Chapter 8
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Y/N POV
Finally.
At last, the beast shuddered, grumbled, and went still. Your arms peeled away from Jason’s back like bark stripped from a tree, stiff from clinging so hard. When your boots touched the solid ground again, you nearly dropped to your knees with relief.
Crook fluttered back onto your shoulder, his claws pricking gently through the knit of your sweater. His voice slid into your mind, smug and sharp as ever. “See? Ya Survived, no big deal.”
You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath. “Lunatic bird.”
Jason only cast you a sidelong look as he swung one leg off the bike. The motion looked easy, practiced, and entirely too smug for someone who’d just tried to kill you by velocity alone.
You tipped your face up, murmuring soft thanks to the spirits, to Sylvanious, to every divine force you could name for sparing your life once more. Jason caught the words, of course, and rolled his eyes.
“Drama queen.” he muttered and. “Come on. Sidewalk.”
He jerked his head, and you followed, your boots clicking unevenly against the stone.
And then—finally, truly—you could see. Not blurs, not shadows whipped past at dangerous speed, but the living, breathing face of Gotham.
It hit you like a rushing river..
The world was alive with motion.
Humans moved in rivers along the stone paths, their heads bent against the chill, their arms burdened with bags, strange drinks in hand, talking to one another or to themselves into little black stones they pressed to their ears.
Metal beasts rumbled by in lines so perfect and organized it was almost unnatural. They gleamed beneath the dull light, red and silver, black and blue, some squat and boxy, others sleek and predatory. You could smell them—smoke, oil, the bite of hot metal—like fire given wheels.
Buildings stretched upward and outward, so vast and layered it made your head tilt back just to glimpse their tops. Windows caught faint light and reflected it in shards. Signs glowed with runes that seem to pop out, words you half-understood, others utterly foreign, looping letters and jagged symbols painted across towering boards.
The air was thick—strange spices from stalls on the corner, meat sizzling on hidden fires, bread toasted in machines you couldn’t see. And beneath it all, the sour reek of smoke and trash, the musk of bodies pressed close together, the faint undercurrent of rain yet to fall.
Your heart pounded with awe.
You had traveled far in your own world. Forests and mountains, villages built into cliffsides, bustling trade towns with markets spilling into cobbled squares, even the silver domes of elven cities half-suspended in the trees.
You had seen marvels enough to fill a bard’s tale.
But this—
This was no city.
This was something else entirely.
A living beast, thrumming, breathing, moving, louder and larger than anything you’d ever known.
Jason glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, watching as you turned in place, eyes wide, mouth parted, trying to drink it all in at once. He smirked faintly, shoving his free hand in his jacket pocket.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough but edged with amusement. “It’s something ain't it.”
Your lips curled faintly, torn between awe and unease. “A lot…” You exhaled, the word trembling with both wonder and weight. “Jason, I have walked the spires of Caer Ilthys, seen the white bridges of Elarith stretch across the skies, watched dwarves carve mountains into thrones—and still…”
You trailed off, looking up again at the sheer size of it all. “…still, none of it holds a candle to this.”
Crook clicked his beak near your ear, his tone sly. “Told ya, doll. This city’s a beast of its own. Just gotta figure out if it’s one worth tamin… or runnin’ from.”
Jason didn’t catch the bird’s words, but something in your silence made him glance at you again.
His smirk softened, almost imperceptibly.
“C’mon, forest princess,” he said, nodding toward the moving crowd. “Let’s get you acquainted with Gotham before you start writing poetry about it.”
And with that, he stepped forward.
Out into this strange world.
You quickened your pace, boots scuffing against the sidewalk until you slipped into step at Jason’s side.
The moment you matched him, your shoulders loosened. Somehow, even here—amid all this strangeness—being close to him made the unfamiliar less daunting.
But your eyes, your ears, your very nose refused to rest.
The city was overwhelming, every inch of it alive with strange scents and sounds. You could smell the sharp tang of smoke rising from the exhaust of the passing metal beasts— acrid, bitter, stinging in your nostrils like burned pitch.
And yet mingled with it were notes far more inviting: bread baking behind a glass window, meat sizzling on flat pans, sugar spun into warm coils.
Your druidic senses stretched further, picking up things others would not.
The faint musk of dogs trotting alongside their masters, tails wagging. The sour edge of spilt ale—or something akin to ale—seeping from a doorway where loud voices laughed too hard. Perfumes clung to the humans around you—floral, spiced, sometimes so heavy it made your nose twitch. And beneath it all, a faint metallic tang that lingered like iron in rainwater.
Alien, yes. But not without its echoes of the familiar.
Your ears caught even more.
The growl and roar of the beasts on wheels filled the streets, layered upon each other in a chaotic chorus. Horns blared—shrill, impatient, commanding.
The buzz of voices was constant, overlapping conversations that rose and fell in strange cadences. Some spoke into the little black stones they held to their ears, voices clipped, rushed, half-frustrated.
Others tossed words at each other in rapid exchanges filled with phrases you’d never heard before:
“Bro, that line was insane—”
“Yo, you hear about the Knights game?”
“Man, that cabbie tried to scam me, I swear—”
Strange words.
Dialects and phrases that sounded like another language entirely, though it was still this world’s common tongue. You caught fragments, storing them away, curious.
And then—laughter.
A child squealed somewhere close, the sound bubbling up bright and unrestrained.
