of a nightmare. He lay there, breathing, not gasping. Chest rising evenly, heart not racing out of his ribs, no phantom hands around his throat.
Just… breathing.
And weight.
There was weight on him.
He blinked, groggy, lids heavy.
The dim morning light bleeding through the curtains dragged him the rest of the way back into his body. He shifted, not much, just enough to feel it—the distinct pull of something warm and solid across his chest.
Jason cracked his eyes open.
What he saw made his stomach clench and his brain trip over itself all at once.
Because nestled right against him, cheek pressed to his shirt, horns just barely grazing his collarbone, was none other then you.
Dead asleep.
Breathing slow, face loose with the kind of peace that only came in dreams untouched by Gotham.
Your hand—clawed, sharp-tipped—was resting over his chest, right above his heart.
Jason swore under his breath. “For fuck’s sake…”
His head fell back against the floor with a dull thud.
This was—Christ. He couldn’t even begin to unpack this.
You, wrapped around him like this wasn’t the worst idea in the goddamn world.
Like you didn’t know what kind of man you were holding on to.
And as Jason continue to lay there he felt the your tail twitching every now and then like even in sleep, you couldn’t hide what you were feeling.
Comfortable and at ease.
With him.
And it would’ve been—hell, Jason didn’t want to admit it, but it would’ve been nice.
Except.
Except when he dragged his gaze lower, the world reminded him it was Gotham, and peace wasn’t allowed to last.
Because on his chest—his chest, right above where your clawed hand rested like some poetic goddamn symbol—sat the pigeon.
Crook.
The bastard was puffed up in contentment, feathers ruffled, head tucked in, legs folded neatly under him like Jason was nothing but a mattress built for birds. The fucker was actually asleep.
Jason’s eye twitched. He glared down the bridge of his nose at the smug little lump of feathers, muttering low through clenched teeth. “I really, really need to find recipes on what I can cook you into.”
The pigeon shifted, cooing faintly, as if mocking him.
Jason swore he felt the bird’s smugness radiating off its stupid tiny body.
Jason closed his eyes again and groaned, long and guttural, dragging a hand over his face. This was his life.
This was his actual life.
Former Robin.
Murdered by the Joker.
Dragged through hell’s green fire in a Lazarus Pit. Came back wrong, spent years carving Gotham open, and now… now he was a fucking pillow. For a magic plant growing animal shifting horned woman…... And a pigeon.
“Unbelievable,” Jason muttered, words muffled against his palm. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
He should’ve moved. Should’ve shoved both of you off him, gotten up, gone to do what he did best—move, run, fight. That was safer. Easier.
But he didn’t.
His hand stayed at his face, covering the mess of his expression, but beneath it, his mouth twitched. Not into a smile, not fully, but something softened. Something dangerous. Because your weight on him—your warmth—wasn’t heavy like the nightmares. It was grounding.
He felt your slow breath through his shirt. The way your claws rested carefully, even in sleep, like you knew what you were touching. The brush of your horns, the faint, impossible glow of your eyes behind shut lids.
Your features, in sleep, were softer than he’d ever seen them. No guardedness. No strange, foreign tension of being stranded in Gotham.
Just… serenity. The kind Jason hadn’t touched in years, maybe decades.
He let himself watch for longer than he should have. Long enough that it felt like a sin.
Then Crook shuffled again, dragging him back to earth. The pigeon opened one beady eye, looked at him, then promptly shut it again with a dismissive coo, as if telling Jason he was boring.
Jason grit his teeth. “One of these days, bird. One of these days.”
The pigeon ignored him, feathers still fluffed.
Jason sighed, tilting his head back, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.
One. Two. Three.
He counted them, slow, dragging his gaze along the pale webbing that spread out across the plaster like veins. It was something to do. Something easy. Something still.
Four. Five. Six.
All was quiet.
No sirens screaming outside. No gunfire cracking down the block. No pounding of boots on rooftops or the echo of his own ragged voice chasing him out of sleep. Just stillness. Just breathing—the slow drag of yours, the faint whistle of Crook’s tiny body, and his own chest rising beneath both of you.
It was…
Peaceful.
Jason wasn’t used to this kind of peace.
Not anymore.
Peace usually came in the form of exhaustion so deep he didn’t even notice it. The kind where his body shut down without asking permission. Or it came after violence, when everything was dead and silent and the only sound left was his own heart thudding in his ears.
But this—this wasn’t like those. This was quiet because it was quiet. Because nothing hunted him in this exact moment.
It was almost unnerving.
Jason shifted slightly, subtle, eyes flicking down to the way your horns caught the light. Smooth, curved, like something carved with care. They fascinated him. Always had, though he’d never admit it out loud. He’d seen plenty of monsters in his time—things with fangs and claws and eyes that glowed.
But your horns weren’t monstrous.
They looked… regal. Beautiful, even.
That thought made his throat tighten, so he pushed it away fast, shoving it back where it belonged—behind the wall he’d built to keep himself sane.
Still, his gaze caught on them again. On you. On how you were curled against him like it was natural. Like you weren’t the strangest damn thing he’d ever stumbled across. Like he wasn’t a man who’d crawled out of a grave, broken and wrong, with more blood on his hands than he cared to count.
His arm twitched, half an instinct to move, to shift you off, to get free before it went too far. But he didn’t follow through. Didn’t shove. Didn’t even nudge.
Instead, Jason let his head fall back. Let the weight of you stay. Let himself sink into the floor with the two of you piled on top of him.
For once, he wasn’t carrying it all alone.
The thought made him laugh, soft, bitter. Carrying you and a pigeon wasn’t much of a metaphor, but hell, it fit.
He shifted again, enough that his hand brushed against your arm. Your skin was warm, smooth where it showed beneath the sleeve. His fingers hovered there, uncertain, before curling into his palm again. He wasn’t about to get caught petting you like some creep.
Not when you’d probably tease him for it until the end of time.
Jason let out another long breath, chest rising under your claws. His eyes slipped shut. For a second, he let himself pretend this was normal. That he wasn’t lying on the floor in his crappy apartment with a pigeon and a tiefling draped over him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
That maybe, just maybe, this was what waking up could feel like.
Safe.
The word burned him the moment it crossed his mind.
Because nothing was safe. Not him. Not you. Not Gotham.
This moment wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. And when it broke, it would break hard. He knew that. He’d lived long enough to understand how fleeting things like this were. How dangerous it was to get used to them.
But his body betrayed him. His hand lifted, hovered again, then slowly—hesitantly—he brushed his fingers once through your hair, careful not to wake you.
It was soft.
Softer than he’d thought it would be.
Jason swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, tight. He let his hand fall back to the floor with a quiet thunk, palm flat, knuckles brushing against the worn wood.
“You’re gonna get me killed,” he muttered, voice barely more than air.
Crook cooed, as if in agreement.
Jason scowled at the bird. “Not a word outta you.”
Silence pressed back in. Heavy, but not suffocating. He listened to it, counted the breaths, counted the cracks in the ceiling again just to keep his mind from spiraling. He reached twenty-seven before his eyes blurred.
And still, none of you moved.
You stayed against him, horns gleaming faint in the light, claws resting careful over his chest. Crook stayed nested, feathers warm and fluffy.
And Jason—Jason stayed right there, staring at the ceiling, stuck between wanting to shove the world away and wanting to freeze this moment forever.
He didn’t know which one scared him more.
Y/N POV
Warm.
That was the first thing you felt.
Not the chill of stone caverns, nor the damp bite of moss-soaked earth.
Not the biting winds that haunted the cliffs of home.
But warmth.
It cocooned you, soaked deep into your bones, as though the sun itself had curled around you. There was weight too, steady and solid beneath your cheek. Not soft like a featherbed, not yielding like moss or loam, but hard. Firm. Muscle beneath cloth, rising and falling in slow rhythm.
You shifted slightly, cheek brushing against it, breath catching faint upon skin heated through fabric.
And with that movement came scent.
Strange.
Arresting.
Familiar now, though you had no word for it in your tongue. Steel and smoke, but not of the forge-fires you once knew.
This smoke stung, sharp and acrid, burning faintly at the back of your throat like sulfur from a battlefield’s scorch. Black-powder, though thinner, more bitter. It was the smell Jason always carried, woven into him as if it were as natural as sweat or skin.
Beneath it lingered leather—aged, well-oiled, clinging faint like bark stripped from a tree. And still deeper, under that hardness, something living, warm.
Something you could only name as him.
Peace tugged at you. It was rare, this gentle waking. Rare enough you burrowed closer, let your claws flex faint against the fabric beneath you.
And then—
You stirred enough to open your (e/c) eyes.
Soft light touched the edges of your vision, pale morning filtering through thin curtains. And just beyond, mere inches from where your head rested, a small gray lump caught your sight.
Crook.
Curled, puffed, content as if he owned the space. His round body rose and fell, feathers twitching in some secret bird-dream. A smile curled your lips before you could stop it. “Good morrow, dear Crook,” you whispered, voice hushed, reverent for the moment’s stillness.
The pigeon stirred. One beady eye cracked open. Then his voice—not aloud, never aloud, but sharp in your mind, that grating accent he bore like armor—rang through you.
”What’s good, doll? How’d we sleep?”
You blinked, startled, though you’d grown accustomed to his intrusion. Then your smile softened. “Very well indeed.”
The pigeon shifted, feathers rustling. You swore you felt the smirk in his tone. “I’ll bet. Especially on pretty boy here.”
Everything in you froze.
The events of last night slammed back into you like a crashing tide. Jason’s body shaking, his sweat slick against your skin. His voice wrecked, unraveling pieces of a nightmare too raw to name. The way you had shifted, fur and fang, pressing close until he held you tight, like a drowning man clutching driftwood.
And now…
Now you looked up.
Slowly.
Oh, so slowly, as if dragging your soul through quicksand.
And when your eyes found your mark—
You gasped.
Green eyes sharp, though softened by the haze of morning, framed by dark lashes and the faint smear of sleeplessness beneath. They bore into you with weight enough to halt your breath.
“Comfortable, princess?” he rasped, voice thick, low from disuse.
Your mouth opened. Nothing emerged.
Closed. Opened again. Your fangs flashed briefly, lips parting—but still no sound.
Words fled you. Entirely.
This was worse—far worse—than the mornings in his bed. When you both lay turned away from each other, yet woke up always facing, hands somehow twined together without memory of how.
That strangeness had unsettled you, yes, but this—
This was ruinous.
Heat flared across your skin, staining azure flesh deeper, hotter. Your tail lashed once, twice, betraying every tremor that struck you.
And still his eyes held you, unwavering.
ANd as you both continued to look into each other—
Something seized you.
Some reckless current, primal and undeniable, that surged through your veins before you could think. Your hand lifted, betraying you. Fingers trembled as they rose—slow, reverent—and cupped his face.
The rasp of his stubble scraped lightly against your palm. Warmth bled into your skin from his cheekbone, his jaw.
And you stared.
Stared into those eyes. Green and fathomless, scarred by things you could not name. And yet, within their depths, mirrored back faint, you saw yourself.
Not the healer. Not the wanderer. Not the druid lost through strange portals. But simply you.
Reflected.
Jason did not speak.
Nor did you.
Silence wrapped around you both, thick, fragile. A moment suspended on the edge of shattering.
And then—
“So… you and broody gonna kiss or what?”
The voice sliced into your skull, crude and brash, dripping sarcasm. Crook.
“’Cause lemme tell ya, doll, the suspense is killin’ me here.”
You jolted. Whipped your head to glare at the pigeon. “I—I was not—! We were—he and I—there was no intent of such—”
Your words tripped, tangled, collapsing over each other in flustered fragments.
Crook’s eye glinted wickedly, feathers puffed with smugness. “Sure, doll. Whatever helps ya sleep at night… though it seems like broody helps with that.”
Your flush deepened to a shade that felt near unbearable, heat rushing from the tips of your ears down your throat. Your tail lashed harder, an uncontrollable whip-crack against the floor, like a banner of your mortification.
Jason’s lips curved—barely, faintly—but curved all the same. It wasn’t the mocking smirk he often wore to keep others at bay. No, this was smaller. Almost unguarded. As if amusement had snuck past the iron bars of his usual defenses and planted itself there without permission.
And so you both stayed there….Neither of you spoke.
The silence stretched, heavy yet not unbearable. Suspended between you was something unnamed, fragile but undeniable, as steady as the warmth still clinging to your skin from where you’d been resting against him. You could feel your own pulse thrumming fast, betraying you, and his slower, calmer in comparison but no less present.
For a moment, you wished time would still itself entirely. That you could remain locked in that quiet, watching his face soften, feeling as though you had stumbled upon some truth you weren’t meant to witness.
But then—
A sharp trill shattered the silence.
Jason’s little box of wonders—his phone—screeched to life atop the nightstand. Its vibration rattled faintly against the wood, shrill tone cutting through your moment like a blade.
Jason shut his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose in what could only be described as bone-deep irritation. His jaw ticked once. He turned his head, glaring at the thing, then sighed.
He looked back at you. “You mind?” His voice wasn’t sharp, not curt—simply clarifying. Requesting space.
You startled, head shaking quickly. “Nay! Not at all!” The words tumbled from you in a rush, awkward and far too loud. You scrambled upright, nearly tripping over your own tail in the haste of it. “Forgive me—I… aye, of course.”
Your face burned as you pressed your palms against it, desperate to hide the glow radiating from your cheeks.
But no matter how you shielded yourself, you could not quell the ache—the sudden hollowness—that spread through your chest as you pulled away from his warmth. You would not admit it aloud, not even to yourself, but it felt as though something vital had been taken the instant you rose from his side.
Jason muttered something under his breath, indecipherable, before reaching for Crook. The little bird startled and fluttered hard against Jason's rough hold, indignant at being handled this way.
And Jason all but shoved him into your hands.
“Next time you sleep on me, bird,” Jason growled, glaring, “watch what happens.”
Crook twisted his neck around, fixing Jason with a beady, unamused stare. Then his voice unfurled in your head, dripping with sass. “Yeah? Try it, tough guy. See what happens.”
You stifled a laugh, pressing your lips together tightly as your tail gave the faintest twitch behind you. Jason and Crook’s mutual dislike was an eternal thing, and it almost comforted you in its constancy.
Jason, not breaking his stride muttered, and stalked toward the nightstand.
He snatched the phone, thumbed across the glowing surface, and lifted it to his ear with another weary sigh. “Yeah,” he barked into it, already sounding irritated.
You glanced once, hesitated. And then, remembering the strange intimacy of moments past, you stepped lightly toward the door.
He deserved privacy.
Your hand was gentle on the knob, the door closing behind you with the softest of clicks as you stepped though.
The sound sealed away his voice, the faint static of the call, and left you in the hush of the hallway.
The home was still dim with morning gray.
And making your way down the hall you crossed to the couch and sank into it, shifting so your legs crossed gracefully.
Crook, freed from your hands, waddled once in a circle before hopping squarely into your lap. He puffed himself up, feathers smoothing as if he’d meant to be there all along.
Your hand rose to stroke him absently, fingers combing through his plumage. The bird cooed softly, pleased.
But your thoughts…
Your thoughts did not settle.
The flush lingered on your skin, cheeks still warm with the memory of waking not merely beside Jason, but within his arms.
Protected.
Encircled.
It had been no bed of moss or cradle of leaves, yet it had felt safer than either. Safer than anything had in long months.
And that terrified you.
You would not speak it aloud. Would not even dare let Crook pry it loose. But still your chest ached, your mind replaying the weight of his embrace, the way his chest had risen beneath your cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath the scars and the steel.
Yet memory was cruel. For when you reached toward that warmth, another image surged forward, harsh and merciless.
Last night.
Jason’s eyes.
Emerald green, fever-bright, widened with horror. His hand trembling as it pressed steel beneath your chin. His body drenched in sweat, breath ragged, every line of him bent by something unseen.
You remembered the burn of fear in your throat, though not for yourself. For him.
The gun had been cold, unyielding, the weapon of this strange world. You had known in an instant that he hadn’t seen you. He had still been in that nightmare, drowning in it. You were but a phantom he struck at, too lost in terror to know otherwise.
And yet—even then—you had stayed. Not out of bravery, nor stubbornness. But because your heart refused to let him fall wholly into that abyss.
