Bruce Wayne x shy!reader who’s a blue lantern (if you’re not familiar with blue lantern, that’s fine). Ever since Damian arrived Bruce life (from the movie “Son of Batman”) , Damian is wondering why the bat family are outside waiting for someone. But when he accompany them, he found out that it was shy!reader, the wife of Bruce Wayne (Batman)
A/n: Bat!Mom Au where she's a blue lantern and not a baker 🤔
The manor was unusually quiet that evening. Alfred had arranged for dinner, but the Batfamily—Dick, Tim, even Jason, who rarely showed up voluntarily—were gathered out front instead of waiting inside.
Damian noticed, suspicious as always. His sharp green eyes narrowed as he glanced around at the unusually collected family.
“Why are we outside?” he demanded, arms folded, posture stiff like a coiled blade. “We don’t stand around like peasants waiting for someone.”
Dick chuckled softly. “This is different, little brother. You’ll see.”
Tim grinned, though softer. “Trust me, you’ll understand in a second.”
Jason just smirked, hands shoved in his jacket. “Kid’s about to get the shock of his life.”
Damian frowned but followed anyway, lingering closer to Alfred as if the butler might give him answers. But Alfred only smiled knowingly, hands clasped behind his back.
Then the hum of energy filled the air.
It wasn’t the roar of an engine or the silence of wings. It was softer—like a heartbeat wrapped in starlight. A faint blue glow illuminated the driveway, shining even against the setting Gotham sun.
Damian tensed, reaching instinctively for a blade at his belt. “What is that?”
“Relax,” Dick murmured, touching his shoulder lightly. “That’s not an enemy. That’s… her.”
The light grew until a figure stepped out of it, soft blue aura fading as she landed gently on the ground. A woman, cloaked in gentle luminance, wearing the symbol of hope across her chest. Her steps were quiet, hesitant, and her eyes stayed lowered as though she feared meeting too many stares at once.
You.
The shy Blue Lantern who had stolen Batman’s heart.
“(Y/N),” Bruce’s voice came from behind Damian before the boy could react. The Bat had shed the cowl, but his tone carried that rare softness the child hadn’t heard yet.
Damian turned sharply. “You know this woman?”
But Bruce was already moving forward, the rigid lines of his shoulders easing in a way Damian had never seen. The man who never bent, who never let weakness show, looked almost human as he crossed the gravel.
When Bruce reached you, you offered him the smallest smile—uncertain, but warm. He cupped your cheek with surprising gentleness, and you leaned into the touch like you’d been waiting for him.
“Welcome home,” Bruce murmured.
You nodded faintly, blue aura flickering like a heartbeat. “Sorry I’m late. There were… stragglers on the way back from Oa.”
The family gave you space, watching. Damian’s mouth dropped open slightly. “Father… what is this?”
Bruce turned, his arm still protective around your shoulders. His eyes met his son’s with that same commanding presence, but now there was something softer there too.
“This is my wife,” Bruce said plainly. “Your stepmother.”
The silence was thick enough to choke on. Damian blinked hard, fists clenching. “You—married? You kept this from me?”
Jason laughed outright. “Oh, this is rich. The demon brat didn’t know.”
Dick shot him a warning look, but Tim stepped closer, smiling kindly at you. “Welcome back. We’ve missed you.”
You ducked your head at the kindness, murmuring, “I missed you all too.”
Damian bristled. “You’re telling me she—a stranger glowing like a star—is supposed to be family?”
Bruce’s hand tightened slightly on your shoulder, his gaze firm on his son. “She’s not a stranger. She’s my partner. She’s been fighting alongside me longer than you’ve been alive. She’s also the reason Gotham hasn’t drowned in despair more times than you realize.”
Your voice, quiet but steady, cut through before Bruce could continue. “I don’t expect you to accept me right away, Damian. But I promise you—I want nothing more than for you to feel at home here. With all of us.”
The boy glared, but your sincerity—the soft, unwavering calm that radiated from you—made his defiance falter. Something in his chest loosened, though he refused to admit it. He looked away, muttering, “We’ll see.”
Bruce caught your eye, his lips twitching in the faintest smirk. He could already tell your patience would outlast Damian’s walls. As the family ushered you inside, Damian trailed behind, watching the way you moved at Bruce’s side. The glow around you wasn’t threatening, wasn’t suffocating. It was… warm. Hope. Something he wasn’t sure he believed in. But maybe, just maybe, he would.
That night, Damian wandered the halls restlessly. Training hadn’t eased his mind, and sleep refused to come. He slipped into the library, a book in hand he didn’t truly intend to read, when he heard it—the faint sound of humming. His head snapped up. From the far end of the room, a gentle glow shimmered. You stood near the tall windows, bathed in moonlight, your Blue Lantern ring casting a soft aura as you traced your fingers over an old globe. The hum was low and steady, a tune that sounded like it belonged to another world entirely.
Damian rose, blade instinctively at his side. “You—what are you doing here?”
You turned, startled, your cheeks flushing at being caught. “I couldn’t sleep,” you admitted softly. “Sometimes… the hum helps. It calms me.”
He scowled. “Calm is a weakness.”
You tilted your head, not arguing, simply meeting his glare with steady eyes. “It doesn’t have to be.”
Every retort lodged in his throat. The glow around you made it hard to breathe—not because it was suffocating, but because it was warm. You noticed the tiredness in his small frame, the rigid tension of someone who never let himself be a child. Slowly, you extended your hand. “Come here.”
Damian stiffened. “I don’t need—”
But you didn’t press. You simply let the soft blue aura surround you, filling the air with comfort. The ring pulsed faintly, responding to his unspoken conflict. And before he could stop himself, Damian’s feet carried him forward. He sat down stiffly beside you, not looking at you, but not leaving either.
The glow wrapped around him like a blanket. His muscles eased against his will, his eyelids heavier than before. You smiled faintly. “The ring amplifies hope,” you whispered, almost like a secret. “Not just for the world. For those who carry too much weight.”
His head dipped before he realized it, resting lightly against your arm. “I don’t… carry weight,” he muttered, voice groggy.
But you could hear the truth beneath it. You didn’t call it out. Instead, you continued humming softly until Damian’s breathing steadied and sleep finally claimed him.
Bruce found you an hour later, standing in the library still glowing faintly, with his son slumped against you, asleep for the first time in days without nightmares. The sight nearly undid him.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
You looked up shyly, lips curving softly. “He just needed hope.”
Bruce stepped closer, brushing his hand against your back in quiet affection. His eyes lingered on Damian—on the way the boy unconsciously leaned against you as if you’d always been there. For the first time in a long time, Bruce felt something settle in his chest. Gotham could rage, the League could burn, but here, in this moment, he had a family.
content damian wayne x red lantern!reader, gn!reader, angst, angst with eventual comfort, hurt/comfort, getting together, emotional hurt/comfort, damian wayne needs a hug, reader needs a hug, protective damian, aged-up damian, no yn, graphic violence, implied human trafficking, child endangerment, past mass death, traumatic grief, body horror, blood/body-fluid horror, loss of bodily autonomy, forced transformation, non-consensual mind reading, intrusive thoughts, burns/fire injuries, corrosive plasma/flame imagery, league of assassins trauma, nightmares/ptsd symptoms, self-isolation, discussions of killing/revenge, canon-typical vigilantism violence, emotional repression, angst with eventual comfort
masterlist
word count 7.4k
The first thing the ring took from you was your heartbeat.
Not your breath. Not your name. Not your hands, though they shook until your fingers curled into claws. Not your memories, though you wished it had. It took your heartbeat, clean and absolute, as if rage were a blade and your body were only cloth.
One moment, you were dying on the floor of a ship that smelled like burning metal and opened veins. The next, a voice crawled through the wreckage and found you beneath the bodies of everyone who had ever loved you.
You have great rage in your heart.
You wanted to laugh.
There was no heart left worth naming. There was only the hollow inside your ribs where grief had set up a throne.
The ring slid onto your finger like a verdict.
The pain was instant.
Your blood spoiled from the inside.
It boiled. It burned. It became something that did not belong in any living body, something crimson and vicious and starving. You remembered choking. You remembered your spine bowing off the deck. You remembered the first rush of flame tearing out of you, not like blood, not like plasma, not like anything medical or clean, but fire—thick, red, corrosive fire that ate through steel and kept burning in the cold silence beyond the breach in the hull.
After that, there were fragments.
Atrocitus. Ysmault. The Red Lantern Corps howling their oath like the universe deserved to hear how badly it had failed them.
“With blood and rage of crimson red, / We fill men’s souls with darkest dread, / And twist your minds to pain and hate, / We’ll burn you all—that is your fate!”
You had said it until your throat split.
You had said it while your mind drowned.
You had said it with the rest of them, animalistic, furious, ruined, your thoughts reduced to red flashes: teeth, fire, betrayal, vengeance, more, more, more.
Then Atrocitus performed his ritual.
Shamanistic magic, old as hate. He restored your mind without dimming the rage. He gave you language again, memory again, the terrible gift of understanding exactly what you had become.
“You will be useful,” he told you.
That was the closest thing to mercy anyone had offered.
So you became useful.
You learned to hold the flame behind your teeth.
You learned to make weapons out of it: crude axes, jagged hooks, spears that burned through armour and bone. You learned not to waste energy on beautiful constructs. Rage had no patience for beauty. Rage wanted edges. Rage wanted impact. Rage wanted the exact moment an enemy’s arrogance turned into fear.
You learned to read minds.
Not gently. Never gently.
The ring did not knock. It did not ask. It ripped emotion open by the root and showed you the rot underneath. Fear. Guilt. Cruelty. Hatred. Pain. It sang to you in every sentient creature close enough to burn.
Most minds made you sick.
Then you came to Gotham.
And Gotham, the little gothic disaster planet of a city that it was, sang like a wound.
You arrived in winter, under a sky bruised purple by storm clouds, following the trail of alien weapons smuggled through human hands. Your ring had detected traces of yellow fear-energy, green will residue, and something older: a black-market shipment moving through the Narrows.
Gotham greeted you with sleet, sirens, and men laughing inside a warehouse where children were locked in cages.
That was your first mistake.
You listened.
The ring heard their thoughts before you entered.
Profit. Flesh. Power. No consequences.
Your rage rose so quickly that the world went bright at the edges.
You landed through the roof in a shower of broken glass and screaming metal. Red flame burst around your body, wings of heat that turned the sleet to steam. Men raised guns. One fired. The bullet melted before it touched you.
“Run,” you told the children.
They stared.
You turned toward the men.
None of them ran fast enough.
The fire came out of you in a roar.
Not blood. Not vomit. Flame. Terrible and alive. It struck the concrete at their feet, climbed the walls, and crawled like an animal toward the weapons crates. You shaped a blade from it—ugly, broad, made for splitting rather than cutting—and slammed it into the floor hard enough to crack the foundation.
The men dropped their guns.
Good.
You wanted them conscious when they felt fear.
You wanted—
Something sharp struck the back of your hand.
Your construct scattered.
A blade landed between your fingers and the nearest man’s throat. A sword. Not thrown to kill. Thrown to stop.
A figure dropped from the rafters.
Black, green, gold. A cape like a shadow with teeth. A domino mask over eyes that were far too steady for someone standing between you and vengeance.
“Enough,” he said.
His voice was young, but not childish. Cold, but not empty. Sharpened by discipline until even anger had to stand at attention.
You bared your teeth. “Move.”
“No.”
The ring surged.
Mind. Read. Break. Burn.
You looked at him, and the ring reached.
Most minds opened like wounds.
His opened like a locked room full of knives.
You saw a desert under a pitiless sun. A child holding a blade too large for his hand. Blood on stone. A woman’s voice like silk wrapped around a command. A man’s absence shaped like a god. Green water. Resurrection. Rage forced into obedience. Rage punished. Rage perfected. Rage made quiet because quiet things survived longer.
Then the image vanished.
The boy—no, not a boy, not quite, though something in him had been made old far too early—tilted his chin.
“Do not enter my mind again.”
Your flames faltered.
Not because he had threatened you.
Because he had known.
No one knew when the ring looked, not unless they were psychic, magical, trained, or already living behind walls so reinforced that intrusion felt like weather on stone.
You narrowed your eyes. “You are standing between me and monsters.”
“I am standing between you and becoming one.”
Your rage snapped forward so hard the air cracked.
The men behind him whimpered.
“You don’t know what they did.”
“I know enough.” He did not look away. “And I know what you want to do.”
The fire licked up your arms. “Then move.”
His sword came up. “No.”
It should have made you angrier.
It did.
But beneath that anger was something worse.
Recognition.
The ring whispered his rage to you, not loud and volcanic like yours, but compressed. Buried. Dense as a star collapsed in on itself. This was not the rage of someone untouched by consequence. This was rage taught to wear gloves at dinner. Rage trained to kneel. Rage that had learned silence not because it was peaceful, but because silence was safer than screaming.
You stared at him. He stared back.
Then one of the men behind him lunged for a dropped gun.
You moved first.
So did he.
Your flame-spear pinned the gun to the wall. His sword hilt struck the man’s temple.
The man collapsed unconscious.
You looked at the vigilante.
He looked at you.
“Robin,” someone barked through a comm, staticky and older. “Status.”
Robin held your gaze.
“Contained,” he said.
You almost laughed again.
Then the weapons crates exploded.
The blast threw you both sideways.
Instinct drove you before thought. You wrapped yourself in flame, caught the worst of the explosion, swallowed heat into heat until your vision went red and white. Shrapnel screamed past. The cages buckled. A child cried out.