Another cried, high and raw, tugging at their mother’s sleeve. These notes pierced the deeper hum of the city, familiar to your ears in a way all the strange words and noises were not. Children sounded the same across all realms, it seemed—joy, need, discovery, fear.
You smiled without meaning to, the corners of your lips lifting as your ears tilted toward the sound.
Jason noticed, of course. He didn’t say anything, but you caught the flicker of his gaze—checking to see what had you so captivated.
Your smile only widened, and you turned your head up toward him. “Jason. This place—’tis chaos, aye. Yet within it, there is music. Like a forest after rain, where each leaf drips, each root drinks, and all life stirs together.”
He gave a low snort, shaking his head. “Music, huh? That’s one way to put it. Most people just call it noise pollution.”
“Noise… pollution,” you echoed, testing the words on your tongue, amused at their odd shape. “Nay. ‘Tis life itself.”
He smirked faintly at your insistence but didn’t argue further, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket as you both moved along with the flow of the crowd.
Your gaze darted everywhere.
It was wondrous.
Crook shifted on your shoulder, feathers fluffing, his head swiveling to take everything in. His voice cut slyly through your thoughts. “You’re grinnin’ like a kid in a candy shop, doll. Gotham’s got its claws in ya already doll.”
You gave him a tiny smirk. “Aye. And what a beast it is.”
Jason glanced at you again, suspicion flickering across his features. “What’d he say?”
You tilted your head, tone light. “That Gotham is… claws. A beast.”
Jason’s brow ticked, lips quirking. “Figures.”
As you continue to walk you notice Jason and how wary he looks.
Like a beast in a field waiting to pounce, his—head angled just enough to keep the crowd in view, green eyes scanning every shadow, every alley mouth, every stranger who lingered too long.
He looked relaxed, almost casual, but you could feel the tension humming beneath the surface.
A wolf among sheep, forever watching for other wolves.
Crook shifted on your shoulder, feathers fluffing against your cheek as he leaned his beak close to your ear. “Alright, doll, welcome to the good part of town. Well… good-ish. Don’t get too comfortable. But hey, look—food stalls. Now we’re talkin’.”
You blinked at the sudden burst of smells—stronger here, sharper. Smoke rising from grills, oil hissing, spices filling the air. Your mouth parted slightly in surprise, your nose twitching at each new scent.
Crook was more than happy to narrate.
“That right there, sausage on a stick. Greasy, sure, but hits the spot after a long day diggin’ for crumbs. Next stall? Pretzels. Big hunks of bread twisted up like a knot, salt all over—dip it in cheese if you’re feelin’ fancy. And oh-ho, wait till you get a whiff of the kebabs…”
You let him ramble, fascinated despite yourself, until suddenly he said something that made your entire body freeze.
“And there—see that guy with the cart? Hot dogs. Classic Gotham street eat. Don’t let the name throw you, doll. Ain’t no mutts in there. Mostly.”
You choked. “What?!” you blurted aloud, your head whipping around toward the small rolling cart stacked with buns and steaming sausages.
Several passersby glanced at you in confusion.
Crook, smug as ever, clicked his beak. “Relax, relax. It ain’t actually dog. though, some of them vendors use weird meats I gotta tell ya one ti—”
Your lips parted in disbelief as you interrupted the bird,utterly scandalized. “They name their meals after canines? After hounds? That is barbaric!”
Jason slowed his stride when your voice suddenly cracked the air, half a cry, half a scandalized wail. Heads turned, curious, though most only shrugged and went about their business—city folk unfazed by a stranger’s odd outburst. Jason, though, stopped dead and turned toward you, brow arching high.
“What’s with the shouting?” His voice carried that clipped, sharp edge, like he was bracing himself for the kind of explanation only you could give.
Your throat worked, your lips trembling as you pointed a finger, almost accusing, toward the cart stacked with steaming buns. “Crook says—he says they name their meals after canines! After hounds! After—after man’s faithful guardians! You call it hot dog?!”
Your voice wavered between outrage and heartbreak, and tears pricked the corners of your eyes.
Jason blinked at you once.
Twice.
Then he dragged a hand down his face. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, exasperation thick. He cast a flat glare toward your shoulder. “Ignore the rat he doesn’t know what hes talking about. The pigeons in this city are worse than rats. Hell, they probably eat each other.”
Crook puffed up immediately, feathers bristling.
His beak snapped shut once before he practically spat words in your mind, his strange accent edge sharpening every syllable. “You shut your trap, you trauma-dump excuse for a bastard! Talkin’ smack about pigeons like you know the first thing—lemme tell ya, buddy, I seen things in this city that’d make your fancy leather jacket curl at the seams!”
You closed your eyes, rubbing the bridge of your nose with one hand. “Crook…”
But he was far from done. “Rats eat garbage, sure, but pigeons? We thrive, pal! We live off the scraps of kings! You think you’re tough, ridin’ that metal piece of scrap, all broody eyes and tragic backstory? Newsflash: pigeons been fightin’ turf wars on Gotham rooftops since before ya sprouted chest hair!”
Jason just stared at you, not understanding a word, only watching the way your mouth twitched as if you were holding back something. His brows knitted faintly. “…He done yet?”
Crook screeched in your skull. “Done?! I ain’t even warmed up yet! You leather-wrapped meat sack! You think them boots make you look cool? Please. You look like you mugged a thrift store. Oh, and don’t even get me started on the hair. Buddy, that mop screams ‘midlife crisis biker club president.’”
Your hand flew to your mouth, muffling a laugh that slipped out despite your best effort.