Your ears drooped faintly now, their tips lowering with your mood. Your tail flicked once behind you, restless, before curling low around your side.
Your hand stilled in Crook’s feathers, and you whispered it aloud before you could stop yourself.
“Just how wounded are you, Jason Peter Todd?”
The name tasted solemn in your mouth, weighted as any spell. You had seen wounds before, in flesh and bone, in sickness and scar. But his were something deeper. Something unseen, festering far beyond the reach of poultice or salve.
You traced a finger over Crook’s feathers, your voice soft, almost prayerful. “I know not how to mend thee. But if there be a way, I… aye. I would find it. I would.”
For you were druid. Healer. Guardian. You had sworn your life to tending wounds—of beast, of land, of spirit. And Jason’s spirit bore gashes that bled deeper than most.
Silence filled the room again, heavy yet tender. Crook cooed faintly, shifting in your lap, as if even he knew better than to crack wise in this moment.
You sat back into the couch, gaze drifting toward the glass door and the sliver of sky beyond. Morning bled pale across the city’s edge, light striking the steel and stone of Gotham’s towers. It was not the dawn of your homeland, where sunlight dappled through branches and painted moss in gold.
But it was dawn nonetheless.
And in it, you whispered a vow—not spell, not oath, but something quieter.
That no matter how deep his scars, no matter how jagged the nightmares, you would not abandon him to face them alone.
Jason Todd POV
Jason pressed the phone to his ear, already bracing himself for the sing-song cadence of Dick’s voice.
The Caller ID had flashed his older brother’s name across the screen, and though Jason had nearly ignored it, some nagging instinct had made him swipe to answer.
He didn’t even get a hello out before—
“Finally! You picked up—good. I wasn’t sure you would, and honestly I figured I had maybe a twenty percent shot at this, because usually you let calls go to voicemail, and so that made it hard to see whose phone I should take to do this, I definitely know you wouldn't pick up Bruce's call, taking Alfred's phone definitely wasn’t an option no matter how sleep deprived I am, so that only left—”
And as the boy continued to ramble Jason’s spine went rigid.
That wasn’t Dick.
That wasn’t even close to Dick.
It was the one voice he would’ve sworn he’d rather chew glass than hear.
Tim. Fucking. Drake.
Jason clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaw ticking hard.
Of all the bastards in Gotham, this was the last one he wanted to listen to at—what, seven in the damn morning? Eight? He would’ve taken Bruce’s sanctimonious sermons over this smug little upstart any day.
The replacement.
The kid who’d slid into his spot without hesitation. Who got to sit at Bruce’s table, wear the damn “R,” act like he belonged.
Like Jason hadn’t bled and died for it first.
Meanwhile Tim just kept talking, words spilling out rapid-fire. “—so yeah, swiping Dick’s phone was probably my only option, but hey, at least it worked. You’d have hung up if you saw my name, right? You definitely would’ve. Or maybe you’d have blocked it, which would be fair, not that I’m saying it’s actually fair, but you know what I mean—”
Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, patience already fraying.
Tim went on. “Anyway, look, the point is I needed to get a hold of you, and you weren’t going to answer any of my calls, so I had to improvise. And improvisation is sort of a family trait at this point, right? Not that you’d agree, but—”
Jason snapped.
“What do you want?” he growled, voice low and lethal. His grip on the phone tightened until the plastic casing creaked. “Make it fast. I got things to do.”
Lies.
He didn’t.
But hell if he was going to admit he was sitting in his apartment with nothing on the schedule except avoiding human contact.
There was a pause on the other end, the rapid chatter cutting off as if someone had just slapped a hand over Tim’s mouth. Then, in a smaller voice:
“Right. Sorry.”
Jason rolled his eyes skyward, exhaling slow.
Tim cleared his throat, then shifted gears, the words slower but still edged with that irritating earnestness. “Okay. So. There’s a situation. One of the gangs down on the Narrows—Los Arpías—you know them?”
Jason grunted. “I know of them.”
“They’ve been moving in heavy the last couple weeks. Guns, drugs, the usual. But this time they’re running something bigger. Coordinated. Which isn’t their style.”
Tim’s tone sharpened, clipped. “They’ve got trucks moving shipments through the docks. Word is, it’s not just contraband—it’s weapons stockpiles. Military grade. Enough to arm half the East End.”
Jason leaned back against the dresser, eyes narrowing. “So what?”
“So,” Tim pressed, “one of the guys tied up in it—the one running point for the Arpías—is a name I think you’ll care about. Leon Vargas. Ring a bell?”
Jason’s grip tightened.
Vargas.
Yeah, he knew Vargas.
A gutter rat.
The kind of loser who’d scrape the bottom of every barrel in Gotham until there was nothing left but splinters and rot. Jason had seen his type a thousand times—sweaty palms, twitchy eyes, always looking for a bigger dog to hide behind.
Vargas wasn’t clever, wasn’t strong, wasn’t even particularly loyal. But what he did have was a goddamn knack for being in the wrong place at the right time. Picking up whispers, watching the corners nobody else bothered with.
A mutt.
A bottom-feeder.
And somehow, every time Jason thought about putting a bullet in him, Vargas spat up something useful. Always just enough to buy another week, another month. Just enough to keep Jason from pulling the trigger.
Which meant, like it or not, Vargas was his.
Jason rubbed his temple as the voice on the line kept going.
Tim. Fucking Drake. Talking a mile a minute, stringing together details and theories like a kid building with Legos, stacking piece on piece until it almost looked impressive. Almost.
Jason didn’t need to hear the whole damn PowerPoint presentation. He could already see where this was going.
He cut in, voice low and flat. “So what you’re really saying is, you want me to make the bastard cough up what he knows.”
There was a pause on the other end, like Tim was half-surprised Jason had pieced it together before he finished his big reveal.
Then: “Yes. Exactly.”
Jason exhaled hard through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. “Christ almighty.” His tone dropped into a growl, bitter and tired. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that? Stealing Dick’s phone, running your mouth like a fucking podcast I never asked to tune into, just so you can get me to play interrogator for you.”
“Jason—”
“Save it.” Jason spat out pacing the floor, his steps heavy against the worn boards. “I don’t have time for your Boy Wonder bullshit.”
The silence that followed was sharp. But Jason wasn’t done—not even close.
He started the list in his head, the mental math he always did when someone tried to drag him into their shit.
One. Why the fuck should he bother? Vargas wasn’t family. Vargas wasn’t a friend. Just a punk who’d managed to weasel his way under Jason’s temporary umbrella. And if the Arpías chewed him up and spat him out? Well, that was Gotham. City chewed everyone eventually.
Two. Why the hell should Jason lift a finger for Tim? Replacement-boy. The one who sat in the seat Jason died for. The one who got Bruce’s nod, Bruce’s training, Bruce’s fucking approval while Jason was six feet under. If anyone deserved to hear “fuck off” and a dial tone, it was him.
Three. This wasn’t his problem. Not really. He wasn’t wearing a cape anymore. Wasn’t Bruce’s soldier. He had his own rules, his own territory. He wasn’t the goddamn babysitter for Gotham’s every two-bit gang with a death wish.
Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, jaw clenching tighter.
Because then came the other side of the list. The one he didn’t want to admit, but it was there all the same.
If Vargas—his Vargas—had stepped out of line, then that meant something. Vargas was a coward, a rat. Rats didn’t stick their heads above water unless they thought there was a lifeboat waiting. If he was standing with the Arpías, it meant they had something big enough, strong enough, to make even a bottom-feeder think he could swim.
And if one rat had crawled out of the gutter, others would follow.
Jason swore under his breath, pacing harder, boots pounding like gunshots.
“Motherfucker,” he muttered. “Piece of shit bastard can’t just keep his head down, no. Has to go play errand boy for a cartel that couldn’t organize their way out of a wet paper bag until someone handed them toys from Uncle Sam’s black budget. Jesus Christ.”
He wanted to hang up. Wanted to throw the phone against the wall, let it shatter into plastic and circuits, and pretend he’d never answered in the first place.
But he couldn’t shake it. That itch in the back of his skull. The one that whispered, If Vargas is moving weight with the Arpías, then the streets are about to light up. And when the streets light up, kids die. Women vanish. Families bleed.
The same old story. The same cycle.
Jason dragged a hand through his hair, growling low.
Jason dragged a hand through his hair, growling low, knuckles whitening in his tangled grip. He stood there, jaw locked, breath hissing between his teeth like a cornered dog ready to snap at whoever dared get close. But the longer he paced, the more the fight bled out of him, leaving only that sharp, hollow ache he knew too well.
“Fine,” he finally muttered, voice low but edged with a promise sharp enough to cut steel. “Tonight. We’ll look for the bastard.”
The silence on the line broke instantly. Tim’s voice—too quick, too sharp—crackled through. “Really?”
Jason could hear it—real surprise. Like the kid actually hadn’t expected him to agree.
He narrowed his eyes, lips curling in a humorless smile. “Don’t get excited, replacement. I’m not doing this for you. You’ll meet me at eleven sharp. Alley off 43rd and Kingsley. And listen real close, ‘cause I’m only saying this once.”
His voice dropped, venom coiled in every word. “You come alone. No Dick, no Bruce, no birds fluttering around in the goddamn shadows. If I even think you’re playing me—if I hear something I shouldn’t, if I smell one of their aftershave brands, or hell, just because I feel like it—I’ll blow Vargas’s brains out on the spot and leave you standing in the mess. Clear?”
The kid’s reply was quick, steady, and tight with effort. “Got it. Alone. Just me. No Dick, no Bruce. Understood.”
Jason could tell he wanted to say more—maybe thank him, maybe explain, maybe try to bridge that gap that had been festering between them since day one. But Jason wasn’t having it. Not tonight.
He cut him off the only way he knew how.
By hanging up.
The phone clicked dead, and Jason nearly crushed it in his fist, his hand clenched so tight the casing creaked. He stood there, seething, the weight of it like a live grenade in his palm. Then, with a sharp exhale, he hurled it onto the bed, watching it bounce once, twice, before sliding to a stop in the rumpled sheets.
Silence again.
Jason swore under his breath, low and bitter, before shoving himself out of the bedroom.
Heavy footsteps carried him down the hallway, the walls pressing in, the apartment suddenly feeling too small, too empty, too loud with thoughts he didn’t want to hear.
The bathroom door creaked open, hinges squealing like an accusation. He flicked on the light, harsh yellow spilling over white tile and peeling paint. The mirror stared back at him.
Or rather, he stared back.
Jason gripped the sink, leaning in, breath fogging the glass. His reflection was the same as always—crooked scar over his cheek, that goddamn white streak in his hair clinging damp to his forehead, the green eyes that never seemed to blink without carrying shadows with them.
But it still felt wrong.
It always did.
He studied himself the way a hunter studies a carcass, looking for weak points, flaws, rot spreading under the skin.
And behind it all, the thought gnawed at him.
Tim Drake.
His replacement.
The kid who’d stepped into his boots, into his colors, into his place at Bruce’s side. The one Bruce had trained. Had accepted. Had actually called “Robin.”
Jason’s grip on the sink tightened, the porcelain groaning under his hands.
He wanted to hate him.
Christ, he wanted to.
It would be easier if he did. Hatred was sharp, clean, it burned through you fast. But this? This was a mess. Because the truth—the ugly truth Jason couldn’t scrub out no matter how many times he looked in the mirror—was that it wasn’t Tim’s fault.
The kid hadn’t asked for it.
Hadn’t killed Jason to wear the mask. Hadn’t stolen the mantle.
He’d just… stepped in, because someone had to, because Gotham never stopped bleeding, and Bruce sure as hell couldn’t stand to fight without a soldier at his side.
Jason knew that.
And still.
Still, every time he saw Tim’s face, every time he heard that quick, steady voice on the comms, every time he even thought about the fact that Bruce looked at him and saw something worth saving—every damn time it was like another knife in the ribs.
Because Jason had bled for that role. He’d died for it. And when he clawed his way back from the grave, half-mad, burning with rage and Lazarus fire, he’d come home to find someone else sitting in his chair.
Someone else wearing his name.
“Fuck.”
The word broke out of him ragged, half-growl, half-sob, swallowed by the tiny bathroom.
He closed his eyes, breathing hard, forcing air in through his nose, out through his mouth. Again. Again. Like maybe if he repeated it enough times, the acid boiling in his chest would drain away.
It didn’t.
When he opened his eyes again, his reflection hadn’t changed. Same scars. Same shadows. Same man who wasn’t good enough for the Bat, not dead enough to stay buried, not alive enough to stop looking over his shoulder at the past.
Jason turned the faucet on, cold water sputtering before gushing full. He cupped his hands under it, splashing his face until the chill bit deep into his skin, dripping down his jaw, soaking into his shirt collar. He braced himself there, head bowed, water dripping off his chin into the sink.
For a long moment, he just stood. Silent. Listening to the steady rush of water.
Finally, he reached for a towel.
Rubbed at his face, rough and quick, like he could wipe away more than just the sweat and water. Like he could wipe away the thoughts, too.
When he looked back up, the man in the mirror was still him. Still Jason Todd. Still the replacement who’d been replaced.
He let out a laugh—short, harsh, humorless.
“Fan-fucking-tastic,” he muttered.
Then he hung the towel back, turned off the light, and walked out, already building the armor in his mind.
Tonight wasn’t about Tim. Wasn’t about Bruce. Wasn’t even about Vargas.
It was about making sure nobody forgot that Red Hood ruled his streets.
And if he had to drag Tim Drake along to witness it, so be it.
With a sigh Jason walked out of the bathroom, the echo of water dripping down the pipes fading behind him, the weight of his reflection still clinging to his shoulders like chains.
The hallway stretched narrow and dim, lined with peeling paint and shadows that never seemed to leave no matter how many bulbs he replaced. His feet slowly carried him forward until finally, with a long, heavy exhale, he dropped onto the couch.
The cushions gave beneath him with a sigh, his body sinking in as though the whole damn world had been pressing down on him and this sagging old sofa was the only thing willing to take the weight.
He tilted his head back, staring once again at the cracked ceiling above.
Different location but same fucking view.
Fissures in plaster that spidered outward like veins in bone.
As Jason continued to stare above he nor you spoke.
For a long moment, that’s all there was.
Quiet—not the good kind, not the kind you get in the woods or in a safehouse buried in snow.
No, Gotham’s silence was never really silence.
It was the hum of neon beyond grimy windows. The muffled cry of sirens too far away to be urgent, too close to be ignored. The shuffle of a drunk stumbling down an alley, cursing under his breath.
And then there was Crook.
The little bastard perched somewhere near the armrest, cooing soft, almost musical notes that filled the empty spaces. Crook’s feathers rustled, a sound delicate and small, so at odds with everything else in this city.
Jason breathed.
Just breathed, letting it all wash around him.
For a second, it felt almost peaceful.
His eyes slid sideways, finding you where you sat close enough that the heat of you brushed against him—always too damn warm, like your blood carried fire instead of iron.
Your horns caught the faint light, gleaming, smooth and curved, the kind of detail that still baffled him when he thought too long about it. He didn’t.
Not yet.
He kept his head tipped back, eyes tracing cracks overhead, and then finally broke the silence. His voice was rough, but not sharp.
“So,” he drawled, not looking at you yet. “How’d you like the shithole I call home?”
He didn’t exactly get to ask yesterday.
Couldn’t.
Not when the words you’d spoken in the park—strange, haunting, foreign—were still echoing in his head like a song he couldn’t scrub out.
And Jason watched as your (e/c) eyes lit instantly, slit pupils narrowing in excitement, and Jason couldn’t stop himself from finally turning his head just enough to catch it.
“Aye,” you began, voice lilting, edged in that cadence he’d already memorized. “I…, I cherished it greatly.”
And then you were off.
“The scents!” Your hands moved slightly, as though to gather them from the air. “Never have I walked amidst such a tide of smells. The smoke of burning stone, sharp and stinging; the sweetness of roasted corn in paper wrappings; the oil of metal-beasts that roar and prowl. Each breath was a feast! Each turning of the wind, another tale carried to mine ears.”
Jason let out a breath that might have been a laugh, faint, but he didn’t interrupt.