Robin moved like a blade through smoke. He cut locks, dragged children free, shoved debris aside with strength that should have been impossible for someone his size.
You burned through the final cage door with two fingers.
A little girl clung to your wrist before you could pull away.
You froze.
Your skin was too hot. Your ring was too dangerous. You were built out of contagion and acid and wrath.
But she held on.
“Please,” she said.
Your flames died down to embers.
Robin noticed.
Of course he did. He noticed everything.
You carried the child out through the wall you had made by turning brick into slag. Police lights painted the alley blue and red. Another vigilante waited there, tall and dark, with the kind of presence that made humans believe in gargoyles.
Batman.
The ring recoiled from him.
Not fear.
Control. A mountain of it.
Batman looked at you like he had already designed three ways to neutralise you and regretted all of them.
Robin stepped in front of you before Batman could speak.
You looked at him, this sharp-edged human with blood on his gloves and quiet rage in his bones, and wondered what kind of person argued for a monster because he understood the shape of the cage.
Batman approached slowly.
“Your ring,” he said. “It’s Red Lantern technology.”
You smiled without humour. “Ten points to the bat.”
Robin’s mouth twitched.
Barely.
It was gone so fast you might have imagined it.
Batman did not smile. Tragic, honestly. “You’re coming with us.”
The ring flared.
Robin turned his head slightly. “Do not make this difficult.”
“Did you just ask a Red Lantern not to make something difficult?”
“I asked you not to be predictable.”
That landed.
Worse, it worked.
You went with them.
Not because Batman ordered it. Not because the Batmobile—ridiculous name, ridiculous machine, incredible engineering—could have contained you. Not because Gotham’s police had surrounded the block.
You went because Robin sat across from you in the vehicle with his sword across his knees and did not look afraid.
And because when your ring whispered his name from stray police chatter and encrypted comms, something about it fit.
Damian Wayne. Son of Batman. Grandson of the Demon.
Boy made weapon.
Man trying, with visible irritation, to become something else.
You understood that more than you wanted to.
The Batcave was cold.
Not physically. Physically, it was damp, mineral-rich, alive with the restless drip of underground water and the quiet flutter of thousands of bats. But emotionally, it was cold in the way all command centres were cold. Every surface existed for utility. Every screen glowed with information. Every weapon was catalogued. Every exit was marked.
A place built by people who had accepted that disaster was not a possibility but a schedule.
Batman placed you inside a containment field.
You let him.
Mostly.
The ring did not like it. Red light crawled along your knuckles, eager to test the barrier, eager to burn its way through the cave, through the man, through the city, through anything that dared imply you could be held.
Damian stood outside the field. Arms crossed. Spine straight. Blood drying on his cheek from a cut he had not acknowledged.
“You’re bleeding,” you said.
“I noticed.”
“Do you want a medal?”
“I want you to stop looking at me like you are deciding which wall would make the most dramatic exit.”
“That one.” You nodded toward the waterfall. “Good visuals.”
His mouth twitched again.
There it was. A tiny crack in the armour.
Batman worked at the computer, pulling up files on the Red Lantern Corps. Images flashed across the screen: Atrocitus, Bleez, Dex-Starr, Skallox, Zilius Zox. Rage made flesh. Rage made army.
“Your heart,” Batman said, voice even. “The ring replaces it.”
You looked at the red band on your finger. “Yes.”
“And removal would kill you.”
“Very quickly.”
Damian’s gaze sharpened.
You pretended not to notice.
Batman did.
Of course he did.
“How much control do you have?” Batman asked.
“Enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only one you are getting.”
“Have you infected anyone with rage plasma?”
Your flames snapped high enough to make the field hiss.
Damian shifted, one hand moving toward his sword.
You stared at Batman. “No.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
“Will you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
For the first time since arriving, you looked away.
Because you had seen it happen once.
A soldier on a moon whose name you never learned. He had tried to restrain you after your first week with the Corps, back when your mind was still more howl than thought. Your fire had touched his skin. Not enough to kill. Enough to infect. Enough to let rage bloom in him like a second wound.
He had screamed until the ring found him.
Until it made him one of you.
Until he thanked you with blood boiling out of his mouth and murder in his eyes.
You had never forgotten.
You never would.
“Because some fates should not be contagious,” you said.
Silence settled.
Damian’s posture changed.
Barely.
But you saw it.
Batman did too.
He dismissed Damian later, or tried to.
Damian ignored him.
That was the first thing you learned about Damian Wayne: he obeyed only after deciding whether the order deserved him.
Batman left eventually, called away by a city that never stopped bleeding.
Damian stayed.
He dragged over a chair, sat outside the containment field, and began cleaning his sword.
“You’re babysitting me?” you asked.
“You are not a baby.”
“Prison-sitting, then.”
“You are not in prison.”
You glanced at the field humming between you.
His expression did not change. “You are temporarily detained beneath a billionaire’s house.”
“That is worse. At least prisons have less emotional repression.”
The sword paused.
Then continued.
“You speak often for someone who claims to be dangerous.”
You leaned back against the invisible wall of the field. It burned faintly against your shoulder. “I am dangerous.”
“Yes,” Damian said. “So am I.”
The ring pulsed.
Quietly. Like it had heard a familiar song.
You studied him.
He did not fidget. Did not fill the silence because silence made him nervous. He sat comfortably inside it, as though silence had raised him better than most people had.
“You stopped me,” you said.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t hate me for wanting to kill them.”
His hand slowed on the cloth.
“No,” he said.
“Why?”
For a while, the only sound was the cave breathing around you.
Then Damian said, “Because I have wanted to kill worse men for less.”
Your throat tightened.
The ring whispered.
Truth. Rage. Shame. Restraint.
You almost reached for his mind again.
You didn’t.
He noticed that too.
His eyes flicked up.
“Thank you,” he said.
It was so unexpected that you nearly laughed. “For not violating your thoughts?”
“Yes.”
“That is a very low bar.”
“I have met many who failed to clear it.”
Something in your chest hurt.
Not your heart. You did not have one.
Something nearby.
“You have psychic defences,” you said.
“I was trained.”
“League?”
His eyes went cold.
You knew immediately you had guessed right.
“Do not speak of things you do not understand.”
“I understand being recruited by monsters.”
His jaw tightened. The cloth went still around his blade.
A warning lived in the space between you.
You should have stopped.
You didn’t.
“I understand being told rage makes you strong. That mercy is weakness. That obedience is survival. That pain is education.”
Damian rose so quickly that the chair scraped back. “You know nothing of me.”
“No,” you said softly. “But I know the shape of what was done to you.”
For a second, his composure cracked.
Not dramatically. Damian Wayne did not break like glass. He broke like stone under pressure, hairline fractures hidden until the whole cliff came down.
His eyes flashed green.
Then the mask returned.
“You presume too much,” he said.
“Yes.”
That surprised him.
You looked at the ring.
“I do that when I am afraid.”
Damian’s expression shifted. Just enough.
“You are afraid?”
“Constantly.”
His gaze dropped to your ring. “Of losing control?”
“Of enjoying it.”
The cave swallowed the words.
There it was. The ugly truth. The one even Atrocitus did not like spoken plainly. Rage was not only pain. It was power. It was clarity. It made every wound into a weapon. It told you that forgiveness was a lie invented by people who had never had to crawl out from under their dead.
Sometimes, when the flame rose, you wanted it to take the whole universe with it.
Sometimes, that desire felt like relief.
Damian sat down again. Slower this time.
“I know,” he said.
Two words.
No comfort. No absolution. No denial.
Just understanding.
It was the first kindness Gotham gave you.
You hated it.
You stayed in the Cave for three days.
Batman ran tests. Robin argued with him. Nightwing brought food you did not need and tried to make jokes the containment field did not deserve. Red Hood stood outside the barrier once and said, “Well, damn. Angry space jewellery,” before Damian told him to leave.
You watched all of them.
You learned the rhythms of the family through the ring’s emotional static.
Batman was grief with a mission statement.
Nightwing was sunlight over a fracture.
Red Hood was a match held too close to gasoline.
The others came and went in flashes: sharp humour, tired brilliance, watchful silence, stubborn kindness.
But Damian remained the only one whose rage did not scrape against yours.
His rage sat beside it. Parallel.
Not feeding. Not challenging.
Understanding.
On the third night, Batman lowered the containment field.
“You’re free to go,” he said.
You blinked. “That’s it?”
“No. But you’ll leave whether I allow it or not.”
“Smart man.”
“I want your word that you will not kill in Gotham.”
You smiled. “You think I give my word easily?”
“No,” Batman said. “I think you give it rarely. That makes it useful.”
Damian stood behind him, arms crossed, silent.
You looked at him. His expression gave nothing away.
But the ring heard him.
Not words.
Something quieter.
Hope, buried under scepticism so intense it almost became fashion.
You looked back at Batman.
“I will not kill in Gotham,” you said. “Unless there is no other way to prevent greater harm.”
Batman’s mouth compressed.
Damian said, “That is the best you will get.”
Batman did not look pleased.
You respected that.
You left through the waterfall because you were not immune to drama.
Damian followed you onto the cliff above the manor.
The night air was cold. Wet. Gotham spread below like a bruise full of stars, towers spearing upward through fog. Your ring hummed softly, tasting the city’s anger.
“You are leaving?” Damian asked.
“Do you want me to?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
You both noticed.
He scowled as if betrayed by his own mouth.
You looked away before he could retreat behind pride.
“I have a ship hidden outside city limits,” you said. “I came for a weapons trail. It is not finished.”
“Then neither are you.”
“You inviting yourself?”
“I am informing you that I will be assisting.”
“Does Batman know?”
“He will.”
“That means no.”
“It means he will know.”
A laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Small. Rusted. Yours.
Damian looked at you like the sound had done something inconvenient to him.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“No, that was a face.”
“I have many faces.”
“You have three. Murder, judgment, and secretly pleased.”
“I do not have a secretly pleased face.”
“You do. It’s very tiny. Like a rich person’s empathy.”
His scowl deepened.
There it was again.
Secretly pleased.
That was how it began.
Not softly.
Nothing about you and Damian began softly.
You hunted weapons smugglers through Gotham’s underbelly, through abandoned subway tunnels, through penthouses where men wore suits expensive enough to disguise the rot beneath. Damian fought beside you with terrifying precision. You burned locks, melted guns, split armoured drones in half with axes made from rage.
He never told you not to be angry.
He told you where to aim.
That was different. Vital, even.
“Your left flank,” he snapped one night as three mercenaries opened fire from above.
You twisted, formed a shield of red flame—not elegant, barely stable. The bullets melted. Damian launched off your shoulder without asking, because apparently, trusting him meant weaponising your body midair. He took down the mercenaries before his cape finished settling.
“You could have warned me,” you said.
“You adapted.”
“You used me as a springboard.”
“You were well-positioned.”
“You are impossible.”
“You are loud.”
“I am a Red Lantern.”
“Yes,” he said, landing beside you. “I gathered.”
The ring purred around your finger.
It liked him.
That worried you.
Red Lantern rings did not like people. They liked rage, violence, wounds. But with Damian, it behaved almost curiously. It brushed against his emotions and found no easy entry. His anger was not an explosion. It was architecture.
You met him on rooftops after patrol.
At first, only for mission updates.
Then for tea. That was his doing, though he pretended otherwise.
One night, he arrived with a thermos and two cups.
“I do not know if you can drink,” he said.
“I can.”
“Do you require it?”
“No.”
He poured anyway.
The tea steamed between you, fragrant with mint and something floral. You held the cup carefully, mindful of your heat.
“You’re not going to ask what I eat?” you said.
“No.”
“Everyone asks.”
“I assumed it was rude.”
You stared.
He looked out over the skyline.
“You surprise me, Wayne.”
“Good.”
You drank tea together in silence.
The ring hummed.
Your body had no heartbeat, but in moments like that, you remembered the idea of one.
The relationship grew in fragments.
A text from an encrypted number: You should not patrol Burnley tonight. Freeze’s equipment is unstable in low temperatures.
Your reply: That’s Gotham’s whole personality.
His answer: Do not be deliberately obtuse.
Another night, he found you perched on the cathedral, watching the city with your knees drawn up and your ring glowing faintly.
“You are spiralling,” he said.
“Hello to you too.”
“You missed three check-ins.”
“I didn’t know we had check-ins.”
“We do.”
“Did I agree to that?”
“You continued showing up.”
That was Damian's logic. Infuriating. Accurate.
He sat beside you, close enough that his cape brushed your sleeve.
You should have moved.
You didn’t.
Below, Gotham traffic crawled through wet streets. Neon smeared across puddles. Somewhere, someone shouted. Somewhere else, someone laughed.
“I heard them again today,” you said.
Damian did not ask who.
He waited.
“The people I lost.” Your hands curled around the ledge hard enough to crack stone. “The ring does that sometimes. It finds memory and makes it useful.”
“Useful how?”
“It tells me grief is fuel.”
Damian’s face tightened.
You smiled without humour. “It isn’t wrong.”
“No,” he said. “It is incomplete.”
You looked at him.
He kept his gaze on the city.
“My grandfather believed every wound could be sharpened into obedience,” Damian said. “My mother believed pain could become purpose if one survived it correctly. My father believes pain can become a vow.”
“And you?”
His mouth pressed into a thin line.
“I am undecided.”
The honesty hit harder than comfort would have.
You looked down at your ring.
“Rage kept me alive.”
“Yes.”
“It also made me cruel.”
“Yes.”
“You’re supposed to argue.”
“I dislike losing arguments.”
A faint smile tugged at your mouth.
Then faded.