Jason caught it immediately, narrowing his eyes. “What. Did. He. Say.”
You hesitated—then, with a helpless little shrug, you translated, soft and careful, “…He says your boots make you look like you mugged a thrift store. And your hair screams, ah, midlife crisis biker… president.”
Jason’s brow shot up.
The corner of his mouth twitched—not into a smile, but into something sharp and challenging. Slowly, deliberately, he tilted his head toward Crook. “Huh. That right? …Funny…. Tell me something any one from your world know what pigeon pot pie tastes like?”
The effect was instant, you didn’t even have a moment to reply.
Crook exploded in a storm of feathers and fury, wings thrashing as he tried to lunge off your shoulder. His screeches hammered into your skull. “YOU WANNA GO, LEATHER BOY?! COME ON, LET’S DANCE! I’LL CLAW YOUR EYES OUT, I SWEAR ON EVERY ROOFTOP IN THIS CITY—”
You gasped and caught him mid-leap, cupping him against your chest like a squirming child. “Crook!” His wings flailed against your arms, feathers puffing into your face as you stroked his chest firmly, soothing as best you could. “Enough, enough. Peace, feathered one. Peace.”
Jason watched, utterly unimpressed as the bird tried to lunge at him, and rolled his eyes. “Wow. I’m terrified. Real scary. A whole four ounces of angry mangy bird.”
Crook shrieked bloody murder in your skull. “FOUR OUNCES?! I’LL PECK YOUR EYEBALLS CLEAN, YOU—”
“Crook.” you hushed again, fingers stroking firmly down his chest until the furious tremble in his body slowed, the pitch of his cursing dropping to mutters that only you could hear. His beak clicked shut at last, though his beady eyes never left Jason, promising vengeance.
Jason gave a low snort, watching you cradle the pigeon like some sacred beast instead of a glorified sky-rat.
You shook your head, looking at him pointedly. “Must thou vex him so, Jason?”
He rolled a broad shoulder in a shrug, hands still buried in his jacket pockets. “The little bastard started it.”
You sighed and returned to stroking Crook’s chest, ignoring the muffled complaint he grumbled about “leather-wrapped jerks who don’t respect rooftop royalty.”
And then—for the first time since stepping off the dreadful metal beast—there was peace.
Jason slowed his pace slightly, enough that you could walk close without tripping on the unfamiliar boots.
The crowd flowed around you both, streams of strangers passing like rivers divided by rock. At first you thought Jason would stay silent, gruff and brooding as always… but then he lifted his chin, gesturing faintly toward something across the street.
“That’s a deli,” he said, voice low, casual. “Place sells cold cuts, sandwiches. Stuff you grab when you don’t wanna cook.”
Your brows drew together. “Cold… cuts? They sever meat… and sell it uncooked?”
Jason smirked faintly. “Relax, forest princess. It’s cooked. Just cold. Think of it like… leftovers, only intentional.”
Crook let out a single derisive coo, and Jason cut him a side-eye before continuing on.
You breathed deep, trying to catch the scent, and the air shifted—meat, sharp and salty, mingled with pickled vegetables and spices.
It mingled with the heavier smoke of the street, the tang of oil, the sour bite of garbage from some unseen alley. Strange, layered smells, so unlike the forests where pine and earth and water sang clean and sharp.
Jason’s voice broke through your awe again, pointing with his chin toward a neon sign above a corner door. “Bodega. Tiny shop. You can find just about anything in there—snacks, drinks, batteries, smokes, magazines.”
The word meant little to you, but your ears perked anyway, your curiosity insatiable. You looked at him, eyes wide, and asked, “And… what manner of creature is bodega?”
Jason’s laugh slipped out before he could stop it. He shook his head. “Not a creature. Just a shop. Don’t go naming it like it’s a new pet.”
Crook mumbled in your mind, “Wouldn’t surprise me if she did. Doll names everything. I’m tellin’ ya, one day she’s gonna christen a mailbox.”
You ignored the pigeon, though your lips twitched.
And so it went: Jason pointing, explaining with gruff, clipped words, and you drinking in every detail like parched earth taking rain.
“That’s a laundromat. People pay to clean their clothes.” You blinked. “They cannot simply wash in river or stream?”
Jason snorted. “Not unless you want pneumonia and a side of sewer rot.”
“That’s a pawn shop. Folks sell their junk there for cash.” You frowned. “They give away treasures… to strangers?”
Jason shrugged. “Not treasures. Just… things they don’t need anymore. Or stuff they regret later.”
Jason gestured with his head to a building with a very familiar scent. “That’s a coffee shop.” You tilted your head, inhaling the bitter-sweet steam curling from inside.
“This smell… Is this the same thing thou drinks every morning.”
Jason smirked. “Yep, and not just me. Gotham runs on that stuff. Addictive as hell.”
The rhythm settled into something almost comfortable—Jason naming things, you asking soft questions, Crook tossing the occasional insult at him in your mind while preening smugly when you shushed him.
You barely noticed how many streets you had crossed, how far you had walked, until the city itself began to blur into a kind of patchwork map within your mind: the glowing signs, the endless glass towers, the rivers of metal beasts and the chatter of voices all stitched together into something vast and alive.
And you marveled at it.
Your druid’s senses stretched instinctively, brushing against the threads of life woven through the city.
Every living thing hummed in its own pitch, and to your ears it was not chaos but chorus. Strange, yet beautiful.