“And the sounds,” you went on, eyes bright as stars. “The beating heart of this Gotham never slumbers. ‘Tis a song of beasts! I heard the calls of hounds, sharp and joyous; the low grumble of alley-cats brawling over scraps; even the flutter of wings—oh, how long it has been since mine ears were filled with the chorus of the small ones! To hear their voices again, high and quick, darting in the sky—it made mine own heart stir.”
Your head tilted, ears twitching ever so slightly, catching sounds Jason barely noticed anymore.
“And the beasts of metal!” you exclaimed, awe lacing your words. “Thy cars, thy iron steeds, thy thundering cycles that roar like dragons and yet bear mortals upon their backs! At first I quailed, for their might is fearsome… yet now I look upon them and wonder if they too are kin of steel, with hearts of fire and bellies of smoke.”
Jason leaned forward just a little, bracing his chin against his hand, elbow propped against the armrest. His eyes softened in spite of himself, watching you describe the same damn traffic he’d cursed every day of his life like it was some epic wonder.
“And the Ice cream,” you said suddenly, voice dipping almost reverent. “The chilled cream of many flavors… gods above, Jason, thou didst see how my eyes widened! Cold, smooth, sweet as moonlight poured upon the tongue. Each bite a new delight. I know not how thou mortals live without singing hymns of praise to this ice of cream!”
Jason huffed, lips tugging at the corner, but still didn’t interrupt.
“And the green!” Your voice lifted again, bright, eager. “With its winding paths and tall trees. I beheld the color of life once more. Green leaves, grass beneath my feet, the rustle of branches in the wind. To tread there was to recall the forests of mine own home. A fragment, aye—but enough to ease the ache of memory.”
You paused, chest rising with the weight of your words, and for a heartbeat you were quiet. Then your eyes shone once more, gaze fixed somewhere far away.
“Jason,” you murmured, softer now. “Thy Gotham is wondrous. Harsh perhaps as you say, aye… But alive. Fiercely alive. And to stand amidst its cacophony, its scents, its breath—I felt… not alone.”
The last words fell quieter than the rest, carried on the hush of Crook’s wings as the little bird shifted.
Jason sat there, his head resting against his fist, eyes on you. The corners of his mouth curved in the faintest smile, one he didn’t even realize had formed. Small. Subtle. Gone if you blinked.
But it was there.
Because for once, the weight of Gotham wasn’t crushing him.
For once, the noise didn’t sound like chaos—it sounded like wonder, because that’s how you painted it. For once, Jason Todd, the broken, bitter Red Hood, sat in silence not because he had nothing left to say, but because he’d found something worth listening to.
You.
And as you went on, words tumbling over each other, painting the city in colors he’d long since stopped seeing, Jason just let himself lean back, close his eyes halfway, and listen. The faint smile lingered.
Because in all the noise, in all the mess, you were the only thing that gave him peace.
At last, the beast shuddered, grumbled, and went still. Your arms peeled away from Jason’s back like bark stripped from a tree, stiff from clinging so hard. When your boots touched the solid ground again, you nearly dropped to your knees with relief.
Crook fluttered back onto your shoulder, his claws pricking gently through the knit of your sweater. His voice slid into your mind, smug and sharp as ever. “See? Ya Survived, no big deal.”
You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath. “Lunatic bird.”
Jason only cast you a sidelong look as he swung one leg off the bike. The motion looked easy, practiced, and entirely too smug for someone who’d just tried to kill you by velocity alone.
You tipped your face up, murmuring soft thanks to the spirits, to Sylvanious, to every divine force you could name for sparing your life once more. Jason caught the words, of course, and rolled his eyes.
“Drama queen.” he muttered and. “Come on. Sidewalk.”
He jerked his head, and you followed, your boots clicking unevenly against the stone.
And then—finally, truly—you could see. Not blurs, not shadows whipped past at dangerous speed, but the living, breathing face of Gotham.
It hit you like a rushing river..
The world was alive with motion.
Humans moved in rivers along the stone paths, their heads bent against the chill, their arms burdened with bags, strange drinks in hand, talking to one another or to themselves into little black stones they pressed to their ears.
Metal beasts rumbled by in lines so perfect and organized it was almost unnatural. They gleamed beneath the dull light, red and silver, black and blue, some squat and boxy, others sleek and predatory. You could smell them—smoke, oil, the bite of hot metal—like fire given wheels.
Buildings stretched upward and outward, so vast and layered it made your head tilt back just to glimpse their tops. Windows caught faint light and reflected it in shards. Signs glowed with runes that seem to pop out, words you half-understood, others utterly foreign, looping letters and jagged symbols painted across towering boards.
The air was thick—strange spices from stalls on the corner, meat sizzling on hidden fires, bread toasted in machines you couldn’t see. And beneath it all, the sour reek of smoke and trash, the musk of bodies pressed close together, the faint undercurrent of rain yet to fall.
Your heart pounded with awe.
You had traveled far in your own world. Forests and mountains, villages built into cliffsides, bustling trade towns with markets spilling into cobbled squares, even the silver domes of elven cities half-suspended in the trees.
You had seen marvels enough to fill a bard’s tale.
But this—
This was no city.
This was something else entirely.
A living beast, thrumming, breathing, moving, louder and larger than anything you’d ever known.
Jason glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, watching as you turned in place, eyes wide, mouth parted, trying to drink it all in at once. He smirked faintly, shoving his free hand in his jacket pocket.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough but edged with amusement. “It’s something ain't it.”
Your lips curled faintly, torn between awe and unease. “A lot…” You exhaled, the word trembling with both wonder and weight. “Jason, I have walked the spires of Caer Ilthys, seen the white bridges of Elarith stretch across the skies, watched dwarves carve mountains into thrones—and still…”
You trailed off, looking up again at the sheer size of it all. “…still, none of it holds a candle to this.”
Crook clicked his beak near your ear, his tone sly. “Told ya, doll. This city’s a beast of its own. Just gotta figure out if it’s one worth tamin… or runnin’ from.”
Jason didn’t catch the bird’s words, but something in your silence made him glance at you again.
His smirk softened, almost imperceptibly.
“C’mon, forest princess,” he said, nodding toward the moving crowd. “Let’s get you acquainted with Gotham before you start writing poetry about it.”
And with that, he stepped forward.
Out into this strange world.
You quickened your pace, boots scuffing against the sidewalk until you slipped into step at Jason’s side.
The moment you matched him, your shoulders loosened. Somehow, even here—amid all this strangeness—being close to him made the unfamiliar less daunting.
But your eyes, your ears, your very nose refused to rest.
The city was overwhelming, every inch of it alive with strange scents and sounds. You could smell the sharp tang of smoke rising from the exhaust of the passing metal beasts— acrid, bitter, stinging in your nostrils like burned pitch.
And yet mingled with it were notes far more inviting: bread baking behind a glass window, meat sizzling on flat pans, sugar spun into warm coils.
Your druidic senses stretched further, picking up things others would not.
The faint musk of dogs trotting alongside their masters, tails wagging. The sour edge of spilt ale—or something akin to ale—seeping from a doorway where loud voices laughed too hard. Perfumes clung to the humans around you—floral, spiced, sometimes so heavy it made your nose twitch. And beneath it all, a faint metallic tang that lingered like iron in rainwater.
Alien, yes. But not without its echoes of the familiar.
Your ears caught even more.
The growl and roar of the beasts on wheels filled the streets, layered upon each other in a chaotic chorus. Horns blared—shrill, impatient, commanding.
The buzz of voices was constant, overlapping conversations that rose and fell in strange cadences. Some spoke into the little black stones they held to their ears, voices clipped, rushed, half-frustrated.
Others tossed words at each other in rapid exchanges filled with phrases you’d never heard before:
“Bro, that line was insane—”
“Yo, you hear about the Knights game?”
“Man, that cabbie tried to scam me, I swear—”
Strange words.
Dialects and phrases that sounded like another language entirely, though it was still this world’s common tongue. You caught fragments, storing them away, curious.
And then—laughter.
A child squealed somewhere close, the sound bubbling up bright and unrestrained.
Another cried, high and raw, tugging at their mother’s sleeve. These notes pierced the deeper hum of the city, familiar to your ears in a way all the strange words and noises were not. Children sounded the same across all realms, it seemed—joy, need, discovery, fear.
You smiled without meaning to, the corners of your lips lifting as your ears tilted toward the sound.
Jason noticed, of course. He didn’t say anything, but you caught the flicker of his gaze—checking to see what had you so captivated.
Your smile only widened, and you turned your head up toward him. “Jason. This place—’tis chaos, aye. Yet within it, there is music. Like a forest after rain, where each leaf drips, each root drinks, and all life stirs together.”
He gave a low snort, shaking his head. “Music, huh? That’s one way to put it. Most people just call it noise pollution.”
“Noise… pollution,” you echoed, testing the words on your tongue, amused at their odd shape. “Nay. ‘Tis life itself.”
He smirked faintly at your insistence but didn’t argue further, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket as you both moved along with the flow of the crowd.
Your gaze darted everywhere.
It was wondrous.
Crook shifted on your shoulder, feathers fluffing, his head swiveling to take everything in. His voice cut slyly through your thoughts. “You’re grinnin’ like a kid in a candy shop, doll. Gotham’s got its claws in ya already doll.”
You gave him a tiny smirk. “Aye. And what a beast it is.”
Jason glanced at you again, suspicion flickering across his features. “What’d he say?”
You tilted your head, tone light. “That Gotham is… claws. A beast.”
Jason’s brow ticked, lips quirking. “Figures.”
As you continue to walk you notice Jason and how wary he looks.
Like a beast in a field waiting to pounce, his—head angled just enough to keep the crowd in view, green eyes scanning every shadow, every alley mouth, every stranger who lingered too long.
He looked relaxed, almost casual, but you could feel the tension humming beneath the surface.
A wolf among sheep, forever watching for other wolves.
Crook shifted on your shoulder, feathers fluffing against your cheek as he leaned his beak close to your ear. “Alright, doll, welcome to the good part of town. Well… good-ish. Don’t get too comfortable. But hey, look—food stalls. Now we’re talkin’.”
You blinked at the sudden burst of smells—stronger here, sharper. Smoke rising from grills, oil hissing, spices filling the air. Your mouth parted slightly in surprise, your nose twitching at each new scent.
Crook was more than happy to narrate.
“That right there, sausage on a stick. Greasy, sure, but hits the spot after a long day diggin’ for crumbs. Next stall? Pretzels. Big hunks of bread twisted up like a knot, salt all over—dip it in cheese if you’re feelin’ fancy. And oh-ho, wait till you get a whiff of the kebabs…”
You let him ramble, fascinated despite yourself, until suddenly he said something that made your entire body freeze.
“And there—see that guy with the cart? Hot dogs. Classic Gotham street eat. Don’t let the name throw you, doll. Ain’t no mutts in there. Mostly.”
You choked. “What?!” you blurted aloud, your head whipping around toward the small rolling cart stacked with buns and steaming sausages.
Several passersby glanced at you in confusion.
Crook, smug as ever, clicked his beak. “Relax, relax. It ain’t actually dog. though, some of them vendors use weird meats I gotta tell ya one ti—”
Your lips parted in disbelief as you interrupted the bird,utterly scandalized. “They name their meals after canines? After hounds? That is barbaric!”
Jason slowed his stride when your voice suddenly cracked the air, half a cry, half a scandalized wail. Heads turned, curious, though most only shrugged and went about their business—city folk unfazed by a stranger’s odd outburst. Jason, though, stopped dead and turned toward you, brow arching high.
“What’s with the shouting?” His voice carried that clipped, sharp edge, like he was bracing himself for the kind of explanation only you could give.
Your throat worked, your lips trembling as you pointed a finger, almost accusing, toward the cart stacked with steaming buns. “Crook says—he says they name their meals after canines! After hounds! After—after man’s faithful guardians! You call it hot dog?!”
Your voice wavered between outrage and heartbreak, and tears pricked the corners of your eyes.
Jason blinked at you once.
Twice.
Then he dragged a hand down his face. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, exasperation thick. He cast a flat glare toward your shoulder. “Ignore the rat he doesn’t know what hes talking about. The pigeons in this city are worse than rats. Hell, they probably eat each other.”
Crook puffed up immediately, feathers bristling.
His beak snapped shut once before he practically spat words in your mind, his strange accent edge sharpening every syllable. “You shut your trap, you trauma-dump excuse for a bastard! Talkin’ smack about pigeons like you know the first thing—lemme tell ya, buddy, I seen things in this city that’d make your fancy leather jacket curl at the seams!”
You closed your eyes, rubbing the bridge of your nose with one hand. “Crook…”
But he was far from done. “Rats eat garbage, sure, but pigeons? We thrive, pal! We live off the scraps of kings! You think you’re tough, ridin’ that metal piece of scrap, all broody eyes and tragic backstory? Newsflash: pigeons been fightin’ turf wars on Gotham rooftops since before ya sprouted chest hair!”
Jason just stared at you, not understanding a word, only watching the way your mouth twitched as if you were holding back something. His brows knitted faintly. “…He done yet?”
Crook screeched in your skull. “Done?! I ain’t even warmed up yet! You leather-wrapped meat sack! You think them boots make you look cool? Please. You look like you mugged a thrift store. Oh, and don’t even get me started on the hair. Buddy, that mop screams ‘midlife crisis biker club president.’”
Your hand flew to your mouth, muffling a laugh that slipped out despite your best effort.
Jason caught it immediately, narrowing his eyes. “What. Did. He. Say.”
You hesitated—then, with a helpless little shrug, you translated, soft and careful, “…He says your boots make you look like you mugged a thrift store. And your hair screams, ah, midlife crisis biker… president.”
Jason’s brow shot up.
The corner of his mouth twitched—not into a smile, but into something sharp and challenging. Slowly, deliberately, he tilted his head toward Crook. “Huh. That right? …Funny…. Tell me something any one from your world know what pigeon pot pie tastes like?”
The effect was instant, you didn’t even have a moment to reply.
Crook exploded in a storm of feathers and fury, wings thrashing as he tried to lunge off your shoulder. His screeches hammered into your skull. “YOU WANNA GO, LEATHER BOY?! COME ON, LET’S DANCE! I’LL CLAW YOUR EYES OUT, I SWEAR ON EVERY ROOFTOP IN THIS CITY—”
You gasped and caught him mid-leap, cupping him against your chest like a squirming child. “Crook!” His wings flailed against your arms, feathers puffing into your face as you stroked his chest firmly, soothing as best you could. “Enough, enough. Peace, feathered one. Peace.”
Jason watched, utterly unimpressed as the bird tried to lunge at him, and rolled his eyes. “Wow. I’m terrified. Real scary. A whole four ounces of angry mangy bird.”
Crook shrieked bloody murder in your skull. “FOUR OUNCES?! I’LL PECK YOUR EYEBALLS CLEAN, YOU—”
“Crook.” you hushed again, fingers stroking firmly down his chest until the furious tremble in his body slowed, the pitch of his cursing dropping to mutters that only you could hear. His beak clicked shut at last, though his beady eyes never left Jason, promising vengeance.
Jason gave a low snort, watching you cradle the pigeon like some sacred beast instead of a glorified sky-rat.
You shook your head, looking at him pointedly. “Must thou vex him so, Jason?”
He rolled a broad shoulder in a shrug, hands still buried in his jacket pockets. “The little bastard started it.”
You sighed and returned to stroking Crook’s chest, ignoring the muffled complaint he grumbled about “leather-wrapped jerks who don’t respect rooftop royalty.”
And then—for the first time since stepping off the dreadful metal beast—there was peace.
Jason slowed his pace slightly, enough that you could walk close without tripping on the unfamiliar boots.
The crowd flowed around you both, streams of strangers passing like rivers divided by rock. At first you thought Jason would stay silent, gruff and brooding as always… but then he lifted his chin, gesturing faintly toward something across the street.
“That’s a deli,” he said, voice low, casual. “Place sells cold cuts, sandwiches. Stuff you grab when you don’t wanna cook.”
Your brows drew together. “Cold… cuts? They sever meat… and sell it uncooked?”
Jason smirked faintly. “Relax, forest princess. It’s cooked. Just cold. Think of it like… leftovers, only intentional.”