“What if there’s nothing underneath it?” you whispered. “What if I am only this now?”
Damian turned to you.
His eyes were very green in the city light.
“I have wondered the same.”
You believed him.
That was the problem. With everyone else, your rage stood between you like a warning flare. With Damian, it became a language.
He understood why you flinched at calm voices more than shouted ones.
You understood why he went still when someone touched him without warning.
He understood why mercy felt dangerous, like lowering a blade before the enemy was truly dead.
You understood why he collected animals, why he spoke to them gently where humans could not hear, why he trusted creatures who bit when hurt more than people who smiled while holding knives.
He met your rage and did not romanticise it.
You met his restraint and did not mistake it for peace.
And somewhere inside that mutual recognition, something tender began to grow.
Terrible timing, really.
The universe had no sense of pacing.
The weapons trail ended with a trap.
It was hidden beneath Gotham Harbour, in a smuggler’s bunker built into old flood infrastructure. Alien tech lined the walls. Yellow fear batteries. Scraps of green construct residue contained in glass. A half-corrupted power cell pulsing red at the centre of a machine that made your ring snarl.
Damian saw it too. “What is that?”
“A mistake,” you said.
Then the doors sealed. The machine activated.
Pain punched through your ring into your nervous system.
You dropped to one knee, flames bursting uncontrolled from your shoulders.
Damian was at your side instantly. “What is happening?”
“They’re trying to siphon the ring.”
“Can they?”
“No.” Your teeth clenched. “But they can make it angry.”
Red light flooded the bunker.
The machine’s purpose became sickeningly clear as your ring translated the energy signature.
It was not meant to steal your power.
It was meant to provoke it.
A rage bomb.
If you lost control, your flame would ignite the corrupted power cell. The blast would contaminate half the harbour. Maybe more. Rage energy would seep into water, infrastructure, bodies. It would not turn everyone into Red Lanterns, not exactly, but it would infect enough.
Gotham did not need more rage.
Gotham was already drowning in it.
Damian’s hand closed around your arm.
Your flames burned through his glove.
He did not let go.
“Tell me what to do,” he said.
You shook your head, vision blurring red. “Leave.”
“No.”
“Damian.”
He went still.
You had never said his name like that before.
Not as a tease. Not as a warning. Not Wayne, not Robin.
Damian.
His fingers tightened.
“Tell me what to do,” he repeated.
The ring screamed.
It dragged every memory to the surface.
The ship. The bodies. The smell of burning metal. The soldier you infected. Atrocitus telling you that usefulness was mercy.
The oath in your mouth.
The red.
The red.
The red.
Your flames surged.
Damian grabbed your face with both hands.
The touch was shocking enough to cut through the noise.
His gloves smoked against your skin.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
You tried.
The world fractured. His face swam in and out of focus, masked and bare all at once, child and weapon and man, all that quiet rage held in human shape.
“Leave,” you rasped. “I can’t—”
“You can.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“Stop lying.”
“I am not lying.” His voice sharpened. “You think rage is a beast because that is what your ring wants. Because it is easier to be devoured than to choose, again and again, not to become what hurt you.”
Your flames roared.
The machine whined.
“Do not lecture me,” you snarled.
“Then listen.”
The command cracked through the bunker like a whip.
You froze.
Damian’s eyes burned, not red, never red, but fierce enough to answer.
“I was raised by people who believed anger was useful only when it obeyed. Batman taught me that anger is dangerous unless controlled. I believed both for years. That rage was either a weapon or a failure.” His thumbs pressed against your cheekbones, grounding, steady, alive. “Then I met you.”
Your breath hitched.
“You are rage,” he said. “But you are also the person who stopped burning when a child held your wrist. You are the person who refuses to infect others despite knowing it would give you soldiers. You are the person who makes crude weapons because you do not care if power is beautiful, only if it ends the threat. You are not empty beneath the rage.”
The machine pulsed brighter.
Your ring shrieked.
Damian leaned closer. “You are still choosing.”
Something inside you broke.
Not the way the ring wanted. Not a rupture.
A release.
You sobbed, and flame spilled from your mouth, bright and terrible. Damian did not flinch. He turned his body into yours, cape wrapping around you both as if cloth could shield him from a Red Lantern’s fire.
“Idiot,” you choked. “You’re burning.”
“I have had worse.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It was not meant to be.”
A laugh tore out of you, broken and wet.
Then a scream.
You drove your hand into the machine.
The ring wanted to explode.
You refused.
You took every scrap of rage it offered and shaped it smaller. Denser. Not a blast. Not a flood.
A blade.
Ugly. Crude. Yours.
Damian moved with you without needing instruction. His sword struck the outer casing at the weakest point your ring identified. Your flame-blade followed, piercing the corrupted power cell dead centre.
For one second, the bunker held its breath.
Then the machine imploded.
Red light collapsed inward.
Damian tackled you behind a concrete pillar as the blast rolled over you both. Heat swallowed the room. Metal screamed. Water burst through cracked walls, hissing into steam where it hit your flames.
When silence returned, you were on the floor with Damian half over you, one arm braced beside your head.
His mask was cracked. His gloves were charred. There was a burn along his jaw.
Your rage vanished so abruptly it left you shaking.
“Damian,” you whispered.
“I am alive.”
“You’re hurt.”
“I am often hurt.”
“I hate that sentence.”
“Then stop being dramatic and sit up.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then his arm gave out.
Panic hit so hard your ring flared.
You caught him before he hit the ground.
“Damian?”
“Do not shout.”
“I’m not shouting.”
“You are emotionally shouting.”
“You’re bleeding, you absolute nightmare.”
“It is a shallow wound.”
“You collapsed!”
“Briefly.”
You made a sound somewhere between a growl and a sob.
He blinked up at you, expression softening in increments so small most people would miss them.
You didn’t. You saw too much of him now.
That was terrifying.
You carried him out of the bunker despite his protests because his protests were stupid and also because he had absolutely carried you emotionally through a rage bomb, so physically carrying him felt fair.
Batman met you at the extraction point.
His eyes went immediately to Damian.
Then to you.
Then to your hands, which were careful around his son in a way no Red Lantern should have known how to be.
“He needs medical attention,” you said.
Batman did not waste time.
Neither did you.
In the Cave, Alfred treated Damian’s burns with the kind of calm that made you feel like you were one wrong breath away from being sedated with tea and disappointment.
Damian sat shirtless on the medbay cot, spine rigid, jaw clenched.
You stood in the corner, arms wrapped around yourself, ring dim.
Alfred glanced at you once. “You may sit, if you wish.”
“I’m fine.”
“People who are fine rarely look as though they are waiting to be executed.”
You did not know what to do with that.
Damian did.
“Pennyworth,” he warned.
“Master Damian, you are in no position to intimidate anyone while refusing antiseptics like a feral cat.”
Despite everything, your mouth twitched.
Damian glared at you.
Secretly pleased.
Alive.
Burned because of you.
The smile died.
When Alfred finished and Batman stepped out to contact the others, silence settled over the medbay. Clean. Bright. Awful.
Damian looked at you. “You are doing it again.”
“What?”
“Preparing to leave.”
Your throat closed.
The ring sat heavy on your finger.
“You got hurt.”
“Yes.”
“Because of me.”
“Because of smugglers' weaponised alien technology beneath the harbour.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Be accurate?”
“Make it sound like I’m not dangerous.”
“You are dangerous,” Damian said. “You are not singularly responsible for every injury that occurs near you.”
You laughed once, sharp and humourless. “Spoken like someone who has never had their blood turn into a weapon.”
His expression darkened.
“No,” he said. “Spoken like someone raised to believe his existence was a weapon.”
That shut you up.
Damian swung his legs over the edge of the cot.
“You are not leaving because I was hurt,” he said.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“No. But I get to call it cowardice.”
Your flames sparked.
He stood, swayed slightly, then steadied himself with visible annoyance.
“Sit down,” you snapped.
“No.”
“You are the worst patient in the universe.”
“I have been told.”
“By everyone?”
“Frequently.”
You crossed the room before you realised you had moved, stopping close enough to feel the warmth of him. Human warmth. Not fire. Not rage. Something softer and more devastating.
“You don’t understand,” you said quietly.
His gaze lifted to yours.
“You think because you know rage, you know this. You don’t. The ring is not a metaphor. It is not trauma with a dress code. It replaced my heart. My blood is poison. My anger is contagious. If I lose control, people suffer. If someone takes the ring, I die. If I keep it, I am one bad day away from becoming a disaster with a pulse made of hate.”
Damian’s face did not change.
But his eyes did.
“You think I don’t know what it is to fear your own nature?”
You looked away.
He stepped closer. “You think I have not looked at my hands and wondered whether they were made only for violence? You think I have not felt something inside me answer when cruelty called my name?”
“Damian—”
“No.” His voice was low now. Rougher. “You do not get to decide you are uniquely monstrous so you can deny everyone else the right to understand you.”
That hit exactly where it was meant to.
Your ring flared defensively.
Damian did not move.
“You should be afraid of me,” you whispered.
“I am.”
The honesty knocked the breath out of you.
He held your gaze.
“I am afraid you will leave because staying requires more courage than burning. I am afraid you will decide isolation is noble when it is merely familiar. I am afraid you will mistake my concern for ignorance because it is easier than accepting care.”
Your vision blurred. “Stop.”
“No.”
“Damian.”
“I am afraid,” he said, quieter, “because I understand you.”
The medbay lights hummed overhead.
Your fingers curled. Not into fists.
Into themselves.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted.
His expression softened.
Neither of you named what this was.
“I am also inexperienced,” he said.
Despite the ache in your chest, a laugh slipped out. “At what? Feelings?”
His eyes narrowed. “At allowing someone to remain close.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.”
Your laughter broke into something dangerously close to a sob.
Damian looked alarmed for half a second, which was unfairly endearing and very unhelpful.
“I want to stay,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
His breath caught.
Barely. But you heard it.
“I want to stay,” you repeated, because the first time felt impossible and the second felt worse. “I want rooftop tea and your terrible insults and missions where you use me as architecture without warning.”
“You were ideally placed.”
“I want Alfred to keep judging me like I am a stray cat you dragged home.”
“He judges everyone.”
“I want—” Your voice cracked. “I want to be near you. And I am so angry that wanting anything still feels possible.”
Damian looked at you like you had handed him something fragile and on fire.
Then he reached for your hand.
Slowly. Giving you time to pull away.
You didn’t.
His fingers closed around yours, careful of the ring.
The red light washed over his skin.
No corruption. No burning.
Just warmth.
“I want you to stay,” he said.
The ring went silent.
For one perfect, impossible second, the universe did not scream.
“You do?” you whispered.
“Yes.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I do not say things I do not mean.”
“That is deeply untrue. You told Nightwing his casserole was edible.”
“It was politically necessary.”
You huffed a laugh.
Damian’s mouth twitched.
Then his gaze dropped to your lips.
The world narrowed.
Rage was loud. Fear was louder.
This was quiet. So quiet it terrified you.
“May I?” he asked.
Your fingers tightened around his. “You may.”
Damian kissed you like he approached everything unfamiliar: with focus, restraint, and a visible determination not to fail.
It was soft. Careful. A question pressed against your mouth.
You could have wept from the gentleness of it.
No one had touched you like you were not a weapon in so long. No one had kissed you like your fire was not the most important thing about you.
You lifted your free hand to his jaw, stopping just shy of the burn.
He leaned into the touch anyway.
Stubborn, impossible boy.
No.
Man.
A man who had made himself more than what raised him.
A man who looked at your rage and did not ask it to vanish before he cared for you.
When the kiss ended, Damian rested his forehead against yours.
His eyes were closed.
You had never seen him look so unguarded. It made something inside you ache.
“I still have no heartbeat,” you whispered.
His eyes opened. “I know.”
“My blood is still rage.”
“I know.”
“I may never be safe.”
His hand came up, covering yours against his face. “Neither am I.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It is honest.”
You swallowed.
The ring pulsed, softer now.
Not gentle. Never gentle.
But listening.
“I can’t promise I won’t be difficult,” you said.
Damian’s mouth curved. Tiny.
Secretly pleased.
“You would bore me if you were not.”
You stared at him.
Then laughed so hard you nearly cried.
He looked offended for three seconds before he kissed you again, which was a much better use of his mouth than arguing.
After that, staying was not simple.
Nothing in Gotham was.
Nothing involving Damian Wayne could ever be accused of simplicity without committing a crime against language.
You still had nightmares.
Some nights, you woke above the city with flame in your throat and the oath clawing at your tongue.
“With blood and rage—”
Then Damian would be there, not touching until you nodded, not speaking until you could hear him.
“Name five things,” he would say.
“I hate grounding exercises.”
“I did not ask.”
“You’re bossy.”
“Yes.”
You would name five things.
Stone under your palms. Rain on your face. Red light from your ring. The smell of Damian’s tea. His voice, steady in the dark.
Some nights, Damian woke from dreams he refused to describe, hand reaching for a sword that was not there. You never asked. You sat near him instead, close enough that he could choose contact.
Eventually, he always did.
Shoulder to shoulder. Finger against finger. Forehead pressed briefly to your temple before he pretended it had not happened.
He learned the limits of your ring. You learned the limits of his silence.
He could go cold when overwhelmed, retreating into formality sharp enough to cut. You learned not to chase him with anger when fear would do. You learned to say, “I am not your enemy,” and wait.
You could go bright when overwhelmed, flames rising, voice hardening into something that belonged to the Corps more than yourself. Damian learned not to command unless danger demanded it. He learned to say your name like an anchor, not a leash.
You fought.