You had to bite your lip to keep the smile from breaking too wide across your face. Jason’s city was a kingdom of stone and smoke and steel… but it was no less alive than the forests of your home.
Jason glanced at you, catching the gleam in your eyes, the way your head tilted to catch sounds, the faint twitch of your nostrils as you scented the air. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He didn’t say anything—but you caught the shadow in his gaze, a wariness he couldn’t quite mask.
Still, he let you look.
He let you marvel. And step by step, Gotham unfolded before you.
Jason Todd POV
Jason noticed the smile you barely concealed, he caught it anyway.
The faint curl at the corner of your mouth, the way your eyes lit with something soft—like wonder hadn’t been crushed out of you yet.
You turned your head to catch every sound, your steps light even in borrowed boots, and Jason realized with a start that you looked like a kid in a way no one in Gotham ever did.
That childlike curiosity.
The kind he hadn’t seen in years, maybe decades.
The kind this city beat out of you by the time you were old enough to walk home from school without a hand to hold.
Gotham didn’t let you look around wide-eyed. Gotham forced your gaze down—watching the cracks in the pavement so you didn’t trip, watching your pockets so no one lifted the last ten bucks you had, watching over your shoulder for the kind of shadows that didn’t belong.
But you? You looked at Gotham like it was a storybook come alive.
And that scared the shit out of him.
Jason shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, jaw tightening as he kept stride beside you. He knew better. He fucking knew better. Behind every pretty light, every towering building, every smell of bread fresh from a bakery window… there was rot.
He’d lived it. He’d bled in it.
Christ. He remembered nights when he was barely more than a kid, crouched under some fire escape, fingers numb and greasy from wrenching tires off some beat-up sedan.
His stomach ached so bad it felt hollow, like he’d swallowed nothing but rocks. Cold gnawed at his skin, wind slicing through the holes in his thrift-store jacket. But the tires? They were worth something. You could sell them to the right people, get a few bills, buy a meal that wasn’t out of the trash.
That was Gotham.
Not the shining skyline.
Not the wide streets full of shops.
Not the laughing families crossing at a light.
Gotham was hunger. Gotham was fear. Gotham was fighting tooth and nail for scraps while the rich pricks in penthouses poured hundred-dollar wine down the drain because it wasn’t the right vintage.
Jason shut his eyes for half a second, trying to smother the memory.
Even after Bruce… it hadn’t gone away.
Sure, he didn’t sleep hungry anymore.
He didn’t have to freeze his ass off under some rusted fire escape.
But that life? It stayed burned into him. The scars didn’t vanish just because he had a bed at Wayne Manor. Even now, with a roof over his head and money to live fine on his own, Jason knew there were still kids out there doing exactly what he did—stripping tires, stealing wallets, lifting food when their stomachs clenched too tight to ignore.
Kids who weren’t fucking lucky enough to get picked up by their own Bruce Wayne.
He opened his eyes, glancing at you again. You hadn’t noticed the way his chest tightened, the way his teeth ground behind a neutral mask. You were still staring up, watching a flock of pigeons scatter from a roof, laughing softly under your breath like the sound of wings was a miracle.
Jason’s throat worked, the words he didn’t say choking him.
Because you didn’t know.
You didn’t know this city the way he did.
You didn’t know about the predators crouching in alleys, the assholes waiting for someone soft, someone unguarded, someone who didn’t know how fast a knife could slip between ribs. He’d seen it too many times. Hell, he’d done it too many times. Gotham didn’t forgive the weak. Gotham ate them alive.
And that’s why he did what he did.
That’s why he pulled the trigger, broke bones, carved his warnings into the bastards who thought they could own this city. He didn’t play at being the world’s greatest detective. He didn’t give criminals another chance to crawl out of Arkham just to slaughter their families all over again.
He finished the job.
Because someone had to.
Jason flexed his hand in his pocket, fingers curling around nothing but air.
He could still feel the weight of a gun there anyway, phantom-heavy. His work wasn’t noble. It wasn’t pretty. But it was necessary. He cleaned out the filth. He took out the scum. He did the things Bruce never had the fucking balls to do.
His lip curled faintly.
Batman—the goddamn Dark Knight.
All that blabber about justice, about morals, about how killing would make them no better than the monsters they hunted. Jason almost laughed. No better? No worse?
He’d seen worse things than death. He’d lived worse. Sometimes, the kindest thing you could do for this city was put a bullet in the right head and make sure they didn’t get back up.
But Bruce would never do it.
Bruce would lock them up, let them out again, watch them kill and maim and destroy, then lock them up again like it was a game.
He had contingency plans for his friends, his allies, even himself—but not a goddamn ounce of sense when it came to cutting out the cancer rotting Gotham from the inside.
And Jason hated him for it.
He hated that even now, walking beside you, all he could hear in the back of his mind was Bruce’s voice—cold, certain, telling him it wasn’t the way. Telling him he was wrong. Telling him he was crossing lines that couldn’t be uncrossed.
Bullshit.
The only line Jason cared about was the one between the people who deserved to keep breathing and the ones who didn’t.
His jaw tightened until his teeth ached. His thoughts were getting darker, sharper, spiraling the longer he let them run. But that was Gotham too—dragging you down, reminding you of every fucked-up corner, every bad memory, every ghost you couldn’t shake.
And then you laughed.
Soft. Bright. Barely a sound, but it cut through the fog in his head like light through smoke. Jason blinked, pulled back to the present, back to you tilting your head at some corner musician scratching clumsy chords out of a guitar.