Crook let out a single derisive coo, and Jason cut him a side-eye before continuing on.
You breathed deep, trying to catch the scent, and the air shifted—meat, sharp and salty, mingled with pickled vegetables and spices.
It mingled with the heavier smoke of the street, the tang of oil, the sour bite of garbage from some unseen alley. Strange, layered smells, so unlike the forests where pine and earth and water sang clean and sharp.
Jason’s voice broke through your awe again, pointing with his chin toward a neon sign above a corner door. “Bodega. Tiny shop. You can find just about anything in there—snacks, drinks, batteries, smokes, magazines.”
The word meant little to you, but your ears perked anyway, your curiosity insatiable. You looked at him, eyes wide, and asked, “And… what manner of creature is bodega?”
Jason’s laugh slipped out before he could stop it. He shook his head. “Not a creature. Just a shop. Don’t go naming it like it’s a new pet.”
Crook mumbled in your mind, “Wouldn’t surprise me if she did. Doll names everything. I’m tellin’ ya, one day she’s gonna christen a mailbox.”
You ignored the pigeon, though your lips twitched.
And so it went: Jason pointing, explaining with gruff, clipped words, and you drinking in every detail like parched earth taking rain.
“That’s a laundromat. People pay to clean their clothes.” You blinked. “They cannot simply wash in river or stream?”
Jason snorted. “Not unless you want pneumonia and a side of sewer rot.”
“That’s a pawn shop. Folks sell their junk there for cash.” You frowned. “They give away treasures… to strangers?”
Jason shrugged. “Not treasures. Just… things they don’t need anymore. Or stuff they regret later.”
Jason gestured with his head to a building with a very familiar scent. “That’s a coffee shop.” You tilted your head, inhaling the bitter-sweet steam curling from inside.
“This smell… Is this the same thing thou drinks every morning.”
Jason smirked. “Yep, and not just me. Gotham runs on that stuff. Addictive as hell.”
The rhythm settled into something almost comfortable—Jason naming things, you asking soft questions, Crook tossing the occasional insult at him in your mind while preening smugly when you shushed him.
You barely noticed how many streets you had crossed, how far you had walked, until the city itself began to blur into a kind of patchwork map within your mind: the glowing signs, the endless glass towers, the rivers of metal beasts and the chatter of voices all stitched together into something vast and alive.
And you marveled at it.
Your druid’s senses stretched instinctively, brushing against the threads of life woven through the city.
Every living thing hummed in its own pitch, and to your ears it was not chaos but chorus. Strange, yet beautiful.
You had to bite your lip to keep the smile from breaking too wide across your face. Jason’s city was a kingdom of stone and smoke and steel… but it was no less alive than the forests of your home.
Jason glanced at you, catching the gleam in your eyes, the way your head tilted to catch sounds, the faint twitch of your nostrils as you scented the air. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He didn’t say anything—but you caught the shadow in his gaze, a wariness he couldn’t quite mask.
Still, he let you look.
He let you marvel. And step by step, Gotham unfolded before you.
Jason Todd POV
Jason noticed the smile you barely concealed, he caught it anyway.
The faint curl at the corner of your mouth, the way your eyes lit with something soft—like wonder hadn’t been crushed out of you yet.
You turned your head to catch every sound, your steps light even in borrowed boots, and Jason realized with a start that you looked like a kid in a way no one in Gotham ever did.
That childlike curiosity.
The kind he hadn’t seen in years, maybe decades.
The kind this city beat out of you by the time you were old enough to walk home from school without a hand to hold.
Gotham didn’t let you look around wide-eyed. Gotham forced your gaze down—watching the cracks in the pavement so you didn’t trip, watching your pockets so no one lifted the last ten bucks you had, watching over your shoulder for the kind of shadows that didn’t belong.
But you? You looked at Gotham like it was a storybook come alive.
And that scared the shit out of him.
Jason shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, jaw tightening as he kept stride beside you. He knew better. He fucking knew better. Behind every pretty light, every towering building, every smell of bread fresh from a bakery window… there was rot.
He’d lived it. He’d bled in it.
Christ. He remembered nights when he was barely more than a kid, crouched under some fire escape, fingers numb and greasy from wrenching tires off some beat-up sedan.
His stomach ached so bad it felt hollow, like he’d swallowed nothing but rocks. Cold gnawed at his skin, wind slicing through the holes in his thrift-store jacket. But the tires? They were worth something. You could sell them to the right people, get a few bills, buy a meal that wasn’t out of the trash.
That was Gotham.
Not the shining skyline.
Not the wide streets full of shops.
Not the laughing families crossing at a light.
Gotham was hunger. Gotham was fear. Gotham was fighting tooth and nail for scraps while the rich pricks in penthouses poured hundred-dollar wine down the drain because it wasn’t the right vintage.
Jason shut his eyes for half a second, trying to smother the memory.
Even after Bruce… it hadn’t gone away.
Sure, he didn’t sleep hungry anymore.
He didn’t have to freeze his ass off under some rusted fire escape.
But that life? It stayed burned into him. The scars didn’t vanish just because he had a bed at Wayne Manor. Even now, with a roof over his head and money to live fine on his own, Jason knew there were still kids out there doing exactly what he did—stripping tires, stealing wallets, lifting food when their stomachs clenched too tight to ignore.
Kids who weren’t fucking lucky enough to get picked up by their own Bruce Wayne.
He opened his eyes, glancing at you again. You hadn’t noticed the way his chest tightened, the way his teeth ground behind a neutral mask. You were still staring up, watching a flock of pigeons scatter from a roof, laughing softly under your breath like the sound of wings was a miracle.
Jason’s throat worked, the words he didn’t say choking him.
Because you didn’t know.
You didn’t know this city the way he did.
You didn’t know about the predators crouching in alleys, the assholes waiting for someone soft, someone unguarded, someone who didn’t know how fast a knife could slip between ribs. He’d seen it too many times. Hell, he’d done it too many times. Gotham didn’t forgive the weak. Gotham ate them alive.
And that’s why he did what he did.
That’s why he pulled the trigger, broke bones, carved his warnings into the bastards who thought they could own this city. He didn’t play at being the world’s greatest detective. He didn’t give criminals another chance to crawl out of Arkham just to slaughter their families all over again.
He finished the job.
Because someone had to.
Jason flexed his hand in his pocket, fingers curling around nothing but air.
He could still feel the weight of a gun there anyway, phantom-heavy. His work wasn’t noble. It wasn’t pretty. But it was necessary. He cleaned out the filth. He took out the scum. He did the things Bruce never had the fucking balls to do.
His lip curled faintly.
Batman—the goddamn Dark Knight.
All that blabber about justice, about morals, about how killing would make them no better than the monsters they hunted. Jason almost laughed. No better? No worse?
He’d seen worse things than death. He’d lived worse. Sometimes, the kindest thing you could do for this city was put a bullet in the right head and make sure they didn’t get back up.
But Bruce would never do it.
Bruce would lock them up, let them out again, watch them kill and maim and destroy, then lock them up again like it was a game.
He had contingency plans for his friends, his allies, even himself—but not a goddamn ounce of sense when it came to cutting out the cancer rotting Gotham from the inside.
And Jason hated him for it.
He hated that even now, walking beside you, all he could hear in the back of his mind was Bruce’s voice—cold, certain, telling him it wasn’t the way. Telling him he was wrong. Telling him he was crossing lines that couldn’t be uncrossed.
Bullshit.
The only line Jason cared about was the one between the people who deserved to keep breathing and the ones who didn’t.
His jaw tightened until his teeth ached. His thoughts were getting darker, sharper, spiraling the longer he let them run. But that was Gotham too—dragging you down, reminding you of every fucked-up corner, every bad memory, every ghost you couldn’t shake.
And then you laughed.
Soft. Bright. Barely a sound, but it cut through the fog in his head like light through smoke. Jason blinked, pulled back to the present, back to you tilting your head at some corner musician scratching clumsy chords out of a guitar.
You looked at the man like his music was something to cherish, not noise drowned out by traffic.
ANd somehow, you looked at Gotham and still saw something worth marveling at. Something worth saving.
He didn’t get it. He didn’t trust it. But for now, he let you keep that wonder.
Because maybe—just maybe—it was something he couldn’t anymore.
Y/N POV
You stopped mid-step, your feet planting firmly against the pavement as the scent hit you.
Sweet. Strange.
A perfume of sugar and milk, but sharper somehow, carrying a bite like frost on a winter morning. You inhaled again, your senses reaching out the way your druidic magic always had, and the flavor of it seemed to linger on your tongue—cold, almost biting, but enticing. A contradiction.
Your head swiveled, nostrils flaring, until you caught sight of it.
A building with wide panes of flawless glass, through which the strange world within was laid bare.
Your gaze tracked upward, to the letters scrawled boldly across the sign.
They meant nothing to you—strange symbols, blobs and scratches, no different from a cluster of runes half-burnt away on a druidic tablet. Your head tilted as you studied them anyway, as if stubbornness alone might decipher them.
But your attention quickly fell back to what waited behind the glass.
Inside, row upon row of metal bins gleamed beneath bright lights, each one filled with piles of vivid colors. Some looked like churned snow tinted with berries, others soft pastes of earthy browns or deep, almost glowing greens.
The colors were mesmerizing, unnatural even, as though pigments from a wizard’s alchemy set had been poured into snowdrifts. Frost clung to the edges of the bins, faint wisps of cold rising into the air like mist over a frozen pond.
And the people—children mostly, with parents in tow—stepped forward, pointed to a color, and were rewarded with the server behind the counter scooping a portion into a small bowl or balancing it atop a pale, cone-shaped wafer. The children’s faces lit up with delight, mouths smeared with melting streaks as they devoured the strange treat.
Your lips parted in awe.
Jason had stopped too, realizing you weren’t moving. He stepped up beside you, following your gaze. “Ice cream,” he explained, his tone as casual as if he were naming a crack in the sidewalk. “Cold, sweet. Comes in flavors. Kids love it.”
Crook spoke up in a tone that hardly contained his joy. “Now that, doll is worth tryin’. Look at it—colors like a damn festival. Somethin’ that pretty’s gotta taste good. Definitely a treat you don’t skip.”
You glanced down at the bird cradled in your hands, then turned back to Jason, eyes wide and earnest. “Might I… try some?”
Crook fluffed his feathers with excitement. “Oh-ho, now we’re talkin’. Not just might—you gotta. This is the kinda thing a soul remembers.”
Jason sighed, long-suffering, shoving his hands deeper into his jacket. “Alright,” he said at last, “but the rat isn’t going in.”
You blinked at him, baffled. “Why ever not?”
He ticked reasons off with a gloved hand. “One: he’s a pest. Two: I doubt the clerk’s gonna say, ‘Oh hey, a pigeon, that’s normal,’ and let him waltz right in.”
You frowned, looking back at Crook’s round little body in your palms. “Pest? That is harsh.”
Then your gaze flicked back to the window.
The boy behind the counter—a young boy barely into adulthood, judging by his smooth skin and the way he leaned on the counter like a knight waiting for death to claim him—looked utterly disinterested.
His eyes half-lidded, shoulders slumped, his entire being radiated apathy.
Your face flattened into a deadpan look as you turned back to Jason. “Jason. The boy looks as though he would rather fight an owlbear.”
That got his brow to arch. “An… owlbear?” he repeated, clearly caught between skepticism and amusement.
At the same time, Crook cooed in confusion. “Owl what now?”
You rolled your eyes, exhaling through your nose. Explaining owlbears could wait—Gotham hardly seemed ready for the concept of a beast with the head of a predator bird and the body of a bear.
Instead, you tapped your chin, thoughtful. If the boy inside cared so little about his duties, then surely one extra companion would hardly matter.
And then inspiration struck.
You smirked down at Crook, your (e/c) eyes glinting with mischief.
The pigeon instantly stiffened. “I don’t like that look, doll. That’s a dangerous look. That’s the look people get right before somethin’ explodes or I end up regrettin’ my life choices.”
Before he could wriggle free, you shoved him—firm but gentle—into Jason’s hands.
Both man and bird reacted in chorus, their disbelief perfectly overlapping:
“What the hell are you doing?!” Jason demanded, scowling as feathers flared in protest against his chest.
“The fuck, sweetheart?! I didn’t sign up for this!” Crook squawked in your mind, his tone bordering on betrayal.
You dusted off your hands, straightening your spine with mock primness. “There. Now the issue is resolved, onward my friends.”
Jason glowered, Crook sputtered, and you turned on your heel, smugness radiating with every step as you strode for the door.
The bell above it chimed sweetly as you entered.
And you froze again.
The cold inside wasn’t biting like a blizzard, nor damp like a cave frost. It was sharper, purer—artificial, yet refreshing, like the air in a sacred grove dusted with early snow. It kissed your skin, raising gooseflesh, making your breath mist faintly in front of you.
And then your gaze fell on the counter.
The glass cases gleamed like treasure chests, holding not gold or jewels but endless bins of those strange colored snows. Pink, brown, green, white, blue speckled with darker chips.
Each looked smoother than butter churned to perfection, soft enough to melt at the touch. Small labels were stuck into each bin, their symbols meaningless blobs to you, yet you could almost sense the intent behind them.
This was a shop of choices, of indulgence.
Your heart beat quicker with excitement.
Behind the counter, the boy barely glanced up from his slump, eyes glazed with the thousand-yard stare of someone enduring the world’s dullest vigil. He might as well have been carved of stone, save for the slow, mechanical turn of his wrist as he rotated a scoop.
And then the bell chimed again.
You turned, smile growing, only to be met with the sight of Jason entering in a stormcloud of irritation.
His shoulders were hunched, his jaw clenched, and in his gloved hands sat a very fluffy, very fuming pigeon. Crook’s feathers puffed so wide he looked twice his normal size, wings twitching like he was two seconds away from wriggling free just to peck Jason’s face raw.
The sight was so absurd you couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped from your lips.
Jason shot you a look, half glare, half exasperation. Crook, meanwhile, was shrieking in your mind, his strange accent thick with fury. “Unbelievable! Betrayed by my most trusted friend! You just wait, doll—I’m makin’ sure every pigeon in this city knows you tossed me like a sack of grain at Mr. Broody over here!”
You pressed your hand over your mouth, shoulders trembling as you tried—and failed—to contain your laughter. The absurdity of Jason, brooding and leather-clad, holding a fluffed-up, furious pigeon was almost too much to bear.
Jason muttered darkly, “Unbelievable,” and stomped toward the counter.
The poor boy behind it—previously half-asleep—seemed to jolt upright, his eyes wide as though Jason’s presence alone had struck terror into him.
The teen’s hand hovered nervously over the scoop like it was a weapon. He didn’t even glance at Crook, which was almost impressive, considering the pigeon was glaring with all the wrath of a dethroned mob boss.
You pressed your palms against the cold glass, eyes roving over the bins of frozen colors like they were relics in some mage’s vault. “What… are these?” you asked, genuinely curious.
The boy startled, his gaze flicking briefly to you before skittering back to Jason’s looming form. His voice cracked slightly as he rattled off the list of flavors—vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, mint chip, butter pecan, cookie dough, rocky road—his words tumbling one over another in haste.
Your brows knitted. None of these names meant anything to you. Vanilla? Rocky road? Cookie… dough?
You bit your finger, torn, glancing back and forth between the colors as though the decision were a matter of life and death. “I… I do not know…” you admitted softly, frustration bubbling in your chest. You hated keeping the line, hated wasting their time.
Finally, you turned pleading eyes to Jason. “Choose for me.”
He stared at you for a moment, then sighed, long and weary. “…Fine.”
The urge to throw your arms around him, to bury him in your gratitude, surged strong and bright. But you curbed it—Jason was already tense, already carrying more than he would ever admit. Instead, you simply beamed at him as he stepped to the register.
Jason pointed to one flavor he knew would suit you—something sweet, rich but not overpowering.
He added another order for himself.
And then Crook’s voice cut in, sly and demanding. “Hey doll, do me a favor, huh? Ask broody to snag me a scoop of butter pecan. Nothin’ fancy. Just a little somethin’ in a cup. Bird’s gotta eat too.”