Of course you fought. You were both made of blades and bad coping mechanisms. Your arguments could strip paint.
But you returned.
That became the miracle.
Again and again, you returned.
One month after the harbour, Damian took you to the manor gardens at dawn.
You complained the whole way. “It is six in the morning.”
“Yes.”
“Only criminals and billionaires are awake at this hour.”
“You are both adjacent.”
“That was cruel.”
“That was mild.”
The garden was silver with mist. Flowers drooped under dew. Somewhere in the hedges, a peacock screamed like a Victorian ghost being murdered, because Wayne Manor apparently needed ambience.
You looked at Damian.
He looked perfectly unsurprised.
“Is that normal?”
“Yes.”
“Of course it is.”
He led you to a stone bench beneath a tree just beginning to bloom.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
That was easier now.
Your silences had stopped being empty.
Damian held out a small box.
You stared at it.
“No,” you said automatically.
His eyebrows drew together. “You have not opened it.”
“That is exactly when gifts are most dangerous.”
“It is not a weapon.”
“That sounds like something someone would say about a weapon.”
“Open it.”
You took the box.
Inside was a bracelet made of dark beads threaded with tiny red stones. Not rubies. Something rougher. Warmer.
Your throat tightened. “What is this?”
“A grounding tool,” he said, far too stiffly. “The stones can withstand high temperatures. The beads are carved from volcanic rock. They will not melt easily.”
You lifted it carefully. “You made this?”
“Tt. Do not sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. I’m—” You stopped.
Overwhelmed. Touched. Afraid.
Loved, maybe, though the word was still too enormous to hold.
Damian watched your face with the wary focus of someone waiting to see if affection would be accepted or thrown back like a grenade.
You slid the bracelet over your wrist.
It fit perfectly.
Of course it did.
“You measured me?”
His ears went pink.
Amazing. Incredible.
A scientific discovery.
“I estimated.”
“You absolutely measured me.”
“You were unconscious.”
“Damian.”
“Medically unconscious.”
“That does not make it less weird.”
“It was for accuracy.”
You leaned in. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You are. At the ears. That’s devastating.”
He turned his face away. “You are insufferable.”
“You like me.”
His blush deepened.
Then he looked back at you, and the teasing died in your throat.
“Yes,” he said.
The garden stilled.
“I do.”
Your fingers closed around the bracelet.
Damian inhaled once, controlled.
“I have been attempting to determine the appropriate moment to say this. I have concluded there may not be one. So.” His jaw tightened, courage gathering behind his teeth. “I care for you. Deeply. In a manner that is inconvenient, persistent, and… and not unwelcome.”
You blinked.
“That is the most Damian Wayne confession anyone has ever made.”
His expression flashed with panic. “Was it insufficient?”
“No.” You laughed softly, reaching for his hand. “No, it was perfect.”
He looked down as your fingers linked.
“I care for you, too,” you said. “Deeply. In a manner that is also inconvenient, persistent, and completely terrifying.”
His thumb brushed over your bracelet.
“But not unwelcome?” he asked.
You smiled. “Never unwelcome.”
His shoulders eased.
Just slightly.
You leaned against him, careful at first. Damian went still, then relaxed by degrees until his shoulder pressed firmly into yours.
The sun rose over Gotham.
Not cleanly. Gotham did not do clean. It dragged light over rooftops and gargoyles, over smog and sirens, over grief and grit. But still, the light came.
Your ring warmed on your finger.
The rage remained. It always would. It lived where your heart used to be, crimson and relentless, a furnace built from every loss you could not bury.
But Damian’s hand was in yours.
His rage sat beside your rage, quiet and watchful.
Not fixing it. Not feeding it.
Simply understanding.
For once, the fire inside you did not feel like the end of everything.
For once, it felt like warmth.
Damian turned his head, lips brushing your temple.
“You are thinking too loudly,” he murmured.
You closed your eyes. “You can’t even read minds.”
“No. But you have a face.”
“I have many faces.”
“You have three,” he said. “Murder, sarcasm, and secretly fond.”
You laughed, and he smiled like dawn had done something right for once.
Below the hill, Gotham woke hungry.
The world remained cruel. The ring remained red.
But Damian Wayne held your hand like choosing you was not an act of bravery, not a risk, not a defiance of everything both of you had been made to believe about yourselves.
synopsis: BOL CH 3: jason brings you along for his birthday dinner at the manor. he’s already been here way more than he likes because of steph’s birthday last week, and duke’s earlier this week. plus, it’s his birthday, he wants you there. feat. jase’s favorite tiny human
wc: 2.8k
an: this was meant to be posted on jason's bday, but unfortunately i cant ever stick to a posting schedule
Steph’s birthday was on Sunday, August 11th. Jason had been dragged along for both rollerblading and bowling before being forced to sit through dinner at the Manor. Though, Jason is man enough to admit, that the inclusion of Ms. Brown, Stephanie’s mom, or Auntie Crystal, as she insisted on being called, made the ordeal infinitely more bearable, considering she was, in a word, a hoot.
But that was Sunday.
Then came Duke’s birthday, just a few days later on Monday, August 13th. Of course in those few days you managed to get yourself stabbed and slashed at, needing seventeen stitches that Jason had to stitch up. Which is why you’d been unable to join in for Duke’s Paintball Palooza.
An atrocity in Jason’s opinion because the two of you together would have smoked the rest of his family, he’s still not totally sure it wasn't a conspiracy that landed you injured and unable to participate.
He’d been hesitant to leave you alone in the apartment, even though he knew you probably wouldn’t move off the couch the entire time he was gone. But he had left you the day before for your training session with Hal, and he’d been anxious about you the entire time. And instead had to suffer his sibling’s criticisms (read: mockery) regarding the black eye he was sporting.
Then came Thursday.
Thursday, August 15th.
His birthday.
He spent the morning with you. and it was perfect. You made coffee and breakfast before he’d even finished showering. You placed a candle in the stack of pancakes with a cheeky smile, as you said a sweet “Happy Birthday Jase.”
He’d smiled softly back at you, the smile growing when you pushed over his gift, a small stack of books, that you had apparently, already read, along with your thoughts, on little papers in-between the pages.
Then you took him out to the second-hand bookstore that you both loved, and bought him three more books. Roy joined up with the both of you shortly after, and weaseled you both into a coffee stop, before you walked to the lunch. Roy smacked a kiss to Jase’s face, loud and annoying, but Jason couldn’t even hide his smile. Which only grew when Roy pulled out a glittery pink package, and a hand drawn card from Jason’s absolute most favorite person on the planet, Lian Nguyen-Harper.
Lunch went well, Kori, and Artemis (of Bana-Migdhall, not Crock) joined, and Biz had recorded a message, unable to come to Gotham on short-notice.
Then lunch ended, Artemis and Kori took off, Roy confirmed his plans with the both of you for this coming weekend on the walk back to the apartment, before splitting off at the entrance with a big hug to Jason and a “happy birthday Jaybird.”
And then it was the two of you in the apartment, and you were staring at Jason who was waffling about in the entryway.
“Loose your keys?” you smirk knowingly.
Jason sighs, finally turning to you, and your knowing smirk. “I’ve been there three times in the last week,” he huffs, slouching onto the sofa.
“Yeah for your sibling’s birthdays, and one— arguably necessary— debrief, especially given your fading bruises and my stitches,” you scoff back, sitting down gently on the coffee table so you can be directly in front of him.
“Technically, Duke and Steph aren’t actually my siblings,” he defends weakly.
Your smirk grows, “Uh huh,” you nod, “sure.”
Jason simply sighs again.
“What’s going on? Really?”
“Dunno,” he mumbles, and you roll your eyes, kicking at his foot. “Feels like I’m pushing my luck, four visits in a week,” he shrugs.
“They’re your family, Jason. They want to celebrate you.”
“Yeah, I know.”
You stare at him, the tension in his shoulders, the way he. seems to be psyching himself up to go, and you grab his hand. “What do you need?”
Jason’s eyes meet yours, and finally his shoulders drop, “Come with?”
“Belly of the beast?” you smirk.
“And back,” Jason confirms.
“I’ll call Alfred,” you nod, standing up.
“You’re the best,” he says, smiling that boyish smile up at you.
You wink at him, “don’t forget it,” you tease walking off.
When you get back to your room you scroll to Alfred’s number, and it rings once and then twice and on the third it clicks, “Good Afternoon Miss (Y/l/n).”
“Hello Alfred,” you smile.
“I do hope he hasn’t convinced you to bail him out of dinner tonight,” the butler sighs.
“No, I’d never let him ditch, you know that,” you tease.
“Too true, now, what may I help you with?”
“I was hoping you might have space for an extra tonight?”
“If you’re referring to yourself, I feel I should inform you, I’d included you in my original count,” he laments seriously.
You chuckle into the phone, “Of course you did…” you trail as a thought occurs, “But maybe you’ve got space for our favorite two red heads?”
“I believe I can make that work, we shall see you later this evening.”
“Absolutely, see you then!”
you make sure to send a quick text off to Roy with the details before walking back out into the living room and sitting down beside Jason on the sofa.
…
By the time you both had to leave, you’d both cleaned up a bit. Jeans and a nice shirt. Though you’d selected a cropped brown henley, not wanting anything to push against your stitches. You were at the desk in your room putting on some earrings when Jason walked in. He placed a glass of water on your desk, and then held out two pill bottles, antibiotics and painkillers. You shake your head but decide that today, you wouldn’t argue. You take the pills and swallow down half the glass. Then, he pulls up the side of your henley, and down the gauze to check on the stitches themselves, you bite your tongue, and remind yourself it’s his birthday, don’t slap at his hands, it’s not nice.
When he’s satisfied he puts the gauze back, and then smiles goofily up at you, likely aware you were being more patient with him than normal.
“Let’s go, birthday boy,” you scoff, pushing at his shoulder.
He smirks at you, and helps you into your leather jacket before holding the door open, letting you walk out, and locking the door before you both walk down to the garage.
The drive to the manor is quiet, you’re at the wheel, and Jason is reading one of the books you’d given him at breakfast, pausing every so often to hold up one of your notes. There’s 90s top hits playing in the background, She’s a Genius, Slide, and Brain Stew, had you mumbling the lyrics along, your eyes never leaving the road, though Jason’s were more focused on you during those moments.
When you park in front of the Manor, there’s already other cars parked, Jason replaces his bookmark, and leaves the book on the dashboard, straightening himself out, as you walk around the car to stand beside him, simply staring up at the Manor for a moment.
“Too late to turn around, right?”
“You talk a big game, Todd. But I think we both know you’d be disappointed to be anywhere else tonight,” you say gently, giving him an expectant look.
He offers a half twitch of a smile, before nodding and walking forward. He can feel you behind him, knows your moving with him, and it’s enough to keep him from pausing again. By the time you’re at the front door it’s already swinging open, and there stood, regal as ever, is Alfred.
“Hey Alf,” Jason greets, tone suddenly a bit bashful.
“Happy birthday, Master Jason, do come in, everyone’s been anxious for your arrival, ah, and hello to you as well Miss (y/n).”
“Hi Alfred, thank you for the last minute accommodations,” you smile.
“It was my genuine pleasure,” he reassures, “they’ve already arrived and are in the parlor with Masters Dick and Tim as well as Miss Stephanie.”
“They?” Jason asks, brow furrowing as he looks at you and then Alfred.
“Why don’t you go see for yourself Jase,” you tease, and his eyes narrow on you before taking off toward the parlor in question.
He makes it two feet into the parlor before a ball of fiery red hair and attitude to match, launches itself at him. But in case you forgot, Jason is a highly trained individual with reflexes that would make a premier league goalie weep in jealousy. Lian Harper, all three feet and two inches of her had launched herself off the back of the sofa where her dad, and Dick were sat, and jumped the gap to land on Jason.
The little punk.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JAYJAY!” she shouts, tiny arms winding around his neck.
Jason could feel his heart rate race in panic for the second before he’d fully caught her, and then calm as he hugs the little girl close. “Thanks, squirt,” he mumbles back, squeezing her tight.
“Little Wing!” Dick cheers, following Lian’s path over the back of the sofa and then squeezing him (and Lian) tight. “Good day so far?”
“Yeah, it’s been good,” Jason nods, as Dick steps back.
“Good,” he smiles blindingly. “Happy Birthday Jay,” He says a little more seriously.
“Thanks, Dick,” Jason nods back, and then Lian starts squirming.
Jason frowns down at her, but sees how Lian’s gaze has locked on you, talking quietly with Stephanie and Tim behind him, and rolls his eyes.
“So I’m just your favorite until she shows up, huh?” he teases the little girl in his arms.
“Don’t be silly JayJay, you’re always my favorite, but I wanna say hi!”
“Well I guess I can’t argue with that logic,” Jason shrugs, placing the little girl back to the floor.
“Duh!” she jests before taking off at you, and colliding full speed into your side.
Jason catches the small wince and so does Roy, because they’re both beside you in the next second.
You flash them a look, I’m fine, it says.
“Hey there Bug,” you greet, flashing a smile down at her.
Dinner went as it usually did.
Which is to say chaotically.
The Wayne set alone were chaotic, add two Harpers to the mix, and it becomes anyones game. But Jason was happy, you could tell; the gleam in his eye when Alfred set out his favorite foods, and the smile on his face that grew as his siblings had filtered in and wished him happy birthday, dropping gifts in his lap as they swarmed about, checking on you and teasing him. But most of all it was in the flush on his cheeks, faint in his tanned skin, but present while everyone sang to him.