You looked at the man like his music was something to cherish, not noise drowned out by traffic.
ANd somehow, you looked at Gotham and still saw something worth marveling at. Something worth saving.
He didn’t get it. He didn’t trust it. But for now, he let you keep that wonder.
Because maybe—just maybe—it was something he couldn’t anymore.
Y/N POV
You stopped mid-step, your feet planting firmly against the pavement as the scent hit you.
Sweet. Strange.
A perfume of sugar and milk, but sharper somehow, carrying a bite like frost on a winter morning. You inhaled again, your senses reaching out the way your druidic magic always had, and the flavor of it seemed to linger on your tongue—cold, almost biting, but enticing. A contradiction.
Your head swiveled, nostrils flaring, until you caught sight of it.
A building with wide panes of flawless glass, through which the strange world within was laid bare.
Your gaze tracked upward, to the letters scrawled boldly across the sign.
They meant nothing to you—strange symbols, blobs and scratches, no different from a cluster of runes half-burnt away on a druidic tablet. Your head tilted as you studied them anyway, as if stubbornness alone might decipher them.
But your attention quickly fell back to what waited behind the glass.
Inside, row upon row of metal bins gleamed beneath bright lights, each one filled with piles of vivid colors. Some looked like churned snow tinted with berries, others soft pastes of earthy browns or deep, almost glowing greens.
The colors were mesmerizing, unnatural even, as though pigments from a wizard’s alchemy set had been poured into snowdrifts. Frost clung to the edges of the bins, faint wisps of cold rising into the air like mist over a frozen pond.
And the people—children mostly, with parents in tow—stepped forward, pointed to a color, and were rewarded with the server behind the counter scooping a portion into a small bowl or balancing it atop a pale, cone-shaped wafer. The children’s faces lit up with delight, mouths smeared with melting streaks as they devoured the strange treat.
Your lips parted in awe.
Jason had stopped too, realizing you weren’t moving. He stepped up beside you, following your gaze. “Ice cream,” he explained, his tone as casual as if he were naming a crack in the sidewalk. “Cold, sweet. Comes in flavors. Kids love it.”
Crook spoke up in a tone that hardly contained his joy. “Now that, doll is worth tryin’. Look at it—colors like a damn festival. Somethin’ that pretty’s gotta taste good. Definitely a treat you don’t skip.”
You glanced down at the bird cradled in your hands, then turned back to Jason, eyes wide and earnest. “Might I… try some?”
Crook fluffed his feathers with excitement. “Oh-ho, now we’re talkin’. Not just might—you gotta. This is the kinda thing a soul remembers.”
Jason sighed, long-suffering, shoving his hands deeper into his jacket. “Alright,” he said at last, “but the rat isn’t going in.”
You blinked at him, baffled. “Why ever not?”
He ticked reasons off with a gloved hand. “One: he’s a pest. Two: I doubt the clerk’s gonna say, ‘Oh hey, a pigeon, that’s normal,’ and let him waltz right in.”
You frowned, looking back at Crook’s round little body in your palms. “Pest? That is harsh.”
Then your gaze flicked back to the window.
The boy behind the counter—a young boy barely into adulthood, judging by his smooth skin and the way he leaned on the counter like a knight waiting for death to claim him—looked utterly disinterested.
His eyes half-lidded, shoulders slumped, his entire being radiated apathy.
Your face flattened into a deadpan look as you turned back to Jason. “Jason. The boy looks as though he would rather fight an owlbear.”
That got his brow to arch. “An… owlbear?” he repeated, clearly caught between skepticism and amusement.
At the same time, Crook cooed in confusion. “Owl what now?”
You rolled your eyes, exhaling through your nose. Explaining owlbears could wait—Gotham hardly seemed ready for the concept of a beast with the head of a predator bird and the body of a bear.
Instead, you tapped your chin, thoughtful. If the boy inside cared so little about his duties, then surely one extra companion would hardly matter.
And then inspiration struck.
You smirked down at Crook, your (e/c) eyes glinting with mischief.
The pigeon instantly stiffened. “I don’t like that look, doll. That’s a dangerous look. That’s the look people get right before somethin’ explodes or I end up regrettin’ my life choices.”
Before he could wriggle free, you shoved him—firm but gentle—into Jason’s hands.
Both man and bird reacted in chorus, their disbelief perfectly overlapping:
“What the hell are you doing?!” Jason demanded, scowling as feathers flared in protest against his chest.
“The fuck, sweetheart?! I didn’t sign up for this!” Crook squawked in your mind, his tone bordering on betrayal.
You dusted off your hands, straightening your spine with mock primness. “There. Now the issue is resolved, onward my friends.”
Jason glowered, Crook sputtered, and you turned on your heel, smugness radiating with every step as you strode for the door.
The bell above it chimed sweetly as you entered.
And you froze again.
The cold inside wasn’t biting like a blizzard, nor damp like a cave frost. It was sharper, purer—artificial, yet refreshing, like the air in a sacred grove dusted with early snow. It kissed your skin, raising gooseflesh, making your breath mist faintly in front of you.
And then your gaze fell on the counter.
The glass cases gleamed like treasure chests, holding not gold or jewels but endless bins of those strange colored snows. Pink, brown, green, white, blue speckled with darker chips.
Each looked smoother than butter churned to perfection, soft enough to melt at the touch. Small labels were stuck into each bin, their symbols meaningless blobs to you, yet you could almost sense the intent behind them.