You blinked, then dutifully turned to Jason. “Crook requests a serving of butter pecan.”
Jason’s jaw flexed. His voice came out tight, ground through clenched teeth. “…And one little sundae cup of butter pecan.”
The boy at the counter nodded so fast you thought his neck might snap. He called the price in a squeaky tone.
Jason removed a strange shiny card from his small leather pouch and handed it to the boy who shook as he took it into his hands.
You tilted your head at the strange ritual and watched as the boy handed the card back.
Moments later, the order arrived: two strange tall swirls of creamy cold atop fragile lattice shells—and one small white cup. Jason grabbed the cup, you gathered the strange shells, and the three of you exited into Gotham’s brisk autumn air.
You thanked the boy on your way out, flashing him a warm smile. He stammered a reply, cheeks red, eyes darting anywhere but yours.
Outside, Jason wasted no time setting Crook back onto your shoulder. He rubbed his palm vigorously against his shirt, muttering, “And now I’m cutting my hand off.”
Crook fluffed, still bristling, and snapped his beak in indignation. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t a damn picnic for me either, pal. Jesus, I don’t know what’s drier—sand from a desert or your freakin’ palms.”
You hushed him gently, passing Jason his cone while trading for Crook’s cup.
Peace offerings distributed, the little band of three settled once more.
You brought the shell close, curiosity and anticipation warring in your chest. Tentatively, you ran your tongue across the frozen mound.
The taste exploded on your tongue. Sweet, velvety, decadent—and cold.
So cold it bit into your teeth, numbed your tongue, sent a shiver straight through your bones. But oh, it was glorious. A richness like cream whipped into clouds, layered with the earthy sweetness of whatever flavor Jason had chosen.
Stars might as well have lit behind your eyes.
You looked down at the shell in awe. “It is… wondrous,” you whispered. “Sweet as honey, but with a depth like nothing I have tasted, and—by the gods, it is cold! Colder than the stream water in winter, yet it melts even as I taste it!”
Crook, already pecking at his portion as you hold it to him, gave a pleased coo. “Knew it, doll. Nothin’ like butter pecan to set a bird straight. Best thing Gotham’s ever come up with, swear on my wings.”
Jason only shook his head, biting into his own cone with practiced ease. He said nothing, but his lips twitched faintly—caught between amusement and resignation—as he watched you marvel over something so ordinary.
You barely noticed as the three of you walked again, the city unfolding around you in steel and brick and autumn wind.
Every lick of the ice cream drew another delighted hum from your chest, every cold bite another flicker of wonder. You were so enraptured, in fact, that you didn’t even realize where Jason was leading you.
Only when the roar of traffic dulled and the scent of earth and greenery teased your senses did it strike you.
Ahead, spreading out like an emerald jewel amidst the stone, lay the park Jason had promised.
It might not have been the great wild forests you had once known, nor the teeming jungles that swallowed entire valleys, but it still held beauty.
The air here was softer.
The thunder of carriages—metal beasts—fell away until it was only a distant hum, muffled by trees that lined the edges of the park.
Their boughs stretched overhead, painted with the fire of autumn: oranges that glowed like embers, reds deep as garnet, yellows as bright as candleflame.
Leaves tumbled lazily in the breeze, drifting down in spirals to rest upon grass cut short and neat, more pristine and prim than any wild meadow you had ever walked.
Your nostrils flared, drinking it in—the crisp bite of leaf mold, the faint dampness of soil beneath the trimmed earth, the faint musk of dogs chasing toys across the lawns.
A pond shimmered at a distance, glassy save for the ripples of swans and ducks bobbing across its surface, their cries threading through the air in familiar, comforting music. Children’s laughter rang nearby, light and shrill, as parents strolled the paths.
For all its strangeness, for all its clipped order, the place was alive.
Jason didn’t say anything, but you felt the weight of his presence as the two of you wandered a narrow path, leaves crunching beneath your boots. He finally steered you toward a structure of smoothed wood, shaped oddly but sturdy—set for sitting.
You eased yourself down, staff leaning against the bench, Crook hopping down to the grass to where his icy treasure waited where you had placed it. He puffed himself up importantly before dipping his beak into the cup with greedy pecks.
Jason dropped down beside you, not too close, but not far either. The leather of his jacket creaked faintly as he leaned back, one arm slung across the bench’s back. For a long moment, he was silent, simply watching as you brought the brown shell of your treat—this “cone,” he had called it—to your lips again.
You hummed quietly, savoring. “Strange…” you murmured between licks. “Cold cream upon a baked vessel that cracks and crumbles between the teeth. A contradiction most wondrous. Who would think to place frozen sweetness upon brittle bread?”
Crook muffled a laugh through a beakful of butter pecan. “Whoever it was, doll, I’d kiss ‘em square on the mouth. This stuff’s great.”
You smiled and looked around the park.
Your gaze drifted out over the pond. “’Tis… smaller than the groves of home, aye. Smaller than the wild places I knew. But still…”
You let your eyes close for a breath, listening to the calls of ducks, the laughter of children, the panting joy of dogs chasing sticks. “Still, there is peace here. Tamed, perhaps, yet not lifeless.”
Jason tilted his head toward you, one brow raised, lips quirking faintly. “Glad to know Gotham’s got your stamp of approval. Thought for sure you’d call it a blight on nature or somethin’.”
You turned to him, smile soft but true. “Jason, I have seen cities carved of crystal, towers of ivory stretching beyond sight. I have seen groves razed, rivers choked by war. Compared to those scars… thy city lives. Bruised, perhaps. But alive.”
For once, Jason didn’t have a comeback. His jaw tightened, his eyes flicking away toward the pond.
Crook, picking the last of his treat from the cup, ruined the quiet. “You two gettin’ sentimental, or what? Don’t start makin’ moon eyes at each other. I just ate.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, and leaned down to stroke Crook’s head with one finger to quiet him.
The little beast cooed, settling against the cup with all the pride of a king on his throne.
Eventually the cone in your hand had grown softer now, the cold sweetness melting against your tongue, but you savored each taste all the same.
When you turned, you noticed Jason was already near the bottom of his own. He ate with little ceremony, efficient as if even pleasure needed to be quick, controlled. The corner of your lips curled and, with quiet mischief, you mimicked his words from before:
“Ice cream,” you said, your voice deliberately flat. “Cold. Sweet. Comes in flavors. Children love it.”
Jason cut you a look, narrow-eyed, and rolled his eyes hard enough that it tugged a laugh out of you. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get smart with me, forest princess.” Still, you caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth before he stuffed the last of his cone into it and brushed crumbs from his gloves.
You only smiled wider, finishing the last of your own more slowly, letting the sweetness linger. Crook was still on the ground, feathers puffed up proudly as he pecked at what was left of his cup, muttering “perfection, pure perfection” in your mind between greedy peckfulls.
Peace settled then.
Pure, uncomplicated peace.
Just you, Jason, and Crook, the three of you sitting in an oasis of swaying branches and whispering grass, Gotham’s noise pressed faint in the distance. You drew in a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment as the tether of nature reached for you again.
It flowed like a river, quiet but strong: through the blades of grass beneath your boots, in the proud trunks of trees lining the path, in every shrub shaped by unseen gardeners’ hands. This was no wild forest, no untamed jungle where roots fought for dominance—but life was still here, stubborn and enduring, weaving itself into even the corners of this wounded city.
Your chest eased, your heart loosened, and for the first time since arriving, you felt no ache of loss for your world.
Only gratitude.
You exhaled, voice soft but sure. “Thank you,” you said suddenly, startling even yourself with the sharp honesty of it. Your gaze slid toward Jason. “Truly. For granting my selfish request.”
Jason leaned back against the bench, one arm hooking across its back, his ice cream gone, his shoulders relaxed but guarded. His answer came clipped, dismissive in tone though not in weight. “It’s fine. Don’t read into it.”
You huffed faintly, not surprised.
He was ever the same—dodging emotion like arrows, refusing to let any pierce the armor of his cynicism. You shook your head slowly, turning back toward the pond, letting him stew in his deflection.
Your mind, unbidden, reached back to a moment weeks ago, words exchanged in the early morning light of the kitchen. Crook had been in your hand, as Jason and you stared at one another“…Why here? Why stay in such a place that scars the soul and poisons the air?”
He had blinked at you then, thrown off guard, caught without his armor.
“…Because it needs people who can fight,” he’d said finally, voice low and rough. “And because I was born here. Can’t shake it. City’s in my bones.”
You’d tilted your head, watching him as you always did—patient, thoughtful, cutting without cruelty.
“You do not fight for the city, do you? You fight because no one else will fight the way you do.”
Jason hadn’t answered right away,, jaw flexing as if he was chewing broken glass.. And then, finally, he’d muttered, “…Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”
The memory pulled you back to the present now, back to Jason sitting beside you on the bench, arms drawn in close as though any moment of quiet threatened to expose him.
You studied him carefully, finishing the last bite of your cone, the baked shell crumbling sweet against your teeth.
“This city is poison,” you said softly, without malice, only certainty. Jason’s eyes snapped to you, sharp and wary, but you didn’t falter. “And yet… perhaps there is more to it than you are willing to see. More than the scars you carry of it.”
Jason’s lip curled faintly, his head shaking almost before you had finished speaking. “Don’t start. You don’t know Gotham. You don’t know what it’s done—what it keeps doing. I’ve seen this place rot good people from the inside out. Doesn’t matter how much green paint you slap on it, it’s still a fucking graveyard with skyscrapers.”
You studied him quietly, the way the muscles in his jaw ticked, the way his eyes never quite settled. He spoke like a man who had already made his verdict long ago and carved it into stone. But you only smiled gently, your tone steady where his was jagged.
“Or perhaps,” you said, “you are simply too clouded in anger and pain to allow yourself to see past it.”
Jason froze.
The air seemed to still between you. The sounds of the park continued—the cries of ducks, the squeals of children—but around the bench there was only silence, heavy and taut. His body had gone rigid, his fists clenched against his knees, his breath sharp through his nose.
For a moment, his mask nearly cracked.
You saw it: the flicker of something raw behind his green eyes, a shadow that belonged to a boy who had once struggled to survive, who had curled up at night with a growling stomach and fists clenched against fear, who had been saved and then broken, who carried death in his ribs like a brand he could never scrub away.
Jason seemed to all but freeze at your words, his entire body wound tight as a spring. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw locked, and when he turned toward you at last.
“You don’t get it,” he ground out, voice rough enough to scrape stone. “You don’t fucking get it. This city doesn’t give a damn who you are, what you are. It’ll chew you up, spit you out, and laugh while you bleed in the gutter. That’s Gotham.”
His fists clenched against his knees, leather creaking under the strain. His tone rose, edged with something darker, heavier than simple irritation. It was anger honed by years of festering, by wounds never cleaned, scars never left to rest.
“You sit here—” he jabbed a finger toward you, though his hand shook— “smiling like you found something worth loving in this place. Like you can just… breathe in grass and sunshine and suddenly Gotham’s not a nightmare. You don’t know what it’s like. To be a kid with nothing but the cold in your bones, too hungry to sleep, too scared to close your eyes in case somebody fucking takes your shoes or your life. You don’t know what it’s like to come back and and realize nothing’s changed. That it never fucking will.”
His voice cracked sharp on that last word, venom curdled with pain, and he looked away, glaring at nothing, his chest heaving like every word had been ripped from him by force.
The world seemed to hush around the bench. Even Crook, who had been muttering, went silent in your mind.
You did not flinch at his anger.
Your gaze softened instead, and a sadness welled in your chest—not pity, never pity, but sorrow for the boy he had been, for the man who still bore the boy’s wounds
. Slowly, with a care as if touching something wild and frightened, you lifted your hand and laid it against his cheek.
Jason’s head jerked faintly at the contact, his breath catching. His skin was hot beneath your palm, rough from nights lived in leather and violence.
You met his furious eyes without fear, only calm, steady truth.
“Thou dost bare thy fangs as though venom be all thy soul holds,” you murmured, voice quiet but certain. “Yet even through thy malice and thy anguish, I see thy heart still beats with love. For thy city. For those who cannot fight as thou dost. For the lost child thou once wert, who yet lingers within thee.”
Jason’s breath stilled, his eyes widening ever so slightly.
Your thumb brushed against the line of his jaw as you smiled—gentle, achingly kind. “Aye, Jason. For all thy scars and thy fury, thou yet holdest love, and care, and kindness. It bleeds through, though thou wouldst deny it.”
For a heartbeat, for ten, he simply stared at you. Anger faltered, crumbled, leaving something raw and defenseless in its wake.
The park around you faded—the laughter, the leaves, the ripples on the pond—until there was only the bench, only the warmth of your hand, only the weight of his gaze locked in yours.
Time seemed to halt, suspended between you both, the city forgotten.
Jason’s chest rose once, sharp and uneven. His mouth opened, but no words came.
And still you smiled, patient as stone, kind as the wind in the trees.
The two of you sat there, eyes locked, as though the world itself had stopped turning to watch.
The afternoon had long melted into amber dusk, shadows stretching lazily across the polished floor as laughter and conversation ebbed into that mellow hum that follows good company and full bellies.
You sat at the long mahogany table, one hand curled around a delicate porcelain cup that seemed far too fragile for your fingers.
Steam coiled softly upward from the tea—jasmine, Alfred had called it—and you inhaled the floral warmth before taking another small sip. The cup’s smooth rim felt almost otherworldly, like something spun from glass rather than clay.
Beside it, your plate bore the remnants of that miraculous trifle, the final course of the evening. Layers of cream and sponge and fruit had melted together into a concoction so divine it made your tailbone twitch with delight.
You had eaten well beyond reason—drawn in by flavor after flavor, each more bewitching than the last.
This world’s cookery was unlike anything of your homeland: so delicate, so artful, so measured. There were no crackling spits over flame or the heady scent of root stews simmering for days, but there was something else here—care, patience, and love.
And laughter.
So much laughter.
“—And he cried,” Dick declared, grinning as he leaned forward over the table, nearly knocking over his own teacup in his enthusiasm. “Actual tears. Real, full-on waterworks. Over a goldfish!”
Jason groaned, leaning back in his chair, one hand covering his face. “It wasn’t just a goldfish, you little bastard. I was five!”
Kory was laughing so hard she had to set her fork down. “Oh, come now! You made it sound so tragic, Dick!”
“Oh, it was,” Dick said, eyes twinkling wickedly. “He held a funeral. Dug a hole in the yard and everything. Alfred had to stop him from reading the eulogy from Hamlet.”
“I was five!” Jason repeated, voice muffled by his hand.
You pressed your knuckles lightly to your lips, trying not to laugh—but the corners of your mouth betrayed you. The image of a small Jason, solemnly reciting words to a fallen goldfish beneath moonlight, was too much.
Alfred, ever the picture of composure, cleared his throat delicately. “I believe it was Sonnet Seventy-Three, if memory serves.”
“Et tu, Alfred?” Jason muttered, glaring weakly toward the butler.
“Master Richard’s retelling was regrettably accurate,” Alfred said with a faint smile. “Though I will commend your younger self on diction and dramatic poise.”
Jason’s groan deepened.
By now, Dick and Kory were nearly weeping with laughter, and even Alfred’s eyes twinkled as he refilled the teapot with measured grace.
It was… strange, to see Jason this way.
Relaxed.
Unarmored.
You had grown so accustomed to the shadowed version of him—the man who wore the weight of his own guilt like chainmail, the man whose voice often carried gravel and ache. But here, amid the warmth of the manor and the company of those who loved him, you saw glimmers of something else.
Of life.
And though your laughter joined the rest, a part of you stirred uneasily—an ember of guilt glowing in your chest.
“They do not know the truth…”
You had made up this false tale—that you were Jason’s lover, his companion—to give him an easy explanation for your sudden appearance. It had been a desperate decision, born of little time and instinct. But as the hours passed and the warmth of their welcome grew, you could not help the guilt that crawled beneath your skin.
Alfred’s kind eyes.
Kory’s gentle curiosity.
Dick’s easy teasing.
You were deceiving all of them.
And Jason… oh, poor Jason, who had gone along with it all.
You sighed softly, setting your cup down, trying not to think of the conversation that would come later—when the laughter had faded, and he would surely ask what in all the nine realms of the hells were you thinking?