You watched from the doorway as Jason and Bruce had a conversation over cups of steaming cocoa, your own was dotted with marshmallows, graciously shared by the 5-year-old tyrant currently holding the bag of mini marshmallows tight against her chest.
Stephanie had tried to grab a few— without her majesty’s approval— and nearly got her fingers bitten off for it. Jason only had to look at the little girl, and she’d come flouncing over to put some in his mug, and then some in yours before resuming her post as Queen of the Marshmallow people. You smiled fondly at the occasionally feral child, it’s no wonder she was Jason’s favorite.
Finally Jason seems to realize he’s being watched because when your eyes dart back to him and Bruce you find Jase’s gaze locked on you. He quirks a brow and you tilt your head.
“All good?” you mouth to him.
He offers you the slightest nod, you smile softly, and turn, leaving them to their moment. You’re flanked a second later, Roy, Dick and Tim.
Dick and Tim form a wall between you and Lian, keeping you from her sight, though she was thoroughly engaged in Duke and Steph’s antics, the two were attempting to bargain with the girl for marshmallows, the suckers. Roy comes to your side and starts lifting your henley to the side, just like Jase had done earlier in the day.
You slap at Roy’s hand, and don’t bother looking contrite when he glares at you.
“I know you know nothing of what personal boundaries actually means, Harper, but I advise against invading mine,” you drawl.
Dick and Tim exchange nervous looks, but Roy simply rolls his eyes and continues on, unperturbed.
smug bastard.
This time you concede, rolling your own eyes in retaliation, and allowing him to pull at the gauze and peek at your stitches. You can see him counting them, and even Dick leans closer to analyze them, blue eyes flickering to you with concern.
“I’m okay, guys, seriously.”
They looked unconvinced.
You rolled your eyes again. “Jase has me on a strict antibiotic and pain killer regiment, the hypocrite.”
“It’s a lot of stitches,” Tim notes.
“I’ve had worse,” you remind all three of them.
“We just wanted to check on you, gotta make sure my preferred babysitter is in tip-top shape, after all,” Roy smirks.
You shove at Roy, fixing your gauze and pulling your shirt back down.
You’d been so focused you failed to notice when Jason and Bruce finished, but you felt it, felt him, he hadn’t spoken, hadn’t touched you. Not even Dick and Tim, who were too busy laughing at Roy, seemed to have noticed. But he was behind you now, almost as if you could feel his warmth. A quick glance around tells you no one’s actually looking at the two of you, so you lean back.
“How’d you know?” he asks, lowly.
You shrug, looking back and up at him, “just did…” you trail.
Jason smiles softly at you.
“How’d your conversation go?”
“It was… better than I thought,” Jason admits.
You straighten and turn to him.
“Happy Birthday, Jase,” you whisper again.
“You already said that,” he reminds you.
You nod, “I know, but you deserve all the well wishes,” you say gently.
Jason’s smile turns a bit introspective, “Here’s to a year with good days, like today,” he decides, holding his mug up to you.
You clink your own with his, a promise as much a toast, sealed with Alfred’s spiced cocoa, and Lian’s shared marshmallows.
a good day indeed.
And then Alfred approached.
He had that glint in his eyes, the you’re stuck in my web and don't seem to realize it, look. It did not bode well for the two of you.
“I prepared a guest room, if I might convince you to stay?” Alfred offers nonchalantly.
You bit back a laugh as Jason starts to shake his head. You interject, before Jason could burry you both in a hole.
“I believe there's some sort of special dinner tomorrow night, that we'll be back for,” you hint with a gleam in your eyes as you stare at the butler who falters and preens at the same time.
His birthday. Alfred’s. A formal invitation for dinner had come in the mail almost a month ago.
“Is that a concession?” Alfred asks hint of a smile.
“(y/n)…” Jasons voice is a low warning. you know why. he gets anxious anytime he has to spend the night here. The few times its happened you fell asleep in the guest room and woke up to jason asleep on the floor, practically guarding the door.
fear had a nasty habit of lingering where it wasn't wanted.
“We actually have a few things that we need to get done in the morning before we come back. Partly in preparation for tomorrow night, but more so for, uh, someone's extravaganza this weekend,” you cast a meaningful look to the five year old who was finally starting to loose steam.
Alfred perked at that, eyes darting over to Lian, who would be 6 on Saturday.
“It truly is a week of celebration isn’t it?” he asks softly.
“Alfred-” Jason seems ro buck up but the older man places a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“You needn't explain Master Jason. Knowing I will see you tomorrow is more than enough,” Alfred reassures him.
But you catch the flash in Jasons eyes, guilt, likely for not being able to give Alfred what he wanted.
Jason doesn’t say anything. But when your hand brushes his on the way out, he lets it linger.
Just long enough for you to know: he’s glad he came.
And that maybe—just maybe—he’s ready to come back again tomorrow.
...
everything tags: @butterfly-skinnylegend
dc taglist: @batarella @loninctzencarat @escapenightmare @uh-oh-howd-i-get-here @seamlessepiphany @ye-olde-trash-panda @snake-in-a-flower-crown
content dick grayson x gn!reader, sorrow corps, grief powers, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, mutual pining, first kiss, major themes of grief and mourning, death of a teenager/non-main character, blood/injury, referenced past deaths, implied survivor’s guilt, psychic/emotional intrusion, grief-based hallucination/constructs of dead loved ones, brief non-graphic psychic injury, unhealthy attachment/fear of loss, references to trauma and bereavement
masterlist
wordcount 3.2k
The ring found you in the rain.
Not the clean kind of rain. Not the theatrical silver sheets that made Gotham look almost holy from the right rooftop. This was winter rain, mean and cold, the kind that seeped through Kevlar, found the cracks between your gloves and sleeves, and settled into the bones like it had paid rent there.
You were kneeling in an alley behind a church with boarded windows, your hands pressed uselessly against a wound that had already stopped mattering.
There was too much blood.
There was always too much blood. Gotham never did anything halfway.
“Stay with me,” you whispered.
The kid beneath your hands—sixteen, maybe seventeen, all sharp elbows and cheap sneakers and wide terrified eyes—tried to breathe. Tried to live. Tried to obey you like survival was something that could be taught.
You had dragged them out of the crossfire. You had been fast. You had been careful. You had done everything right.
It still wasn’t enough.
Their hand twitched against your wrist.
You held it.
You held it until they stopped twitching.
You held it long after there was no one left to hold.
By the time the police sirens arrived, you had blood beneath your nails and a silence in your chest so vast it felt cosmic.
That was when the ring came.
It did not glow green. Not red. Not violet.
It burned blue-white at the edges, pale as candle flame, deep as mourning cloth. It hovered before you in the rain, humming with a sound like a thousand voices trying not to cry.
Then it spoke.
You who cannot release what love has buried.
You who cradle absence until it has teeth.
You who grieve and call it devotion.
You looked at the ring. You should have been afraid.
Instead, you felt seen.
The ring slid onto your finger.
And every loss you had ever survived opened its eyes.
Dick found you three nights later.
Of course he did. He always found people when they were trying to vanish. It was one of his worst habits. One of his best.
You stood at the edge of a ruined overpass, your new uniform wrapped around you in shifting bands of silver-blue light. It looked less like armour and more like a bruise given shape. A lantern symbol glowed over your chest: a circle split by a downward arc, like a tear held inside a moon.
Below you, Gotham moved in wet neon and exhaust fumes. Behind you, Nightwing landed without a sound.
You didn’t turn around.
“Nice ring,” he said.
His voice was light. Too light.
That was Dick Grayson’s favourite weapon: brightness stretched thin enough to hide the blade.
You looked down at your hand. The ring shimmered faintly, responding to the ache behind your ribs.
“Thanks. It came free with emotional devastation.”
A pause.
Then, softly, “Yeah. Gotham’s got a rewards program.”
You almost laughed.
Almost.
Dick stepped closer, but not too close. He was careful with distance. Always had been. He knew when to fill a room and when to make himself smaller inside one.
“What happened?” he asked.
You could have lied. You wanted to.
The ring pulsed once.
Dick’s shoulders tensed.
You felt it then—his grief. Not metaphorically. Not in the abstract way people said they could “feel” sadness. You felt it as a force. A pressure. A tide. Something old and dark beneath him, layered and layered again.
His parents falling. Bruce disappearing into himself. Jason’s grave.
Donna.
Wally.
Every person he had loved and lost and blamed himself for failing to catch.
Your breath hitched.
Dick noticed.
He always noticed too much.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re loud,” you said.
His brows drew together behind the mask. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Not like that.”
The ring hummed.
Light spilled from your hand, thin and trembling. Between you, a construct formed: not a weapon, not a shield, but a shape.
A trapeze. Two figures falling. A boy reaching.
Dick went still.
The construct shattered instantly.
You curled your fist against your chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t.”
His voice cracked on the word.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough. Enough to make you look at him.
Rain gathered on his mask. His mouth was a hard line, but his face had gone pale in the blue glow of your ring.
“What is that thing doing to you?” he asked.
You laughed once. It sounded ugly. “Apparently? Making me honest.”
“That wasn’t honesty.”
“No?”
“No.” He stepped closer now. “That was an intrusion.”
You flinched.
Dick saw that too.
His anger shifted immediately, reshaping itself into guilt. Classic Dick Grayson. Olympic-level emotional parkour. Gold medal in blaming himself before anyone else could get a word in.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know.”
Silence fell between you, heavy and familiar.
You had known Dick long enough to recognise his silences.
There was the easy silence, warm as kitchen light, when he sat beside you after patrol and stole fries from your plate. There was the focused silence, sharp and clean, when he was listening through comms. There was the exhausted silence, when his body was present but everything behind his eyes had gone somewhere else.
And then there was this one. The silence of a man standing at the edge of a grave and pretending it was just another rooftop.
Dick looked at your ring again.
“Sorrow Corps?” he asked.
You shrugged. “That’s what it called itself.”
“Of course there’s a grief-themed space cult.”
“It’s not a cult.”
His expression said, respectfully, babe, every Lantern thing is at least cult-adjacent.
You rolled your eyes. “It’s not asking me to conquer the universe.”
“Yet.”
“Wow. Supportive.”
“I’m being incredibly supportive. This is my supportive face.”
“You’re wearing a mask.”
“And it’s doing a great job.”
There it was. The little rhythm between you. The thing grief had not killed.
It made your chest hurt worse.
Dick seemed to feel it too, because his smile faded.
“What does it do?” he asked.
You looked out over the city.
“It makes constructs from grief,” you said. “Memories. Regrets. The things you can’t put down.”
Dick’s voice lowered. “And the cost?”
You didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
He stepped beside you, close enough that his shoulder almost brushed yours.
Almost.
“You can’t keep wearing something that feeds on pain.”
“It doesn’t feed on it.”
“Then what does it do?”
You swallowed.
The ring pulsed again, warm against your skin.
“It preserves it.”
Dick stared at you. You kept your eyes on the city.
“It keeps them with me,” you said. “Everyone I lost. Everyone I couldn’t save. It makes the grief useful.”
“No,” Dick said quietly. “It makes it addictive.”
Your jaw tightened. “You don’t get to say that.”
His laugh was soft and humourless. “I absolutely get to say that.”
You finally turned.
He was looking at you with an expression you hated because it was too open. Too knowing. Too much like a hand reaching into water for someone already sinking.
“You think I don’t know what it’s like?” he asked. “To hold on so hard it cuts into you?”
You said nothing.
Dick’s mouth twisted.
“I built my whole life around not letting go,” he said. “I loved people like if I stopped watching them for one second, they’d disappear. I called it loyalty. Responsibility. Family.” He looked away. “Mostly, it was fear wearing a cape.”
Your ring flickered.
A construct bloomed before you both.
Jason Todd’s helmet, cracked down the centre.
Dick inhaled sharply.
The construct wavered, then shifted.
A circus tent. A broken escrima stick. A gravestone. A hand slipping from another hand.
Dick stepped back as if struck.
“Stop,” he said.
“I’m trying,” you whispered.
The ring tightened on your finger.
Not painful.
Worse.
Comforting.
It flooded you with sorrow, but not just yours. Dick’s too. It wrapped both griefs together, braided them, made them beautiful. Made them powerful. A cathedral built from every name you had never stopped mourning.
Dick looked at you, and for one terrible second, you saw his eyes through the mask.
Not the white lenses.
His eyes. Blue and devastated.
“Take it off,” he said.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“No.” Your voice broke. “Dick, I can’t.”
His face changed.
He understood before you wanted him to.
Because he knew. Of course he knew.
Taking off the ring would mean silence. It would mean losing that bright, terrible thread connecting you to the dead. It would mean admitting grief was not the same as love.
And that felt like betrayal.
The ring whispered.
Sorrow endures.
Sorrow remembers.
Sorrow protects what joy abandons.
Dick heard it too.
His shoulders squared.
“Oh, I do not like that,” he said.
Despite everything, a laugh cracked out of you. It turned into a sob halfway through.
Dick moved instantly.
He reached for you.
You stepped back.
“Don’t,” you warned.
The ring flared.
Around you, constructs rose from the rain.
Figures. Shadows.
The dead in the shape memory gave them.
Your old mentor, smiling with blood on their teeth. A friend you hadn’t called back. The teenager from the alley.
Others. Too many others.
They stood between you and Dick, a glowing congregation of everything you had failed to save.
Dick froze.
Your breath came fast.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“You should leave.”
He looked at the ghosts.
Then at you.
“Yeah,” he said. “Not really my thing.”
“Dick.”
“No.” His voice sharpened. “You don’t get to put a wall of dead people between us and call it mercy.”
