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“ The Ghost Between Us ”

Chapter 01

Pairings: Dick Grayson x Reader, Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings: Grief, death, depression (kinda?), angst

Notes: This was not supposed to be this long, and I was not supposed to get hurt by my own writing, but here we go...

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after you, nothing was ever enough

You never removed Jason’s mug from your kitchen cabinet.

It has a chipped rim from when Jason was showing you some interpretative dance moves in the kitchen and his arm sent it flying back.

The crash startled you both, but then you just ended up laughing until your stomach hurt, and distracted with that, you burned the pasta again. Cue more laughter.

You told yourself you’d put the mug away with the rest of Jason’s stuff, but you never did. It sits in the back of your old wooden cabinet, taunting you.

Reminding you that Jason wasn’t around for coffee breaks, midnight snacks, and kitchen dances anymore.

No. Because he’s dead. Has been for a while now.

Someone else takes up the space in your apartment instead.

Dick.

You aren’t sure how it happened, but he started spending the night at your place more often than not. His toothbrush joined yours by the sink, his jacket started appearing on your armchair, his shoes at the door, and his mug next to yours.

Sometimes, you still pause by the cupboard and hesitate, you almost pick up the wrong mug — it shouldn’t even be that big of a deal — but it feels like your heart won’t let you completely vanish Jason from your life.

It wants traces of him everywhere, as if there aren’t enough in the way your heart is shattered inside your rib cage, how it has been that way for so long now.

Your eyes take in the fading Wonder Woman symbol drawn on the mug, your fingers twitch at the handle, almost like muscle memory.

Two mugs. One for you. One for—

Ghosts don’t drink coffee. They don’t stay. And yet, Jason always lingers at your table.

You don’t talk about it with anyone. You don’t know how to.

Some things, a heart only whispers in the dark, like the echoes of a love so poignant, it refuses to end.

You don’t tell Dick. He doesn’t deserve this. Not when he picked all the scattered pieces of you and tried — has been trying — to put them back together.

Sometimes, you wonder if he sees Jason’s memories dancing behind your eyes when he’s holding you close, and kissing you like you’re all he ever asked God for.

Sometimes, you wonder if you’re in the wrong.

Sometimes, you wonder why it still feels like a betrayal to fall in love with someone who isn’t him.

A lot of times, you wonder if Jason would hate you for this.

And Dick?

Sweet, steady Dick, he never asks you things like; “do you still see him in your dreams?” And, “what does he had that I don’t?” And, “do you think you’ll ever stop loving a ghost?”

No, Dick never asks. But you see the quiet questions dancing in his beautiful, bright eyes.

Dick never asks you to forget.

He just asks you to stay.

And, at nights when he can feel you slipping away, he wraps his arms around your waist, presses his forehead to yours like he’s just lucky to be here, like he’s simply grateful being able to love you even when part of him knows you don’t love him the same. Not yet, anyway.

The hope in his sky-colored eyes is what makes your heart feel a little less broken.

Because, if he can hope for you to love him, then — maybe — you can hope for yourself to stop loving a ghost, too.

And somewhere, somehow, you find yourself trailing that dangerous edge of love again.

You love Dick. Almost.

You stay. Mostly.

Until Jason walks back into your life like a loaded gun placed right over your heart that never quite stopped beating for him.

“He’s back."

The Gotham skyline is painted a warm hue with golden rays of sunlight peeking through the clouds. The city is still asleep except for the light hum of traffic somewhere far away, where people have already started their day.

You're in bed. Dick's arms are warm around your waist, your back pressed to his chest, and his face buried between your shoulder blades.

His lips brush your skin, and you can feel his chest move with every breath. You've been awake for a while, thinking about nothing, staring at one spot on the wall like it will give you answers.

And then, the phone rings.

It's Dick's. He stirs and shifts behind you, gently untangling himself from you to reach the buzzing phone on the nightstand. You catch a name glowing on the screen:

Bruce.

You don't even think. You sink back into the sheets, inhaling the scent of Dick's cologne on your pillow, another thing you'd gotten used to overtime. It's too early, your head hurts.

But Dick picks it up, and says nothing. You feel it; the shift, the way the air feels tense even when no words have been spoken.

Dick stays silent for too long and you turn over, sitting half up in bed, your eyes take a minute to adjust.

Dick is sitting at the edge of the bed now, phone lowered and gripped so tightly his knuckles have gone white. And he hasn't moved, hasn't even breathed.

"Dick," your voice is soft, a little groggy, still sleep heavy when you reach for him. "What is it?"