But that was a worry for another time.
For now, the room pulsed with warmth and merriment.
After the tale of the goldfish came Kory’s gleeful recounting of a story involving Jason, an invention called a jetpack, and a severe lack of understanding of basic aerodynamics. He countered with an embarrassing account of Dick accidentally calling Bruce Dad in front of the Titans—“three times,” Jason crowed, “and once on a live comm!”—and soon it devolved into a competition of who could humiliate the other more thoroughly.
You laughed until your sides ached, until the candles burned low and the first soft fingers of dusk stretched across the windows.
When the laughter finally waned into the low murmur of comfort, Alfred poured you all one last cup of tea. The taste was sweet and mild—something soothing to end the night with. You held the cup between your palms, breathing in its warmth as the last of the sunlight faded.
For a time, you simply watched the way the firelight painted the faces around you. Kory’s hair gleamed like molten gold; Dick’s eyes caught the orange light like polished amber. Alfred, ever dignified, stood with his hands neatly folded, a small, secret smile on his lips. And beside you, Jason—broad-shouldered, scarred, tired—sat with his head tilted slightly back, gaze soft.
He looked… at peace.
Almost.
When he finally spoke, it was to say, “Alright, I’ve got work in the morning. Time to head back.”
His voice broke the quiet like a slow exhale, casual but heavy beneath the surface.
You blinked, setting your cup down as your ears twitched faintly at the change in the room’s air.
From the corner of your eye, you caught the smallest shift in Alfred’s posture—his shoulders lowering, just barely, as though something in him deflated. The butler said nothing, but the silence spoke for him.
Even Ace, who had been dozing near Jason’s chair, lifted his great head and gave a soft, low whine, eyes following his master with quiet dismay.
You felt it too—the heaviness of endings.
Though you had spent only a few hours here, you understood what this house meant to Jason, even if he himself might never say it aloud. It was history and ache and memory, tangled together like roots. Leaving it always seemed to take something from him.
You wanted to speak—to tell him perhaps to stay a little longer, if only to ease the worry from Alfred’s eyes. But you hesitated. You had already borrowed enough of his life tonight. To ask more felt wrong.
Still, as Jason pushed back his chair, you could not help but glance at him again.
The faintest weariness clung to him. The kind that had nothing to do with tiredness and everything to do with the weight of always having to go.
He caught your gaze and gave a small smirk. “C’mon, moonbeam. Let’s hit the road before Dick decides to break out the baby photos.”
Dick gasped. “Oh, I will now. You shouldn’t have said that.”
Kory grinned, eyes bright. “I would very much like to see them.”
Jason groaned, heading toward the door. “You both suck.”
You rose as well, smoothing down your skirt and getting out small crinkles or crumbs that may have landed in your lap. “I am certain the tales of Jason’s youth could fill a library,” you said, careful to keep your tone light, though your phrasing still carried the faint awkward rhythm of trying to speak “normally.”
Kory giggled. “Oh, they could. And half of it would be redacted.”
Jason shot her a look over his shoulder. “You’re not helping.”
“I am not trying to help,” she replied sweetly.
The laughter followed you both into the foyer, soft and fond, fading only when Alfred appeared beside you, holding out a neatly folded jacket.
“For the evening chill, Master Jason,” he said quietly. Then, after a beat, his eyes flicked to you. “And for you, miss, perhaps a shawl. The manor air can be… brisk at night.”
You smiled faintly, touched by his care. “Thank you. You are most kind.”
Jason accepted both garments, handing you the shawl before pulling on the jacket. “Thanks, Al.”
“Of course,” Alfred said, voice gentling. His gaze lingered on Jason a heartbeat longer, something fatherly and wordless in it. “It was good to have you home.”
Jason’s throat bobbed faintly. He looked away. “Yeah….”
As if he didnt believe that.
Then, more quietly he speaks up, “Say goodnight to Ace for me.”
“I shall,” Alfred promised.
And with a final nod of his head you and Jason step out.
The manor door closed behind you with a quiet click, the sound swallowed by the deepening twilight. The air outside was sharp and cool, carrying the scent of damp stone and autumn leaves. You drew the shawl close, the fabric soft against your arms, still faintly perfumed by the faint lavender that lingered from Alfred’s careful hands.
Jason walked beside you in silence, boots crunching over the steps that led toward where the metal beast—the motorcycle—waited faithfully, glinting beneath the faint gold of the setting sun.
It had been parked there for hours, patient as a loyal hound awaiting its master. You might have admired its sleek, mechanical form again—the glint of polished chrome, the quiet promise of freedom in its frame—had your mind not been occupied with pain.
Your feet.
Your poor, precious feet.
Each step upon the gravel felt like treading on shards of iron. You winced, the sharp ache of your toes burning through every measured movement. For hours you had endured those devices of torment—the heeled boots Jason had insisted you wear for “blending in.”
Just as vile and uncomfortable as the last time you needed to wear them.
You had smiled through the agony during lunch, managed grace while touring those endless halls, but now—now, when the night stretched long and no eyes but Jason’s remained—your patience had met its quiet, painful end.
You leaned a hand against the seat of the bike, exhaling a sigh that trembled between weariness and wrath. “By the Nine Hells,” you muttered under your breath, lifting one foot and then the other, shaking them as though to banish the sting. “I curse the mortal or whomever was the fool who forged these foul devices of torment.”
Jason paused, turning to glance over his shoulder with the faintest arch of his brow. “What—the shoes?”
You glared down at the glossy black boots, your lips curling faintly as if the things had personally wronged you.
“Aye… the shoes. By all the realms, I comprehend not how any soul endures them. Mine toes cry for mercy, and my heel burns as though I have trod upon smoldering coals.”
A faint, incredulous snort escaped the man behind you. “Welcome to the world of fashion, princess.”
You scoffed—an affronted, melodious sound, rich with offended dignity.
“Fashion,” you repeated, dripping disdain. “What foolishness mortals concoct to torment one another. Tell me, Jason—when a foe charges thee with a blade wreathed in flame, or when a great beast rises to rend thee limb from limb—how, pray, does this ‘fashion’ keep blood within thy veins? Will these stiff leather coffins halt a griffon’s talon? Will elegant stitching stay the bite of venom? Will some gleaming buckle guard thy heart from ruin?”
Jason huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “I mean… maybe if you hit somebody with one hard enough?”
You continued as though he had spoken nothing at all, because your suffering demanded expression.
“In the world from which I hail, garb holds purpose. Armor shields the spirit. Wards turn aside malice. Bandages hold fast the soul when blood runs thin.”
You lifted one offending boot as though presenting a cursed relic. “But these? These are prisons, forged by madmen. Foot-sarcophagi. Implements of torment crafted to sever one’s bond with living earth.”
Huffing you swung your leg over the motorcycle, settling behind him. The boots thudded against the footrests with all the grace of a corpse being dropped.
“They steal balance,” you pressed on. “They silence the whispers of the soil. They smother the breath of the land. Most grievous of all—they deny the soul its birthright. Hast thou ever felt true ground, Jason? The cool kiss of moss? The honest bite of stone? The tender cradle of grass wet with dawn’s first tears?”
Your voice softened into something reverent. “Barefoot, one may hear the song of the world beneath. One may feel life’s pulse rise to greet them, warm and bright. To stand so is to know freedom.”
A long pause followed your monologue.
“…Right,” Jason said slowly. “So you really hate shoes.”
You cracked one eye open at him.
“I might yet convince thee to try it,” you mused aloud. “Going barefoot. Aye… I deem thou wouldst find it liberating.”
He barked a laugh—loud, warm, incredulous. Turning slightly toward you, the fading light caught his features: rugged, wind-tossed, and marked by that pale white streak falling boldly over his brow.
“Thanks, princess,” he said, “but not all of us have feet made of fucking iron. I’ll stick with shoes.”
You narrowed your eyes in playful offense. “Coward,” you intoned, with all the weight of ancient judgment.
“Oh really?” Jason’s voice shifted—low, mischievous, dangerous in a way that spelled doom.
You stiffened.
“Jason,” you warned. “Aye, I know that tone. Trouble clings to it like smoke.”
He only grinned.
And then the motorcycle roared.
VVVRRMMMM—!
The sound struck you like a physical blow. Your ears—too sensitive for such mortal cacophony—rang sharply.
You squealed.
A sound you would absolutely deny until the stars burned out.
Your arms flew around him—both locking with such fervor he let out a startled grunt. Your fingers dug into his jacket as though clinging to life itself.
“JASON TODD, THOU VEXING, MISCHIEF-BORN FIEND!” you shrieked, voice nearly lost to the engine. “HATH SOME WRAITH CURSED THEE TO BE THUS RECKLESS?!”
He erupted into laughter. Pure, delighted chaos.
“Oh my god,” he gasped between breaths, “you sound like a pissed-off woodland grandma!”
You emitted a sound that could only be described as druidic fury, but the engine swallowed it whole.
Before you could gather your wits enough to smite him with further insults, he shifted gears.
The gates of Wayne Manor were still opening—
And Jason launched the bike forward.
The world shot past, a blur of shadow and molten gold as the last rays of sunset stretched long across the pavement. Wind slammed into you, tearing breath from your lungs. Your hair whipped wildly behind you.
The forested road unfurled ahead—straight, dark, slick as obsidian, lined with lanterns glowing like distant stars.
Jason leaned confidently into the acceleration, guiding the motorcycle as though it were an extension of his very being.
“You are UNHINGED!” you cried out, your voice carried away by wind and speed. “A MADMAN astride a METAL BEAST FORGED BY LUNATICS!”
Jason laughed again—a reckless, glorious sound.
“Welcome to Gotham transportation!”
A flock of birds exploded from the treeline at the thunder of the engine, scattering like ink across the lavender sky.
Your heart hammered—not with fear, but with the heady rush of exhilaration. The night air bit at your skin, sharp and cold. The scent of pine, asphalt, and distant smoke mingled together, wild and intoxicating.
Despite everything—despite indignation, despite sore feet, despite the violent assault upon your ears—
Your lips curled into a smile.
This was… freeing.
Chaotic.
Thrilling.
Alive.
Jason shouted back, barely audible over the roar: “You still think I’m the coward here?”
You tightened your hold and leaned close, shouting into his shoulder: “Aye! And proudly do I proclaim it!”
He barked a laugh so loud you felt it more than heard it.
The city rose on the horizon—Gotham, blazing with neon and firelight like a great steel beast waking for the night. Towers pierced the sky. Lights blinked like watchful eyes. Smoke curled in lazy spirals.
You inhaled deeply, letting the scents and sounds of the world fill your senses.
This place… this strange mortal land…
Bit by bit, you were beginning to understand it.
Not fully.Not with ease. Yet enough to feel something shift within you—soft as moss, sharp as moonlight.
Jason tilted his head just enough to shout: “Hold on tight, princess!”
Your eyes narrowed. “I already cling as though to a runaway dragon!”
“Good!” he hollered. “Because I’m not slowing down!”
You screamed something ancient and profane—a curse so strong it may have been enough to curdle milk—and the wind stole it gleefully.
And as the motorcycle tore through the deepening dusk, racing toward the burning heart of Gotham, a warmth bloomed in your chest.
Perhaps the adrenaline. Perhaps the night. Perhaps the reckless man who laughed like he feared nothing.
Or perhaps—
The whisper of belonging.
Faint.
Reluctant.
Dangerously warm.
You pressed closer as the city swallowed the horizon in light—
And the road carried you both onward, wild and unbound.
One Motorcycle Ride Later
The wind had long since stopped stinging your cheeks, but still it clung to your skin like a memory—cool, sharp, electric with the echo of speed. The ride from the great manor of stone and shadow had been a blur of lights and distant stars, a blazing trail of motion carved through Gotham’s night. And now—now at last—you were home.
The metal stairs thrummed beneath your feet as you ascended, the structure humming faintly under each step. Jason climbed just behind you, the soft clink of his keys and the rustle of his jacket nearly lost beneath the whispering breath of night. A breeze swept down the alley, brushing past you with fingers cold enough to raise the small hairs along your arms.
You shivered—only slightly, for the cold never truly bothered you—but still the wind knifed under the borrowed shawl, reminding you how thin the mortal fabrics were compared to the hides and woven magics of your world.
Jason reached the landing first, pulling the sliding door open with a grunt.
“After you,” he said.
You inclined your head with a small, teasing bow. “My thanks, kind mortal.”
Your words, spoken in your true cadence, slipped free without the restraint you used in public—soft, melodic, edged in old-world formality. Jason huffed, pretending not to be amused.
You stepped inside.
And the very first thing you did—
—was fling the boots off your aching feet.
You kicked them with such force that one struck the far wall and toppled sideways, defeated. The other spun twice across the floor, landed on its heel, and fell over like a drunk soldier.
Jason shut the sliding door behind you, shaking his head.
“I swear, the way you look at those boots? You’d think they killed your family.”
“They may yet,” you muttered darkly. “If I must don them again, my spirit shall flee my body and abandon me to the fates.”
He snorted. “Yeah, yeah, dramatic.”
But you barely heard him.
For the second, far more urgent act now demanded your attention.
Your fingers rose to the ring.
Your breath caught.
And finally—
You slipped it off.
And the glamour—soft, delicate, shimmering like dew—peeled away from your skin in a slow, warm wave. It pulled back like veils of light slipping behind a curtain. For a heartbeat, the world dimmed around you as though all other colors fled.
Then—
You unraveled.
Not into pieces, but into truth.
Your blue skin surfaced first, as though rising from beneath clear water: deep cerulean with undertones of dusk. Light brushed across it, leaving faint glimmers like starlight caught upon polished stone.
Your horns followed—first the familiar heat pooling at your temples, then the subtle ache of release as the concealment spell slid away. The smooth, obsidian-curved shapes emerged from the glamour like the crescent of the moon surfacing from behind storm clouds.
Your ears lengthened as well—tapered, elegant, sensitive enough to twitch at the soft scrape of Jason’s boot on the floor.
Then—
Your tail loosened from its invisible bindings, uncoiling behind you with a quiet rush of relief. The muscles along it twitched with returning awareness.
You drew a long breath.
And for the first time in hours—you were whole.
“By the moon’s gentle grace…” you whispered. “The ring’s enchantment clings to my skin still, as though unwilling to lose its grip.”
Jason blinked once. Twice. His arms were crossed, but his expression—half tired, half amused—softened in that way he never let linger long.
“Feel better now?”
“Aye,” you breathed. “As one freed from bindings. My tail stirs as though it greets an old friend.”
He opened his mouth to reply—
—but didn’t get the chance.
A black-and-gray missile of rage and feathers slammed into him.
“OH COME ON—!”
Jason staggered back, arms thrown over his face as Crook was a blur of wings, beak, and indignant shrieking.
You froze—ears high, tail raised—caught somewhere between laughter and sheer disbelief.
For several heartbeats, all you could do was watch.
Jason cursed violently, swatting blindly at the furious bird circling his head like a vengeful storm.
“GET—OFF—me—!”
Crook did not get off rather he was wrath made manifest.
And inside your mind—clear as spoken word—you heard him.
“YOU SON OF A—HEY! HOLD STILL WHEN I’M CURSIN’ YA, YA BROODY BASTARD!”
The tiny pigeon’s voice, thick with a Brooklyn accent, rattled through your skull with absolute fury.
“LEAVIN’ ME HERE LIKE SOME TRASH CAN COCKAROACH? SLAMMIN’ THE DOOR IN MY FACE—OH YEAH I’M GONNA PECK YOUR EYES OUT, PAL! I’M GONNA—HEY! DON’T BLOCK ME WITH YOUR ARM!”
Jason flinched as Crook darted in for another strike.
“I swear—I’ll—cook—you—”
“COOK ME?!”
Crook shrieked, scandalized. “YOU TRY COOKIN’ ME I’LL HAUNT YOUR DESCENDANTS! NOT THAT YOU GOT ANY—CUZ WHO’D SLEEP WITH—OI HEY LET ME FINISH MY SENTENCE!”
You covered your mouth.
Not to stifle laughter—no.
To stop your entire soul from leaving your body in secondhand embarrassment.
Finally, after a full minute of Jason vs. Feathered Fury, you stepped forward.