Your grief-constructs shifted, responding to your panic.
The teenager looked at you.
You almost collapsed.
Dick saw. He always saw.
His anger softened into something more dangerous.
Tenderness.
He took one slow step forward. The constructs moved to block him.
Dick lowered his escrima sticks.
Then he dropped them. They clattered against the wet concrete.
Your eyes widened. “What are you doing?”
“Letting go of the part where I pretend I can fight this out of you.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Probably.”
“Dick—”
“I lost my parents when I was eight,” he said.
The constructs stilled.
His voice shook, but he kept going.
“I still remember the sound. Not every day. Not always. But sometimes.” He touched two fingers to his chest, just over the symbol there. “Sometimes I wake up, and I’m still falling with them.”
The ring pulsed.
Dick stepped closer.
“I loved Bruce so much I let his silence teach me how to hurt quietly. I loved Jason so much that when he died, I turned it into rage because rage was easier than missing him. I loved my friends like I could save them by being useful enough.” His eyes shone behind the mask. “And I love you like I’m scared every day that I’m going to blink and you’ll be gone.”
Your heart stopped.
Not literally. It only felt that dramatic because Dick Grayson had always been a menace with timing.
“You…” Your voice failed.
Dick gave you a broken little smile. “Yeah.”
The ring brightened.
The ghosts turned toward him.
Dick did not look away from you.
“I hold on too tight,” he said. “I know I do. I check your comm three times when you go quiet. I memorise your injuries. I count exits in every room you’re in. I joke because if I say all the fear out loud, it might swallow the whole city.”
You tried to breathe.
Failed.
“I thought loving people meant keeping them safe,” he whispered. “But sometimes I think I just mean keeping them close enough that I never have to feel the moment they leave.”
The ghosts trembled.
So did you.
Dick reached the first construct.
The image of your mentor raised a weapon made of pale light.
Dick stopped.
He looked at them, then at you.
“I can’t make grief gentle,” he said. “I can’t fix what happened. I can’t promise we won’t lose more.”
The construct struck.
The blade passed through his shoulder.
He gasped, dropping to one knee.
“Dick!”
You lunged forward.
The ghosts vanished.
All of them.
The ring screamed in your head, sudden and furious.
Hold.
Preserve.
Do not release.
You fell beside him, hands hovering over his shoulder. There was no blood. No wound. Just Dick breathing hard, face pale, body shaking from the psychic shock.
“You idiot,” you choked. “You absolute—God, you dramatic circus gremlin—”
He laughed weakly.
“Gremlin feels unfair.”
“You dropped your weapons and let a grief ghost stab you.”
“Yeah,” he said, wincing. “In hindsight, not my tightest tactical moment.”
You pressed your forehead to his shoulder.
He froze.
Then his arms came around you.
Carefully at first. Then tighter.
Too tight.
You clung back just as fiercely.
There it was. The terrible truth.
You both loved like hands around a breaking thing.
Like letting go meant death. Like closeness could stop the universe from collecting its debts.
Dick buried his face against your hair, your temple, wherever he could reach.
“You scared me,” he whispered.
“I scare myself.”
“I know.”
The ring glowed between your bodies.
Softer now. Sad. Almost curious.
You pulled back enough to look at him. His mask was streaked with rain. His expression was open in a way that made your chest ache.
“Dick,” you said, “if I take it off, I don’t know who I am without all of them.”
His thumb brushed your cheek.
A tear. Rain.
Both.
“You’re still the person who loved them,” he said. “That doesn’t vanish just because the pain stops being the loudest thing in the room.”
You shook your head. “It feels like letting them die again.”
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.” His voice went rough. “I kept Jason’s number in my phone after he died.”
Your breath caught.
Dick looked away, ashamed.
“For years,” he said. “Couldn’t delete it. Couldn’t call it. Just kept it there, like maybe being unable to let go was proof I loved him enough.”
The rain softened.
Or maybe the world did.
“What changed?” you asked.
Dick’s smile was small and sad. “He came back.”
You huffed a wet laugh. “Okay, that is not a widely applicable grief strategy.”
“No,” he admitted. “But it taught me something.”
“What?”
“That holding on didn’t bring him back. And letting myself heal didn’t mean I loved him less.”
The ring pulsed.
You stared at it.
It had given you power. It had given you purpose. It had given your sorrow a shape, a voice, a uniform.
But Dick was kneeling in front of you with rain in his hair and grief in his hands, offering you something far more frightening.
A future.
Not untouched by loss. Not safe.
Just possible.
You touched the ring.
It tightened.
Sorrow remains.
Sorrow remembers.
You closed your eyes.
“Yes,” you whispered. “But it doesn’t get to drive.”
The ring burned cold.
Your whole body locked.
Dick’s hands tightened around yours.
“Stay with me,” he said.
You laughed through your teeth. “That line is cursed.”
“I’ll workshop it later.”
The ring resisted.
The dead rose behind your eyelids.
Every face. Every failure. Every love you had preserved in amber and blood.
You wanted to keep them. God, you wanted to keep them.
But then Dick pressed his forehead to yours.
Alive. Warm. Terrified.
And choosing you anyway.
“You’re not abandoning them,” he whispered. “You’re coming back to us.”
Us.
Not me.
Us.
Because Dick Grayson loved like family was a net beneath the world. Torn in places, yes. Burned, patched, knotted with impossible grief—but still there. Still catching. Still held.
Your fingers closed around the ring.
You pulled.
For one breath, nothing happened.
Then the ring slid free.
Light exploded across the overpass.
Not violent. Not loud.
Just bright.
Every sorrow-construct appeared one last time around you.
Your mentor. Your friend. The teenager.
The lost. The loved.
They looked at you.
Not accusing. Not begging.
Just there.
Then, one by one, they dissolved into rain.
The ring fell into your palm, dull and silent.
You sagged forward.
Dick caught you.
Of course he did.
You hated that. You loved that.
Maybe those were the same thing in Gotham.
For a while, neither of you moved.
The rain washed the blood from your gloves.
Eventually, Dick said, “So.”
You groaned. “Please don’t.”
“I’m just saying.”
“No.”
“You joined a space grief cult—”
“Not a cult.”
“—got a haunted mood ring—”
“Don’t call it that.”
“—and made me confess my feelings on a rainy overpass.”
You lifted your head enough to glare at him. “You chose to do that.”
“I was under narrative pressure.”
“You are unbearable.”
His smile was soft.
“Yeah,” he said. “But you love me.”
The words landed between you.
Fragile. Dangerous. Alive.
You looked at him.
His smile faltered, just a little. The fear returned. The old fear. The one that said love was a ledge, and he had watched too many people fall.
You could have joked. You could have dodged. You could have done what both of you always did and wrapped truth in enough humour that it could survive being said.
Instead, you touched his face.
“I do,” you said.
Dick went very still.
“I love you,” you said, because grief had stolen enough from both of you, and you were tired of giving it first pick. “Too tightly, maybe. Too scared. Like my hands don’t know how to open. But I love you.”
His eyes closed.
For a second, he looked wrecked.
Then he kissed you.
It was not graceful.
Which was honestly rude, considering who he was.
It was desperate at first, rain-cold and shaking, his hands cradling your face like he was afraid you might turn to light and vanish. Yours fisted in the front of his suit, holding him there, holding him close, holding him because you were still learning the difference between clinging and choosing.
Then the kiss softened.
Dick exhaled against your mouth.
You felt it. The moment both your hands loosened.
Not letting go. Just making room.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again.
“We’re going to be terrible at this,” he murmured.
“Catastrophic.”
“World-class emotional disasters.”
“Probably need a spreadsheet.”
His eyes opened. “Please don’t tell Tim.”
“I’m absolutely telling Tim.”
“Betrayal. Immediate betrayal.”
You smiled.
It hurt. But it was real.
Below you, Gotham kept breathing. Above you, the sky remained dark, clouded, indifferent. But somewhere far beyond the rain, a blue-white ring streaked upward into the night, searching for the next soul who mistook sorrow for devotion.
You watched it go.
Dick’s hand found yours. This time, neither of you gripped too hard.
“Do you think it’ll come back?” he asked quietly.
You leaned into him. “Maybe.”
“And if it does?”
You looked at the place where the ring had vanished.
Then at Dick.
“Then we remind each other,” you said, “that love isn’t the same thing as loss.”
Dick’s thumb brushed over your knuckles.
Once. Twice. Like a promise learning how to breathe.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “We can do that.”
And for once, in a city built from ghosts, neither of you held on like the world was ending.
a/n: part one of the brightest of lights white lantern!reader AU!!! im so excited to share this with you as part of my resolution to posting more often, especially the wips that have been sitting stagnant for so long. it's the first time in a while that i get to return to jason todd, my number 1 always.
main masterlist
the brightest of lights masterlist
wc: 4.2k
“Batcave to Outlaws,” Dick Grayson’s voice flooded the speakers of your new hideout and you heard Jason let out a groan.
“What’s up, Batcave?” you smirk, answering the call.
“Why would you answer?” Jason chided as Dick’s face filled the screen. “You know we don’t like them,” he huffs from where he was sharpening one of his blades.
“I’m bored and their calls usually give me something to do,” you muse.
“Ding! Ding! Ding! The lady is correct. I do have something for you guys,” Dick chimes with a playful smile and Jason shakes his head.
“Fine, I’ll play. What do you want?” Jason asked, moving to stand beside where you were seated at the computer.
“Batman is already on-sight but there was a major crash right on the edge of Gotham. It seems like it’s from space,” Dick teases, and your lips part in excitement as you turn to Jason.
“You had to say space, didn’t you?” Jason sighed looking at you and then to Dick.
“C’mon, Jase, please!” you pleaded.
“If you’re going to go, you should hurry, I think Batman’s gonna call Green Lantern,” a new face appeared on screen, Tim Drake, or Red Robin.
“You know you both are enabling her?” Jason says to his brothers as you shot up from your chair to grab your gear.
“Not our fault your partner’s cooler than you,” Tim smirks.
“You keep this shit up, Timbers, watch what happens,” Jason growled.
You slung your leather jacket on and put on your utility belt before moving back to the screen to grab your phone. “I will leave you here Jason,” you tell him as you slip the device into a lined pocket on the inside of your jacket.
“Damnit, (Y/n), just give me a second,” he sighed, moving from the screen.
“Thanks for the tip, Batcave,” you smile at the two.
“We know you’re a bit of an astrophile,” Dick smiled kindly.
“Yeah, you space-loving geek. What a nerd,” Tim snorted, rolling his eyes in amusement.
“See ya, boys,” you smiled into the camera, “Outlaws, out,” you finished before shutting the call off.
“I don’t understand your obsession with space,” Jason commented as you both mounted your bikes.
“My obsession? Really?” you shoot him a look as you tap your choker, the nanotechnology there crawled over your face producing a helmet of sorts.
“Hey some people like Disney, you like space, I’m not judging, I just don’t get it,” he sighed.
Revving your engine you look over to your partner, “What’s not to get?” you ask, voice slightly distorted before taking off.
By the time you arrived at the crash site, Green Lantern was there talking with Batman, “And here I thought I’d be able to get through a week without having to see him,” Jason drawled and your nanotech helmet dissolved once more leaving you with just your domino mask and choker.
“Play nice, I want to see the spaceship,” you warn your best friend.
You couldn’t see his eyes due to the red helmet but you were positive he was rolling them at your antics. Looping your arm with his you pulled Jason over to where GL and B were.
“Red Hood, I didn’t expect to see you here,” Batman’s eyes narrowed on the two of you.
“Yeah, it’s nice to see you too, Bats,” you smile at the dark knight.
“What are you doing here?” he pressed, pushing past your antics.
“Why can’t we just be doing our jobs as vigilantes to check in on crashes, like this one?” Jason asked, nonchalantly, and while the two leaguers turned to the man with the red helmet, you carefully slipped away.
You had been learning from Jason a lot lately, watching the way he walked, for someone so large and well built, he made virtually no sound. So, as light as you could, you slunk away from the three in discussion and closer to the crash site. The first thing you noticed was that there was a lot of smoke. You pulled your jacket off your body and bundled it up a bit to make a breathable mask for the moment being as you crept through. You also made a mental note to add filters to your helmet for future events like this. You weren’t really sure what you were looking for, but you kept moving, and all of a sudden you found yourself by what had to be the cockpit of his small ship.
“Damnit, (y/n), you couldn’t wait a few minutes?” Jason’s voice crackled over the comms.
You were about to respond when you saw something shift through the smoke, “Holy shit. Red, I think there’s someone alive in the crash,” you said instead, creeping ever closer to the crash.
“What?” he shot back.
“Someone or something alive is in this wreckage, Jase,” you repeat.
“Wait for me,” Jason pleads.
“Fat chance, Red Hood. Hurry up,” you decide as you find an opening.
Carefully you move through the ship, it was about the size of a shipping container, but it had broken into pieces in the crash.
“Hello?” you shouted, squinting through the smoke. “Is someone there?”
There was a flash of white light and a hushed whisper. Definitely a voice, maybe two, but you couldn’t make out what they were saying. Biting down on your lip you surged forwards. Once you cleared a very thick plume of smoke you found what you had been looking for. A body.
It was alien, without a doubt, and he was clad in a white uniform that you most definitely recognized.
“Jase?” you tapped on the comms line, with wide eyes, as you stared at the creature.
Whatever it was, it was bleeding purple blood and its eyes were shut.
“What? What’d you find?” he asked, you could hear him panting a bit.