This was a shop of choices, of indulgence.
Your heart beat quicker with excitement.
Behind the counter, the boy barely glanced up from his slump, eyes glazed with the thousand-yard stare of someone enduring the world’s dullest vigil. He might as well have been carved of stone, save for the slow, mechanical turn of his wrist as he rotated a scoop.
And then the bell chimed again.
You turned, smile growing, only to be met with the sight of Jason entering in a stormcloud of irritation.
His shoulders were hunched, his jaw clenched, and in his gloved hands sat a very fluffy, very fuming pigeon. Crook’s feathers puffed so wide he looked twice his normal size, wings twitching like he was two seconds away from wriggling free just to peck Jason’s face raw.
The sight was so absurd you couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped from your lips.
Jason shot you a look, half glare, half exasperation. Crook, meanwhile, was shrieking in your mind, his strange accent thick with fury. “Unbelievable! Betrayed by my most trusted friend! You just wait, doll—I’m makin’ sure every pigeon in this city knows you tossed me like a sack of grain at Mr. Broody over here!”
You pressed your hand over your mouth, shoulders trembling as you tried—and failed—to contain your laughter. The absurdity of Jason, brooding and leather-clad, holding a fluffed-up, furious pigeon was almost too much to bear.
Jason muttered darkly, “Unbelievable,” and stomped toward the counter.
The poor boy behind it—previously half-asleep—seemed to jolt upright, his eyes wide as though Jason’s presence alone had struck terror into him.
The teen’s hand hovered nervously over the scoop like it was a weapon. He didn’t even glance at Crook, which was almost impressive, considering the pigeon was glaring with all the wrath of a dethroned mob boss.
You pressed your palms against the cold glass, eyes roving over the bins of frozen colors like they were relics in some mage’s vault. “What… are these?” you asked, genuinely curious.
The boy startled, his gaze flicking briefly to you before skittering back to Jason’s looming form. His voice cracked slightly as he rattled off the list of flavors—vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, mint chip, butter pecan, cookie dough, rocky road—his words tumbling one over another in haste.
Your brows knitted. None of these names meant anything to you. Vanilla? Rocky road? Cookie… dough?
You bit your finger, torn, glancing back and forth between the colors as though the decision were a matter of life and death. “I… I do not know…” you admitted softly, frustration bubbling in your chest. You hated keeping the line, hated wasting their time.
Finally, you turned pleading eyes to Jason. “Choose for me.”
He stared at you for a moment, then sighed, long and weary. “…Fine.”
The urge to throw your arms around him, to bury him in your gratitude, surged strong and bright. But you curbed it—Jason was already tense, already carrying more than he would ever admit. Instead, you simply beamed at him as he stepped to the register.
Jason pointed to one flavor he knew would suit you—something sweet, rich but not overpowering.
He added another order for himself.
And then Crook’s voice cut in, sly and demanding. “Hey doll, do me a favor, huh? Ask broody to snag me a scoop of butter pecan. Nothin’ fancy. Just a little somethin’ in a cup. Bird’s gotta eat too.”
You blinked, then dutifully turned to Jason. “Crook requests a serving of butter pecan.”
Jason’s jaw flexed. His voice came out tight, ground through clenched teeth. “…And one little sundae cup of butter pecan.”
The boy at the counter nodded so fast you thought his neck might snap. He called the price in a squeaky tone.
Jason removed a strange shiny card from his small leather pouch and handed it to the boy who shook as he took it into his hands.
You tilted your head at the strange ritual and watched as the boy handed the card back.
Moments later, the order arrived: two strange tall swirls of creamy cold atop fragile lattice shells—and one small white cup. Jason grabbed the cup, you gathered the strange shells, and the three of you exited into Gotham’s brisk autumn air.
You thanked the boy on your way out, flashing him a warm smile. He stammered a reply, cheeks red, eyes darting anywhere but yours.
Outside, Jason wasted no time setting Crook back onto your shoulder. He rubbed his palm vigorously against his shirt, muttering, “And now I’m cutting my hand off.”
Crook fluffed, still bristling, and snapped his beak in indignation. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t a damn picnic for me either, pal. Jesus, I don’t know what’s drier—sand from a desert or your freakin’ palms.”
You hushed him gently, passing Jason his cone while trading for Crook’s cup.
Peace offerings distributed, the little band of three settled once more.
You brought the shell close, curiosity and anticipation warring in your chest. Tentatively, you ran your tongue across the frozen mound.
The taste exploded on your tongue. Sweet, velvety, decadent—and cold.
So cold it bit into your teeth, numbed your tongue, sent a shiver straight through your bones. But oh, it was glorious. A richness like cream whipped into clouds, layered with the earthy sweetness of whatever flavor Jason had chosen.
Stars might as well have lit behind your eyes.
You looked down at the shell in awe. “It is… wondrous,” you whispered. “Sweet as honey, but with a depth like nothing I have tasted, and—by the gods, it is cold! Colder than the stream water in winter, yet it melts even as I taste it!”
Crook, already pecking at his portion as you hold it to him, gave a pleased coo. “Knew it, doll. Nothin’ like butter pecan to set a bird straight. Best thing Gotham’s ever come up with, swear on my wings.”
Jason only shook his head, biting into his own cone with practiced ease. He said nothing, but his lips twitched faintly—caught between amusement and resignation—as he watched you marvel over something so ordinary.