He doesn't look at you. Just breathes. One breath. Then, another.

You brace yourself, for what, you're not sure.

After a few moments, he gathers himself.

And then, a broken whisper, "He's back."

You sit up straight like you've been hit.

Dick turns to you and you see it now, his eyes red rimmed, like he's holding in tears. And with that, you see something worse:

Terror.

Not the kind you wear on missions or in the face of loss.

This looks like the fear of loss.

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. Dick doesn’t say who’s back, he doesn’t say anything more, but somehow you know. Your heart knows.

It’s in the way your pulse surges, the way the air seems to grow in your lungs, the way your breath catches, like something buried deep just clawed its way to the surface: hope.

“Jason?” You whisper.

Dick’s eyes search yours with a sense of desperation you don’t seem to notice. He nods.

And that’s when the light sparks in your eyes.

And god, he sees it. Like your chest has cracked open and something golden is spilling out of it. It’s a version of you he hasn’t seen in years — not since before the funeral, before the screaming and isolation, before the pills and breaking down in his arms at 3 am.

You don’t say, I love him. But you don’t have to.

Dick sees it in your trembling hands. In the way your lips part in something like wonder, like a miracle you never let yourself dream for.

And he hates it — he hates the insecurity, and jealousy, and fear he feels because of a dead boy who used to own your heart.

And maybe owns it still.

He hates that he’s not just happy that Jason is back. He hates that all of this dread overshadows his happiness.

He hates the way horror claws in his chest, not just for losing you. But for losing his brother, too, all over again.

And you? You look like you're suddenly breathing again after holding in your breath for years.

But when you look at Dick, there's guilt in your eyes, there's grief all over again, except this time, it's his heart on the line.

"He's different now."

You don't storm out the moment you hear Jason is back. You don't show up at Wayne Manor with trembling hands and tearful eyes.

You sit in bed with Dick when he explains how it happened, how Bruce figured it out, and how much has changed.

You hold him when he starts sobbing, and you cry together.

But then, the days start turning into restlessness. You finally go back to Wayne Manor after what feels like ages. It's as cold as it has always been. Except now, Tim stands beside Bruce, wearing those colors that still make your stomach turn.

"He's Red Hood, now," Bruce says, trying his best to keep his voice even but you've known him too long, "He's killing people."

You don't tell him that you couldn't care less. You don't tell him that you just need to see Jason. Just once. Maybe then, you'll breathe easier.

"He's not the same," Bruce continues anyway, his voice wavers, eyes up at the computer, and jaw clenched tight enough to break. "He's... angry. Different." Finally, he sighs, "I don't blame him."

You nod. Neither do you.

Later, Barbara adds, her eyes and voice tired, her expression one of pity, "Jason... died. And now he came back. That doesn't just change you..." She sighs, wraps her palm over your fist in your lap, "He's... darker now. He's not who we remember."

At night, when you come back home, you cry alone. Because you wish you could forget. You wish every day that you didn't walk around with your hands still stained in his blood and his memories clinging to you like shadows. You wish you could love someone else.

And maybe you do. But not how he deserves, not how you wish you could.

You lie in bed with Dick, wide awake, most nights. You let him wrap around you, bury his face in the crook of your neck, you let your fingers card through his hair, ignoring the painful echo of a name you can't say out loud swirling in your chest.

Sometimes, you even smile, kiss his jaw, and mutter sweet nothings in the dark. But even then, you're dreaming of someone else and maybe Dick knows it.

He doesn't say anything even when he wants to. He just kisses you more, holds you a bit tighter, and lets himself believe that maybe - maybe - you're choosing him.

And you pretend you are.

Until the day comes when you finally walk into that safehouse.

(Notes: This has one more part, dw)

Thank you for reading. Love y'all <3

Prost also recalls joking with Ayrton Senna about acquiring the team, since his negotiations with Ligier had already begun while the motorsport icon was still alive. He passed away on May 1, 1994, following an accident at the San Marino Grand Prix in Imola. “About a week before the accident, we talked on the phone and I said to Ayrton: You know, it would be funny if one day I had a racing team and you drove for me. We laughed about it. Even back then, I was negotiating the acquisition of the team with Ligier. That was at the start of the 1994 season. It would have been fantastic.” - Alain Prost, 2015

"It would have been nice to have Ayrton in my car, it would have made me happy" - Alain Prost at ProstGP, 1999

#they could have had it all #wtff #ayrton senna #alain prost #prosenna #f1 #formula 1 #classic f1