“It’s a Lantern, I have absolutely no clue what race, but it’s definitely a Lantern,” you shared, but your eyes were analyzing the suit, it was different from the ones you’d see from the Green Lanterns, this one was white, but the design was basically the same.
“What? GL said that no other members of the Green Lantern Corps were detected on Earth,” Jason’s voice crackled a bit.
“I never said it was green,” you shoot back.
Suddenly the being coughed and its eyes opened wide, you surged forward, towards the being, dropping your jacket and your hands moving to the spots that were bleeding.
“Just hold on, alright, help will be here soon,” you whispered as you tried to help the alien.
It’s vibrant purple eyes, focused on you, as you hoped that their physiology was something like your own.
“A Terran, how unforeseen,” it spoke softly and your eyes widened.
This alien whatever it was, was speaking straight into your head.
“Forgive me, but by connecting us, I can assure a clean understanding without a language barrier,” it continued.
“Oh, okay, sure,” you swallowed, even though you really had no clue what was happening.
“I’m afraid, Terran, I will not make it through this,” the being let out what seemed to be a sigh.
“I don’t really know how to help,” you admit.
“Tell me, Terran, do you love? Have you compassion? Hope? Are there things you fear? Things you wish to claim for yourself? Are you angry? Do you possess the strength to balance all of these emotions?” the creature’s voice was gravelly in your mind but you kept your place.
“I-I mean I guess so?” you offered. “Doesn’t everybody?”
“Hmm, show me. Show me the things that you relate to these emotions,” it pushed. “Begin with Anger.”
A memory flashed before your eyes, the night you met Jason. You had just started the vigilante thing when you saw a couple kids getting cornered in crime alley. Some gang that was trying to recruit them had backed them into a dead end. You had left them knocked out and zip tied to a wall with a note for the cops. But those kids, you made sure they were okay, it pissed you off to see good kids stuck in crappy situations, and there were so many of them.
“Hmm, angry for the violence and pain inflicted on others? Interesting,” it hummed, “now, what of greed?” your surprise was definitely clear, this thing, whatever it was, was reading your mind.
This time the memory was the first time you walked through Wayne Manor. It was so huge, and everything you had dreamed about as a kid on the streets. Something that you had always wanted, a life of luxury, and yet it seemed so foreign, it still did.
“What do you fear?”
You saw Jason bleeding on your sofa, two bullet wounds, a cut. You weren’t much better, the two of you had barely made it out of this last fight with your lives. You remembered the day so vividly because Jason had almost died trying to save you.
“And hope, do you possess the purest of all?” he continued.
There’s a little girl on her dad’s shoulders, they’re at the park, she’s giggling and he’s smiling up at her. Jason, Roy, and Kori were with you, the group had decided to take a chill day. There were cups of lemonade, a couple of books, a speaker and you were lounging about in one of the rare sunny days here in Gotham. These were the days that reminded you why you fought so hard, they reminded you of what you were protecting.
“What is compassion, Terran?
It’s almost funny what memory surfaces this time. You’re leaning back against a brick wall in the Narrows, eyes bright as you keep watch. Jason’s crouched down with a bunch of kids around him. He’s giving them lollipops, clothes, blankets; all in all, about a grand’s worth of stuff. You knew that because it was money you had raided from Black Mask a few days earlier.
“Why are you asking me these things? Who are you? What are you?” you interrupted, this thing was reading your mind, and you were trying your best to force it out.
“I will answer your questions, but there is one more. Do you have one to love?” it asked and your breath hitched, because you knew exactly where that would send you.
You saw yourself back at the hideout with Jason; cleaning guns, sharpening blades, watching a movie, and passing out together on the sofa. He was all you needed.
“Hmm, how interesting. Maybe you Terrans have an inaccurate reputation,” it hummed. “You will make an excellent choice.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My name is Ophelius, I am the last ring-bearer of the White Lanterns. And you, you will be my successor,” Ophelius shared and your eyes bulged. “What is your name, Terran?
“Woah, what?”
“Your name,” he pushed.
“(Y/n),” you answered and he nodded.
“A white lantern must embody all the emotions, all the spectrums of the light. You must feel everything, and most of all, you must balance them. Your emotions will be your saving grace but lose balance, fall unevenly to any and you will destroy yourself and everything around you,” he warned.
“Ophelius, just hold on. A Green Lantern is on the way, he’ll be able to save you,” you tried to reason.
“No, there is no time to wait for Oa’s warrior. Listen to me Terran, remember these words, they will be your connection to all those before you, to the power of the light, and to the balance within,” Ophelius warned and he raised his hand to you, four fingers of light green skin, one of which was adorned with a white ring.
“In brightest day there will be light,” he said solemnly and the ring began to glow with a bright white light. “To cleanse the soul and set wrongs right,” he continued and the ring slowly lifted from his finger. “When darkness falls, look to the skies,” it spun carefully in the air, enveloping you and Ophelius in this white light. “A new dawn comes,” the ring placed itself on your finger, “let there be light,” Ophelius finished and the light died away, leaving you in white and Ophelius who looked even paler than before.
“Ophelius,” you muttered his name carefully.
“Be the brightest of lights, (y/n),” he whispered once more and he fell back gently against the ground.
“(Y/n)!” you heard Jason shout your name but your eyes stayed glued to the now-dead alien.
“(Y/n)!” that was Green Lantern’s voice.
“Damnit, (Y/n), where are you?” Jason called out again.
“Ophelius?” you whispered his name but there was no response, the alien was dead and he had left you with the last ring of the White Lanterns.
A hand landed on your shoulder and as you turned your eyes met the cowl covered ones of the Batman. His costume was such a stark contrast to what you were now wearing. Your previous attire had been your costume, a black armour-padded halter top, utility belt, military-grade camoflauge-printted dark cargo pants with a kevlar weave and combat boots. Now? Now you were wearing the exact same thing in white, but it felt different somehow, like there was something thrumming in each thread.
“Here,” the Bat’s gravelly voice called out.
A second later Jason came bounding through the smoke, the Green Lantern right behind him. GL’s eyes narrowed on the alien and then on you.
“That’s impossible,” he muttered.
“Woah,” Jason noted.
“He’s dead,” you whispered, staring at the pale alien and straight into his lifeless purple eyes.
“(Y/n)?” Jason crept closer and squatted down beside you.
“I didn’t think he was going to die,” you whispered, looking at the alien and then to your hands which were covered in his purple blood.
“Hey, doll,” Jason said the term softly, forcing you to look at him, “what’s going on in your head?”
“I just wanted to see the spaceship,” you admitted turning to Jason with glassy eyes.
“What did he say?” Green Lantern interrupted.
“Be the light,” you muttered.
“What?” GL pressed.
“He told me to be the light,” you repeated, eyes still glued to the dead alien.
Shakily you reached your hand out, and gently you shut the alien’s eyes, a tear slipping down your cheek, Ophelius had read our life in seconds, but his presence was still so fresh in your mind, it hurt more than you were expecting when he died.
“We need to debrief her at the Watchtower, now,” Green Lantern pushed.
“No, you need to back off,” Jason growled suddenly.
“Hood, stand down,” Batman warned.
“Back off, old man,” Jason threatened, standing back up. “She’s in shock, you robots!”
“Red,” your hand automatically moves towards his side. Gently it rests against his hip and he turns to you. “Hood,” your fingers grip into one of his thigh holsters, needing something to hold onto.
“Let’s go,” Jason huffed.
He grabbed your hand, not caring about the purple blood now on his own hands and suit, and helped you up, one hand went to your back almost immediately as he forced you to move forward.
“Jase,” you said his name softly as he pulled you away from Ophelius’ body. “Jay, stop,” you fight his hand as you force him to stop moving.
“What, doll? What is it?” he asked, hands moving to your arms.
“We have to go with them,” you mutter.
“No way. We’re not doing their dance, not today, not now,” he argued.
Your gaze dropped to your stained hands, and the ring now on your finger, “we have to.”
Safe to say Jason was not pleased to end up in the Batcave twenty minutes later. Sure, it was better than the Watchtower, but it was still more than he wanted. But you were going, and if you were going then so was he. You were his partner and there was no way he was going to leave you in any Justice League madness on your own. Your hands were still stained purple, he hadn’t even given you a chance to clean up before deciding to start the lecture. Surprisingly, it wasn’t Batman, this time it was GL.
“-absolutely reckless, going out on your own into an uncleared sight. Touching an alien that you didn’t know, talking with it instead of calling us? I mean what kind of bullheaded move is that!” you would have laughed if he wasn’t yelling at you. Hal Jordan was usually one of the more relaxed Leaguers, so this was very uncharacteristic.
“Give it a rest, Hal,” Jason finally groaned.
“I haven’t even gotten to you, yet, I mean you let her wander off,” Hal reared.
“I let her?” Jason scoffed. “In case you missed it, she’s a fully grown woman!” Jason shot back.
“Oh, for the love of god,” you interrupted. “Are you going to help me or not, Hal?” you asked him, hands flat on the table while you stood, looking at him definitely, everybody’s masks were off at this point as you addressed each other.
GL seemed taken aback by your abrupt interruption because for a second he just gaped.
“Oh, now he has nothing to say,” Jason scoffed and you leveled your best friend with a look.
“Jason, not helping,” you tell him, he simply sighed and sat back down.
“Look, Hal, this happened and you know better than anyone whether we want it or not, this ring is mine, so you can help me or you can get out of my way,” you lamented, and he sighed, shoulders dropping.
“You don’t understand,” he shared.
“Understand what?” you pressed.
“The White Lantern’s were supposed to be extinct. The power that comes with a White Lantern’s Light is categorically insurmountable,” he explained and your brows furrowed.
“What?” you repeated.
“You encompass all the colors, (y/n)! All of them! As a Green Lantern I focus on the powers of Green. We are the middle of the spectrum, we maintain the balance, but white? White is all the colors, you can’t focus solely on one in risk of losing balance. You have to learn to balance it all.”
“She can do it,” Jason argued.
“It takes years!” Hal shot back, “She doesn’t even know the Lantern’s spectrum!” he negated and your brain made the connection.
“Love, Compassion, Hope, Fear, Greed, and Anger,” you mutter.
“What did you say?” GL’s head snapped back to you in seconds.
“That’s what he asked me about, he read my mind, looked into my memories. Specifically of Love, Compassion, Hope, Fear, Greed, and Anger,” you tell them, and Hal finally shuts his mouth.
“What else did he say?” Batman spoke up for the first time since arriving back at the cave, his cowl was off as he stared at you.
“A mantra,” you tell him.
“A mantra?” Jason repeated, eyebrow quirked.
“In brightest day there will be light, to cleanse the soul, and set wrongs right. When darkness falls, look to the skies. A new dawn comes, let there be light,” you repeat, the words tugging at your gut as your fingers fidget with the new ring.
“Sounds familiar,” Bruce noted, turning his attention back to the Green Lantern.
Hal ran a hand over his face and groaned.
“I don’t get it,” you admit.
“The ring is only part of it,” He begins, unsurely. “It’s powerful, sure, but most of the colored lantern corps need to recharge the ring with a battery. We all have a, how’d you call it, a mantra? Yeah, we all have one. It’s different for each spectrum, and we use it to pull the energy from the battery to the rings, but a white lantern is different, there is no battery,” he explained and your brows furrowed.
“Okay… so how do I recharge?” you asked.
“Through your own energy,” Hal admits and you blink at him.
“What, like draining her own life source?” Jason scoffed.
“Not exactly, it’s supposed to be more like channeling the different emotions into energy for the rings, if done right there should be no negative side effects. But like I stated she’s not prepared, it can take years to learn how to channel your energy the right way, and if she’s not, she could kill herself.”
“That’s not terrifying at all,” you sarcastically assure Hal.
“Hey, I’m not the one who told you to run off!” he countered. “You were irresponsible! And reckless! Honestly, what were you thinking, galavanting off into some crash before the smoke’s even cleared!” he's shouting again and it’s starting to piss you off.
Your fist clenches and then you’re standing up again, “Stop shouting at me!”
Your chest is heaving as you glare at the lantern, but instead of glaring back at you, he’s staring with wide eyes.
“Woah,” Jason's murmur is what pulls your attention.
“What?” you snap, gaze shifting to him.
“Doll,” Jason’s voice was as soft as it’s ever been, “you’re glowing.”
Jason’s eyes were also a bit wide and when you stared down at your hands, you saw that he was right. A sort of white glow seemed to be emanating from your body, in fact it was lighting up the whole cave.
“I- I don’t-” you stuttered.
“This is what I’m talking about, you’re not balancing your emotions!” Hal began again. “You’re letting the Entity take control!”
“Hal,” Bruce finally spoke up, effectively stopping the lantern. He stalked closer to you and a heavy hand came down on your shoulder. You met his eyes and he nodded gently, “take a breath, (Y/n),” he instructed. You nodded and took a deep inhale. “Again,” he told you once you had exhaled, and you followed his instructions.
You repeated the process a few times but you noticed as the light began to fade and your heart rate settled.
He turned to Hal, “Control is teachable, Hal. Curiosity isn’t,” he reminded him.
You stared at Bruce for a second, there were moments when you could see the dad in him showing, and you could never reconcile that version of him with the Bat. They seemed like two completely different people, it was easy to understand Jason’s irritation. Living with someone who could be so different depending on the hour would take a toll on anyone for sure. Your gaze shifted from Bruce to Hal with a furrowed brow, “What Entity?” you press.
“What?” he stuttered.
“You said that the Entity was taking control, what Entity?” you asked.