“Crook,” you said, your voice gentle yet commanding. “Enough.”
He froze mid-flap.
Turned.
And zipped directly into your waiting hands like a sulking comet.
You cupped him carefully, thumbs brushing along the sides of his puffed chest. Feathers flared with indignation.
He glared at you—tiny, furious, adorable.
“And YOU!” he snapped into your mind, wings twitching. “How could ya let this ASSHOLE leave me behind?! Abandon me like some common street bird? ME? CROOK? The ONLY decent lookin’ pigeon in this whole godforsaken shit-hole of a city?!”
You smiled softly, stroking his small round head with one clawed fingertip.
Crook puffed up even larger, swelling with outrage until he resembled an indignant gray pom-pom with wings. His tiny chest heaved against your palm as he continued his tirade, feathers flaring dramatically.
“I mean seriously, doll—what the hell?! You just let Broody McPretty-Boy over there slam the freakin’ door in my beak!? Do you know what that DOES to a bird’s sense of dignity?! I coulda died in here! Alone! Cold! Surrounded by four freaking walls of nothin—less than nothin! I ain’t built for that kinda trauma!”
You stifled a laugh—not at him, for you would never belittle a companion’s distress, but because his fury was so earnest, so disproportionate to the situation, that it took on the shape of comedy despite the sincerity behind it.
You tilted your head, letting your voice take on its natural cadence—the lyrical, archaic lilt you so carefully suppressed around strangers:
“Peace, peace, my storm-feathered friend. I sought not to cast thee into peril nor to wound thy pride. I am truly sorry. The decision was not mine to make.”
Crook flapped his wings once in outrage.
“Not yours—NOT YOURS? Who else was it, huh?! The BASTARD over there? That guy? Really?” He jabbed his beak in Jason’s direction so sharply you feared he might sprain his own neck. “You threw in with HIM?! I thought we were tight, doll! I thought we had a thing! I thought I was your number one guy!”
“I endeavored,” you murmured, fingertips trailing soothingly over the ridge of his skull, “to warn him that thou wouldst be most grievously distressed were thou left behind. Truly, I plead thy case.”
Crook scoffed, a sharp little sound.
“Well ya shoulda pleaded harder.”
You bit back a smile. “I did my best, small one.”
“You shoulda done betta,” he shot back, though you noted his feathers beginning—very slightly—to un-puff at your touch. “The hell was I supposed to do in this crap-nest of his? Huh? I aint got thumbs doll I cant open or watch nothin.”
You smoothed your thumb beneath his tiny beak. “Forgive me, little prince of gutters. I meant no betrayal.”
Crook huffed, but his bluster wavered.
“Yeah, yeah—well I’m past all that now, princess. Waaay past it. You broke my heart. Shattered it. Crushed my tiny trustin’ soul like a cheap cannoli. I’m wounded. Emotionally. Permanently.”
“I grieve for thy suffering,” you murmured solemnly.
But then—because you knew him—you added one more circling scratch under his downy throat.
He froze.
His eyes fluttered.
His wings drooped.
“O—okay—hold up—hold up, wait—don’t think ya can just—mm—mh—”
You found the spot exactly where the feathers parted slightly—the place he loved most—and gently worked your fingers there.
Crook made a noise that was half-coo, half-prayer.
You laughed softly, warmth blooming in your chest. “Nay, none living creature is immune to my technique, little one. Not even the owlbears of the Frostwood could resist such pampering.”
Crook’s eyes fully shut.
And you smiled, as in seconds—
A tiny snore escaped him—a fragile, whistling thing—before he melted entirely against your palm like warm dough.
You lifted him to your chest, cradling him close, his breath fluttering softly against the fabric of your tunic.
His tiny claws flexed once, then went limp.
You carried him to the couch and took a seat, settling him gently in your lap. Your fingers continued to stroke him in slow, rhythmic circles, coaxing him deeper into sleep.
Only a few breaths later, Jason trudged over, muttering curses, feathers stuck in his hair.
He practically fell onto the couch beside you, the cushions jolting beneath his weight. He leaned his head back over the top of the couch, long legs kicking up onto the coffee table with a practiced disregard for manners.
“Little bastard’s gonna be dinner next time this time I swear,” he grumbled, flicking another feather from his sleeve.
You Chuckle at this and Jason's eyes narrow at you.
“No I mean it, I’m gonna snap his neck and cook the bastard. Maybe deep-fry him. Maybe rotisserie.”
Crook snored louder in your lap.
You gave Jason a serene smile. “Thy dramatics ill become thee, Jason Peter Todd.”
He snorted. “Yeah yeah, whatever, Mother Nature.”
You smiled and shook your head at the name, lightly smacking him with your tail.
Silence settled.
Soft.
Comfortable.
A gentle hush broken only by Crook’s tiny coos and the distant hum of the city beyond the window—the gleaming sprawl of glass and neon that was Gotham’s heartbeat.
You exhaled quietly, letting your true form relax fully now that your ring was off—skin glowing faintly blue, horns cool beneath your own fingers as you traced them absently. Your tail curled around your thigh like a contented creature.
The peace lasted long enough for your muscles to loosen.
Then—
“So…” Jason said.
You stiffened.
“Why exactly did you decide to play my girlfriend?”
Your heart thudded once, low and heavy.
You froze, fingers stilling mid-stroke on Crook's feathers.
The dread you’d carried since the supermarket—the dread you’d hoped might be delayed by fate’s mercy—
Finally caught up with you.
Jason turned his head, glaring half-heartedly at the sleeping pigeon. “This little shit has had some awful ideas in the past, but THAT one?” He groaned. “That one takes the whole freaking cake.”
You blinked in confusion (e/c) eyes silting. “I am uncertain what confectionery has to do with falsehood.”
Jason smacked a hand to his face. “I really need to get you a dictionary. And maybe a cultural guide. And maybe an entire library.”
You said nothing.
He sighed, letting his hand fall. “Just… be honest alright. Why that? Out of everything you could’ve said—why that?”
You swallowed.
Hard.
Honesty felt like a blade too sharp to hold, yet too necessary to abandon.
“It was Crook’s counsel,” you admitted quietly. “In the moment, I knew not what else might soothe thy spirit.”
Jason frowned, brow creasing. “My spirit didn’t need soothing.”
But it was a lie.
A gentle one.
A soft one.
A protective one.
You knew better.
You had seen it—the rigid set of his shoulders the moment he spotted his brother and Kory in the supermarket aisle. The way he stilled, breath halting, as though expecting a blow. The trapped-beast tension that clung to him like a second skin.
You had seen fear in many creatures.
Jason Todd had not feared them.
He had feared for you.
You shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Crook. “When thou beheld thine kin in that place… thy posture changed. The air about thee tightened. Thou wert like a wolf caught in the snare—fierce, proud, yet desperate to escape unnoticed.”
Jason tensed noticeably.
You continued, voice soft but unwavering:
“I feared for thee. I knew not the root of such fear, but I saw the strain. The pain. Crook whispered that a lover’s guise would give thy kin pause—would halt his pursuit. It seemed… wise…. At the time .”
Jason stared at you.
Silent.
Expression unreadable.
You lowered your gaze. “Thus I spoke. Without forethought. Without permission. An error, perhaps. And for that… I offer my apology.”
He let out a long breath, scrubbing both hands over his face.
“You know…” he muttered finally, “I should be pissed or something. I really should. But…”
He slumped deeper into the couch.
“…dammit, it actually helped.”
You blinked. “Thou art not angered?”
Jason huffed. “Oh, I’m annoyed. Don’t get me wrong.” His eyes flicked to Crook. “And Alfred’s gonna be on my ass nonstop about you now. Constant calls. Constant questions. He’s probably planning a whole damn file already.”
A laugh slipped from your lips—soft, chiming, unable to be contained.
Jason glanced at you.
Stopped.
Just… stared.
Your eyes had slitted in amusement, glowing faintly. Your fangs showed when you smiled. The hue of your skin shimmered softly with the ambient magic of your unbound form.
“Don’t smile at me like that,” he muttered. “Makes it harder to stay annoyed.”
“Then I shall endeavor not to smile,” you teased.
He looked away immediately.
“Don’t do that either. It sounds like Shakespeare joined a Renaissance fair.”
You tilted your head, faux-offended. “My speech has stood thus since long before I came to your world Jason.”
“Exactly my point,” Jason grumbled.
But there was no venom.
Only warmth, rough and shy.
The quiet washed over you both again—comfortable now, like a blanket shared.
Crook snored.
A car honked distantly outside.
Jason exhaled, long and low. “Look… whatever the reason, it worked. Dick backed off. Kory ecstatic, and Alfred saw me for a bit. So, uh… thanks.”
Your heart warmed at the sincerity tucked beneath his gruff tone.
“You are most welcome,” you said gently.
Jason shifted, turning toward you more fully. “Just… next time, maybe give me a heads-up before you declare yourself my girlfriend, okay?”
You pressed a palm to your chest, solemn. “Aye. I vow to speak before I speak.”
Jason blinked. “That… yeah, that’s not how that phrase works, forest princess.”
You shrugged lightly. “The sentiment remains.”
A tension you hadn’t realized you carried finally eased from your shoulders.
Jason didn’t hate you.
You hadn’t ruined everything.
Relief loosened the tight coil in your chest, softening your eyes, your shoulders unspooling from their tense lift.
Jason shifted subtly beside you—trying, failing, and then trying even harder not to seem like your forgiveness mattered.
His arm lifted, stretching along the back of the couch. Not touching you… merely close. Near enough that the faint warmth of him brushed the tips of your shoulder, as gentle as the low glow from the city through the window.
Crook snored softly in your lap, his tiny chest puffing with each exhale, little talons curled into the fold of your tunic. The weight of him was grounding—warm, familiar, rhythmic. You stroked his feathers with slow, careful passes, and he melted further, his round head lolling to one side, a tiny coo vibrating against your thigh.
Jason leaned back with a sigh—not irritated, not angry. Just… letting himself exist for a moment.
The kind of moment so rare you hardly dared breathe too loudly, lest it vanish.
Silence settled between you both.
Not awkward.
Not heavy.
Simply quiet.
The living room was dim, lit only by the soft amber lamp in the corner and the gleaming pulse of Gotham’s skyline through the balcony glass. The distant hum of traffic blended with the soft rustle of Crook’s feathers. Every now and then Jason’s foot tapped lightly on the coffee table, a small rhythmic fidget that betrayed the restless nature beneath all that leather and bravado.
You curled your tail around your ankle, letting the quiet seep into your bones.
It was… nice.
Then Jason exhaled sharply—the I’m about to ruin the peace kind of exhale.
“So,” he said, tone deliberately casual in that way that meant it absolutely wasn’t.
“You’re probably going to have to keep playing my girlfriend for a while.”
You didn’t even blink.
“Very well.”
Jason froze hearing that.
You didn’t.
Your fingers continued brushing Crook’s feathers, your expression calm—utterly unbothered. Because in your mind, a while meant a day. Perhaps two. Maybe until the next full moon or some other small mortal measure of time.
Jason, unfortunately, was mortal enough to know better.
He muttered something.
Too quiet to hear.
Too low to decipher.
Too… suspiciously important.
Your ears twitched, then angled sharply toward him.
You turned your head with a slow, graceful tilt.“What sayest thou?”
Jason stiffened, glanced sideways, then away again. “Nothing.”
“Thou uttered something. Speak plainly, Jason Todd.”
He dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “I said—four months.”
Silence.
Your ears went rigid.
Your tail froze mid-curl.
Even Crook snuffled in his sleep as though sensing the sudden shift in the air.
Slowly—very slowly—you turned your head fully toward him.
“Four… months?” you repeated, voice rising with every syllable.
Jason winced like he'd just been stabbed. “Look, this has to go on for a while alright, if not then we look suspicious and if that happens then Dick’s gonna start teasing. and Alfred—”
“Four months.”Your eyes widened, pupils narrowing into sharp vertical slits that glowed faintly in the low light. “God’s above… four months.”
Jason raised both hands as if warding off a spell.
“Hey—hey—cool it. You said ‘alright,’ remember?”
“I thought thou meant a day or a week perhaps, at most!” you hissed, voice still soft enough not to wake Crook but intense enough to scorch the air between you.
“Mayhap two! None told me I was binding my fate for a season!”
Jason rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish in a way he’d sooner die than admit aloud.
“Well… yeah. It’s kinda a… situation.”
You stared at him.
He stared back, bracing, knowing you well enough by now to sense you were not angry—but utterly bewildered in a distinctly Tiefling way.
Your lips parted.
Then closed.
Then parted again as the realization sank in like a stone plunging into a deep pool.
Four months.
Four months.
Crook snored softly, oblivious to the mortal chaos unfolding around him.
You looked forward again, eyes wide, ears twitching in small, panicked flicks.
And in your mind in the space where magic hummed and moonlight memories lived—
you whispered to yourself with dramatic despair:
“…Silvanious… what have I wrought?”
And the city lights shimmered through the glass as if laughing with you, sealing the suspense of your fate.
??? POV – Location – ???
Darkness was the only thing that could be seen.
A tall figure descended the staircase with a patience and certainty that marked long, long practice.
Each step fell silently, measured with the same precision he applied to everything else in his life. He didn’t bother reaching for a rail. He never had. The long serpentine path downward might disorient someone new, but to him it was as familiar as breath.
The air grew cooler with each step. Dampness clung faintly against his skin. Dripping water echoed from far below.
A low flutter of wings brushed the darkness.
He kept moving.
Down and down and down—until the black finally began to soften. Thin slices of light glimmered along the edges of the rock as the staircase opened out into a cavernous space, and then—
Light.
Silver, blue, and cold.
The massive expanse stretched before him in a way that still, even now, commanded the edges of awe. Limestone stalactites dripped steadily overhead, droplets striking pools below with soft plinks. Bats swept through the open space in sharp arcs, wings cutting the air. Technology glowed in clusters—screens, servers, holoprojectors—blue and white against the cave’s ancient stone.
Vehicles lined one side: the armored bulk of the Batmobile, the matte sweep of the Batcycle, sleeker prototypes beneath tarps. A training mat occupied a raised platform, still bearing the faint scuffs of its last brutal session.
Along a raised platform, behind tempered glass, stood the suits. Black, red, green. Legends arranged like monuments.
The Batsuit.
The Red Robin suit.
And the Robin suit—slightly modified, slightly newer, subtly altered for another to wear.
He walked deeper.
His eyes—sharp, trained—instantly caught the people near the Batcomputer. Three figures. Alfred leaned near the main terminal, posture straight, hands folded behind his back in that perfectly composed way only he could manage. In the chair, half-sprawled like it was his living room, sat Dick Grayson, feet kicked up on the console.
Kory stood beside him, laughing at something he’d said, her hair a burnished cascade illuminated by monitor-light.
The figure slowed.
Of course they were here.
As if sensing the shift in the air, Alfred turned first, offering a calm, polite smile.
“Good evening, Master Wayne.”
The man finally stepped fully into the light.
“Hey, Alfred.” His voice was steady, though he exhaled like the day had been long. Because it had.
Dick glanced back over his shoulder. “Bruce! How was the old company?” He grinned wide—he always did—and Bruce reached out to tap Dick’s ankle.
A wordless warning.
Feet off the console.
Dick pouted but nudged his boots back to the floor.
Bruce took another chair beside them, settling in with practiced control. “The company is fine,” he said. “Lucius had numbers for me. Board wants a few more answers. Nothing unexpected.”
Dick nodded, already bored of corporate talk, and leaned back into Kory’s side. Bruce could hear them whispering the second he refocused on the screens.
He didn’t look at them. He didn’t have to.
“Should we tell him?”
“I don’t know, Kory—maybe later—”
“But he deserves to know—”
“Kory—”
He didn’t lift his gaze from the data he was analyzing as he listened to their slight bickering.
“What is it?”
Silence.
Then Dick groaned softly—caught.
“Uh. So. Funny story. We, uh… saw Jason today.”
His hands stilled on the keyboard.
Jason.
A tightness spidered through his chest—not anger. Not remotely. Something heavier. Sharper. Something that pressed into the parts of him that still hadn’t fully healed.
He inhaled once.
Exhaled.