You barely noticed as the three of you walked again, the city unfolding around you in steel and brick and autumn wind.
Every lick of the ice cream drew another delighted hum from your chest, every cold bite another flicker of wonder. You were so enraptured, in fact, that you didn’t even realize where Jason was leading you.
Only when the roar of traffic dulled and the scent of earth and greenery teased your senses did it strike you.
Ahead, spreading out like an emerald jewel amidst the stone, lay the park Jason had promised.
It might not have been the great wild forests you had once known, nor the teeming jungles that swallowed entire valleys, but it still held beauty.
The air here was softer.
The thunder of carriages—metal beasts—fell away until it was only a distant hum, muffled by trees that lined the edges of the park.
Their boughs stretched overhead, painted with the fire of autumn: oranges that glowed like embers, reds deep as garnet, yellows as bright as candleflame.
Leaves tumbled lazily in the breeze, drifting down in spirals to rest upon grass cut short and neat, more pristine and prim than any wild meadow you had ever walked.
Your nostrils flared, drinking it in—the crisp bite of leaf mold, the faint dampness of soil beneath the trimmed earth, the faint musk of dogs chasing toys across the lawns.
A pond shimmered at a distance, glassy save for the ripples of swans and ducks bobbing across its surface, their cries threading through the air in familiar, comforting music. Children’s laughter rang nearby, light and shrill, as parents strolled the paths.
For all its strangeness, for all its clipped order, the place was alive.
Jason didn’t say anything, but you felt the weight of his presence as the two of you wandered a narrow path, leaves crunching beneath your boots. He finally steered you toward a structure of smoothed wood, shaped oddly but sturdy—set for sitting.
You eased yourself down, staff leaning against the bench, Crook hopping down to the grass to where his icy treasure waited where you had placed it. He puffed himself up importantly before dipping his beak into the cup with greedy pecks.
Jason dropped down beside you, not too close, but not far either. The leather of his jacket creaked faintly as he leaned back, one arm slung across the bench’s back. For a long moment, he was silent, simply watching as you brought the brown shell of your treat—this “cone,” he had called it—to your lips again.
You hummed quietly, savoring. “Strange…” you murmured between licks. “Cold cream upon a baked vessel that cracks and crumbles between the teeth. A contradiction most wondrous. Who would think to place frozen sweetness upon brittle bread?”
Crook muffled a laugh through a beakful of butter pecan. “Whoever it was, doll, I’d kiss ‘em square on the mouth. This stuff’s great.”
You smiled and looked around the park.
Your gaze drifted out over the pond. “’Tis… smaller than the groves of home, aye. Smaller than the wild places I knew. But still…”
You let your eyes close for a breath, listening to the calls of ducks, the laughter of children, the panting joy of dogs chasing sticks. “Still, there is peace here. Tamed, perhaps, yet not lifeless.”
Jason tilted his head toward you, one brow raised, lips quirking faintly. “Glad to know Gotham’s got your stamp of approval. Thought for sure you’d call it a blight on nature or somethin’.”
You turned to him, smile soft but true. “Jason, I have seen cities carved of crystal, towers of ivory stretching beyond sight. I have seen groves razed, rivers choked by war. Compared to those scars… thy city lives. Bruised, perhaps. But alive.”
For once, Jason didn’t have a comeback. His jaw tightened, his eyes flicking away toward the pond.
Crook, picking the last of his treat from the cup, ruined the quiet. “You two gettin’ sentimental, or what? Don’t start makin’ moon eyes at each other. I just ate.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, and leaned down to stroke Crook’s head with one finger to quiet him.
The little beast cooed, settling against the cup with all the pride of a king on his throne.
Eventually the cone in your hand had grown softer now, the cold sweetness melting against your tongue, but you savored each taste all the same.
When you turned, you noticed Jason was already near the bottom of his own. He ate with little ceremony, efficient as if even pleasure needed to be quick, controlled. The corner of your lips curled and, with quiet mischief, you mimicked his words from before:
“Ice cream,” you said, your voice deliberately flat. “Cold. Sweet. Comes in flavors. Children love it.”
Jason cut you a look, narrow-eyed, and rolled his eyes hard enough that it tugged a laugh out of you. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get smart with me, forest princess.” Still, you caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth before he stuffed the last of his cone into it and brushed crumbs from his gloves.
You only smiled wider, finishing the last of your own more slowly, letting the sweetness linger. Crook was still on the ground, feathers puffed up proudly as he pecked at what was left of his cup, muttering “perfection, pure perfection” in your mind between greedy peckfulls.
Peace settled then.
Pure, uncomplicated peace.
Just you, Jason, and Crook, the three of you sitting in an oasis of swaying branches and whispering grass, Gotham’s noise pressed faint in the distance. You drew in a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment as the tether of nature reached for you again.
It flowed like a river, quiet but strong: through the blades of grass beneath your boots, in the proud trunks of trees lining the path, in every shrub shaped by unseen gardeners’ hands. This was no wild forest, no untamed jungle where roots fought for dominance—but life was still here, stubborn and enduring, weaving itself into even the corners of this wounded city.
Your chest eased, your heart loosened, and for the first time since arriving, you felt no ache of loss for your world.
Only gratitude.
You exhaled, voice soft but sure. “Thank you,” you said suddenly, startling even yourself with the sharp honesty of it. Your gaze slid toward Jason. “Truly. For granting my selfish request.”