Hal sighed before finally collapsing in a chair, “The White Lanterns are the physical embodiment of the Entity, which is the power of life itself. White Lanterns are dangerous and unpredictable, Kyle was closest we’ve ever seen to a true White Lantern. But even then, he was a Green Lantern first, and the Entity reverted him back to the Green Lanterns after. You’re wearing the first real White Lantern ring I’ve ever seen. It’s not like the ones Kyle created, and that’s alarming because it just reminds me that there is so much we don’t know about White Lanterns.”
“So you’re saying that the force behind the White Lanterns is life itself, and it manifests as an Entity which has no real form but white light. Which is why it needs me, a ring bearer?” you surmise, squinting at Hal as you put things together.
“Yes,” he nods and you turn back to Bruce.
“What do you think?” you asked him seriously and Bruce just stared at you.
You may not be his biggest fan most days, but there was no doubt that Bruce Wayne was a brilliant critical thinker, and if anyone could help you right now, it was going to be him. “I think the rings choose the wearer. Meaning nothing short of killing you will result in removing the ring’s attachment to you,” he begins and your brow quirked.
“We are not killing her!” Jason interrupted, and the corners of your lips quirked.
“There’s only one thing to do, train,” Bruce agreed with a small smirk.
“Train?” you repeat.
“And who do you think is going to train her?” Hal interrupted.
“I’d expect it to be you, Jordan, or any of your counterparts, though I do feel both you and John Stewart would have better luck when compared to Guy Gardner, Jessica Cruz and Kyle Rayner,” Bruce shot back and Hal’s eyes blew wide.
“Me?” Hal shot back. “What do I know about training anyone?” he scoffed.
“There’s a learning curve,” Bruce shrugged, eyes lingering on Jason for a second.
“Your nonchalance is inspiring,” you muse, eyes darting over to Jason who was now focused on Hal.
“No dead birds, Jordan,” Jason warns, and you almost choke on your responding laugh.
...
a/n: ps: i know i play a little fast and loose with the lantern rules, im open to suggestions!
everything tags: @butterfly-skinnylegend
dc taglist: @batarella @loninctzencarat @escapenightmare @uh-oh-howd-i-get-here
a/n: on par with posting wips, comes this next installment of the brightest of lights. timeline wise, it's early on into officially training with hal, but one they've got a little more comfortable with each other!
BUT ALSO I WAS NOT ANTICIPATING THE SUPPORT!! im so excited that so many of you are already interested in this!
main masterlist
brightest of lights masterlist
synopsis: hal jordan is trying his best, okay? and it'd be helpful if someone would do the same.
wc: 2.1k
At this point you were just glaring at the ring. it really didn’t look like much, and you had been pleasantly surprised to find that when you weren’t actively using the ring it would slim down to be less obvious. Regardless, right now the ring was sitting on the coffee table in your apartment, Hal was pacing back and forth, droning on about focus and realizing your power and potential. You were slumped on your sofa debating the repercussions of tossing the ring out the window.
“(y/n)… (y/n)! Are you even listening?” Hal huffed, pausing his lecture as he finally notices your slouched position.
“Unfortunately,” you groan, scrubbing at your eyes, trying to rub away your exhaustion, maybe you should throw yourself out the window instead.
“(Y/n), you can’t just expect this to be a breeze, alright? It takes dedication and hard work-“
“Hal, if this turns into a back in my day speech, I will throw myself out the window,” you huff, voicing your inner thoughts.
Hal’s face morphs into a cross of horror and like he’s questioning your sanity, which; fair. He stares at you like he’s finally noticing the finer details of your slump. The dropped shoulders, slumped back and sinking into the sofa, with dark bags under your eyes.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, suddenly frowning.
“Nothing, Hal. Please resume your explanation at my lack of focus,” you sigh, shifting a bit, hoping to give a more engaged appearance.
Hal quirks a brow and then starts looking around the apartment. You’re tracking his gaze as he analyzes everything. You notice how his gaze stops in the entryway first, eyes focused on the boots at the door, two pairs much dirtier than all the others. These particular boots were covered in grime and dried blood, and Hal’s brows pinch at the realization. His eyes dart to you quickly but he keeps his mouth shut before he resumes his analysis. He scans the the little table in the entryway, your keys are laid in a ceramic dish Cassandra had made for you and Jay when you both settled in here, behind the dish is a small indoor plant. Hal’s eyes don’t linger so you decide he probably hadn’t noticed the three small blades hidden in the pot. His gaze moves on, and you realize he also didn’t pick up on the fact that their were two hand guns magnetically strapped underneath the table, that, or he just didn’t care that they were there. His next focus is the kitchen, it’s obviously well loved, but clean, pristinely so, which you credit to Jason as it’s one of his niches. Despite that, there’s an open first-aid kit on the kitchen and Hal’s brow dips down a bit further, as he finally moves from his spot, walking to the kitchen island and rifling through whatever was left in the box. He focuses in on the first aid box, so you figure he didn’t notice that behind the fruit basket is another gun, nor the fucking katana Jason has some how manage to sheath between the fridge and far wall. Your eyes flicker over the space between you and Hal, counting weapons and hidden gear, but when you resettle on him he’s still frowning at the kit. He’s obviously not happy with what he sees because the next thing he does is open your trash bin.
You bite back the snort and a sarcastic “do you really think we’d leave the bag with our bloody bandages in?” but he turns back to you his expression set much deeper.
“Stand up,” his tone is serious, and you bite back the groan, because a serious Hal Jordan is your least favorite version of the man.
“What?” you ask, tone as innocent as you can manage.
“Stand up,” he repeats, tone void of its normal vivaciousness.
You stand up and fight back the urge to wince, making sure to stand straight and even, trying not to favor your right, despite the pain emanating from your left as you do so. Hal steps closer and raises a fist. Your eyes widen, but before you can react his ring is scanning over you, bathing you in green light for a moment.
Whatever the ring shows him makes him frown more before he finally asks, “what happened?”
You’re debating how to answer, the truth isn’t exactly what you’d prefer to offer, but you do want to shit this down, whatever it is. “Nothing to worry your pretty head about, Hal. Can we resume our talking about why I can’t get the stupid ring to work?” you offer as an attempt to distract.
“(y/n), this scan says you’re suffering through the after effects of severe blood loss,” he states and you refrain from offering a scathing remark but he continues, “your first aid kit is depleted, there’s blood on those boots by the door, both pairs, and I’m pretty sure those are bloody finger prints on the windowsill over there,” he huffs, gesturing to the window.
Your gaze snaps to the window and you can’t help but frown because he’s right. But also because you had missed when he clocked that, the blood loss was making you sloppy. You roll your tongue over your teeth in thought before deciding, “I’d like to invoke my fifth amendment rights?”
“Fifth-! You’re not under arrest!” he shouts.
“Well, frankly, I don’t appreciate your tone, Harold,” you lament, deadpanning at the man.
Hal gapes at you for a second, “oh my god,” he mumbles, rubbing at his forehead in a way that screams tired dad, in fact, you’re sure you’ve seen Bruce do the same thing, though it’s normally targeted at Steph and Tim if you were honest.
When your thoughts start drifting you feel your body sway a bit and realize why your train of thought is so scattered, “Not to add to your internal crisis, but can I sit back down? Because if not, I might pass out,” you tell him calmly, the admission coming a few moments after he had begun to pace a bit and once the room seemed to start spinning slowly.
“The fuck? YES! Sit! Oh my God (y/n)! I- you- what-“ he seems to stutter over how to proceed when you nearly collapse back onto the sofa. He stares for a second before moving closer to check you over, “I’m not prepared to be a dad,” he finally mumbles.
“You’re not my dad,” you offer up with a weak chuckle and Hal freezes as the realization of what you had said settles.
“Are you? Was that a MEME?” he asks, squinting.
“It’s a vine, Hal. Totally different, but gold star for the effort. It went totally over Bruce’s head, and he started pulling up Jase’s adoption paperwork in retaliation,” you admit with a strained smile.
“(Y/n), I mean this kindly, but what the fuck is wrong with you, kid?”
You wheeze out a laugh which quickly turns pained, a hand coming to rest by your stitches on your left as you turn back to Hal with a small smile, “you couldn’t handle it, Harold. Plus, B told me to ease you into the whole pseudo-dad-mentoring thing.”
“he told you to ease me into it?” he asks, crouching down next to you, a slightly perturbed expression on his face.
“He was worried I might be too much all at once for you to handle,” you shrug.
Hal sighs before standing and then collapsing into the couch beside you. He runs a hand through his hair, staring at the celling and shaking his head, “he’s probably right, gothic bastard,” he sighs, relenting.
“Sorry,” you mutter, eyes falling back on the ring.
“Don’t be,” he tells you before joining you in staring at the ring. “But, uh, I probably know why your ring’s not working.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. White Lanterns draw their power from within. You are exhausted, stressed, dehydrated, short of some blood, and probably sleep deprived. Your body just doesn’t have anything to offer the ring right now,” he explains.
“oh.”
“Yeah.”
“You weren’t supposed to find out about the blood loss,” you admit softly.
“No?”
“It’s why Jase threw out the trash with our bloody bandages, why we cleaned up this morning, and why he’s not here.”
“Why isn’t he here?”
A lazy smirk takes your lips, “his black eye’s a bit harder to hide than my stitches are.”
Hal heaves another sigh, “how many?”
“Seventeen,” you tell him honestly.
“Seventeen?!” the sound accompanying his question had to be shriek, maybe a screech, definitely in that family.
You shrug, “it’s not the worst I’ve ever had, Hal. Gotta be honest with you.”
“B was right, this is terrifying,” he groans, rubbing a hand over his face.
“What?”
“Suddenly giving a fuck about a whole other person,” he says, turning to look at you directly.
“Don’t worry too much. I have Jase.”
“You two seem… close,” he alludes after a beat.
Your eyes narrow, “we are. we have to be,” you defend.
“Sure, but I’ve known Jason since he was running around in green tights. The dynamic you both have isn’t just out of necessity. Trust me, I’ve seen him when B calls him in for JL stuff. He cares about you, kid,” Hal explains.
“I know,” you whisper, because you do. You know in how gently he stitched you up last night, the way he does every time. You know it in the scars he’s received by putting himself between you and a bullet or a blade. In the way he cooks your favorites, and lets you pick movies. You know he cares, and you know he knows that you care just as much.
“Should I be worried?” Hal asks.
“Always,” you say without missing a beat, but then pause and add, “about what specifically?”
“You and Jason.”
You want to snort and insinuation, as if Jason, your Jason, would ever hurt you. Your partner, your roommate, your classic literature loving nerd who re-reads Pride and Prejudice at least every other month, who was so excited for the movie version of Emma that he dragged you to a theater to go watch it, that Jason. As if he would ever do anything that would put you in harms way excessively and unnecessarily. You almost laughed at the thought, because although he was built like a tank, and could bench press two of you, Jason Peter Todd had the softest, kindest heart you’d ever seen.
Jason, who lived through the worst, who had every reason to be as hardened as any random on the streets of Gotham, but took the time to look out for the kids who didn’t have some one, the kids who could’ve been him, and the ones that were. Jason, who made sure to check in with every girl working the streets. Made sure they were at the very least of age and not being forced into it, who made sure they worked for themselves and not some uncaring pimp. Jason, who still went when Bruce called, despite his complaints and their history. Jason, who loves his brothers, who loves Roy, Kori, Bizzaro, and Artemis, and would go to the ends of the earth for them if they asked. Jason, who was loyal, brave, and kind.
Your focus came back to Hal, who was still staring at you, waiting for your answer. “Individually? Absolutely, we both like to play fast and loose with the laws of physics and our grey areas,” you admit. “But,” you add, voice growing soft. “When we’re together, you can worry less. Jase always has my back, and I always have his.”
“I think I’m starting to see that,” Hal admits cautiously.
You sniff a bit throwing a mischievous smile Hal’s way, “You shouldn’t spend too much time worrying about me anyways. It’ll drive you grey and make you crazy, Hal.”
Hal snorts, “it already is, kid.”
Your smile softens, “you know, other than B, I haven’t really had parental figures. It’s nice to know there’s someone else out there who cares if I manage to get myself stabbed on patrol,” you admit.
“Someone who would prefer if you didn’t get yourself stabbed in the first place,” he clarifies, but throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into for a small side hug, mindful of your injury.
“Thanks, Hal.”
“I already told you, I’m looking out for you now (Y/n). I meant it.”
...
everything tags: @butterfly-skinnylegend
dc taglist: @batarella @loninctzencarat @escapenightmare @uh-oh-howd-i-get-here
bol taglist: @mxtokko @myxticmoon @pink-panda-pancakes
the brightest of lights - a white lantern!reader AU
a/n: something i've been toying with recently, and as part of my new resolution to start posting more of my wips, here we have it!!
main masterlist
synopsis: white lantern!reader who gets the gig on accident after being a little too curious for her own good. reader who has been jason's patrol partner and isn't a bat but is an outlaw. tropes will include: omg they were roommates, tired dad!hal jordan, good parent!bruce wayne, space nerd!reader, bookworm!jason todd, sarcasm as a love language, and the reader being a little shit to everyone, but especially to hal.
the beginning - (02.17.25) in which our intrepid and sarcastic, space-loving, outlaw!reader does and touches things she shouldn't, somehow resulting in some new jewelry.
training slump - (02.19.25) hal jordan is trying his best, okay? and it'd be helpful if someone would do the same.
books, birthdays, and miss bennet - (09.02.25) jason brings you along for his birthday dinner at the manor. he’s already been here way more than he likes because of steph’s birthday last week, and duke’s earlier this week. plus, it’s his birthday, he wants you there. feat. jase’s favorite tiny human