“Oh?” he said, his tone too calm, too even. “That so.”
Dick nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. He, uh… he looks good. Healthy. Strong. He’s… good, Bruce.”
Good.
An ache settled in Bruce's chest and stomach. A mixture of pride and grief and relief he could never quite untangle.
He resumed typing.
And then Kory stepped forward, unable to contain herself any longer, her words tumbling out like a bursting dam:
“Jason has a girlfriend!”
Bruce froze.
Completely.
Utterly.
Even the subtle hum of the Batcomputer felt too loud.
Slowly—painfully slowly—he turned his head toward her.
“Jason,” he said, each word placed carefully so the world didn’t tilt out from under him, “has… a what?”
“A girlfriend!” Kory chirped, absolutely delighted. “She is so adorable! Truly! The sweetest, kindest little thing! And smart. And polite. And—”
“She’s quite the gentle young woman,” Alfred added, almost warmly. “Very gracious. And patient—terribly patient, a welcoming trait given Master Jason’s temperament.”
Bruce blinked once.
Twice.
Jason.
Jason Peter Todd.
Red Hood
His son—
—has a girlfriend?
Kory nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! And we went on a double date with them!”
Bruce felt his soul exit his body.
“... What.”
Dick winced. “Yeah, uh. That happened. Jason came willingly and everything.”
“At the manor,” Bruce repeated. Slowly. Like he was confirming reality. “Jason. Came here. For a double date.”
Dick only shrugged. “Jason let me pick.”
Bruce Raised a brow. “And you came here.”
The billionaire's oldest adopted son only smirked. ”Hey, what better way to get him home than for a date.”
Bruce rubbed a hand over his jaw, staring forward but seeing absolutely nothing in front of him. His brain was processing seventeen emotions at once, none of which were communicating clearly with the others.
Jason—who avoided the manor unless half-dead.
Jason—who refused to talk about his personal life.
Jason—who rarely let anyone close.
Somehow—
Some way—
Had a girlfriend.
A girlfriend he brought to the manor. A girlfriend he trusted enough to walk straight into the most volatile family system on the eastern seaboard.
Bruce felt his hands clench before he fully realized he was doing it. A subtle tightening—barely perceptible to most—but in him it meant something had struck deep. Instincts he buried under protocol and logic stirred like old guard dogs, lifting their heads, hackles pricking.
“…What’s her name?” He kept his voice level, flat, emotionless—though the cave lights reflected tension along his jaw.
Dick answered without hesitation. “Y/N Hart.”
Bruce nodded once, the motion small yet sharpened by thought.
Y/N Hart.
The name imprinted itself immediately, catalogued, filed, and already being cross-referenced in the unspoken machinery of his mind. He will find out every piece of information he can. Old habits—some protective, some controlling, none easily restrained.
Nonetheless he would soon learn:
There is nothing to find.
Not in Gotham.
Not in this world.
Before he could question further, a ripple of presence slid down the stone stairway. Heavy, confident, edged with authority far larger than the bodies it belonged to. A voice—young, imperious, and perpetually annoyed—cut through the cave:
“Why do you all babble and waste precious time when there is work to be done?”
Bruce turned slowly in his chair and watched as two silhouettes approached, descending and coming closer and closer.
Tim Drake.
And behind him—Smaller, sharper, aura twice his size:
Damian Wayne.
Dick smirked as they reached the platform. “Well well, look who finally rolled out of bed.”
Tim rubbed at his face, hair rumpled, hoodie askew. “I was sleeping.”
“Hmph,” Damian scoffed, arms crossed with aristocratic disdain. “Your comatose habits are not of interest, Drake.”
Dick snorted. “If you hadn’t been asleep, you two could’ve seen Jason.”
Tim froze.
Truly froze—eyes snapping open, breath catching as if someone had poured ice water down his shirt.
“Jason was here?” His voice cracked just slightly.
And Damian—expression unreadable—added calmly, “Ah. Father’s other adopted child. My mother spoke of him during his… stay… under our tutelage.”
“Tutelage” A pointed and sanitizing word.
Bruce inhaled sharply through his nose.
The League. The Lazarus Pit.
A child torn apart and rebuilt by Ra’s al Ghul’s whims.
Bruce felt the red hot rage that always came on when he recalled this. Jason’s death, his resurrection, his hate and the wall that he always had keeping, Bruce far away as possible.
“Not now.” Bruce told himself.
He pushed Jason to the back of his mind, where nothing ever truly stayed.
“Tim,” he said, turning toward the youngest detective. “What else have you found with your investigation?”
Tim blinked once—then the exhaustion vanished from his face entirely, replaced by pure mission focus. He strode toward the console, sliding into a seat beside Dick.
“Right,” Tim said, fingers already flying over keys. “Okay. So—after going through the docks’ new rotations and cross-referencing the schedules with Gotham Shipping’s internal updates—”
“You broke into their servers?” Dick asked.
Tim muttered, “Only a little.”
Damian rolled his eyes. “Drake lacks subtlety.”
“Bite me,” Tim mumbled.
“Tempting,” Damian replied coolly.
Kory stifled a laugh.
Bruce waited.
Tim cleared his throat and refocused.
“As I was saying—after reviewing the rotations, I found several anomalies tied to Vargas’ network. His crew has been moving more product than usual. Weapons, drugs, and—” his expression darkened— “girls and boys. Underage.”
The cave’s temperature seemed to drop.Dick’s jaw tensed. Kory’s hands curled. Alfred’s expression hardened into something cold and grief-stricken all at once. Damian’s eyes sharpened with a predator’s focus. “Then we should act immediately.”
Tim nodded slightly but kept going.
“I tracked the warehouses involved. The main one was off Dockside Avenue—where I got most of the data.”
Bruce’s eyes flicked sideways at that phrasing. Most of the data. Not all.
Tim continued, slightly too quickly. “Anyway—I interviewed some of Vargas’ men—”
Dick’s head snapped toward him. “Interviewed?”
“Interrogated,” Damian corrected dryly.
Tim sputtered. “I—no—I didn’t—”
Dick arched a brow. “You slipped and said ‘interviewed,’ Tim. We know how you gather intel and uhhh sorry bud but you don’t got the stomach for it.”
Tim swallowed. “Well—okay—I had some… assistance.”
Bruce’s eyebrow lifted a millimeter.Tim froze.
“…from who?” Dick prodded.
“No one important,” Tim blurted.
Kory tilted her head. “Timothy, you are lying.”
“I am not—”
“You are,” Damian said flatly. “Your left eye twitches every time you attempt to waver in truth.”
Tim glared at him. “Stop analyzing my face!”
“Then stop offering such readable expressions.”
“BITE ME,” Tim snapped.
Damian smirked.
Bruce finally cut in. “Tim.”
The boy deflated knowing he could do little and probably could keep going trying to make up excuses but in the end would fail.
And huffing her spoke“Fine. I asked Jason for help.”
Bruce didn’t react outwardly.
But inside—something twisted. A thousand sharp-edged emotions scraping at each other. Bruce simply shook his head for one and simply said, “Continue.”
Tim exhaled shakily in relief and resumed typing.
“Right. So—Vargas’ men confirmed two shipments. One small, one massive. The second one is protected by Aripas muscle.”
Bruce’s head tilted subtly. “Aripas?”
Tim nodded. “Eastern European syndicate. Black market connections. Highly disciplined. They don’t talk much.”
“Useful,” Damian murmured. “Silent enemies die faster.”
Kory gave him a look. “Damian.”
He shrugged.
Tim pulled up security footage, blueprints, timestamps—piling the evidence in neat digital stacks.
“And that’s not all,” he continued. “There’s someone else involved in the transfers—a guy called Colt. Former military. Runs a private security outfit in Blüdhaven. Works for anyone who pays.”
Dick frowned. “Never heard of him.”
“Exactly,” Tim said. “He’s a ghost. No stable address, no long-term contractors, no public records beyond what he wants seen.”
Damian crossed his arms. “Sounds sloppy.”
Tim shook his head. “No. Intentional. He’s covering his tracks, and he’s very good at it.”
He clicked another file open—high-definition images and blurry shots alike.
“And here’s the important part: Colt isn’t just moving product—he’s building files.”
Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “On who?”
Tim turned toward him.
“Us.”
A cold, creeping stillness permeated the cave.
Tim continued quietly, “Vargas said they’re collecting information. On vigilantes. Patrol patterns. Safehouses. Tech shipments. Someone wants full intel on the Batfamily—and they have an inside data source.”
Dick swore under his breath. Kory’s glow flared brighter. Damian’s posture stiffened, hand twitching toward where a blade would usually be.
Bruce’s voice dropped an octave. “Who is leaking it?”
“That’s the thing,” Tim said, brow furrowed. “Whoever it is—they’re way above street level. This isn’t low-tier corruption. This is someone with access.”
A beat passed.
Another.
Tim cleared his throat and continued. “I managed to retrieve the files before they could disappear again. I’ve been analyzing them. The detail is… extensive. The Aripas may operate like mercenaries, but they catalog information like a paramilitary intelligence group.”
He clicked another tab.
Colt’s data appeared in clean bullet points.
Training. Locations. Skill sets. Known associates.Possible employers.
Tim described each piece in meticulous detail—patterns of movement, weapon preferences, mission histories, tactical predictions. The boy was thorough in everything he did. To the point where it might be deemed obsessive and while others might find fault it was perfect for line of work.
Damian interjected often with snide commentary.
“His stance is sloppy.”
“That is not a soldier’s grip.”
“I could defeat him easily.”
Tim argued back. Dick mediated. Kory praised Tim’s diligence.
Alfred occasionally offered historical parallels.
Through it all, Bruce listened. Absorbing. Calculating.
And every so often—just for a heartbeat—his mind slipped.
Back to Jason.
And even if Tim kept his mouth shut Bruce was already more than aware about who helped him.
Letting out a small breath Bruce closed his eyes back and recalled the scene of Jason left behind after helping Tim.
To the warehouse. To the body of Leon Vargas hanging upside down from heavy chains, head lolling, blood dripping in thick streams. To the words written on the warehouse wall in Vargas’ own blood:
GOTHAM IS MINE.
STAY CLEAN OR GET DEAD.
A warning. A boundary—
A declaration.
Jason called the city his and dared anyone no matter who they were to try and take it from him.
Bruce shut the image away before it could swallow him whole and opening his eyes once more he zoned in on Tim's voice again.
“…and that’s everything,” Tim finished breathlessly.
Silence settled briefly.
Then Bruce stood. Tim stiffened—waiting for judgment.
Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Good work, Tim.”
Tim sagged in relief.
Bruce nodded once and then turned away, slowly standing from the chair at the counsel and heading toward the deeper shadows of the cave slowly and beginning to get ready for his nightly duties–
However just before begging completely out of sight he said—calm, without looking back:
“Oh and next time you want to work with Jason… just ask.”
Tim’s breath caught.
Dick’s eyebrows shot up.
Kory smiled softly.
Damian muttered, “Hn.”
A soft, stunned silence pooled through the cave—deep, echoing, made of heartbeats and unspoken things. Bruce turned away, already walking, cape brushing against stone, betraying nothing of the emotional landmine he’d just dropped.
Tim let out a shaky, almost broken sigh of relief.
Dick patted him on the shoulder, until he froze for a moment a question in his head.
Dick narrowed his eyes. “Tim?”
Tim winced a little, having an inkling what Dick was gonna say “Yes.”
Dick nodded. “How’ed you get get in contact with Jay. Last I checked, you two weren’t exactly texting memes to each other.”
And that—was the moment Tim’s soul visibly left his body.
He coughed. “About that.”
Dick simply raised a brow and crossed his arms waiting.
Tim swallowed. “Well… I might’ve, you know… borrowed something from you.”
“Borrowed what?”
“Your phone.”
Dick blinked. “My what?”
Tim held up his hands, palms out. “I can explain!”
Damian crossed his arms, delighted. “This will be interesting."
Dick took a step closer, horrified. “Tim. Why the hell would you steal my phone?”
Tim sputtered. “Because Jason doesn’t have my number!”
Dick blinked. “Okay and that explains you stealing my pho–”
“Because!” Tim said mournfully. “Jason isn't exactly my biggest fan in case you forgot!.”
“And there's no chance in hell he'd pick up some random number,” Tim continued, shoulders drooping.
Dick blinked twice. “So you swiped my phone and what hoped Jason answered?”
Tim groaned. “YES. It was the only plan I had. You left it on the table for like—two minutes! And I needed him. He knows the docks. He knows Vargas’ people. He knows the Aripas footprint better than anyone.”
Dick finally processed what Tim said—and then his expression erupted.
“TIMOTHY JACKSON DRAKE,” Dick yelled, voice cracking, “YOU STOLE MY PHONE TO CALL MY DEADLY, HALF-FERAL BROTHER?!”
Tim pointed dramatically at Alfred. “I didn’t steal. I borrowed!”
“Damian,” Tim protested, “Dick was the only choice, Bruce would know immediately I took it and even if I did Jason wasn't going to answer, and stealing Alfred’s would’ve been a death wish! Do you know what would’ve happened if I swiped his phone? He would’ve materialized behind me like a Victorian ghost and politely informed me I had five seconds to put it back.”
Alfred raised a brow, amused. “Master Timothy, I assure you, it would have been at least seven.”
Dick pinched the bridge of his nose. “You… you didn’t think to, I don't know.. ASK?”
“I panicked!” Tim squeaked. “And Jason actually picked up! It was like a miracle! I couldn’t waste my chance!”
And Just as Dick was about to speak again Alfred thankfully for the sake of Tim—
Finally stepped in, voice warm but firm. “If I may… Master Timothy’s questionable methods aside, the information he acquired was invaluable.”
Tim perked slightly.
Dick sighed, defeated. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Still could’ve asked.”
Tim muttered, “In hindsight, yes. In the moment? Absolutely not.”
Bruce stopped walking.
Not because of the bickering behind him.
Not because of the confession.
Not because his children were being… themselves.
But because the name—Jason—kept ringing in the cave.
Jason helping Tim. Jason answering a call believing it to be Dick. Jason tracking leads and helping in things involving Batman business, and perhaps the most shocking piece of news Bruce found out this evening thus far—
Jason involving himself with a girl, a girl Jason brought here to his home once long ago, and a girl who Dick and Alfred seem to approve of.
Bruce’s chest tightened.
He didn’t turn. Didn’t let them see the crack in the armor. Didn’t let the dread escape its cage.
He just breathed once, deeply.
Then—
“All of you,” Bruce said, voice steady as steel, “gear up. We leave in ten for patrol.”
The room snapped to attention.
Dick immediately stopped glaring at Tim. “Ten? That soon?”
Tim nodded sharply. “I’ll load everything onto the mobile deck.”
Damian crossed his arms. “Where is our destination?”
“To verify the trail Tim uncovered,” Bruce said. “And see whether Jason is still getting mixed up in this, it's his turf after all and he sent one message I wouldn't put it past him to send another.”
He walked a few steps—then glanced over his shoulder at Dick and Kory.
“I trust you both brought your suits.”
Dick gave a breathless laugh. “Wouldn’t leave home without them.”
Kory smiled. “Always.”
Bruce nodded once—soft, tired, almost fond.
Then he turned away again.
And the mask slipped the moment no one could see.
Because his mind wasn’t on strategy or routes or tactical overlays.
It was on Jason.
Jason’s voice.
Jason’s choices and his actions and how he seemed to walk deeper into the shadows seeming to be farther and farther away out of reach and distance for Bruce to catch up.
The cave lights dimmed into mission mode, Bruce walked toward the towering suit-display alcove. The armor stood in the center—cold, waiting, expressionless. A silent sentinel demanding clarity where Bruce had none.
He stopped in front of it.
The empty cowl stared back, swallowing reflections whole.
Ten minutes.
Ten minutes until the search began.
Until answers surfaced.
Until truths cracked wide open.
Bruce exhaled, long and slow, his hands curling into fists. Jaw tight.
He whispered—too soft for anyone else—
“…Ten minutes.”
The cave swallowed the sound.
The shadows rose around him.
And Bruce stood before the Batsuit— A man balanced between fear and duty, between fatherhood and war, between past wounds and the unknown ahead.
And letting out a breath the man was gone and all that remained…