Jason leaned back against the bench, one arm hooking across its back, his ice cream gone, his shoulders relaxed but guarded. His answer came clipped, dismissive in tone though not in weight. “It’s fine. Don’t read into it.”
You huffed faintly, not surprised.
He was ever the same—dodging emotion like arrows, refusing to let any pierce the armor of his cynicism. You shook your head slowly, turning back toward the pond, letting him stew in his deflection.
Your mind, unbidden, reached back to a moment weeks ago, words exchanged in the early morning light of the kitchen. Crook had been in your hand, as Jason and you stared at one another“…Why here? Why stay in such a place that scars the soul and poisons the air?”
He had blinked at you then, thrown off guard, caught without his armor.
“…Because it needs people who can fight,” he’d said finally, voice low and rough. “And because I was born here. Can’t shake it. City’s in my bones.”
You’d tilted your head, watching him as you always did—patient, thoughtful, cutting without cruelty.
“You do not fight for the city, do you? You fight because no one else will fight the way you do.”
Jason hadn’t answered right away,, jaw flexing as if he was chewing broken glass.. And then, finally, he’d muttered, “…Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”
The memory pulled you back to the present now, back to Jason sitting beside you on the bench, arms drawn in close as though any moment of quiet threatened to expose him.
You studied him carefully, finishing the last bite of your cone, the baked shell crumbling sweet against your teeth.
“This city is poison,” you said softly, without malice, only certainty. Jason’s eyes snapped to you, sharp and wary, but you didn’t falter. “And yet… perhaps there is more to it than you are willing to see. More than the scars you carry of it.”
Jason’s lip curled faintly, his head shaking almost before you had finished speaking. “Don’t start. You don’t know Gotham. You don’t know what it’s done—what it keeps doing. I’ve seen this place rot good people from the inside out. Doesn’t matter how much green paint you slap on it, it’s still a fucking graveyard with skyscrapers.”
You studied him quietly, the way the muscles in his jaw ticked, the way his eyes never quite settled. He spoke like a man who had already made his verdict long ago and carved it into stone. But you only smiled gently, your tone steady where his was jagged.
“Or perhaps,” you said, “you are simply too clouded in anger and pain to allow yourself to see past it.”
Jason froze.
The air seemed to still between you. The sounds of the park continued—the cries of ducks, the squeals of children—but around the bench there was only silence, heavy and taut. His body had gone rigid, his fists clenched against his knees, his breath sharp through his nose.
For a moment, his mask nearly cracked.
You saw it: the flicker of something raw behind his green eyes, a shadow that belonged to a boy who had once struggled to survive, who had curled up at night with a growling stomach and fists clenched against fear, who had been saved and then broken, who carried death in his ribs like a brand he could never scrub away.
Jason seemed to all but freeze at your words, his entire body wound tight as a spring. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw locked, and when he turned toward you at last.
“You don’t get it,” he ground out, voice rough enough to scrape stone. “You don’t fucking get it. This city doesn’t give a damn who you are, what you are. It’ll chew you up, spit you out, and laugh while you bleed in the gutter. That’s Gotham.”
His fists clenched against his knees, leather creaking under the strain. His tone rose, edged with something darker, heavier than simple irritation. It was anger honed by years of festering, by wounds never cleaned, scars never left to rest.
“You sit here—” he jabbed a finger toward you, though his hand shook— “smiling like you found something worth loving in this place. Like you can just… breathe in grass and sunshine and suddenly Gotham’s not a nightmare. You don’t know what it’s like. To be a kid with nothing but the cold in your bones, too hungry to sleep, too scared to close your eyes in case somebody fucking takes your shoes or your life. You don’t know what it’s like to come back and and realize nothing’s changed. That it never fucking will.”
His voice cracked sharp on that last word, venom curdled with pain, and he looked away, glaring at nothing, his chest heaving like every word had been ripped from him by force.
The world seemed to hush around the bench. Even Crook, who had been muttering, went silent in your mind.
You did not flinch at his anger.
Your gaze softened instead, and a sadness welled in your chest—not pity, never pity, but sorrow for the boy he had been, for the man who still bore the boy’s wounds
. Slowly, with a care as if touching something wild and frightened, you lifted your hand and laid it against his cheek.
Jason’s head jerked faintly at the contact, his breath catching. His skin was hot beneath your palm, rough from nights lived in leather and violence.
You met his furious eyes without fear, only calm, steady truth.
“Thou dost bare thy fangs as though venom be all thy soul holds,” you murmured, voice quiet but certain. “Yet even through thy malice and thy anguish, I see thy heart still beats with love. For thy city. For those who cannot fight as thou dost. For the lost child thou once wert, who yet lingers within thee.”
Jason’s breath stilled, his eyes widening ever so slightly.
Your thumb brushed against the line of his jaw as you smiled—gentle, achingly kind. “Aye, Jason. For all thy scars and thy fury, thou yet holdest love, and care, and kindness. It bleeds through, though thou wouldst deny it.”
For a heartbeat, for ten, he simply stared at you. Anger faltered, crumbled, leaving something raw and defenseless in its wake.
The park around you faded—the laughter, the leaves, the ripples on the pond—until there was only the bench, only the warmth of your hand, only the weight of his gaze locked in yours.
Time seemed to halt, suspended between you both, the city forgotten.
Jason’s chest rose once, sharp and uneven. His mouth opened, but no words came.
And still you smiled, patient as stone, kind as the wind in the trees.
The two of you sat there, eyes locked, as though the world itself had stopped turning to watch.